by Blaze Ward
It was difficult even thinking of the five primary captains around Kozlov by their names, as he automatically placed them on their respective bridges and thought of them simply by the names of their vessels.
Captain Iohan Pavelovski of the Fleet Carrier Europa.
Captain Nelson Amavaraia of the Fleet Carrier Hokkaido.
Captain Reinhart Snelling of the Battleship Varga.
Captain Dietrich van Aakken of the Flag Cruiser Novo Daysahn.
Captain Alain Toma of the Varga’s Light Cruiser Escort Wintergold
The other seven were Frigate Captains, three from Varga’s wolfpack, and the other four being the regular Task Force escorts for the carriers.
Two teams, each capable in their own right, but not used to working together. Plus a Flag Cruiser used to operating solo on various diplomatic and exploratory missions all over the Empire.
Would it be enough to defeat Jessica Keller?
Was anything?
And in that moment Em finally understood why Joh would not let him command again.
She had gotten under his skin, made him wonder at his own abilities.
She had made him doubt.
He might never forgive her for that.
Em took his seat and gestured the rest to sit. An Admiral of the Red had that privilege with these men. Doubly so, The Red Admiral.
He fixed Kozlov with a hard stare. It was the kind of glare the man had once faced defending a thesis before a Board chaired by Wachturm himself.
“Wolfpack or avalanche?” Em probed the room in a voice bordering on rude. “I see no ground forces commanders.”
The rest of the men were there as window dressing, as much as some of the top captains in the Fribourg Empire could be considered such.
Only Kozlov mattered.
“This will be settled in orbit, Admiral,” Kozlov fired back, just as hard. “Whatever happens on the surface will be desultory.”
Em nodded.
He wasn’t about to correct the man. Not publicly. These men needed absolute iron self–confidence.
It was enough for him to be filled with questions.
Communications surveillance had picked up the name of the appointed Planetary Governor. Em had even read two of Dr. Okafor’s books, with two more on his shelf to get to in his spare time. He had spare time these days, but not enough to consume all the books he had acquired over the decades.
Wakely Okafor was not a random selection on an Aquitaine mission. Not for an undertaking this big.
Not with Jessica Keller in command.
Dr. Okafor was one of the Republic’s experts on Imperial Systems. Planetary governance. Culture.
Psychology.
Over breakfast this morning, Em had played a mental game with himself, pretending to be Nils Kasum and trying to outguess the Fribourg Empire’s response to such a provocation as Thuringwell.
Wakely Okafor might be subtle enough, ambitious enough, think big enough, to try to wrest a world away from Empire.
With Jessica Keller, she might succeed.
“What are you facing?” Em prodded.
It was easy to fall back into the Socratic Method. Nothing better had proven its worth in one hundred and fifty centuries.
“A Star Controller Task Force,” Kozlov replied quickly. “The equivalent of a Battleship and a Fleet Carrier flying on a single hull. Three Cruisers. Six Destroyers. Whatever defensive fighter squadron she has brought with her as a permanent force.”
“And assaulting?”
“One Battleship. Two Fleet Carriers. Forty–eight type A–8a melee fighters, eighteen type A–3g fighter–bombers, six B–9 heavy bombers. One Flag Cruiser. One light cruiser. Seven Frigates. Four D–class escort scouts.”
Kozlov admitted no doubt in his voice. That was good.
After Emmerich’s raid on Ballard, after his failure to kill the three most dangerous women in the galaxy, both sides had considered the weapons and associated tactics Moirrey Kermode had invented. A few had been adopted. Those would no longer be a surprise, merely an adjustment.
Kermode would have come up with something else by now, but Em didn’t bother asking these men to think that many moves ahead. It wasn’t that they weren’t smart enough or capable enough. Nobody but Kermode could guess at what she might do.
And against this much firepower, it might not matter.
At the same time, he still knew doubt.
