Petron

by Blaze Ward

  Phil stood up suddenly and walked to his wall safe, opening it and pulling out some of his old file chips that he stored things on for long-term research.

  He spent about ten minutes finding the section he needed. There. Yes.

  An Imperial report, dated eleven years ago, so Date of the Republic 394, except this one was Imperial Founding 172. And written by no less than Captain Torsten Wald, Staff Analyst, Imperial Palace. Something Jessica had circulated to all her Command Centurions during The Expedition as part of a Why We Fight note.

  Phil ground quickly through the intro and background materials so he could dig into the meat of the charts. With and Without Jessica Keller. All of this written before the death of Karl VII.

  Fribourg had been winning. Quietly, to be sure, but definitely. Would have gotten an irresistible edge in just another few years from today had the galaxy not changed. Would have been a half-century from outright victory and conquest of the Republic of Aquitaine. Still had an edge in planets, population, and naval forces, and in those days the Empire had been fighting a two front war as well. With Buran no longer an existential threat, a lot of ships suddenly became available on this frontier.

  What idiot decided to restart a war that Aquitaine was a strong contender to lose? The new designs were a revolution, but one shared by everyone, so they balanced out. Phil knew his side had better officers, overall, but he’d also just spent many years helping the Imperials get themselves to a new level of dangerous professionalism.

  What did someone gain from this?

  That was the greatest lesson Jessica had taught him in his time with her force. Never act for random reasons, even when it appears random to an outsider. Always have a specific outcome in mind. And a set of contingencies you can adapt to as the situation changes.

  All of this looked like someone wanted to pick a fight. With Phil Kosnett’s name on the bill of lading.

  He wasn’t really thrilled with that, but he had taken the oath.

  He sent a message to his Flag Centurion. Paskal entered the office moments later.

  “Sir?” the man asked simply.

  “Routing orders take us to Hemera from here, Paskal,” Phil said. “However, I don’t think we’ll be there long, so I want you to work with everyone and figure out what each ship needs for a long sail off the far side of Hemera. Have it all in one place and ready to deliver to the Quartermaster as soon as we drop into communication range, so they can start their processes.”

  “Hemera, sir?” Paskal’s whole face was confused. Phil felt the same way.

  “That’s correct,” Phil said. “And no, I don’t know why, but I expect there will be another order packet for us when we arrive. That’s why I want to be ready to move quickly.”

  “I’m on it, sir,” the man said as he withdrew, leaving Phil to sit in his office and turn over all the details.

  There was a story there, but he was damned if he could figure out what the pieces were telling him.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 183/06/06. HALL OF THE DUKES, STRASBOURG, ST. LEGIER

  CASEY CONSIDERED what she was doing today qualified as the sort of ambush assault that she might have learned from Robbie Aeliaes, had she served longer with the squadron. Alber’ was all about Le Beau Geste, the Grand Gesture, like the time he took on an Imperial Battleship in an upgunned, experimental Heavy Cruiser. And won. Or First Ballard, when the Heavy Destroyer RAN Rajput went nose-to-nose with a Light Cruiser.

  And killed it.

  Even Tomas Kigali was that way. He just used a smaller weapon, a shiv instead of a battle axe, but the mind holding it was a brother of Alber’ d’Maine.

  No, Robbie would have approached it this way. Subtle and off-center. Get you looking the other direction when he got settled and then slapped you upside the head.

  Casey made a note to send Robbie a thank you letter after this, just for providing her the mental framework she needed today.

  Somehow, her spies had managed to outdo everyone else’s spies. Provst’s Marines had taken the entire situation as a practical joke on the civilians, and gone all in with her as well, cognizant, no doubt, that the 189th would be the measuring stick against which their legacy would be held, when it was all over.

  In the end, it had been Anna-Katherine Kallenberger who had pulled off the greatest coup. She had put on a hijab and walked right into the Imperial Palace, holding a card given her by Cameron Lara and several men in gray that got her through a variety of lesser-used doors and corridors, until she was in Casey’s personal suite, where she proceeded to liberate the pieces Casey would need before slipping right back out without anyone being the wiser.

  If a few people had remembered that she had gone to Petron with Casey, either they didn’t mention it to anyone, or Anna-Katherine had bluffed them into silence.

  They only needed another hour or so now, and it wouldn’t matter.

  But Casey absolutely looked the part today.

  Gone were the comfortable outfits worn shipboard, crafted for her by none other than the immeasurable Vibol. Still, she was in his attire, as he had supplied most of what she wore, at least until tomorrow, when she would be free to contract a few others to make clothing for her and the Imperial Household.

  Today, the most formal of formal. Black slacks cut like a naval uniform, straight-legged and roomy, rather than sleek to show off Her Majesty as a woman. Crimson tunic of a style that had been out of fashion for more than a century, embroidered as an identical match to one destroyed when Werder burned. Matching gloves and belt in sleek, black leather.

  Her hair was contained by a crown done in gold and bronze, set with a number of precious stones in a rainbow of colors, each originally placed into the design by one of her illustrious ancestors as a mark of their rule. That version had also vanished at Werder, and a replacement cast and assembled for her Regalia, but it was an exact replica in every way.

