by Blaze Ward
Again, an Imperial thing. Colonies like this, like their fleet, were all men. Nine men to every woman. There was a need to provide female entertainment in an organized manner. Port prostitutes, to put a not–too–fine point on it.
Those two women represented between them all the middle and lower class females to be found on Thuringwell who weren’t wives of the businessmen in front of her.
The rest were men.
Businessmen. Bankers. Merchants. Actuaries. Lawyers. Shippers. And the two heads of the local mining guild. Those latter were probably the most dangerous. Certainly the most important.
There had been enough pause that they were starting to get restless.
Jessica tugged the sleeves of her best dress uniform into place and took a quick breath. She cleared her throat.
“Gentlemen,” she began with a serious tone. “Force Majeur. Nothing more. Nothing less. As of Twenty–Nine April, the Thuringwell system is under Martial Law dictated by the Senate of the Republic of Aquitaine and enforced by her Navy in the form of her dedicated Margrave, myself, Fleet Centurion Jessica Keller.”
She paused to let the men gasp and murmur and twitch. Her name alone guaranteed a certain level of panic out there. At the same time, a specific respect. They knew who she was, at least by reputation. That was something she could work with.
It took only a few moments for the locals to calm down and stop fidgeting. Now she could get to the interesting parts of the speech Wakely had written for her.
The dangerous parts.
“As of now, Aquitaine will also nationalize a significant portion of the local economy, specifically, all Imperial holdings and all of the personal property of the Ducal family.”
A man in the back started to say something. It didn’t look friendly and inviting.
His eyes caught fire. His mouth opened. One hand came up to interrupt her.
Jessica’s finger pointed at him like a gun cocked. Her scowl could have etched glass.
Fortunately for him, the man closed his mouth before he said something as insulting as she would expect from a powerful male official in an Empire where women were second–class citizens at best.
“Aquitaine will establish a local civilian administration to replace the one being removed,” she continued. “Removed. This planet is now being administered by the Republic of Aquitaine. None of this is subject to negotiation.”
That got through, both to the man in back, and to the rest. This wasn’t a simple raid. This wasn’t a mission to kidnap some important figure and hold him for ransom, nor to assassinate someone dangerous.
There was, literally, a new Sheriff in town.
Her.
Jessica smiled serenely from her platform. Some of these men might subscribe to the silly ideal that no woman was capable enough to rule over men. It had religious overtones with men like this.
She would enjoy disabusing them of that notion.
“Allow me then to introduce your new Governor,” Jessica said. “Dr. Wakely Okafor.”
The next round of gasps from the men was priceless, especially after all the reorganizing she had been required to do after everything blew up in their faces a week ago.
“The legal term,” Jessica emphasized, adding even–greater gravitas to her words, “is Palsgrave. You might be more familiar with the Imperial term: Palatine. Wakely?”
Yes. That level of shock. The Fribourg Empire frequently used Palatine Counts to administer its holdings.
There had never been a woman Palatine.
Ever.
Until now.
Ξ
Shock.
Perhaps also tinged with dread.
That was the phrase she would use to describe the looks on the faces below her.
Wakely kept her own face stern and emotionless.
Many of the men below looked like they expected to be running through a chute into a slaughterhouse in the near future.
That would be up to them.
Besides, these men probably had the least to worry about. All of them had voluntarily shown up in response to the calls she had put out, the flyers, the announcements over audio and video channels. They were the ones with either enough local patriotism, or clear–enough consciences, that they were willing to risk being here.
Of course, there would likely be a handful of sociopaths and narcissists convinced that they could talk their way out of any situation, regardless of any damning evidence to the contrary.
She would have a wonderful surprise for them, all by herself. Aquitaine wasn’t about birthright and power. Judges in the local courts would be closely vetted before being appointed, and then there would be elections to replace them all in nine months anyway.
Let the locals exercise their own voice on who they wanted to faithfully execute the laws around here. Not the men who were bestest–pals with the governor. Nor the Duke’s second cousin.
Ha.
Wakely fought to keep her predator smile subdued.
The old Governor had simply disappeared, but nobody had been willing to discuss if he had managed to get off–planet somehow, fled into the bush with Imperial Security, or suffered the kind of accident that had happened to a few of the less–popular locals over the last week at the hands of old rivals.
She listened to Jessica speak. Watched the words roll over these men like tidal waves, drowning some, pulling others into deep water. One looked like he wanted to challenge the heavens and the tides, at least until Jessica let her anger show.
Her cue.
Wakely did smile now.
Jessica had spoken from her seat, so Wakely did as well. It was a bit unnatural, as she was so used to pacing across the front of the classroom while shaping minds.
But this wasn’t a lecture hall, with twenty rows of nervous freshmen furiously taking notes.
“Gentlemen,” Wakely said simply.
She had learned how to use her voice as a weapon years ago. Irresistible, penetrating, dominant. Tired students trying to stay awake on too–little sleep and too much caffeine.
They would hear her now.