This many vessels assembled in one place represented more than two full Task Forces not available elsewhere on the Empire’s vast frontiers. Worlds were left unguarded. Sectors softened.
Already, pinprick raids had occurred as Aquitaine probed for weakness.
They knew.
These men were the shining broadsword of Fribourg, upholding the martial honor and might of the Emperor himself.
It was left to Em to figure out how to protect the rest, that soft, weak underbelly of worlds, with the greatly reduced resources that his personal war with Jessica Keller had caused.
“And?” Em asked again.
“Avalanche, Admiral Wachturm,” Kozlov replied. “We have her out–massed, out–gunned, and trapped at Thuringwell. Unless she has brought another squadron from Aquitaine’s First War Fleet, she will be annihilated.”
Em wished he could know such certainty.
He dared not suggest to these men his own theories for what Keller was really up to with a place like Thuringwell. They might scoff at him. They might ignore him. They might even believe.
But as Kozlov had said, it would be decided in orbit, so it would be better for them not to try to think beyond that battle.
He would never show it, save perhaps to his Duchess, but tonight, he was going to go home to get very, very drunk and mourn what he had lost.
Somewhere along the way, he would toast Jessica Keller, and then, perhaps, he would seek a way to be free of her ghost.
Chapter XLIV
Date of the Republic July 2, 396 Backwoods, Thuringwell
The country had grown rougher with elevation.
Dash figured it was something to do with the distant sea and close hills and mountains. The locals had very little to do with all the oceans on this world, concentrating inland to work the mines, but there was still a lot of drizzle and occasional monsoons through here.
Scout Patrol was tightened up now. Three hard columns with only a few scouts outside that. Third at the center as they followed the signal line.
Everyone had a firearm in their hands now, too. Trouble was coming.
Little Rain signaled a hold and dismounted.
Küçük carried the Narwhal like a lunch box in her left hand, and her revolver in her right.
Rather than flip it up on its pole, she rested it briefly on her shoulder and turned slowly in place. After a moment, she walked to her left and repeated the action. Finally, she moved to a fallen log and put her nose close enough to sniff.
Moments passed.
Küçük rose and signaled to Dash to come over from her spot on the near right. Arlo came alone, plus the Cornicen and the Draconarius. This was probably going to be official business.
“What’s the latest, Küçük?” Dash asked.
The tiny woman squatted down and tapped a bump on the log with the barrel of her revolver.
“Bastard just changed direction seventy degrees,” she grumbled.
Dash nodded, but Vo asked anyway.
“I thought you said that they tended to go in nearly straight lines?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the scout replied. “They do.”
“And?” Arlo prompted.
“It’s a trap, Vo,” Dash interjected.
She could feel that in her bones.
The ground ahead suddenly opened up into something approximating a prairie. The horses would love it, after so much time pushing through scrub and bramble, but they didn’t think about things like enfilading lines of fire and mine fields.
That much clear space was an invitation to meander in, look around,
and get chopped. Couple of square kilometers, at a dead minimum, with her troops right on the edge of one long axis. The transmitter line had originally been set to skirt along one edge. Instead, it had turned and leapt straight across the middle of the longest part, as if drawn with a compass.
“Did he know we were coming?” Arlo followed her line of logic quickly.
For a city boy, he had picked up on horse combat tactics remarkably quickly. Must have had a good teacher sky–side.
“Küçük?” Dash asked.
The woman leaned forward and sniffed the beacon again. Or whatever magic she was doing.
That one might honestly be the kind of crazy redneck that everyone assumed made up the whole Legion.
“Naw, just a paranoid mind, PeeCee,” she replied after a moment. “Guessing he was running his lines and saw this lovely pasture on a map, so he set a killzone right in the middle of it. This log is a stupid place to put a transmitter link, unless you want it found.”
“And you want the trackers to ride right out there following it,” Arlo concluded her thought.
“A–yup. PeeCee?”
