“You stop talking back to the furrin lady or I’ll rap you on yer knuckles with this here spoon, Kit. Don’t you know it ain’t nice to say things about a body’s looks?”
“She looks funny,” another orphan piped up.
A few of the children giggled nervously.
Alsvid placed her hands on her hips and bent down, her nose nearly touching that of the tiny orphan’s. She gave the tiny white girl a long, hard stare, her beautiful midnight brows darkly knitted, her lips pressed in a stern line, her jaw tight. Her eyes burned like green fire.
Kiit dropped her spoon and began to cry with fear.
“Do I frighten you, child?” Alsvid’s voice was quiet, soft as velvet.
“Yes!” Kit hid her face behind her dirty hands, shaking with terror.
“Are you gonna eat her?” one orphan piped up, bobbing up and down on his feet as if making ready to run away.
To everyone’s surprise, Alsvid placed one slender hand on the girl’s head soothingly.
“You are right to fear. I am a killer. However, I only kill bad people.”
“Like the Germanoi?” Kit said, sniffling, wiping her nose with her smock.
“Perhaps,” Alsvid said, nonchalantly. “Now be a good girl and finish your dinner. I’ll make sure nobody hurts you, or I’ll kill them too.”
THE FIRST MILITARY CONSUL
Behind the moon of Albion, in the long, dark shadow of space, the Augustina-class Super Space Battleship loomed like an eternal engine of destruction.
It was miles long, bristling with weaponry, an extended rectangular block longer than it was wide, flat, squat, almost like a spaceborn brick, built of finely crafted machinery carrying live crew and infantry, clad in golden armor.
Upon its upper surface, the bridge rose majestically out of its center stem, a vast golden pyramid glittering in the light of the stars, its interior lights glowing here and there out of arrays of outside viewports.
At its bow end, snarling in frozen rage at the very front of the vessel, was a crude golden mask that bore vague resemblance to a human skull, stylized like an ancient war mask, all crude squares and straight lines arranged to remind the viewer of nasal holes, naked teeth, bare jawbones, and empty, dead-eyed, starkly penetrating eye sockets.
Red lights glow with a baneful aura in its eye sockets and mouth, as well as the bridge tower at the peak of the pyramid in the center.
Around it was a support fleet comprised of three Legionary-class Space Battleships, two Archer-class fleet carriers, and five Auxiliary Battlecruisers, all of the same design as the Super Space Battleship, writ small.
Just the nameplate of the Super-class, which was named “PRUDENCE”, dwarfed the smallest support ship, the Auxiliary Battlecruisers.
The Auxiliaries were slender warcraft, like floating kitchen knives, an apt description for, as it was often joked by some wags, its mane purpose was to cut a slice into the enemy with which the remainder of the fleet could drive itself through. They were almost entirely gold-hulled, with pyramidal bridges at the far rear end of the Battlecruiser’s stern - the handle of the knife.
The Legionaries were rhomboidal golden prisms, pyramids with their flat ends squished together and elongated till they resembled church spires more than anything else put together, looking as if they wished to stab the very dark of space on each end; skewering the ether with their sharp points. Half the size of the Augustina-class, their pyramid-shaped bridge rose from their center axis, a short, squat ziggurat-like structure with a reinforced fighting-top.
The Archer-class Fleet Carriers were long, flat golden planks, like two-by-fours in gilt clad, with a towering pyramid, more akin to an obelisk, a command tower at the far right center of the craft, ablink with porthole lights.
The Auxiliaries were merely smaller versions of the Augustina-Class, resembling her in all but span.
Every ship had a mask of gold at its front bow portion. The Legionaries have slender, sharp-faced, femme masks with slitted eyes and stern, wide mouths. The Archers have wide, flat faces with squashed noses and jutting lower jaws. The Auxiliaries have solemn, squarish faces recalling the skull-like one at the front of the Augustina-Class, staring at the void in silent judgment.
Aboard the PRUDENCE, Admiral Ambrosia Myita Aureliana, commander of the Thirteenth CLASSIS, or Fleet, of the Basileia, paced restlessly about the bridge. It was a roomy, dimly lit cabin. Slender, stern-faced black women in the uniform of the Imperial Navy were tending to the consoles governing the ship’s systems, their peaked black caps shielding their eyes from the red glow of the displays. They were chattering to themselves as they worked.
The Admiral is a tall woman with black-colored skin and large, bright red eyes, seemingly middle-aged. Her peaked black naval officer’s cap bears the symbol of the Imperial Navy in gold upon the center; a Gryphon rampant, paws resting upon a swirling emblem intended to represent the entire Galaxy, a clear reference to the Basileia’s galaxy-wide reach. Her hair is long, waist-length, a shimmering purple curtain that moves and ripples with her step. Her nose is aquiline, long, and wide, her lips sensous and full, coral-colored, her cheeks smooth and red-rouged, complimenting the dark purple eyeshadow she chose.
