by Blaze Ward
He watched her face fall, just a little bit, meeting a blush slowly coming up.
Moirrey nodded.
Vo missed the goofball girl who used to come kidnap Jackson Tawfeek and drag him off to get coffee and gossip. The Centurion who had replaced her was a much more poised woman, but some of the fun had slowly bled out of her over the last three or four years.
And Moirrey certainly didn’t look dangerous enough to be a Marine on the front line.
Vo wasn’t fooled. Not after reading her own words about tracking down and killing an Imperial Security Colonel in some sort of personal duel on Thuringwell, in the middle of a major, pitched battle for the future of the planet.
“Street,” Vo continued. “Find me someone on Team Two who is the same size as the man guarding the door on the far right. We’ll take him out and put our man in the jacket, pretend a radio broke, and hope we can do this faster than they can react. Team Two will hold this door and cover him. Questions?”
“No, sir,” the three men rumbled back, splitting and heading in different directions. Vo found himself momentarily alone with Moirrey zu Kermode, Imperial Ritter of the Household.
“C’n we do this, Vo?” she whispered with a touch of nerves.
“When we took Imperial colors, this came with it,” he replied.
“Aye,” she replied mournfully.
Those costs hadn’t been weighing on her shoulders for nine months. Not like his.
This was why the Fleet Centurion had come down to the archery range to kick his butt into motion. This went beyond being an officer. Now he had two masters to serve. At least today.
Actually, no. Just one master. It just wasn’t Karl VII, Emperor of Fribourg, just like it wasn’t the Fleet Centurion.
No, today, his only mistress was Justice.
CHAPTER LXI
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 ABOARD KALI-MA, ABOVE ST. LEGIER
From here, she could see the damage. Brutal, angry.
It really did look like a shark had mauled the big Battleship.
Wiley could only imagine what it must smell like on the inside.
“Tactical,” she called, loud enough to be heard across the entire bridge, even though a speaking voice would have worked for the three meters that separated her from Yan. She wanted everybody listening.
Yan glanced up from his screens with an eyebrow raised.
“The emergency situation appears resolved,” she said in the formal words that indicated to everyone that she was taking command again. “Prepare for squadron maneuvers.”
He fought the ship. And did it well. Almost art, watching Yan outthink the other guy fast enough to shoot first.
But it was time to come back from that place where he had been.
Wiley outlined her maneuvers and transmitted them to all stations on the bridge with a click.
“We will assume Blackbird is seriously messed up until the Admiral tells us otherwise,” she continued. “We’re moving into a close escort position, with the Flight Wing taking up defensive layers outside that. Get the twins aboard and reloaded soonest.”
Heads bobbed. Voices growled.
They were professionals. Nothing more was needed at this point. Amateurs hadn’t lasted long on her deck when she took command. Just like Yan’s teams had gone through the wringer to get to stay.
“Science Officer,” Wiley called across to the far left corner. “Get me the Admiral on a secured channel. I’ll take it in the day office.”
“Roger that,” Himura called as Wiley unstrapped herself and moved to the closet where she did paperwork when she was in charge, rather than her own office down by the Flight Deck.
The screen was already lit and blinking when Wiley closed the door and sat.
She touched the screen and watched Jessica’s face appear.
“Admiral,” Wiley said.
“Command Centurion,” Jessica replied in a serious, formal voice. So, not alone. They had spent enough time in each other’s pockets by now to communicate at that level. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re moving into an escort formation, Admiral,” Wiley replied, slightly stiff. “What are your combat capabilities at this point?”
In other words, how bad did he fuck up your ship on that pass, Jessica?
“Amsel has no Primary shells or missiles loaded, Wiley,” Jessica said carefully, with a glance to her left at someone that was out of the camera. Probably the new Emperor. “All but one of the Type-3 beam installations are intact. We’ve lost two Type-2’s on the starboard flank, but all of the Type-1’s are working. We’ve lost an interesting patterns of the dorsal shield generators and are working to replace those as soon as possible, but the bridge crew understands the need to fight in three dimensions if we have to. You come in high and distribute the Wing normally and we should be good.”
Wiley digested everything. Jessica had included stats on the new Paladin-class Battleship in her original packet, so Wiley could fill in the gaps in the conversation.
That thing had hammered the shit out of Blackbird, and another Battleship coming along to fight might be enough to finish the job, even with Kali-ma and the Queen’s Own helping out.
So it was going to be a game of bluff with all the other Captains and Admirals in orbit right now, at least until something broke.
Wiley smiled.
She had started her career as a pirate, taking on all comers. She could easily fall back into that pattern of thought.
“Understood, Admiral,” Wiley said. “Anybody in this mess we trust?”
Jessica shook her head.
“If the Red Admiral was here, he could probably list them off for me in mind-numbing detail,” she replied. “Saar was injured on the pass, but his team has everything covered. Once he gets out of medical, I’ll interview him. Your job is to talk tough, because nobody is allowed inside gun range until we know who they are. Neither of us have Primaries or missiles right now, but they don’t know that.”
Wiley nodded.
Kali-ma could annihilate a squadron of Imperial fighters by herself, if somebody sent one over. Two, once she threw in the Queen’s Own.
