by T J Mott
Rhena frowned grimly, but her expression cracked, just a little. The sorrow he detected in her eyes said that she truly wanted to accept his offer. “The answer remains no. It will destabilize our very delicate political situation, and Ailon is simply not strong enough to risk that. Now, if you have nothing further…? Very well, you are dismissed.”
Thaddeus nodded and turned to leave. But Poulsen suddenly spoke, surprising him. “Governor, if I may speak?” Thad turned around again.
Rhena looked annoyed. “Very well, Commander Poulsen. Make it brief.”
“With all due respect, your decision to reject Admiral Marcell’s offer of military protection places you at great risk. Avennia is still your enemy, and you will also soon face threats from pirates, smugglers, and even your own underground black market while you struggle to establish a new government.”
Rhena frowned. “The Council has already voted on this matter, and it is closed.”
“Then I propose an alternative, Governor,” Poulsen continued. Thad raised an eyebrow.
“And that is…?”
“Commodore Wilcox and his fleet were not yet members of Marcell’s organization when he attacked the Ailonian Rebel convoy. None of them had any hand in that matter. In addition, his group is extremely independent and in reality it’s only loosely associated with Marcell. I don’t believe your objection is applicable to Wilcox’s fleet, and I suggest leaving some of his men here for your protection and training until Ailon is ready to stand on its own.”
“I will bring it before the Council and inform you of our decision.” Thad thought Rhena actually smiled. It was so slight he wasn’t sure. “Dismissed.”
Thad shook his head in mild confusion as the two of them walked out of the Council Chambers. Poulsen being diplomatic? What the hell is happening to my organization? “That was a very good call, Commander,” he said. “One that I completely missed.”
Poulsen smiled tightly. “Thank you, Admiral. I thought it was obvious.” Her smile dissipated instantly. “But then again, you’re rather…distracted at the moment.”
He exhaled sharply, once again thinking of Ria’s green eyes and bright smile, which had always lightened his mood when cast in his direction. He’d never see them again, and he’d never again see the simple joy on her face whenever he took her hand in his.
They left the Capitol building and descended the front stairs to street level. Across the street, in the park that sat in the middle of the complex of governmental buildings, Poulsen’s lead gunship sat parked in the grass. “Do you have any more business here on the ground, Admiral?”
“No. I think we’re done down here. Let’s get into space before they decide to execute me after all.”
“Very well, Admiral.”
The two of them climbed up the side ladder and boarded the gunship. “I’ll be in my cabin if you need me,” he said. Poulsen nodded as she ducked through the side passage, then turned to the bridge. Thaddeus turned towards the aft, found the empty cabin that Poulsen had assigned as his quarters, and then he collapsed into the bed, feeling totally deflated and defeated despite Ailon’s new independence.
***
Thaddeus stood in the gunship’s bridge and looked out the forward windows. The gunship still orbited Ailon, which took up most of the view outside. The dry, yellowish terrain streaked past them a few hundred kilometers below, interrupted by one rare cloud formation. Up ahead, one of the more extreme mountain ranges was coursing into view, beyond which he could just barely make out the blue shape of a small Ailonian sea.
He hadn’t really slept the night before, and he felt terrible as a result. But soon, the morning’s Provisional Council session would be over, and then Ghost Squadron would return home.
Poulsen entered the bridge. She stopped a meter to his right, towering over him, her chin level with his eyes. Her clothing, the generic dark blue utility outfit which passed as a uniform for Blue Fleet, was decorated with a Lieutenant Commander’s rank badges. Her blue jacket was unbuttoned in the front, exposing the white undershirt she wore beneath it. Her blond hair hung straight and neat, nearly reaching her shoulders, and her expression was mostly unreadable, although it seemed like she was hiding some worry.
“Ghost Squadron,” he said. “Seems like a pretty generic name.”
Poulsen frowned. “It’s provisional, and nobody really likes it. But we haven’t come up with anything better, either.”
