by Blaze Ward
She was his eyes, his ears, just as he was her strong right arm.
Today, his instincts had served him right.
Alber’ locked eyes with his First Officer as she emerged from the office where she had been doing paperwork. It was her shift, but Alber’ was most at home on the bridge, so he was frequently to be found here in his spare time.
His Executive Officer, Senior Centurion Cruz Bösch, was an average woman in most physical respects. Medium height, medium build, regulation length blond hair. On the street, one might walk right by her without noticing her, one of thousands more who looked just like her. Pretty enough to be the girl next door on a good day, but nothing that demanded your attention.
The body might be average, the face rather plain, but the mind belonged to a back–alley, bare–knuckles brawler.
His Executive Officer looked at him for a nod, got it, and transformed herself into a Goddess of War.
“All hands to Battlestations,” Cruz said simply, turning and taking her normal station on his right. She stopped and pulled out the emergency survival suit stowed for such a moment as this and started to slide it on as she watched the screens.
Cruz could have evicted him from the central chair. That was her prerogative as Duty Officer until he relieved her.
But she could fight the ship just as well from there. Hell, a sailor like Bösch could fight Shivaji just as well from the Forward Wardroom freezer, if push came to shove.
“Engines to full,” she continued in her subdued tone. Today, her voice sounded like driving nails into wood by landing a DropShip atop it. Implacable. “Engineering, confirm all weapons charged. Navigation, plot an intercept course that passes above the enemy vessel when she decides to flee the gravity well. Defense Centurion, keep shields to minimum until they realize we’re here, but unlock all defensive systems and fire at anything that approaches. Let’s not let them Barn Owl us, today.”
That last got a chuckle from everyone.
At one time, before she had gotten famous for it, then–Command Centurion Keller had frequently fired off a stealthy missile at the same moment she launched all her fighter craft, hiding the signal in the noise and letting the bird, a stealthy Barn Owl missile, run down its target ballisticly, not activating terminal guidance sensors until it was right on top of the target.
When it was too late to do anything.
It had been a very effective trick. But even Imperial gunners learn. The survivors did, anyway.
Bösch glanced back at Alber’ for confirmation, asking if he wanted to change anything before she took them in.
Alber’ stretched like a cat in his seat without standing. He had a fantastic crew, trained down to a very fine fighting edge, and then purified by the flames of First Ballard.
He keyed the shipwide comm and came as close to a genuine smile as he ever did.
“Ladies and gentlemen, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war.”
Chapter XXXIII
Imperial Founding: 174/05/22. Seventh Son. Above Thuringwell
Back to Thuringwell.
Another boring mail run from the sector capital.
This had to be the only place she knew that made Kittras look interesting.
Merryn sighed and settled herself into the left–hand chair as Seventh Son dropped out of JumpSpace.
At least this time, she wasn’t smuggling the sorts of goods that would get her executed if they caught her. Not even outright rebellion against the Imperial order was that profitable. Next time, probably. By then, it would be about time for another crate of rifles or something.
There was a rhythm to these things, she had found over the years.
Today, Merryn had come out of jump a little farther out than normal. Well within acceptable, considering the distance she had just leapt, but far enough away that she needed to make up time.
She brought the big, twin engines on line. Seventh Son shuddered and came alive, like a bull getting ready to charge a red cape, as she boosted both of them to seventy–five percent and started downhill on the gravity well far faster than Thuringwell normally justified.
“Thuringwell Traffic Control,” she pushed the record button on the comm. “This is TCL–100893471AJQ. Requesting lane assignment for docking. Cargo of mixed goods including sector mail from Kittras.”
And the message was away. Otto was probably not on duty today. Most likely Lo. Hopefully he had enough caffeine and food in him to grind off his normal, surly edge.
For Merryn, another week of paying the bills and dreaming about what she would do without having to scrimp and save to keep this big beast in fuel and oxygen. Merryn reached out and laid a loving hand on the polished, baby–blue dash in front of her.
Space had been her whole life, living aboard this very vessel from her earliest memory. She had stayed aboard when her mother decided to give up and marry a lawyer so that she could stay on the ground.
Merryn had inherited the vessel and his crew when her father died. She had personally recruited all the replacements for when those people she still thought of as loving aunts and uncles and cousins had retired, being of an age with her father and not ready to keep it up with his rambunctious daughter after so many decades in the business themselves.
A strange voice intruded as she scanned the near–orbit and made adjustments to catch the station after a chasing pass.
“TCL–100893471AJQ,” a man said harshly. “This is a secured zone. Stand down immediately and prepare to be boarded.”
What the hell?
Nowhere could she hear the word please in anything the nasty man had said.
“Yan, Tyler, Hao,” she said urgently into the PA system, waking her crew from whatever they were doing. “Something’s wrong. Stand by for emergency maneuvering and maybe pirates.”
She was technically the only one on duty right now, so the others could catch up on desperately–needed sleep.
It was Thuringwell. Nobody came to Thuringwell.