  As a Ritter of the Imperial Household before her Ascension, she also wore the cloak and sword of her station. She missed Moirrey standing beside her, fussing over the knot and the drape of the cloth, but hopefully Pint-sized was busy being a Mom and Casey would get to meet her new niece one of these days.

  Assuming everything survived what she was about to do today. Six Marines held station around her as she waited in a small chamber, almost a vestibule or a cloak room. Em was with her, also dressed as a civilian Duke with his own sword and cloak, rather than the Grand Admiral of Fribourg.

  This was an aristocratic ambush.

  None of the others were here, but they were not traditionally allowed on this semi-consecrated ground. Jessica had flat refused her on more than one occasion, settling, in the end, for letting Casey make Gerhardt a Landgraf, which Torsten would inherit, and then it would pass back to the Wald clan when he died.

  That might yet have to change. Casey had loyal followers, and she had enemies. Some of the latter would be neutralized as best she could, but a few might have to be removed. The time for aristocratic privilege outside of the law needed to end. They could keep their rank and their wealth, but their power needed to be broken if she didn’t want to face this sort of challenge every decade until she was dead. Or setting up her future children to face it.

  Casey had spent a day and a half reading summaries from Lara and his spies. She was not pleased by what the mice had decided to do while the cat was away. Nor what Aquitaine seemed to be doing all along their own borders, setting everyone else alight.

  A knock at the outer chamber, followed a moment later by the door opening and one of her marines looking in. He nodded to the people in the room and stepped back.

  Chrandy Breson, Duke of Diego de la Vega entered. Like her, he was dressed formally, in clothing out of touch with the modern age, but showing off his wealth and the ancient nature of his house.

  The Duke himself was a thin man of average height. Sandy blond hair was receding and thinning as he aged. It would be gone in a few years when he turned f
ifty, but he didn’t have the sort of skull that would look good shaved. His eyes were a washed out green that seemed to turn gray in the right light, a combination Casey couldn’t remember seeing anywhere, but her Empire had nearly one thousand worlds, and more than a trillion citizens. Every combination of possible genetics would eventually get tossed up as an experiment.

  “Your Majesty, I had no idea,” he gasped in a low, tenor voice. “How is this possible?”

  Casey smiled sternly at the man as the marines outside pulled the door closed. Chrandy Breson wasn’t a personal friend, but had always been something more of an ally to the throne she had inherited, at least. Her father had liked the man well enough. But his job as Chairmen pro tempore of the House of Dukes meant that he needed to retain an air of dignified independence from the Crown itself.

  “I was called home early,” Casey replied simply.

  He would hear the parts of the story she wanted public shortly, anyway, and she didn’t feel like explaining it twice today.

  “I was told that there was a situation at the Hall that required my attention,” Breson nodded to indicate the marines outside that had summoned him.

  That marine just grinned for the briefest second and returned to cold professionalism.

  “And so this is, Chrandy,” Casey replied solemnly. “I wanted to give you time to prepare mentally, because I will Chair the floor today, as King of St. Legier.”

  The man gasped. His eyes got huge. A shudder ran through his body.

  Finally, he took a deep enough breath and came to stillness. A hint of a smile even crept onto his face.

  “While this is all very outside of the norm, Your Majesty, I find myself rather looking forward to the events of the day,” he whispered, glancing around the room and suddenly registering the Grand Admiral, standing in the corner out of the way. Another shock. “zu Wachturm as well? My my my.”

  “It will be necessary that you be kept isolated until I make my entrance,” Casey informed the man. “Your electronics will be taken for now and returned to you afterwards, and there is a restroom there. If you need coffee or tea, I will send one of my men for it.”

  “No, thank you so much, Your Majesty,” Breson said as he found a bench along one wall and functionally collapsed onto it. “The Dukes have been restive, but you presumably knew that and have arrived to settle them again.”

  “I have,” Casey acknowledged.

  Yes, she had read the reports. Bribes going every which way. Threats as well. New alliances forming. Old ones dissolving, occasionally with rancor.

  In six months, she might have seen two sides coalesce, as Lara had warned, intent on pulling the Empire apart. It might yet come to that, but she had arrived home before the sides had stabilized enough to grow rigid.

  The Empire was taffy that could be pulled, stretched, and woven, something Heike had once spent an afternoon teaching a young princess how to do, between bouts of immense giggles.

  Casey looked forward to the day she could teach Heike’s children the same. And her own.

  She just had to face down her own Empire first.

  The last hour passed quickly. Breson eventually requested tea, but otherwise sat quietly in a corner, occasionally giggling to himself at some internal joke. She suspected the man was looking forward to everyone else going through what he had, when he would get to watch them from a spot near his old seat.

  A knock at the other door caused Casey to rise and move off to one side, along with Em. Breson had been prepared, and seemed to be looking forward to this as a monumental practical joke.

  He moved to the door and opened it just enough to see out.