“Hmm.” He took a step back and examined her. She appeared to be in her late twenties. There was an intensity, an aura of viciousness about her. She stood tall, lean, and fit. Strong, proud, and fierce. Warrior-like. She reminded him of something, an image, or maybe a caricature, he’d once seen as a child on Earth…
It hit him, and he imagined her proudly standing at the front of an ancient longship as it rowed through the waters, with a horned helmet on her head, shouting into the window with an angry scowl on her face and a bloodied sword in her hand. “Viking Squadron,” he said.
She clearly didn’t understand the connection. Her frowns were far less subtle than her smiles. “What’s ‘viking’?” she asked.
“The Vikings were an ancient people from Earth. I don’t know much about them, but I know the legends, or pop culture, or whatever. They were proud warriors. They sailed across the oceans, seeking glory in battle, conquering distant lands, believing that dying well in battle gave them a place in an afterlife paradise called Valhalla.”
“Viking Squadron,” she said slowly, as if testing the name out. “I think I like it.”
“Not that long ago, I think I’d have been mocked for suggesting something from Earth.” He laughed silently. “Then again, I don’t think anybody’s ever noticed that I named most of Blue Fleet’s warships after predators from Earth.”
“That’s because none of us even know the names of predators from Earth,” she retorted. “So what’s a caracal then?”
“An Arabian wildcat,” he answered.
“And a lynx?”
“Also a wildcat,” he said. “Actually, there are quite a few wildcats in Blue Fleet. Ocelot, Jaguar, Leopard, Panther, Cheetah, Tiger, probably others I’m forgetting.”
“Why cats?” she asked.
He shrugged mildly. “Blue Fleet stays hidden and stealthy, striking rarely but hard. When we do strike, the enemy doesn’t even know what hit them. We’re like a group of lionesses—large cats from Africa—hunting for prey on the prairies.”
“Hmm.” She stepped away from him and sat down at the pilot’s station. “I’ll write the memo now. Admiral, welcome aboard Viking 1.”
“Commander Poulsen, incoming message from Ailon. Text-only transmission, not a two-way hail. I’ll forward it to your console.”
Thaddeus turned to face the main piloting station, where Poulsen sat. Her eyes flicked across her screen as she read. “Official message from the Council. They have voted to accept Yellow Fleet protection for the time being. And, uh, paraphrased somewhat, they demand that we get the hell away from Ailon and never come back.”
Thad grimaced. “Well, I guess we better send a message to Wilcox and have him pick out a squadron.”
“I have a channel open to the Reckless Marauder,” the gunship’s comm officer announced.
“Wilcox here.”
“Commodore,” said Thaddeus, “we’ve worked out an agreement to provide Ailon with additional security. Commander Poulsen convinced them that you are different enough from the rest of my organization that there should be no objection if you leave a squadron here to assist with defense and training.”
“I was indeed concerned about leaving them defenseless.” Wilcox paused. “How long of a deployment are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure. A year. Maybe two. With a strong focus on training so you can hand off defense to Ailonians.”
“Very well. I’ll leave a squadron behind, with orders to regroup with the fleet when Ailon feels they are ready. I will also leave behind a company of Hellions.”
“Perfect.”
“So, Admiral, now that we’re done here, what are my orders?”
Thaddeus briefly considered a few possibilities to repay Wilcox for his tirade in Ria’s hospital room, but after a moment’s anger he collected himself. “Weren’t you on your way to find some work up by the Imperial border?”
“That’s correct, Admiral. I had several possible leads and contracts lined up before we received your call for assistance.”
“Go for it. And see what you can find out on the state of the Empire. Just don’t get tangled up in any Imperial business.”
The comm was silent for a moment. “Aye, Admiral.”
“Marcell out.” He turned to face the window again, just in time to see the sea fly past and get replaced by another green-yellow plain.
“Knowing him, he might cause trouble with the Empire just to spite you,” Poulsen said as she stood from the pilot’s seat and rejoined him at the forward viewport.
