by Blaze Ward
Both craft seemed to have survived, although the Ugly was shedding parts and wobbling. The freighter was probably leaking at the seams in a few places, but it looked like it had been more of a bad parking job than a hit and run. Minimal debris.
The radio came alive on the private channel.
“Cayenne,” da Vinci said from her high orbit overwatch, “you’re on.”
“Roger that,” Gaucho replied. “EVA marines already suited up. Be there in seven minutes.”
“Make it four, hotshot,” da Vinci replied, her voice cool and almost bored. “Don’t think his frame will stay together that long.”
Bitter Kitten smiled.
Amateur.
Speaking of…
She recognized the craft, a late–model Imperial off of Kali–ma. Probably an A–6, although she hadn’t really paid that much attention earlier. The pilot was running in last right now. What did he matter?
Except that he was lined up nose–to–nose with her.
Bitter Kitten grumbled at poor manners and blipped her nose up a notch. She could blast right over the top of him at full speed.
Too bad there wasn’t an atmosphere to slipstream him when she did.
She watched the other craft shift up as well, again dead–on to a collision course.
You son of a…
There was no chance that was accidental. Bitter Kitten shifted her path a shade to her left.
Sure enough, he shifted as well.
Little punk wants to play chicken, does he?
She cursed the lack of guns right now. In the real world, he would be a puff of flaming wreckage slowly de–orbiting right about now.
Stupid lame–ass pirate.
Bitter Kitten red–lined her engines briefly. And then he did too.
She smiled. It was kinda like dancing, although she had never done a dance fight at this rate of closure. You did that stuff in a club, not orbit. Usually.
Or you did it with guns.
If I’d have known it was that kind of party, bucko, I’d have brought the little black dress…
She smiled wickedly. Targeting scanners didn’t register a lock on her, so punk–boy over there was flying purely on visuals.
Time to go weasel.
Bitter Kitten rolled her craft ninety degrees to the right, standing it on one ear if the planet had been closer. Sure enough, dancer–boy did the same.
They would pass belly–to–belly if they didn’t slam into each other.
No reverse cowgirl for me, bad–boy. Not that kind of girl. At least not on the first date with some lame pirate punk I barely know.
She eased the throttle slowly back. Not so fast he would notice, but enough to throw his timing off.
Now the fun part.
Slowly, she eased the primary gyroscope out of alignment. The nose of her little craft began to drift up, out of the line of flight.
And the engines went down.
It was like dropping her foot in the snow on a sled as a kid blasting down the street. Still going like hell, but now starting to wobble off that straight–line that was going to slam you into a mailbox.
And dumbshit over there wouldn’t pick up on the drift until it was too late.
She could feel inertia driving her up instead of back. For fun, and to play with the kid over there, she rolled half over, so she would be looking up at him as they passed.
Again, assuming he wasn’t trying to kill her.
These people weren’t that crazy, were they? No terrible samurai bad–ass warrior code that requires suicide over failure? Right?
She took a deep breath.
There we are. Past the last check–point.
Bitter Kitten red–lined her engines and blipped her nose back up, like she was pointed at the boy and going to ram him. Except now there was an S in her flight path. She was aimed right at him, but still drifting up and away even as she closed the distance.
He panicked anyway and flinched his yoke away from her, diving straight down relative as fast as his engines could take him.
Too bad there was no atmosphere this high, bucko. Would have been nice to watch you start tumbling and then shatter.
Bitter Kitten looked around. Clear skies in every direction.
Hànchén and the girl–pilot were still a ways back, redlining engines and dancing their own dance fight. If she wasn’t careful, they might even catch her.
I don’t think so.
Chapter XXXIV
Date of the Republic February 7, 394 Above Callumnia
Jessica was there to greet David as he stepped down onto the deck from the ugly little gunship made of parts someone had stolen from the Imperials before she had even been born. She hoped he recognized the honor she did him, the trust, to let him land his own craft, his own armed shuttle, onto Auberon’s flight deck instead of relying on Gaucho and Cayenne.