Pops Nakamura had designed a junkyard dog of a 4-ring Mothership for Jessica to build.
Still, not a lot either of them could do about cruisers or capital warships coming in, except back away, especially if it was one of the three battle squadrons that was protecting the planet, and not just a single ship.
But with two Emperors, three if the father wasn’t already dead, the chessboard was a complicated mess. Hopefully, that would keep most of the other players honest.
After all, nobody had ever promised Wiley she would die in bed.
CHAPTER LXII
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 IMPERIAL PALACE GROUNDS, WERDER, ST. LEGIER
The mist had deepened ta rain. Monsooninating would be the next step, but fer naow it were still that nasty wet that annoyed cows and kepts ya inside with grilled cheese dipped in Ma’s tomato soup.
Moirrey had planned better’n th’boys fer today. As thin’s got wetter, she’d dug out a cute, little hooligan cap she’d rolled up inta a pocket this morn, slickered her hair back, and stuck it on.
Let the rests of ’em look like a street gang. She were stylin’.
And it were about to get kinda messy ’rounds here.
Moirrey and the nine ogres. It were a fairy tale in reverse. One o’th’ancient ones, backs ta th’beginnin’ of recorded civilization. Maybe if she were four meters tall, they could all be dwarves. But then she’d hafta be a princess er som’tin.
No fun in that, t’all.
Hans were poised with a shiv that couldna make up its mind if it were a skinnin’ knife er a short sword. But he were thumb’n’forefinger gripped at his thigh, so she hads no worries that he were good enough ta use it.
And Vo dinna t’ink any o’th’rest were good enough to shoot, ’ceptin’ him’n’her, so it were gonn’be serious work.
Jes
one watch goose today.
She’d’a felt sorry fer ’im, but the lad had joined Imperial Security instead o’th’Army er th’Fleet. That made him a bully, fer as she were concerned.
An’ she liked bullies even less’n Vo, which were sayin’ some’tin’ fierce. Vo were big enough to handle them hisself.
She put away the rest of her gear, tucked it all in special pockets and rolled up in cloth t’protect it. She’d no’ need the goggles here. Nor the engineering sensor pad, though that might change when they gots inside.
Only thin’ at this point were to wrap a cloth around her pistol hand.
Ya weren’ts supposed’ta do that, on count of heat bleed havin’ nowheres to go, but it also made the little thin’ mouse-like fer noise. At least fer a few shots until ya started cookin’ yer hand.
That mights be imp’rt’nt inside.
Vo looked like someone had carved a god of doom outs of an angry mountain and set it in the trees to scare peeples.
The rest of the boyz were nice’n’all, and probably pretty good at whats they did, but she and Vo and Hans were likely to do all the killin’ needed doin’ today.
Moirrey weren’t sure how she’d got here, any of the heres, but that were a problem fer a glass of hot chocolate, maybe with a shot of peppermint schnapps, sometime tamorrows.
The rain had at least made the watch goose miserabler than afore.
He were tucked inta the lee o’th’buildin’ on the handle-side. Kept him mostly dry and largely out of the yuck, but it also meant that nobody were sneakin’ up on hims with a knife.
Hans were prolly beside hisself, beside her.
Moirrey kept the grin off’n her face and turned to Vo.
She held up the pistol wrapped with a headscarf to gets his attention as a question.
He took a moment, then nodded.
They were all three as close as you could get in the brush, which were prolly closer’n most folks would’a thought without gettin’ antsy ’bouts it.
Still, it were four meters at a slant from here.
Watch goose lifted his radio’n’answered someones with a callsign’n’a checkin. They’d been watching him close. Fifteen minutes on the dot.
Imperial Security sure did love patterns of organization.
Moirrey would’a liked to extend her hand to make the shot, but a bright purple scarf comin’ outta th’leeves woulda got even the watch goose to looking.
She took the shot from her hip, like she were some kinda cowboy.
Beam still caught a leaf anyway, though.
She got watch goose in the right shoulder with a wallop, instead of the heart. And not nearly hard enough. At least the microphone he were holding had fell outta his hand at the same time he dropped his rifle.
And she did bounce him off the bricks o’th’building pretty fierce.
But it weren’t gonna be enough to drop him. That were sure.
Moirrey extended her arm fer the second shot, sure she’d one chance to finish the dude off. Any more’n he’d get the radio.
She had never seen Vo Arlo move like that.
She weren’t sure she had ever seen a human move that fast. Someone else, but she weren’t human. Technically.
Three steps in a flash, an’ Vo had the guy by the neck in one o’those doom hands, while th’other grabbed the radio hand and squeezed.
Even a slick, little, killer bunny like Hans Danville were a step and a half behind Vo gettin’ there.
Wow.
Cartilage er som’tin crunched like a plastic sandwich tub being stomped, and then watch goose stopped fightin’ back. Collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Had Vo just broke the guy’s neck one-handed?
Could you do that?
Vo and Hans were heads-on-sticks, but nobody seemed to be around.
Moirrey glanced back over her shoulder.
“Team Two,” she called quietly. “Next watch goose, move.”