The Admiral’s figure is lush and full, wide-hipped, with a weighty, firm bosom, a flat stomach, and thick thighs, her tight black Naval Officer’s uniform accentuating the curves of her body, the hard lines of her arm and leg muscles.
The uniform is spartan and pure in design, a black catsuit-like spacer's garb with gilt epaulettes bearing her rank and name, snug-fitting, hip-hugging, highlighting the luxurious nature of her body, and leather calf-length boots befitting a cavalry commander were on her feet, a dun-colored pair of tough, high-heeled things.
She treads quietly around the bridge, watching her subordinates as they grump to each other.
“Huh, stupid backwater of a planet…”
“Why are we even here? I don’t get it…”
The Admiral stalked over to the two women complaining bitterly. “You’ve found something?”
One of the crew glances up. A hush falls over the bridge.
“No, Lady Admiral. Just a bunch of sheep and naked tribal sorts, and dilapidated old castles.”
“Lady Admiral!” called another crewmember. “Incoming transmission from the specops group.”
“Patch it through.”
The Admiral approached the comm screen display at the center of the bridge. A crisp, clear hologram of Alsvid, flanked by her detachment, appeared.
The figure of Alsvid raised her right arm, her elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle skyward, her hand clenched in a salute. “Admiral.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“We have completed our rendezvous with the Queen and secured an audience with her council.”
“Go on.” Admiral Aureliana crosses her arms under her breasts, gazing at Alsvid’s holographic form with a testy look in her sparkling red eyes.
“Her forces are badly bruised by the onslaught of the Reich.”
“I know all this already, Captain, why do you waste my time going over old intelligence? I should think the Eyes of the Basilissa would perform a more suitable task than this.”
“I am sorry, Admiral.” Alsvid lowered her eyes, looking abashed.
“What else is there?”
“She agrees to go on a diplomatic mission to the Capitol. There’s a blockade in place around her world; a large group of Reich ships. They have also captured her main starbases and most, if not all, of her fleet. I intend to break through the enemy lines, free her flagship and its supporting vessels, then have her board her flagship and regroup with your fleet.”
The Admiral drummed her fingers upon her forearm thoughtfully, pursing her lips and giving Alsvid a searching look.
The doors to the bridge swing open.
The Admiral and her crew turn to see who has entered the bridge, and abruptly fall silent at the sight of the newcomer.
She is a giant of a woman, her skin as blac
k as night, towering over eight feet tall, striding forth like some kind of war goddess, silent as death except for the labored hissing of her breathing apparatus. A red cloak spreads out from her shoulders like the wings of a dragon.
Her hair, done up in thick, rope-like dreadlocks, is red as blood. One of her eyes is a cybernetic implant, a golden metal ball set in her eyesocket like a gun turret, casting a red laser light wherever she gazes. When her gaze falls upon one of the nervous crewmembers, they shrink away from her sight, making themselves as small as possible.
The woman is wearing heavy power armor that makes her look like a colossus made of pure gold, doubling the size and heft of her body. Her face is hidden behind a golden respirator that gives her the appearance of a skull, what with its tall vertical vent over her nose and mouth, and the tubes running over her cheeks.
Her breastplate shows finely wrought images of armored women giving battle to the enemy. The enemy is fleeing astounded from their onslaught as the women cleave them with sword and shoot with their rifles, stamping upon the enemy dead resolutely and breaking their bodies. On her shoulder pauldrons are skull-like war masks, screaming silently their warcries. Her gauntlets, two huge golden bear-like paws with long golden fingers, are dripping in jewels, with prayers to the Basilissa written on the backs.
On her belly’s heavy golden plate amor is a relief of the Basilissa herself, a slender young girl not older than thirteen, levitating above kneeling armored women, terrified enemies, and hooded spec-ops soldiers like Alsvid, radiating rainbow light in crepuscular rays, her arms spread in cruciform fashion, her head turned skywards with a serene expression upon her delicately beautiful face.
On her gigantic thighs, carved into the golden plates of armor, are more inscribed prayers to the Basilissa. Her feet are encased in massive war boots, huge golden affairs with spikes on the soles to deliver a crushing blow to any enemies that lie vanquished on her feet, tall war masks engraved upon inch-thick shin guards.
The mere sound of her tread upon the decks of the PRUDENCE make ominous, resounding, hollow booms from her weight alone, body and armor combined.
There is an eerie silence, save for the humming of the ship’s massive engines. No one spoke. No one looked at the Military Consul directly.
The Admiral is the first one to regain her speech. She lowers her head respectfully. “First Consul Valeria Caesarina, you honor us with your presence.”
