The Red Admiral, page 6
Yes, they had spent too much time training with the Imperials, those weeks when the ship was dry-docked for repairs. At least they had been able to fly way sooner than the Blackbird, but nobody had mauled them.
“Science Officer,” Wiley continued, circling her bridge. “We’ll be coming out low, down on Petron’s south pole, and relatively hot. We’ll need probes fired over both horizons.”
Bryn Maki looked up from his boards a second later and met her eyes across the space. His was a rare genotype on Petron, a descendent of one of the early families, colonists originally from Nihon, themselves almost pureblooded Japanese from the Homeworld, however many millennia ago. He was tall and slender, with straight black hair, brown eyes, and a golden hue to his skin that was so much brighter than her own tone. And rare, with all the pale-skinned Anglos that made up so much of the rest of the crew.
“Already programmed, Command Centurion,” he said crisply, never once losing touch with his boards.
It was good. Wouldn’t do to drop out of jump on top of a hostile fleet that had taken over while they were gone, even if Wiley couldn’t imagine the circumstances where that happened.
She opened a comm back to Baxter.
“Desianna, this is Wiley,” she said. “Final warning before we drop out. You should be on station in about two hours.”
“Already packed and set for a spiral launch, Shiori,” the Prime Minister said in her happy voice.
That woman would be happy to be back. To see her son, her friends, her home.
Not for the first time, Wiley wondered if she should convince Galen Estevan to make good his threat to build some warships, rather than motherships, and sail off to help Jessica.
How are you going to keep them on the farm, after they’ve been to St. Legier?
But that was a tomorrow problem. She had a year to get caught up on.
“All hands, prepare for insertion,” came the call, followed a few seconds later with “What the hell is that?”
Chapter VI
Date of the Republic September 04, 399 Auberon, Petron Orbit
Denis Jež looked up from his book when the ship-wide alert chimed. They were already two months overdue for Jessica and Kali-ma to return and send them home, but he understood why, from the regular packets First Lord had sent.
He was just mad the woman had gone off and had a major adventure without him.
“All hands, this is Nina Vanek aboard Auberon. I have the flag,” her voice came calmly through the speakers. “Possible hostile insertion detected. All hands to battle stations.”
Denis was off his bunk, into his shoes, and out the hatch in two seconds. It wasn’t his watch right now, so he was in his quarters, rather than his day office, but this Star Controller had been well-thought out when she was designed. He was on the bridge in less than thirty seconds.
Nina bounced out of the command station as soon as she was sure it was him and took up the Tactical boards. Fleet Centurion Whughy would be down on the Flag Bridge. Tamara Strnad would normally be bringing up tactical as his First Officer, but she was over on their newest ship, playing command centurion for them. Below, Flight Deck was prepared to fire three alert fighters, and probably a GunShip, into space as soon as they were needed.
“Status?” Denis called.
Around him, the bridge had fallen into that calm poise that told him everyone was ready for battle. There had only been a few of those over the last year. Nobody in this entire sector was big enough to challenge a Star Controller, let alone one with her escort team in close contact.
Still, there were always dumbass pirates out there. Fewer today, but it was like a disease, and the vaccine was slow to act.
“One vessel just came out of jump, Command Centurion,” Nina replied, cycling her boards and bringing up firing solutions. “Launched two probes immediately, and she was running hot to begin with. Passive scan reads her as a 4-ring mothership, and none are scheduled to arrive this week.”
“Nav, plot a course to intercept, but wait for the command,” Denis commanded. “All weapon stations stand by to engage.”
After a year, he had a feel for the Fleet Centurion down in Jessica’s chair. She would have expected him to begin moving immediately, friend or foe. Whughy wanted to give the order himself.
Denis would be glad to have Jessica back.
“Bridge, this is Whughy, I have the flag,” the man’s voice came through. “Do we have positive ID?”
Spit and polish. By the numbers. None of the elegant curves compared to Jessica’s thinking. She would have used anything as an excuse to keep the crew sharp, not that Arott Whughy had let them get dull.
Senior Centurion Daniel Giroux had been with Denis for his entire professional career, always serving on a vessel named Auberon, first the Strike Carrier, and now the Star Controller. And he had refused the promotion that would have made him a command centurion on his own scout or survey vessel. That would have taken him away from the center of things.
Another one infected by Tomas Kigali’s warrior ethos.
But he was among the best at what he did, and Denis was happy to still have him, even if it had required the First Lord to pull a few strings. The man had apparently done it to keep this crew together, when normally officers would have cycled in and out much more frequently.
“Stand by, Flag,” Giroux said, face down over a readout. “Confirm mothership. Confirm 4-ring mass. Confirm Kali-ma on engine signature, but she’s had some work done somewhere in dry-dock since last we met.”
Denis laughed quietly. Nina grinned at him from across the room. They had all read the reports about the coup. Most of them felt the same jealousy at not being where Kali-ma was.
“All hands, maintain battle stations while we maneuver,” Whughy ordered over the comm. “Corynthe’s Queen has returned, aboard her flagship. All vessels stand by to acknowledge Kali-ma. Bridge, move to rendezvous. Assume they’ll want to board the orbital platform soonest.”
Only Aquitaine would greet a Queen of the Pirates with 21-gun salutes over her own capital. But it was one of the reasons these people were pirates, and not civilized folks, all his efforts over the last year notwithstanding.
“Jež, this is Wiley,” a new voice broke in suddenly from the comm. An angry, exasperated one. “What the hell have you done to my station?”