  “The Dukes are just about settled, Your Grace,” a man’s voice could be heard. “Whenever you are ready.”

  “Excellent,” the Duke of Diego de la Vega said in a quiet voice. “I will be along shortly.”

  He closed the door and smiled at her with true joy in his eyes.

  “Perchance, could one of your men escort me around to a side door quietly?” he asked. “I would not want to miss the explosion that will occur when you enter, and you must absolutely enter alone for the best effect.”

  Casey nodded to one of the marines and smiled.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Breson said. “I will need about thirty seconds or so to get to the other door and convince the docent to remain quiet.”

  Casey watched him go and took a deep breath.

  Em had remained perfectly silent for so long that she had looked over occasionally to make sure he was still awake. His hand rested on her shoulder now, a promise of strength and support.

  “You’ll do fine,” he rumbled at her, sounding remarkably like Vo in that moment.

  That nearly broke her will, but then it pushed her past the moment and into the future.

  The Empire would change today.

  She would have to push hard on the vision she had, and drag large chunks of her people out of the past.

  Casey nodded to the marine by the door. That man opened it on silent hinges, and four of them exited, eliciting something of a strangled squawk from the docent that had been waiting on the other side.

  When she emerged, the docent turned white.

  Casey couldn’t resist. She smiled at the man and held her finger to her lips in the universal sign for silence. He nodded, nearly as shocked as Breson, but remained still.

  They were in a short corridor to an open archway. Two marines went each direction once they were through, fanning out to the sides, and Casey emerged into the Hall of the Dukes.

  Perhaps a third of the men in the room were looking her way, while the others were getting settled and comfortable for another day of arguing about rights and precedence over those foolish commoners who thought they mattered.

  A low buzz emerged from the crowd as people recognized her.

  Rather than wait for the roar to build, Casey approached the lectern and lifted the over-sized gavel resting there.

  Robert’s Rules of Order.

  Older than spaceflight. Perhaps older than industrial technology. Still the basis of large conclaves of legislators that needed a formal system with which to talk, lest things dissolve into the occasional melee of punches and verbal abuse.

  One rap to call attention to the Chair. Two raps to call the men to order.

  Because she was their Emperor in the flesh, three tremendous raps to call them all to their feet.

  The room erupted in noise and chaos, but these were generally all older men, secure in their power and privilege, and past the young Turk stage of things.

  Casey let the room roar beneath her. These men reacted across the whole spectrum of human emotion, as she knew they would. In her head, as she waited, Casey was writing all of this noise as an overture, brass clashing with strings, woodwinds madly racing all over the scale, kettle drums raging ominously.

  Eventually, these men settled, when it became obvious that she would outwait them.

  The noise tapered off quickly. Perhaps a single flute remained, like a butterfly riding a breeze and attempting to find a perch safe from the storm.

  Silence. Casey started on her left and stared around the room, identifying fools, aristocrats, traitors, and loyalists based on things Torsten Wald had helped identify, back when Governor Chavarría was here. Cameron Lara had expanded the search, in her absence, digging in deeper and wider.

  And she could not go public with much of that information, perhaps ever, lest she trigger the very confrontation that Tadej Horvat had spent however long maneuvering into place. Anything she did would risk alienating the very men who might fracture a delicate Empire in their wrath.

  The silence stretched.

  Casey nodded finally and rapped the gavel once, a high-pitched crack of thunder that echoed.

  “This chamber will come to order,” she commanded.

  The acoustics in here weren’t that great, but the Chairman had microphones nearby to capture his words and override mere humans on the floor bel
ow as they found their seats again. And their manners.

  “We will table a discussion of old business for now and move immediately to new business,” Casey continued, waiting to see who would rise first.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chrandy Breson enter the chamber from her right and make his way to the floor, picking a spot off to one side where people grumbled at the man.

  Magan Gerig rose. Casey had always found it terribly amusing that his name meant something along the lines of Mighty Spear in one of the old tongues. He had that fierceness about him now, tempered, as it must be, by the sudden and utterly unexpected arrival of the one person capable of derailing all of his and Horvat’s plans.

  The man wasn’t that closely related to her. Somewhere in the two-hundred range on the Imperial Succession List at present, and likely to go down from there as time passed.

  Who had he identified as a successor to Karl VIII that he might be able to control?

  Nobody had been able to answer that question. Em and his son stood in the way of anything, once you got past a distant cousin, an older prince of a previous generation and his two children, cousins Casey wasn’t all that familiar with or close to.

  Family politics had caused a number of people to be alienated from the throne over the years. The Coup had brought much of it out into the daylight, where more people were suddenly either imprisoned, or removed from the official list, in lieu of charges being assessed and titles permanently stripped.

  “Welcome home, Your Majesty,” Gerig began in a grand voice that was probably speaking more to his peers than his sovereign. “To what do we owe this great pleasure? I am not aware of any of your predecessors chairing this body in an official capacity in some time.”

  In that, he was correct. Only for ceremonial tasks had father or grandfather sat here. Mostly, the Dukes were left to their own devices and organization, as a way of rewarding their support.