Nobody else got that. Hell, Ian Zhao got transported with a small cadre of armed marines when he came aboard. At least until he started to act nicer.
David stepped onto the deck and smiled at her. “Permission to come aboard, Admiral?”
“That’s Command Centurion, Captain Rodriguez,” she said lightly.
“According to the King of the Pirates, m’lady” he said with a smile down at her and a slight bow, “you’re Admiral Keller. Far be it for me to gainsay the man.”
Jessica smiled back and shook his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
She led him back to the hatch and suffered to be escorted on his arm, as if he were a proper Aquitaine gentleman, rather than a blood–thirsty pirate. She could see Desianna’s touch in everything about the man.
Marcelle awaited them in her office, water boiled and beans just ground and ready for coffee.
David took the seat with a soft whistle.
“So,” he said as Jessica sat, “to what do I own this honor? You didn’t ask me to come early for a purely social visit.”
Jessica smiled as Marcelle brewed and poured.
“I’m not sure,” she began, “how much your mother has told you about the purpose of this grand Promenade.”
He had an easy smile. In fact, there was a very relaxed manner about him that was so different from most of the pirates. Only Daneel…
Jessica could tell he would make a good king someday. He was already a good prince. Not that the Captains would ever allow it. Too much of a threat to their own power base, especially if they allowed Arnulf to change the laws of succession to something less bloody.
“Ian Zhao and Jing Du are up to no good,” he replied after a beat. “Father thinks he can control them, rebuff them. You and my mother don’t agree. She suggested this to throw off their timing, because the Imperials are probably involved as well and they have so far to come to get out here and cause mischief. Having the Red Admiral in your hands also throws things off. Close?”
Jessica blinked.
Apparently, Desianna had told him everything. Or she hadn’t and he had done the math himself.
It was so rare to run into someone else capable of seeing so many moves ahead. If not for Daneel, and her promise to Desianna, she might find this young man extremely interesting.
Really? Her type were pirates? Who knew?
She took a breath as Marcelle served the coffee and departed.
“Close enough,” she said. “Aquitaine has a vested interest in the stability of Lincolnshire. Desianna has convinced me that keeping Arnulf in power as long as possible serves those ends. And when his time comes, to have a peaceful transition of power to you as a dynast, hopefully turning Corynthe into a peace–abiding galactic citizen.”
“And you want me to swear fealty in return for your support?” David asked with the barest hint of sarcasm.
“You wouldn’t mean it,” she shot back lightly. “No, I want to help.”
She watched his eyebrows climb.
“And you don’t think this convoy helps?” he asked.
“Not enough. I want to suggest something really rad
ical and get your opinion, quietly. It serves both our ends.”
He leaned forward now, sipping on the coffee. “Go on.”
“Would Corynthe acquiesce to Aquitaine recruiting pilots out here for our fleet?”
David had that same trick to his eyes that Desianna had. Or Moirrey. He picked out a spot on the horizon and flickered his eyes back and forth, like an abacus calculating.
“Which ones?” he said a moment later. He had a smile like a great cat hunting.
“Good, but potentially–politically–unpalatable ones,” she replied.
“Thereby removing trouble–makers from the pool, now and in the future,” he concluded. “What would you offer them?”
“The war,” she said simply. “Flying with the best Aquitaine has, against the best the Fribourg Empire can field. Pilots are pilots.”
He leaned back with a laugh. “That they are,” he said. “Five years ago, I would have leapt at the chance.”
“Would it work here?”
“Let me ask Arnulf privately. Jing Du would never go for it, but he can be maneuvered out of position on this one,” David said seriously. “Having never been a pilot himself, he won’t understand the allure. And yes, I can see why you wouldn’t want to discuss this over dinner with the Red Admiral.”