PeeCee. Patrol Centurion. Boss. Dash.
Her troop. Her decision. Arlo was just a ride–along at this point, but he could call in help if they needed it.
LVIII Heavy wasn’t that close either, but close enough, in a pinch. Tamarin could drop them handy in under twenty minutes. Less if all hell broke loose.
It still felt wrong.
What would I do, if I was him?
Dash dismounted and handed her reins to Charpentier. The Draconarius was the only person here without a gun out, but the standard was on a pole with a sharpened spike, worst came to worst.
Arlo joined her as she studied the field. He brought out the glass optics.
“What would you do, Arlo?” she asked.
Vo had talked about someone called Navin the Black. Dash wondered if a marine who did a career aboard starships would be any good at field maneuvers.
Vo stood perfectly still for several seconds.
“Spider–mine the whole damned place,” he said finally. “It would take an entire pallet of them, but I would actually run them heaviest along the port edge from here, second heaviest to starboard, and just enough in the middle to spook horses and make you turn and try to run for an edge through the heaviest bits.”
He studied the path behind them for a bit, and then the field again.
“Probably add a box of plasma mines for the tanks,” he continued, pointing. “There, there, and there. Just to be an ass. Three or four cameras to watch. Maybe a couple of laser sensors two and a half meters off the ground, where an elk won’t set them off, and a cowboy will.”
Dash was impressed. City boy apparently did know something after all. Or he was paranoid enough. She wouldn’t have come up with the laser high enough to paint a cavalry trooper while ignoring native fauna.
That just made the killzone worse. The only way to be sure was to ride someone right out in the middle of it and set the damned thing off. Or try to ride around it.
She could go crazy playing chess against herself, trying to outguess Haussmann’s paranoia and skill.
She considered letting him win this round. There were other ways to skin this cat.
“We were headed that direction when we got here,” she announced loud enough that close lances could hear her. “I’m guessing he’s prepared for us to miss this line and keep circling to the left, or to cut straight across. We’re going to back off a few kilometers and circle this place in from the far right and see if we can catch his line.”
Dash drew a breath. It was rare that she had to say this, especially to these people. But that was part of being in charge. Thinking the hard thoughts.
“It may be that he gets away with it,” she said. “Gets away from us. Better safe than sorry. This is a guerilla war. We have to catch him, and not keep walking into his traps.”
She could see some of the air leak out of her people. The disappointment couldn’t be helped. In about ten minutes, that would probably turn into a slow–burning anger that would fuel people to be on him hard.
One of these days, Haussmann would screw up.
Dash hoped she was the one to catch him when he did.
Chapter XLV
Imperial Founding: 174/07/03. Kittras Port, Kittras
It wasn’t surprising that they came for her, only that it took them so long to get organized.
Merryn had even taken a slow approach to the planet, coming out of JumpSpace well clear of the gravity well and sort of idling her way in and to the ground, taking nearly twice as long as was her usual wont.
And still, Seventh Son had been on the ground for nearly a day. The local merchants who generally bid on filling Redyert’s orders had already come and dickered before retiring and beginning to send trucks round filled with boxes.
There was going to be a lot of money on the table.
Those containers that weren’t still factory sealed were going to get opened up manually, but only after Merryn had gotten into JumpSpace and put on a suit with its own air supply. And the locals could be damned if they had anything to say about that.
Still, she knew the man as soon as she saw him on the bridge monitor, approaching the primary airlock ramp. Seventh Son might be a medium freighter in size, but she still had enough landing struts to keep the entire vessel three meters in the air when it landed. And since she was buttoned up right now, the only ways aboard were the loading ramp, which was up and locked, and the primary airlock ramp, which was deployed and inviting, right until you got to the locked inner hatch. That was it, unless you wanted to pretend you were a ninja.
He even looked like a spy. Merryn suspected she had watched too many cheesy videos in her time, but the man had that tall, elegant grace, lean without being cadaverous, that she expected. She wondered if they all went to the same school to learn to dress and walk.