Thad shrugged. “If he does, I’ll make sure it remains his problem and not mine.”
“Why avoid Norma?” she asked. “They’re the biggest, wealthiest empire in the galaxy. With all the subterfuge and backstabbing that goes on between the Imperial Dukes, I’d think it’s full of opportunities for independent mercs like us. Especially now, without an Emperor.”
“I have a bit of a history with some of the Dukes on our end of the Empire,” he replied. “I’d rather not remind them that I still exist.” He turned to face her. She seemed almost disappointed in his answer. “Commander Poulsen, let’s go home.”
“Hang on, another message just came in,” the comm officer interrupted. “This one direct from Governor Rhena. It’s encrypted.”
Poulsen returned to the pilot’s seat and called up the message on her console. “She’s provided account details with a promise that any funds transferred there will be used to provide for war orphans, including Rin Parri. Discreetly, of course.”
Thad smiled so suddenly he took himself by surprise. Poulsen shot a very rare grin in his direction.
He took the unused captain’s seat and its console just long enough to set up a banking transaction. A few minutes later, the squadron of Lancer-class gunships and the frigate Lynx were in hyperspace, leaving Ailon behind forever.
The Prince's Revenge
Read ahead for an excerpt from The Prince’s Revenge, Book 3 of the Thaddeus Marcell Chronicles.
An old enemy returns. High Prince Saar, the despot of the Tor Regency, has completed his years-long descent into complete madness. Obsessed with finding Thaddeus Marcell, he is wreaking havoc across the Independent Regions, and his goal is simple: To make Thaddeus pay for Saar’s own failures during the Tor-Dravon War. In his quest for vengeance, he will settle for nothing less than the complete destruction of Marcell and his Organization.
Now, for the first time ever, Thaddeus and his band of mercenaries must go on the defense. He must fight Saar and bring him down, both to protect himself, and for the good of the galaxy itself…
Chapter 1
“Today is the Day of Mourning.”
High Prince Saar’s amplified voice boomed out over the crowd, hanging in the air for a long moment as it echoed through the city. The Prince himself was at the head of the crowd, facing them from an elevated platform in the Square south of his palace, where he stood behind an ornate podium decorated with the Saar coat of arms inlaid in pure platinum. Dressed in a brilliant white outfit with gem-studded buttons and gold-trimmed hems, he was flanked by a number of Tor Royal Guards. The crowd itself completely filled the Square, stretching a kilometer beyond its boundaries and overflowing into adjacent sectors of the city, containing some five million citizens who had shown up at the annual Day of Mourning. Millions and millions more watched remotely by broadcasts.
It was an official decree. Attending or watching the Day of Mourning ceremony was mandatory for everyone in the Tor Regency. Failure to do so was punishable by stiff fines and a week of imprisonment in a facility where violators were educated on the history of Saar and his government.
“It has been eight years,” Saar continued. Above him was a huge holographic projection of him as he spoke, magnified to an image fifty meters tall that could be seen for kilometers around. As his voice echoed through the city, Fletcher Pennell felt movement beside him. It was his wife, Iva, stepping closer to his side and holding on to his elbow. The crowd was packed so tightly he was beginning to feel claustrophobic, and the random motions of nearby people threatened to break the two apart if she didn’t hold on to him. And the crowd was getting more and more packed as people squeezed in to accommodate latecomers or allow citizens to move closer to the front. “Eight years to the day since the disaster which ended our war against Dravon.
“Lest we forget this terrible injustice our people have suffered, I instated this Annual Day of Mourning, for all the citizens of the Tor Regency to come together and remember what has been done to us, remember who we’ve lost, and, just as importantly, remember who is responsible for this tragedy.
“Nine years ago, the Dravon System, twenty-five light-years from our homeworld here, attacked us without provocation, for reasons that are still unknown. Our Royal Guard fought back valiantly, and many gave their lives gloriously in our defense.