“You represent the civilian infrastructure of Yonin, and by extension, the rest of the planet.”
Wakely took their measure slowly, in cadence with her words. Build them up. Give them hope. Reassure them that the hammer of doom would fall somewhere else, as long as they behaved.
As long as they behaved.
That was almost a smell she could put into the room for them to unconsciously sniff.
“Aquitaine will rule without challenge for a time,” Wakely said sternly. “As many of you know, rogue elements of the previous regime caused significant damage to the Hall of Government before they were annihilated.”
Use a colorful word. Annihilated. Not stopped. Not killed.
Utterly destroyed.
We’re talking about cockroaches here, not people.
Nobody liked Imperial Security.
“During the fighting, the tax records of the colony were destroyed,” Wakely smiled. “As a result, I will be directing the inspectors who have chosen to retain employment to re–assess everything as rapidly as possible, using any old notes they had handy, and then cross–checking against my own personal assessments.”
That would make the men down there perk up. They were the ones who saw the taxes paid directly, as opposed to being taken from pay stubs or deducted at the point of sale. And more than half of the previous Imperial staff had chosen to stay on. Of course, with a mono–culture economy like this, the only other real choice was going to work in the mines.
Or going rogue.
The men began to look devious now. Obviously, there were edges to exploit.
“In the interim, I will direct everyone to make their next quarterly payment based on a good–faith estimate of value, after we publish new levy rates.”
And the crushing of hope. This woman was serious.
Wakely made a mental note of the various responses before her. Who looked hopeful. Who looked sly. W
ho should probably be subject to surprise inspections shortly.
Nobody liked tax inspectors. Honest ones were even worse, for certain classes of businessmen.
A man off to her right, about midway back, started to raise his hand tentatively, like one of her students wanting her to refine a point. He immediately put it back down in his lap, blushing furiously as he did.
Wakely gave him her first warm smile today and pointed at him.
He was a middle–aged man, dressed quietly but well. Money, but not noisy about it. Short, brown hair, round face with a second chin, sharp eyes, a bit pudgy around the middle.
“You had a question, Sri?” she asked invitingly.
Let these men know she could be approached. Jessica’s job was to be aloof and volatile, as needed.
She watched his eyes grow big and his jaw ground as his lips pursed. He gave her the faintest shake of his head.
“It’s okay to ask,” she continued. “That’s why you are here today.”
Now, did he have the temerity to take her up on it?
Ξ
Merde.
Now you’ve gone and done it. Brought attention to yourself.
What were you thinking?
Ulaffson Redyert wasn’t even sure he belonged in this room, especially not considering the likes of the men around him. Justin Hender, up two rows and surrounded by several cronies in the middle of the room, could probably buy him outright from petty cash, had Ulaffson been willing to sell.
Of course, that was before somebody blew up one of his freighters on the ground.
I wonder if his insurance is up to date. Be a shame to lose something that expensive and not have the Emperor reimburse you.
Still, Ulaffson made a public show of being a patriot. Mostly. Within the limits of what was normally acceptable behavior.
Stolid, but not showy.
And now, these two dangerous women. And everybody in the room turning around to stare it him, the only one with the gumption to actually ask a question, Jose Wardson’s near explosion at Keller notwithstanding.
Make it good.
“Madam Governor,” Ulaffson began a bit shaky, and with a nod, as if meeting her on a sidewalk.
What a strange and barbaric term.
“If the government has fallen, will you continue to honor existing contracts for services?”
There. Safe ground. Simple question. Deflect everyone onto financial and legal questions, and away from politics.
Ulaffson had an image of himself at one end of a line of men, in front of a wall, about to be executed by masked soldiers with rifles.
Yesterday, those men had been wearing Imperial Security gray. Today, it was Aquitaine green.
It was apparently a good question. The black woman with the graying ringlets leaned back and smiled warmly at him. Keller continued to scowl, but she was Zeus atop Olympus. That was to be expected.
“I cannot speak to your specific contracts, Sri,” Governor Okafor replied after a moment. “And, in fact, it would speed things if you could bring me a copy of yours for review.”
Her eyes got serious of a moment. Deadly serious. Monster in the closet serious, but she let that evil glow flow over the rest of the men, being warm and friendly when she got back to him.
It still didn’t help his state of mind.
“I will be reviewing all contracts, mind you,” she continued. “Good ones will be renegotiated on similar terms. Suspicious ones will be…audited.”
That did not sound like a pleasant experience, by any stretch of Ulaffson’s imagination.
“And you are, Sri?” she dangled at him.
“Herr Ulaffson Redyert, Governor,” he replied with another nod, amazed at how calm his own voice sounded. “I have a variety of import licenses, generally for non–industrial goods.”
Anything too petty for Hender and his cronies to bother with. And nothing that threatened their stranglehold over this colony.
“Oh, and the Imperial Mail Service.”
Although, that one might just be curtailed after all this. They weren’t Imperials anymore. And he would need to arrange a very private meeting with Merryn Teke. Seventh Son would be due in a week or ten days.