The crew could sleep tomorrow. Right now, she needed to get gone from whatever pirates thought they had her boxed in like a cute, little iceberg of a freighter, something as maneuverable as a pig on ice.
Catch this.
Merryn slammed the engines to the stops and felt the whole hull shudder as both engines went redline and began pushing her hard.
Nothing showed on close–in scans. There was a lot more traffic than normal around the station itself, but Merryn hadn’t been paying that close of attention. It was Thuringwell, the most boring place she knew.
Or had been. Yesterday.
Seventh Son had come into the orbital plane a little high. The station was orbiting at about forty degrees north latitude, relative to the planet below. That meant that angling back up would be the fastest way to escape the gravity well of the planetary body so she could get far enough out to jump to safety.
They were probably counting on that.
Merryn pushed the nose of her little bird down at the same time she lit the engines.
Pirates were lazy. Nobody would be expecting her to go this way. Or this fast.
And they certainly wouldn’t be prepared for the amount of torque her engines could deliver, diving down into the gravity well to slingshot straight out the southern pole like a diver entering water from the five meter platform.
Catch me if you can, buddy.
Merryn smiled. Still nobody close on the scanners. That meant probably a junkyard–rebuild fighter craft or two hiding somewhere nearby with sensors dialed down. The kind that thought they could intimidate her long enough for the mothership to show up and handle things.
Tyler would be in the tail gun turret shortly. Then a couple of punks in snubfighters would be chasing her right into his guns.
It was like I planned it this way or something.
“TCL–100893471AJQ,” a new voice rang out.
This one was quieter. Still male, but a much more dangerous–sounding one. Thin and deep, like the wound a razor blade leaves.
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“This is the Republic of Aquitaine Heavy Cruiser Shivaji,” the man said simply, almost sounding bored. “Thuringwell is under martial law. You will stand down or you will be destroyed.”
Aquitaine? Seriously? Get a better shtick next time. That lie was too outrageous to pass any sort of sniff test.
Merryn tried to coax a couple of extra dynes of power out of the engines anyway, sledding down the gravity wave of the planet. It would be like riding a rocket–powered rollercoaster at the bottom of this pass.
Seventh Son bleeped at her suddenly. A vessel had apparently been running dark out there, just waiting. Just like she expected. Typical pirate routine. He had lit his engines and sensors, and powered up his shields to give chase. Like he was going to catch her now.
Amateurs.
Nobody could catch her or touch her at this distance. Even fleet primaries were out of range. Their only hope would be lobbing a missile at her, and Merryn was just itching to try out some of the new counter–measures electronics she had installed over the last two years, just for this sort of pirate shenanigans.
For a moment, all of Seventh Son’s sensors overloaded as a flash of energy went past her nose, almost close enough for a decent sunburn.
She had never seen a beam that powerful. Neither had the scanners.
“That was your only warning shot, TCL–100893471AJQ,” the man’s voice drawled.
What the hell was that? Warning shot?
Merryn turned and took a good look at the scanner readings coming in.
That was no pirate. It was nothing she had ever seen before. It was too big. Hell, the energy signature of the shields alone was several orders of magnitude bigger than Seventh Son. And they had something they thought could kill her, even from that far away.
Merryn gulped, swallowed past a thick tongue, and dialed her engines back to idle.
What the hell was going on?
Ξ
At least she had gotten taken down by professionals. That was cold comfort for Merryn, but cold comfort was better than nothing. She could still sniff at amateurs and pirates, assuming she walked away from this one with her hide intact.
There really had been an Aquitaine Heavy Cruiser lurking out there. And it had been her bad luck to stumble into his path, like a salmon swimming in front of an orca.
The one warning shot had been enough. Another one of those would have gone through her shields like tissue paper, and not lost much oomph punching starlight all the way through her hull.
At least they were acting polite. No bluster, no threats, once she shut her engines down and inserted the Seventh Son into a safe, high orbit.
Merryn took one last look at the board before she powered everything into passive mode and got up, grabbing the leather satchel with all the ship’s papers.
A quick check on the board to confirm where everyone was. That Republic ship trailing her in a higher orbit. One of the local cutters had detached from the station and was headed over to play customs games, but at a very leisurely pace.
The fun part was the administrative shuttle that had already separated from Shivaji and requested a docking lock. Aquitaine would be boarding her first.
Merryn keyed the ship–wide.
“Hao, Yan, Tyler,” she said with some urgency. “Airlock one, right now. Dress nice. Don’t be armed. These people mean business.”
She closed the channel before anyone could argue and left the ship on autopilot for now. There was nothing she could do about what was going to happen next, except put on a pleasant face and try to talk those people out of doing anything irreversible.
Seventh Son was not your typical freighter in Imperial service. The halls were wider than normal, almost as wide as a passenger carrier. The soft green color covered most of the walls in an inviting tone, offset with gray floors and cream–colored ceilings. Lights were cheap, so she had added enough to make the place festive. Right now, they were all on.
Anything to put the invaders in a better, softer frame of mind.
