by Blaze Ward
Instead of the usual assortment of department chiefs facing the audience, the first row were all marines in dress uniforms, with polished swords in their hands instead of guns, led by Command Marine Centurion Phillip Crncevic, known universally around the fleet as Navin the Black. His skin was only dark brown, so Nils had always presumed he was nicknamed for some lost ancient pirate. He made a note to ask, sometime.
At the other end of the front row was newly–commissioned Centurion Vo Arlo, one of the heroes of First Ballard, and other, more recent adventures. Nils had read the file regarding the Order of Baudin award on the man’s chest, and what had been required to receive it. Today, afterwards, would be Nils’s first chance for a personal word with the man, a thank you for service so far above and beyond the call of duty.
But that was later. Right now belonged to Jež. He was content to remain down in the audience. That was another part of Denis’s reward.
But Nils realized quickly that someone had choreographed the traditional Acceptance Ceremony in a very different direction.
Normally, a Fleet Lord would officially take possession of a new construction, formally inducting it into Naval Service. For a new Star Controller, Nils would be within his rights to claim the task himself.
But the man standing up there deserved this moment.
Nils knew that history would largely overlook Denis Jež. That was the downside of standing so close to someone like Jessica Keller. Tomas Kigali and Alber’ d’Maine would be remembered as more than footnotes. And even, to a lesser extent, later heroes like Robbie Aeliaes.
But only hard–core historians and naval veterans would understand how much of her success relied on the competence and professionalism of the man who had been her First Officer during those fateful days.
Nils knew. He had read the reports after First Petron and First Ballard.
So Denis got today.
As the Fifes and Drums built, Denis Jež came out from the side, led by Tomas Kigali in his newly–adopted role as Mercury, Messenger for the Gods, and trailed by Alber’ d’Maine and Robbie Aeliaes.
It was strange, seeing Jež as a Command Centurion, even today. But now he was their equal, their peer, in uniform as well as in service.
And today, their superior. Just as it seemed that everyone in the Navy was a Centurion together, all Command Centurions were created equal. What distinguished them was the vessel they commanded and her place in the line.
d’Maine and Aeliaes had already taken over newer commands and would be there with Jessica.
And Kigali couldn’t be blasted out of CR–264 to be promoted to a bigger vessel, threatening instead to simply resign and walk away if pushed. And that man would.
But Denis was taking command of something bigger. Something grander.
The music trailed away to silence.
From the left, a figure emerged from a small crowd and made her graceful way to the center of the room.
President of the Republic Calina Szabolcsi, today in formal robes that just made her even more beautiful, carefully carried a very old, very valuable bottle of champagne that had come from Tadej Horvat’s personal cellars, specially picked for this occasion.
She was almost as tall as Jež normally. Eight–centimeter heels made her tower over almost everyone present. As if anyone could outshine the smile on Denis’s face right now.
“Command Centurion Jež,” she said formally, loud enough for the entire space to hear her. “It is my great pleasure to deliver to the Navy our latest vessel, SC–006. May she bear you well and far and always bring you home safe.”
Denis nodded formally to her, almost a bow as he reached into a pocket and pulled out a sheet of heavy paper that he unfolded. His voice was uncharacteristically emotional as he spoke the words, but that could be forgiven, considering their weight.
‘By will of the Republic of Aquitaine Navy and First Lord Nils Kasum, the undersigned, Command Centurion Denis Jež, is hereby ordered to report aboard the RAN Auberon at the earliest opportunity and take command, subject to the normal rules and regulations. He will exercise excellence and demand the same of his crew, that the whole reflect the greatest acclaim in serving the needs of the Republic and the will of the Senate.
Signed on the Date of The Republic February 16, 396 by First Lord Nils Kasum and countersigned February 16, 396 by Denis Jež.’
The crowd erupted in a loud round of applause and cheers.
Nils had been to many such ceremonies. Normally, they were sedate affairs, almost quaint. This was already far and away the loudest he could remember. These people brought out the emotion in such affairs.
Denis was much beloved and respected by his fellow officers, even the ones with a personal distaste for Jessica Keller. And everyone recognized what that giant vessel in the background represented.
Yesterday, the Republic of Aquitaine Navy had three Star Controllers in service: Athena, Archimedes, and Amaravati, commanding Home Fleet, First War Fleet, and First Border Fleet respectively.
RAN Auberon would anchor First Expeditionary Fleet.
After so many years on the defensive, everyone understood that the war had turned. Jessica Keller wasn’t personally responsible for that. It came from the combined efforts of millions of men and women, but the Navy knew that she would be taking the war to the Fribourg Empire for them shortly.
The tip of the spear.
The Fribourg Empire knew that as well.
As the sound died down, the ceremony went sideways.
He should have expected that, with those four men in charge of planning.
Nils watched Denis turn to Alber’ d’Maine with a smile and a very formal nod, before stepping back into line with the other officers.
d’Maine took four steps forward and scowled at the crowd, slowly, deliberately.
Gods, that man could scowl.
Something softened his look into merely a harsh smile. Nils was reminded of a drill instructor inspecting crew who were about to graduate from basic training. A proud hawk of a parent, thinking to himself what a fine crop of children he has molded.