And she would be running into a nest of angry hornets, probably with no warning.
“Please make arrangements with my staff for a meeting as soon as is convenient, Sri Redyert,” she said smoothly.
It still felt like a dragon’s maw opening before him.
Ulaffson nodded and let a banker in the second row ask the next question. Up until now, most of his little swindles had been minor affairs, the sorts of things gentlemen in business did as a matter of course.
With the exception of importing armaments for dangerous men who didn’t like the Duke.
Ulaffson didn’t either, but he was just a businessman.
Now, the stakes had gotten very high.
Who was going to drown in these new tides?
Chapter XXIII
Imperial Founding: 174/05/07. Backcountry, Thuringwell
Conrad figured he had gone far enough. The Old Man had gotten about a half–day head start, headed back and away, towards their semi–permanent camp further up the mountains. That left Conrad and his scout down in a valley a whole ridge line away, following game trails that headed vaguely towards Yonin.
Elizabeth was good company. She had grown up backwoods. That much was obvious, even though she was rare to speak about her past. She had old eyes for someone in her early twenties.
Still, she was pleasant to look at, to watch break trail. Tall and curvy, dusky and exotic in ways Conrad had never seen, back home. He knew she had been a dancer in Yonin, an exotic performer lured here by the promise of good money and a new start from something.
They all had fallen for that one. Almost nobody was actually born on Thuringwell. That damned Duke had brought them all in on labor contracts that never quite paid enough to escape. Twenty years of hard labor and they would ship you home. Too broken down to be of any use to anyone and too poor to support here.
Elizabeth didn’t talk about her past any more than he did. Than any of them did. It was enough that she knew the woods better than just about anybody in the troop. And while it was nice to follow five paces behind her and watch that hard butt wiggle, she had made it clear early on that she didn’t want anything to do with any man.
Good enough. They were all dead men walking on this planet, just waiting for Haussmann and the rest of his goons to track them down and finish the job.
Suddenly, a clearing.
Elizabeth paused at the edge of the open space and looked around. Conrad joined her.
This would have been a perfect spot for a little cabin, on any other planet. Small creek flowing left to right. Nearly half a hectare of space in a rough ellipse. Good sun. Paradise. Totally wasted on that rat bastard Duke.
She turned and cocked a chiseled eyebrow at him. He hadn’t actually heard a word from her in hours, just looks and hand signals.
“We should be far enough away from the others,” Conrad opined obliquely, waiting for her to nod or scowl.
Nod, it was.
Conrad slung the shotgun over his shoulder, ran his hand through his short–cropped blond hair, and pulled a stolen radio unit from his belt.
“Aquitaine Forces Command, come in, please,” he said.
He expected to have to repeat himself several times before he a reply.
Someone was awake out there.
“Who is this?” a woman’s voice rapped at him. She sounded on the verge of flaying skin off his back with her tone alone. “This is a military channel.”
“Understood, Aquitaine,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “My radio callsign is Gold–Seven. I have information that should not be broadcast. I would like transport to you to negotiate.”
“Gold–Seven, what are your coordinates?” she replied.
“What map are you using, Aquitaine?”
That got even Elizabeth to s
mile.
“Good point. Stand by.”
A new voice joined the conversation. Conrad would have said older, if he had to guess. Also female, but not as angry. Quiet, but not soft. If the first woman had been sandpaper, this one might be a honing stone for sharpening a knife.
“Gold–Seven, this is Ground Command,” the newcomer said simply. “Why do I care who you are?”
Okay, that was to the point. And definitely not Imperial. Those people would either be threatening or ignoring him right now. Probably while tracking the signal and sending a kill team after him.
But that was what Fraser had meant about command.
Risk and reward. He had two cards he could play. And they wanted one of them right now.
“Because there is a small, heavily armed, Imperial force around forty kilometers, zero–seven–zero from Yonin. My commander suspects mischief and tasked me with contacting you. There are other conversations as well.”
In his head, Conrad could imagine the woman palming a little alarm button, like they did in the movies. Every pilot on the base would suddenly charge out of the shower, or the kitchen, or wherever, throwing on clothes and racing across the tarmac to their ships.
He had definitely watched too many movies as a kid.
“And your location, Gold–Seven?”
“Shawnee Valley. Little Golden Creek,” Elizabeth suddenly spoke up.
Conrad nearly dropped the radio in surprise. How did she know that?
Still, he repeated it.
“You better be alone, Gold–Seven,” the woman growled.
“Myself and one other, Aquitaine.”
“Make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be along shortly.”
Conrad gulped in spite of himself. That had to be the most politely dangerous thing he had ever heard, even after surviving Haussmann’s pet torturers.
Ξ
“Gold–Seven, this is Shawnee Patrol One. Unmask yourself.”
Conrad had known they were coming. That many horses made the most interesting racket, echoing off the trees especially when they got deposited at the high edge of the valley by a small, red, space freighter that swooped back away like a fighter craft.
The new woman speaking on the radio didn’t sound altogether friendly. None of them really had.