She very briefly considered putting on some quiet background music, but figured that might be overdoing it.
Let’s not make this look like a brothel.
Her crew met her down on the cargo deck. They were all younger than Merryn, but hard–working and well–recommended.
Yan Neumos, her navigator, was a little taller than her, and a little darker. He was originally from the border world of Madaripur, a hard–scrabble place that nonetheless turned out bright students who immediately left to find their fortune in the greater Empire.
Tyler Yi was ethnically Korean, from Yeoncheon. He was tall and strong, but no longer a young man at twenty–six. And what did that make you at thirty–two standard, Merryn? Still, he worked hard, and had been the connection that brought his little sister, Hao aboard.
Merryn had never worked with a better loadmaster, anywhere, than Hao Yi. For some, it was a lifetime of skill built up. Hao could study a random pile of irregular boxes and shipping crates for five minutes, and then pack them into the smallest space imaginable without a single wasted motion.
She was nineteen standard, looked sixteen, and cursed like a fifty–year–old retired Engineering chief. A petite, gorgeous, foul–mouthed, female chief with bright green eyes and skin the color of burnished gold.
Merryn took her place at the left end of the line. The hull was already rattling and pinging as the Aquitaine shuttle locked itself into place on the other side of the airlock and set up a seal around the door.
She had left the outer door unlocked. From the next set of sounds, they were using it instead of blowing the door apart and venting the ship to space, or cutting their way through.
Hopefully, professionals. As long as they maintained pressure and seal, both sides of the airlock could be open. It was only on a pressure drop that both panels would slam shut on emergency override.
The inner hatch hissed and whirred as someone pushed the button on the other side.
The panel opened slowly outward into the airlock corridor.
Merryn found herself facing two Republic marines in boarding armor, but at least they had left their faceplates open. Always a good sign.
The pistols pointed at her were just the cost of doing business with strangers.
“Is this everyone?” the taller marine asked. It was a female voice.
Merryn did a double–take. The armor did not reflect female curves, but she had never run into a woman as a guard or customs officer.
The Fribourg Empire didn’t have any.
“Huh? Uhm. Yeah. All of us.”
Or something like that.
Think harder, Merryn.
“Very good,” the marine said. She stepped out of the lock and looked both ways, stopping to smile at everyone before holstering her weapon.
“All clear,” she called.
Now what?
The answer strode out of the shuttle with a very serious look on her face. And no boarding armor. Just a green and black uniform with a single white stripe on the right arm.
Her inspection of the crew was less perfunctory. Merryn studied her back.
The stranger had the same dusky brown skin tone as Yan, what the ancients used to call South Asian, and piercing, brown eyes that didn’t miss anything.
“I am Centurion Amala Bhattacharya,” the stranger said simply. “The Republic of Aquitaine is holding Thuringwell and this system under martial law.”
She paused and stared hard at Merryn. Merryn just nodded politely. This was not even remotely the kind of day she had been expecting. Best ride it out and take stock.
“As carriers of the Imperial Post, you and your cargo will have some measure of diplomatic immunity, but the vessel will still be inspected. I do not expect that it will be impounded or nationalized, but that is for the Palsgrave and the Margrave to determine.”
Diplomatic Immunity? These people were serious? And possibly seriously deranged.
And thank the Creator I don’t have a crat
e of rifles on this run. Suppose there will be any next time?
Merryn smile neutrally and held out her satchel.
“What’s this?” Bhattacharya asked blankly.
“Transport documents,” Merryn replied with a brighter smile than might have been necessary. These folks were warriors, not bureaucrats.
“Engineering inspections, crew certifications, proof of insurance and bonding authority. Also a manifest and a load receipt.”
And all of it was dead accurate, this time. Small favors. Maybe, just maybe she could get to the station with a minimum of fuss, and then the ground. And then she and Redyert were going to have to rethink things on Thuringwell.
Chapter XXXIV
Imperial Founding: 174/06/26. Imperial Conservatory, St. Legier
Books. That was what Joh smelled.
Johannes Wiegand, His Imperial Majesty Karl VII, Emperor of Fribourg By Grace Of God stood just outside the doorway to the man’s cozy office and sniffed quietly.
Old paper made from older trees, bound in cotton fabric and cardstock and then filled with a carbon–iron ink guaranteed to last for centuries.
It was a smell unique to libraries, and to small offices where the walls were covered over with stained, wooden shelves that were never dusted enough to keep the bunnies at bay. A place where a small window overlooking a courtyard was never opened in the winter, so no air circulated through it to freshen things up.
As a metaphor, it struck perhaps a shade too close to home. He would probably have to do something about that, and he might have to do it in an official capacity, because this man wasn’t necessarily likely to listen to friendly advice, even from him.
But not today.
Today, he waited quietly. Out of sight.
The door itself was open. The man inside was keeping office hours for his students, but armed troops had quietly sealed off every hallway and instructed the scholars on this floor to remain where they were for the time being. Most had been at a late lunch together, and dutifully herded themselves off to the library instead.