“But it was not enough.” Saar paused for dramatic effect, as he often did when speaking publicly, giving the audience time to ponder the words that most already knew would be coming. Fletch hadn’t been on Tor for very long, but he already realized the planet’s despot was an accomplished actor. Everything he said, the way he spoke—his inflections, his intonations, his pauses—and the gestures and expressions he made were all very methodical, designed specifically to manipulate others. Fletch doubted most people were even aware of it. But he was an experienced espionage and covert operations agent, ranked a Commander in Admiral Thaddeus Marcell’s Gray Fleet, and with his training and background he was acutely conscious of Saar’s mannerisms.
Which was how he knew Saar was lying—aside from the analysis of Tor history Gray Fleet had given him. Reliable sources painted a very different picture of the same events, and it was already beginning to diverge from the account Saar was describing to his subjects.
For one, the Tor Royal Guard had done very little to defend its world. Saar, with an ego and arrogance that surpassed even the worst of the Imperial Dukes of Norma, had never held much of a standing military during his tenure, believing he had no enemies to defend himself from. Which was probably why he was attacked, according to analyst opinions within Gray Fleet. Tor had been—and still was, to a lesser extent—a very wealthy world with inadequate defenses, and the nearby people of Dravon had seen it as an easy expansionist effort to increase their tax base and advance their own economy.
“I was forced to hire mercenaries in our defense,” Saar continued, his voice now tinged with contempt, as if the idea of mercs disgusted him. An exaggerated look of disgust showed on his hologram’s face. “One name stood out among all of those in the Independent Regions. Senior Captain Thaddeus Marcell, a squadron commander in the Kruse mercenary organization. Commodore Kruse himself assured me that Marcell was one of the best mercenary leaders in the galaxy, a veritable miracle worker, one who could easily beat back our enemies despite his youthfulness and the small size of his force. I had all assurances from his commander that Marcell was the best he had to offer and that we were in excellent hands.”
Fletch grimaced—only slightly, he caught himself in time so he wouldn’t stand out in the crowd—at the tone Saar’s voice had taken. The man’s hatred and contempt was obvious. But Fletch also saw subtle hints of insanity, carefully concealed at most times, but still breaking through for a second or two at a time.
“What happened then was a disaster we could never have imagined. Captain Marcell and his squadron arrived, but despite his supposed tactical genius, he was unable to hold back our enemy!” Saar’s voice was now filled with rage. “I called in my ow
n battleship, the illustrious Tor’s Glory, to assist. Marcell failed to protect even that!”
Fletch kept his expression under control, fighting the urge to scowl at Saar’s incorrect recalling of history. Marcell’s squadron had in fact been on the verge of victory, but Saar, seeking to regain his pride, had called in his so-called “battleship” to seal the final win itself. The man was a true narcissist, not willing to allow someone else to take credit and willing to do anything to inflate his own name and self-importance.
But the battleship had failed in its mission, in a spectacular tragedy that had cost the lives of millions.
“The enemy opened fire on the Glory, and it soon lost control. It began to de-orbit and fall into Tor’s atmosphere.” Saar’s face, visible to Fletch through the giant hologram above, became twisted into an expression of intense rage. “As it fell, its reactor—a custom antimatter reactor, one of the best designs in the galaxy—breached. As it lost containment, its antimatter fuel supply leaked out, reacting and releasing deadly radiation as it fell through the sky, exposing our people to fatal doses of gamma radiation before it crashed into the ground. When it crashed, the explosion created a mushroom cloud so large that it stretched into space.”
Saar paused again, leaving Fletch to recall his own intelligence on the incident. Since the disaster, the Tor’s Glory had become the galactic poster child of why antimatter power was so dangerous. The ubiquitous deuterium-gas fusion reactor was incredibly safe, controlling a fusion reaction in a high-temperature plasma held at a near vacuum. If plasma containment failed, either the plasma leaked into space and the reaction went out from lack of fuel, or cold atmosphere leaked in and cooled the plasma too much to fuse. Either way, the fusion reaction was merely snuffed out without risking further damage to itself or its surroundings.