They understood her words, which were good, ’cause she weren’t really all here right now.
Maybe up in that high place where Vo had gone.
One man slipped past her pretty quiet’n’all and jack-rabbited to where Vo were just now setting the dead goose back against the wall.
Moirrey kept watch while they stripped the dude’s jacket. Weren’t worth the pants er those tacky, black leather, shiny boots. If someone were that close already, thin’s had already gone sideways an’ there were no recoverin’.
Radio and rifle stayed with the new watch goose from Team Two. With any luck, he could buy them time in fifteen minutes’r more, assuming they dinna roll passwords er any’tin.
Hans had the keycard to open the door in his off-hand and stood poised, all set to stick a point in anyone openin’ th’door right now.
Vo caught her eye across the space with a look of pain so dark and intense that Moirrey nearly cried.
She hadna realized how much it might take outta a big, tough goon like Vo Arlo to kill a total stranger fer no better reason than the guy were in the way on a bad day.
Huh.
Still, he were countin’ on her.
She moved, bringin’ Horst and Street in her wake like vengeful ghosts.
Vo nodded. Hans keyed the panel next to the door. Moirrey pulled it open and stepped boldly into the hallway.
They’d planned it out like this. If’n ya looks like you belong, people tended ta agree and ignores you. Plus, Imperials might hesitate to shoot a woman without a damned good reason. That would give her a chance to shoot first.
It were likes ta get messy afore it got better.
CHAPTER LXIII
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 176/11/08. WERDER, ST. LEGIER
Sigmund let the rain drumming on the roof of the vehicle sum up his afternoon, but he refused to let the gray, wet misery define it.
Into every life…
He snarled to himself, alone in the back seat, and watched the cityscape rumble by.
It would have been faster to fly there, but Imperial Security had ordered all vehicles grounded as a control measure, and there was always some fool who would be willing to shoot first and investigate later. On the ground, there was more time to approach each checkpoint in a less threatening way.
Slower, yes, but enough things had gone wrong today.
Still, only one had to go right at this point.
Sigmund found his left fingers drumming the arm rest in rhythm with the rain and the pavement. A tone rang out in the otherwise empty space.
“Sire,” one of the men in the front part of the vehicle began. “We’ve gotten through to Admiral Bakemann finally.”
Finally? Long past finally.
Still, if the man would get off his ass, he could make the girl give way. She had one untried Battleship and a pirate escort.
Bakemann commanded a full battle squadron that could easily overwhelm the interlopers.
“Put him through,” Dittmar replied after a breath to crush the anger in his voice.
“Your Majesty.”
Bakemann’s voice was that of a man giving an interview on the radio. Soothing, warm, calm. Like he was playing both sides of the equation equally.
Sigmund Dittmar realized that the man would have to go, just as soon as he could be set up by Imperial Security and arrested.
Every man had a skeleton in his closet that wouldn’t bear public scrutiny. Otherwise, they would have never gotten where they were.
“Have you broken orbit and moved to engage Keller?” Dittmar snarled.
That was really the only question worth discussing at this point.
There were two flags on the battlefield. Bakemann was going to commit to one of them, right now.
Or Sigmund would have him shot tomorrow. Simple as that.
“Not all of my Captains are prepared to break with tradition,” Bakemann replied. “Even to save the Empire. Additionally, Keller complicates their loyalties. And I couldn’t sound them out ahead of time, Your Majesty. It will take some
time yet to bring them around, but we’re making good progress.”
Sigmund ground his teeth rather than answer.
It had sounded so plausible when Grundman first suggested it. Let Imperial Security organize things, only bringing people into the conspiracy who were well-placed enough to nudge it along at critical junctures.
You just sit back and be prepared to step in when the situation demands a strong hand of the Imperial blood.
Above, Bakemann in command of one of the fleets in orbit should have brought over the rest at the right moment, chasing Buran off and providing a sound example of the need to maintain a war footing at all costs.
Instead, Keller and the girl had managed to kill the intruder and survive. And now apparently, the Captains were wavering.
It was beginning to look like there would need to be a pitched battle in orbit. The fate of the Fribourg Empire might depend on it.
Perhaps Bakemann would successfully martyr himself along the way, so he could be a hero, after all.
Sigmund could see a future where the entirety of his throne rested on the shoulders of Imperial Security, especially if the Fleet was turning into a morass of uncertainty. Had this been their plan all along, or were they merely the only ones reliable enough to sustain his rule?
Sigmund Dittmar cast the dice in his head.
In fifteen minutes, he would be in a place to eliminate Karl and the Crown Prince, and then announce plans to divorce Karya and marry the elder daughter to nail everything down.
Karya would, well, if not understand and support his needs, at least be too weak to thwart his plans. She was a passive woman, one he barely noticed anyway. Sigmund would have it no other way.
Breaking his young cousin to the bit, on the other hand, would be necessary. It might even be pleasurable.
“You have your orders, Bakemann,” Sigmund finally said definitively. “I expect you to carry them out.”
He closed the channel before the fool could equivocate anymore.
There was little time to bring the Fleet fully into his orbit. At least this way, he offered them a future of glory and tradition.