“Exactly,” Jessica replied. “That would be the war out here I’m trying to prevent.”
Chapter XXXV
Date of the Republic February 7, 394 Above Callumnia
She had done this twice before. Hosted the major players in a formal dinner aboard Auberon. Let Chef Aoiki go completely over the top with several days planning, and a whole new planet below to gather ingredients.
It would be easy. Right?
The first had been a tactical success, using Jessica’s elaborate personal scoring procedures. Total strangers, many of them mortal enemies and back–stabbing gunsels, forced to dress nicely, behave nicely, and eat a formal meal in nine courses with a dead minimum of wine to keep them sharp.
There had been no duels as a result. The Red Admiral had even complimented her afterwards for being such a pleasant and gracious host. Hopefully, he would continue to believe this mirage. Certainly, most of the Corynthe contingent seemed to.
And it wasn’t as if Aquitaine had never promoted extremely well–connected incompetents to high command before. Her predecessor commanding Auberon, Augustine Kwok, one of Loncar’s relatives, had probably fallen into that category. And her opinion of Fleet Lord Loncar wasn’t much higher.
Jessica pushed those thoughts out of her head and projected this new image. She had worked very hard on the coquettish giggle she gave the Red Admiral, getting the tone just right and the little toss of the hair just so.
Probably not as well as Moirrey had trained her to do, certainly not as well as the little pixie could have done it, but Jessica seemed to have set the bar low with Admiral Wachturm early on. She could fake bimbo fairly well with these men, by now.
Jessica bit her lip to keep from giggling out loud at the memory. Until that moment, she really hadn’t believed Desianna and Moirrey’s intense belief that boobs and eyelashes could lead any man astray.
And now, they were going to go through it all again. She still wasn’t sure if studying Desianna as closely as she had was a genius move, or a dangerous distraction.
She had always worked harder than anyone else to be better. It felt like cheating to wiggle her hips at a man to break his concentration.
And yet, it worked.
Deep breath. No giggles, young lady. Serious business. Dangerous men, at least in their own minds.
Jessica smiled and let her warmth fill the room.
Sure, dangerous men.
Jing Du arrived first. Part of his responsibilities as Chancellor of Corynthe was the diplomatic tasks. He was formal this evening, both in dress and bearing as he entered the room, nodding carefully to Jessica in her role as ambassador to the Court from the barbarians of the distant interior.
Probably still shocked that the barbarians had mastered internal plumbing.
In some ways, Jing Du was the most transparent player, so caught up within his own intellectual superiority that he was occasionally blinded to the motives of the people around him. But he was also deeper than the rest, by orders of magnitude. Still waters. Dangerous depths. Had Jessica been put in charge, he would be the first one up against the wall.
Admiral Wachturm was next. He was still technically her prisoner, but Jessica had tried to play to the man’s ego by asking him to be her co–host in these affairs. The Fribourg Empire considered women too inferior to handle difficult, dangerous tasks, anyway. Jessica suspected that both his wife and two daughters were at least his equal in many things, to hear him talk them up, but it would be impolite to suggest that to the man’s face.
Especially not when she wanted him to see the role she was playing, rather than the truth.
They were still enemies.
He had won at Iger, and at Qui–Ping. But that had been Loncar in command the first time, and her desperately out–gunned squadron running for their lives the second. There had never been a true test between them. Not yet.
It would be to the death, one of these days.
The Red Admiral took up a spot exactly diagonal from Jing Du, at Jessica’s right hand, just as the chancellor would be at Arnulf’s when everyone was seated.
Others arrived quickly after that, less bound by the formal rules around an event like this. Bitter Kitten, Furious, and a pilot of the 1–ring Lithuania, a young, blond man who went by the callsign Sōdalane, as the first three places in yesterday’s fighter pilot race. Daneel Ishikura, Ian Zhao, and David Rodriguez, plus the captains of Black Prince and Lithuania as locals. Tomas Kigali and Alber’ d’Maine for balance. The governor of Callumnia, a seedy little man who looked more like a crooked lawyer than anything else.