“Training company,” d’Maine commanded at the top of his lungs. “STAND TO!”
It had been more than thirty–five years since Nils had graduated from the Academy.
That didn’t matter one bit.
Automatically, his hands snapped to his sides and his feet came together, shoulders back, head up. Just like he had then.
“Sir, yes, sir!” he called back, one of hundreds of such voices in perfect cadence and unison.
Some things went bone deep.
Alber’ d’Maine actually smiled at the room at that point.
Nils didn’t know the man could smile. Certainly, he couldn’t remember ever having seen it happen.
d’Maine turned back to Denis Jež, grinning ear to ear.
“Command Centurion,” d’Maine barked. “You have the deck.”
d’Maine returned to his spot on the front row with the other three trouble–makers.
Jež stepped forward again. He looked out over the crowd for a moment before turning back and looking out the big window at the mighty warship parked so close.
He turned back and took a deep breath.
Nils was close enough to the man to see how close Jež was to tears at the emotion of the moment.
“Friends and fellows,” Jež continued solemnly. “I want to thank you for joining me here today. For joining us.”
He gestured back to encompass the three men immediately behind him, as well as the rows of assembled officers and crew behind them.
“We have been through the fires together,” Denis continued. “At Ballard, we lost Auberon and Rajput, and many friends and fellows. Today we celebrate a new Auberon joining the fleet, a new beginning.”
Denis paused and turned to look Nils directly in the face across the space. He nodded as the room grew very still.
“We are here because Auberon is a warship, and we are warriors,” he cont
inued. “But there is one other task we need to attend to today. Command Centurion Kigali, you have the deck.”
Nils found himself holding his breath, along with eight hundred others.
Kigali stepped forward out of line and turned sideways as Jež returned to it.
“Color Guard, to your stations,” he said simply, across a room that had grown deathly silent.
This wasn’t anywhere in the Book of Ceremonies. Nils was certain of that. Over the last three years, he had personally seen to a generational review of those regulations.
It probably would be, tomorrow.
These people did that.
The Fifes and Drums started up again, slowly and quietly. It was a quiet, formal tune, almost a fighting song, compelling and penetrating at the same time.
The assembled crew split down the middle and turned inward, creating a hollow space surrounded on three sides by Auberon’s marines and open to the rest of the Navy and the Republic at the front.
“Draconarius,” Kigali continued, his voice growing louder and heavier. “Present the colors.”
Nils held his breath. Draconarius was an Army term, not something the Navy ever used.
Before today.
A compact female marine, no taller than Moirrey Kermode, but much broader and darker complected, stepped out of line and into the space at the center of the universe.
Nils knew Nadine Orly by reputation. She had been the smallest marine on the old Auberon, and, by reputation confirmed by Navin the Black and others, possibly the toughest and meanest. She had been CVS Auberon’s Flag Marine. Apparently she would hold the same role on SC Auberon.
She had been holding a rod in one hand instead of a sword, down by her side, when she entered, apparently, because it was there now and Nils hadn’t seen where it came from.
Orly pushed a button on the side of the rod. It telescoped upward from just under one meter to nearly three with a sound like ten thousand dragons snapping their fingers.
She reached inside her jacket next and pulled out a bundle of cloth, reddish–gray and carefully folded. Nimbly, she pulled a corner of the cloth and attached it to the top of the pole, adding another corner a second later.
Yeoman Orly turned the flagpole back upright and planted it hard on the floor with a hollow thump.
Nils didn’t need to see it splayed out in the wind to know that the triangular pennon displayed was Auberon’s battle flag. When Jessica had taken command of the old Strike Carrier, she had used that ship’s flag as her own, operating as her own semi–unofficial flag officer on the borders.
Using it here, now, was a declaration of war, if he had ever seen one.
The rest of the room felt it as well. There was a powerful, unsettling energy everywhere suddenly. Like the whole universe was suddenly watching.
Orly nodded silently at Kigali.
He turned and looked over the rest of the room for several seconds before he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he commanded simply. “RAN Auberon.”
The shocked silence was utterly deafening.
“Boss,” Kigali said to one corner of the room with a brief nod and what Nils could only classify as an evil smile. “We’re ready.”
Movement on his left caught Nils’s eye.
He hadn’t seen Jessica earlier because she was apparently wearing a long, gray cloak over her uniform, making her appear like one of the civilians tucked back in that corner of the room.
She removed it now and handed it to her mother and father, standing with her.
Nils heard the whole room gasp.
He would have liked to have said she was out of uniform right now. But that would be untrue.
A RAN Centurion wore a simple uniform. Black slacks fit snug in order to get quickly into an emergency suit. Dark green tunic top, hip–length, with a black fabric stripe across the chest and onto the upper arms, and then dark green forearms. A chaos green undershirt showed two centimeters of mock turtleneck above the collar.
On the outer side of the left shoulder, the person’s unit badge, be it flight wing, vessel, or station.
On the right arm, one bold stripe in white for a Centurion, two for a Senior Centurion, three for a Command Centurion.