The Military Consul of the Basileia surveys them all with her one good flinty grey eye, a scowl on her heavily scarred face.
“Where is the Queen? I wish to see her.”
The Consul’s voice is an awful, mechanical rasp, filtered by her respirator’s mechanisms, made sepulchral and hollow..
“Our detachment is securing her as we speak, First Consul.” The Admiral is careful not to meet Consul Valeria’s gaze as she addresses her.
There is a brief, pregnant pause.
Finally, Consul Valeria speaks.
“Move the fleet closer to her castle. Bring us within atmosphere if you must.”
The Admiral is at a loss. “Your Excellency, the planet is under siege by the Reich’s Kriegsmarine. Their elite Bruder Grimm war fleet, no less, backed by Reichsadmiral Bertha Hess! If we move closer…”
“Destroy them if they move to attack positions.”
“Destroy them, Your Excellency?” The Admiral’s normally stern face shows the first signs of dismay.
“Destroy them. You heard me, Admiral. Break every ship to pieces if need be. No one stands against my flagship and lives to tell the tale.”
The First Military Consul’s voice is firm, her gaze unblinking, steady.
“I myself will lead the assault with my Legionaries to repel boarders. I will also deploy a singular battalion of Legionaries to the surface of the planet to hold back the enemy, should they impede the progress of the Queen.”
She makes a fist, her power armor whirring and humming softly. “Let them carry the Griffon standard of my legion in their arms as they close with the enemy to destroy all who would oppose the Basilissa. My will is such, Admiral. Do not fail me.”
“It shall be done, Your Excellency,” The Admiral bows very low, and strides off.
Seating herself at the large, throne-like chair at the head of the room, the First Military Consul of the Basileia, Valeria Caesarina, spreads her huge legs and arms, planting her feet firmly upon the decks of the ship, placing her hands on the armrests.
She stares out at the dark reaches of space implacably as the crew hastens to do her bidding.
“Now we shall unfurl the war banners of the Basileia,” the Military Consul rasps. She clenches her fingers tightly around the arms of her chair, the metal creaking and groaning as it deforms under her grip. “You now, ladies of the ship; look well and listen. We shall show the enemy the Glory of the Basileia with our guns, our swords, and our bodies.”
◆◆◆
Alsvid managed to accost a poor farmer and his wayn, a huge, creaky old wooden cart heavily laden with wheat, bidding him give them passage.
At first he was not so willing. An obese, ruddy-faced, black-bearded, misbegotten fellow, with a cringing, ill-tempered look about him, his nose pocked and tinged purple from overmuch drinking, his eyes beady and small in his great white face, he was instantly averse to them all.
“A demon! Angels and ministers of grace preserve us!” the unfortunate old man wailed, throwing his hands skywards. “A black-faced demon!”
Alsvid leapt up onto the back of his wayn with a smile. “Come now, oldster, if demons are as beautiful as I, you ought to count yourself lucky.”
“And that’s my wife you’re calling a demon, anyway,” Leo growled. He shook his fist at the old man.
“Well, she’s only demonic some times,” Kimmy said, soothingly.
“What do you want? I’m only a farmer! All I have is wheat!” sobbed the old man, falling to his knees.
“We want passage down the Queensroad,” Kimmy explained, helping him back up. “Can we ride in your wayn?”
She gave him a single gold coin with the face of the Basilissa upon it, a serene-looking young girl. The farmer bit it, then dropped the coin in shock with a squeal. “It’s gold! Real gold, your Ladyship!”
“I’m no noble lady, just a soldier of the Basileia,” Kimmy reassured him.
“Very well, then. Bring your demon queen, there’s room in the back,” the farmer said, dejectedly clambering back up into the driver’s seat.
The pastoral lands of Albion made for a beautiful sight as they rolled down the Queensroad at a sedate rate, the farmer occasionally tapping his oxen to encourage them with his whip. Green hills spread out around them. In the distance they could see golden farmlands, lush emerald meadows, bright blue lakes, and white-capped mountains.
Alsvid’s comm unit blinked red. Kimmy and Leo bent closer to her, listening as she flicked it on.
“Yes?”
The Admiral’s voice came through, tense and full of nervousness. “The Military Consul has given her authorization for your mission. She’s utterly furious and preparing for the attack on the Reichslanders as we speak. How much longer?”
“Not further. I commandeered a hay wayn for the journey. We should be within sight of the port soon, Lady Admiral.”
“Hurry! The Consul will destroy every living thing standing in her way to get to the Queen of Albion if need be. It will be a bloody slaughter, an abbatoir. Secure the Queen’s flagship with all haste and regroup with the fleet! You must be quick or all this planet will be drenched in blood!”
Codex Basileia Page 4