Everyone was seated and beginning to engage in small talk when Denis Jež entered and rapped on the bulkhead with a flat palm to get everyone’s attention. He did that well.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, quietly booming his voice across the entire assembly without actually shouting. He did that well, also. “I present to you His Majesty Arnulf, Admiral Rodriguez, Supreme Commander of the Corynthe Fleet, Governor of Petron, King of the Pirates.”
Denis quickly stepped to one side as Arnulf entered, Desianna on his arm. She looked tiny by comparison to Arnulf, barely coming up to the bottom of his ear, even in her stiletto heels. It was only when she towered over Jing Du that Arnulf’s absolute size became apparent.
Jessica smiled. She supposed that a society that embraced trial by personal combat with edged weapons as a primary legal tool would favor big men.
Arnulf, David, and Daneel were all more than head and neck taller than her. Even Ian Zhao made Marcelle and the Red Admiral look small.
She glanced at the walls surrounding her. Auberon’s Dragoon had assigned only female marines as guards tonight. She doubted that anyone at the table not in green would recognize that fact.
Correction. Little miss Furious, the black–haired hotshot pilot off David’s 3–ring, Sky Dancer, had noticed. Jessica watched her force her mouth closed and fix a questioning eye in her direction. Jessica just smiled serenely at her.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you welcome,” Jessica said. “As we prepare to depart for our final stop in the Grand Promenade, I hope that this will be another stone in a great bridge of eternal peace and understanding between our nations.”
She fixed a smile on her face.
And the horse might learn to sing.
Ξ
Desianna smiled.
Tonight was a night for gold.
Yellow gold. Rich and lustrous that set off her hair and was framed, in turn, by it.
Four different length necklaces, intricately bound together by a black pearl pendant that hung just the perfect depth into her cleavage. Matching teardrop earrings set in the most delicate gold lacing.
A single gold bracer that covered all of her left forearm, like some barbaric shield. A welded–gold chain extravaganza on her right forearm that linked across the back of her hand to rings on her middle two fingers.
Tonight, she wore her little black dress. Not so short, as befit a woman of her stature, both political and physical, but plunging in front and in almost absent in back, strategically held together by fine gold chains that ran at exactly the line of her nipples, diaphragm, and navel. In addition, it had been slashed up the left to nearly her hip bone, showing an amazing flash of bronzed and toned thigh to the Red Admiral when Arnulf pulled out her chair and seated her himself.
She smiled at the man as he attempted to close his mouth.
Tonight was Jessica’s night, but that meant Desianna’s job was to distract these silly men and their chauvinistic upbringings, so Jessica could play them without them paying enough attention to consider how badly they were being out–maneuvered.
Besides, of all the men at the table, only Denis Jež had treated her like a proper gentleman, and not a conquest he had planned, or dreamed about.
Desianna wondered if she might could convince Jessica’s first officer that Arnulf’s statecraft would be advanced by a light seduction.
Her eyes twinkled as they met Jessica’s.
Men.
Still, it was an extra bonus to be surrounded by so many women tonight.
That was rare, especially at formal dinners. Here, she had the two pilots, plus Jessica. All the girl soldiers around them were just icing on the cake, even if they were probably less girly than some of the men present, were push to come to shove.
And none of them could compete with her for the men, which was exactly how she and Jessica had planned it.
Briefly, Desianna considered emigrating back to Aquitaine, just because the men there would treat her the way she felt she should be treated. Spoiled. Utterly rotten with a side of fresh cream. Men were men. Maybe she should treat herself to the attentions and devotions of a gentleman.
Did Corynthe need an ambassador to Aquitaine? Maybe she should retire from being First Wife and travel.
Desianna felt her own smile expand to encompass the entirety of Auberon and all her crew. Oh, the delicious potential for trouble.