For a Fleet Lord, as Jessica Keller was now, the uniform would be very similar to that of a regular Centurion. The tunic of a Fleet Lord was longer and generally tailored, with two vents on back on the corners. There would be white epaulets with bullion fringe on the shoulders and white cuffs. For the rank insignia, a single broad white stripe, twice the size of a Centurion’s stripe, on the right arm.
Jessica Keller was not wearing a Fleet Lord’s uniform today.
Black leggings and ship slippers. Those hadn’t changed in centuries, a combination of tradition and functionality.
Jessica’s tunic was identical to that of a Command Centurion, without any of the braid or accoutrements of a Fleet Lord, but done in pure white with dark green for the sides and upper arms, offset by white cuffs. On her left arm, Auberon’s badge. On her right arm, four green stripes encircled the muscles.
Because the Republic of Aquitaine Navy was a traditional place, the Chapters on formal uniforms were never removed, just appended and expanded as styles and culture changed. The uniform for a Fleet Lord, and a First Fleet Lord, like the titles themselves, dated back just over seventeen decades, even as the Republic approached its fifth century.
Every morning, on his way to his office, Nils passed two portraits in what the Navy liked to call the Hall of Heroes, a long arcade with oil portraits of famous commanders. Membership on those walls was by accolade of the Navy, not command of the Senate.
Jessica was wearing the same uniform as those two men.
Nils Kasum might have promoted her to the rank of Fleet Lord as a preparation for what she was going to do next, but Jessica Keller had gone almost primordial in the process, back to the dawn of the Republic.
She was something the Navy hadn’t seen in a very long time.
Nils Kasum could tell people, years from now, that he had been there when the next revolution occurred.
Instead of a Fleet Lord, Jessica Keller was announcing to the galaxy that she was warrior from the old days.
She was a Fleet Centurion.
Chapter III
Date of the Republic February 16, 396 Fleet HQ, Ladaux System
There was a tension to the room that had been absent thirty seconds ago.
Jessica took her spot at the right end of the front row with a smile, in line with Denis, Tomas, Alber’, and Robbie. Calina stood some distance farther to her right, smiling warmly.
In front of her, the key players in the Republic, as well as the Navy. Among the civilians, Judit and Calina had known it was coming. Jessica’s own mother, Indira, had known as well. It was she who had sewn the outfit in the strictest secrecy. And the boys had planned the entire sneaky affair for maximum effect.
The effect on the crowd and the photographers was electric.
For just a moment, Jessica smiled, sure that the Navy gossip tomorrow would be almost as intense as the planetary fashion boards, for the same reasons.
As the whispering finally died down, Jessica stepped forward out of line. Every eye in the place was on her.
“Forty–four months ago,” she began, drawing those men and women into her orbit. “First Lord assigned me to the Strike Carrier RAN Auberon and tasked me with causing the Fribourg Empire grief.”
She took a breath to order her thoughts. We have come so far, and yet we have only begun.
“It began at 2218 Svati Prime,” Jessica continued, pitching her voice to modulate both power and warmth, something else she had learned to do at Fleet Command School. “Surprise, as they teach us, occurs in the enemy commander’s mind. It does not require you to kill planetfuls of people to defeat them.”
She turned to pick out Nils in the crowd before her, and then Judit in the corner, and finally Calina, standing just to her right, but beyond a
tremendous gulf of intent and experience from the men to her immediate left and the willing crew behind her.
“At Petron, we did defeat them,” she said, letting some of the pain in her soul bleed out. She husbanded it carefully, so that she never forgot Daneel, but the entire Republic needed to know. Many in this room already did.
“At Ballard, we faced the greatest test yet,” she remembered. “Their best, coming to attack the very bones upon which the Republic was founded.”
She gestured behind her with her left arm, encompassing the two–hundred–odd marines and crew that represented the new Auberon, selected from veterans of that battle.
“The cost was atrocious, as these people can attest to,” Jessica let her voice modulate down, drawing a thousand people tighter into her eyes, leaning forward and straining to hear her words.
“We killed two Imperial frigates and a light cruiser in that battle. Another frigate was badly wounded, along with a battlecruiser and Emmerich Wachturm’s own Blackbird. Rajput had to be dismantled in orbit afterwards, broken nearly in two. Auberon retained just enough power to maneuver into a permanent orbit, a new museum to replace the famous university known as Alexandria Station before it was destroyed. Only luck and courtesy, Imperial as well as our own, kept the casualties of that day from reaching six figures.”
Jessica turned to face the men and women behind her. Those faces were calm, serious, committed. Ready to go into the fires with her once more.
Hers.
“Today,” she announced, speaking directly to her crew, but loud enough that her words would bounce off the bulkhead and be heard by everyone in the room. And possibly in a small, private chamber on the Imperial capital world, St. Legier. “We are going to take the war to the Fribourg Empire.”
The room erupted into polite applause, the crew maintaining a dignified silence, but smiling.
When it quieted, she turned back to the rest of the Republic.
“Madame President,” she announced. “Premier. First Lord. Assembled friends. If you will follow us, we have prepared a reception on Auberon’s Flight Deck. Command Centurion d’Maine, you have the deck.”