Certainly, casting directors had nailed this man without ever meeting him. Or he had watched too many of those same vids and was working to emulate them.
Six months ago, she would be terrified right now.
Instead, she just keyed the ship–wide with a tired hand.
“Yan,” she called quietly. “We have company. Can you take over the bridge watch? Hao, report to airlock one. Without a weapon visible, please.”
Hao would have a gun of some sort tucked away. She was just like that. Beautiful, petite women tended to develop survival instincts in the big, bad galaxy. Hao’s usually involved firearms. Merryn was happy to bite and kick.
The Fribourg Empire had come for her. She wondered if they would treat her like a man, a Captain/Owner on his own deck, or like a silly little girl that could be ordered around because she was incapable of taking care of herself.
Merryn forced the snarl off her face as she rose from her left–hand seat and made her way off the bridge.
Deep breaths. Calm heart. Relaxed hands.
You are not a spy. Aquitaine barely even hinted at recruiting you.
That would come after she returned from Kittras. If she returned.
The spy was waiting patiently in the airlock when the inner hatch cycled back into the hall. There was a lot of space here for the door to swing, physics demanding that it would slam shut and be held in place like a cork if something happened to the airlock itself.
Up close, the man was tall and skinny. Well dressed, tailored, perhaps, but still only fifteen or eighteen kilos heavier than Merryn, with a whole head of height advantage.
An average face. Short brown hair in a neutral cut. Clean shaven.
Forgettable.
“Captain Teke?” he asked formally, hands crossed behind his back at some vague approximation of parade rest.
Merryn held onto hope. The man could just as easily have addressed her as Madame Teke.
“That’s right,” she agreed without committing to anything.
“I represent certain personages that would
like to have a meeting with you,” he continued smoothly. His voice was remarkably rich for such a skinny frame. “Would you be available to talk?”
“We’ve been awaiting your arrival,” Hao replied. “Shall we?”
He paused. Merryn actually saw emotion cross his face. Indecision, mixed with a hint of disdain, and a dash of concern.
Apparently, even Imperial spies might be human.
“This invitation is for you only, Captain Teke,” he said.
“And this is Hao Yi, my loadmaster,” Merryn smiled glacially up at him. “We will go. Or we won’t.”
Hao suddenly transformed into a fierce little creature, like a teacup Chihuahua that had gone rabid. She never made a sound, but her eyes suddenly glowed with angry fire and Merryn could see her roll her weight forward onto the balls of her feet.
A pretty, little, foul–mouthed loadmaster, who wasn’t the least bit intimidated by drunken rowdies in a yard–side bar.
The spy blinked. Twice.
Merryn smiled cruelly.
He deflated. Ever so slightly. Rolled onto his back in the secret confines of the Seventh Son’s airlock and bared his belly to the tiny girl. It was enough.
He nodded and preceded them into the late afternoon sun.
Hao smiled with a mouth that wouldn’t melt butter.
Ξ
Imperial Security on Kittras was apparently housed in a converted Georgian palace on the edge of the central district. It was a white, granite mansion that was too big for a family, and too small for a business. The sort of thing a banker would build for himself when he was getting ready to put his name on university buildings or hospitals.
Apparently, he had subsequently fallen on hard times. Or crossed the wrong people, if Imperial Security owned the building now. The foyer still screamed money, though.
Men downstairs had thought to separate Merryn and Hao when they arrived. Force Hao to wait behind while her captain was escorted upstairs and possibly to her fate.
Merryn was fairly certain she actually heard the faintest growl come from Hao’s throat this time.
They eventually let the loadmaster pass.
Upstairs, down the long, oversized hallway, Merryn was led to what was probably a formal salon in its previous life. Wide double–doors in white that opened into a medium sized space, too big for High Tea, not large enough for dancing.