Denis joined the whole bridge laughing before he signaled everyone to silence and replied.
“We have nearly a thousand marines and a heavy construction Ala of engineers available, Wiley,” Denis replied, grinning ear to ear. “So we brought the place up to Republic standards and expanded it a little. Wait until you see the new ring highway connecting the outer boroughs of Corynthe.”
Over nine hundred very bored marines, one of two battalions they normally carried, seconded to Digger Wolanski and his group of lunatic construction specialists who had replaced the other security battalion. Those folks had only gotten a taste of fun when they were unleashed on Thuringwell. Now there were schools, hospitals, water treatment facilities, and reservoirs.
And not just here. Goodwill tours to eight other planets, dropping pre-fabbed facilities or cutting new roads as a reward for being good, little, civic-minded pirates who paid their taxes on time and took care of their citizens. Plus visits to three places where they didn’t. Or hadn’t, until Arott Whughy and First Expeditionary Fleet, under direction of David Rodriguez, Regent, had brought them more firmly into compliance.
“Kali-ma, this is Whughy,” the Fleet Centurion joined the conversation. “Do you have a flag aboard?”
“Negative, Auberon,” Wiley replied. “We outran all news, including Marco Polo and the Imperial TCL accompanying us. I have dispatches for David and orders for you from First Lord.”
“Roger that, Kali-ma,” Whughy replied. “See you aboard the station shortly.”
Chapter VII
Date of the Republic September 04, 399 Royal Palace Facility, Petron Orbit
Because Jessica wasn’t aboard the ship, David Rodriguez, Regent of Corynthe, king in all but name, was able to go straight to meetings, without having to have a slow round of formal receptions welcoming her home.
Jessica had always grumbled privately about the effort, but she did understand the visuals of the task, and how much she meant to the people who were beginning to think like members of a polity, and not just the next victim-in-waiting. Or working to make someone else the next victim.
So he was in Jessica’s favorite boardroom, seated in her chair at the end of the table. Uly Larionov and Flag Centurion Enej Zivkovic were on his left and right, representing the government. Arott Whughy was next to Enej, representing the military might of both Corynthe and Aquitaine.
At the far end of the table, David observed his mother, Desianna Indah-Rodriguez, widow of Arnulf, former King of the Pirates. It had been six years since Jessica had avenged Arnulf and taken the throne, keeping it just warm enough that nobody would challenge her, or David as her regent.
Not that anybody of that mind had survived the original purges, but there were always fools. Jessica herself had thought it would take three generations for civilization to fully take hold. He had bet her that they could do it in two.
His mother had taken the role of Prime Minister. If there was a more-dangerous politician left in all of Corynthe, it was probably Uly, seated next to the throne as Comptroller of the Crown.
Uly’s nephew, Galen, had accompanied Desianna and Jessica to Fribourg, and sat now on Mother’s right, with Wiley on her left, as Shiori finished her update.
An awkward silence descended as people absorbed her words, but her smile had not dimmed one bit in the time she was away. Grown, if anything.
David was acutely aware that he was only Regent, serving at Jessica’s whim, even though she had made it clear that her duties might never allow her to return full-time, at least until she retired from active duty in another decade or two. And even then, she might abdicate in his favor, once people got used to the idea of him in charge.
But he also knew that she trusted him to do things right. Slowly, overcoming centuries of inertia and tradition, but correctly and properly. As much as it pained him sometimes.
“Mother, Wiley, Galen, thank you for what you have done, and welcome home,” he said. “We’ll have a small party tomorrow for everyone, that will additionally serve as a going-away for the First Expeditionary Fleet.”
David turned his attention to the man in white. But for Jessica Keller, Arott Whughy would be the top prospect to become First Lord in this generation of Aquitaine officers. He might still be, since Jessica was obviously going to be doing ten thousand other things, and Arott had spent a year here effectively acting as Vice Admiral of the Corynthe Fleet.
A useful training program. Maybe he should suggest it to Jessica.
Whughy’s recruiting drive had been very successful. David would miss the hundreds of young people, more than three to one female, who had taken Aquitaine up on the offer of service, but he also knew that many of them would come back in a decade and make Corynthe a better place.
And he didn’t have to worry about Wiley deciding she wanted his job. Or anyone getting through that woman to try to take it from him.
“Fleet Centurion?” David asked formally. It was a mere formality, but Whughy prized form probably more than content. In that, he differed greatly from Jessica. “How soon can your squadron be prepared to depart? From Desianna’s descriptions, you won’t be needed immediately for the war effort, but I also know your folks want to go home.”
“There are two remaining projects on the ground that I would like to wrap up, sire,” Arott replied quickly. “But we have been prepared for seven weeks now, so we should be able to depart within a week and not leave things undone.”
Undone. A man intent on seeing things to completion. Tax revenues had gone up fourteen percent in the last year, as his teams built and improved facilities, freeing up capital for investment in people and training. And had worked to weld Corynthe into a thing, and not just a place.
Arnulf’s dream, brought to fruition by his widow, his successor, and his oldest son.
David nodded. He glanced at his principle advisors. Enej and Uly nodded as well. A week would be sufficient.
“Wiley,” he said. “I want to hear about the Buran attacker now. And what it is that Yan Bedrov and Galen have cooked up. Pops will be ecstatic if there are new things to build.”
Chapter VIII
Date of the Republic August 11, 399 Anameleck Core, Anameleck Prime
It wasn’t a place he liked to visit. Too many bad memories. Too much risk of running into some of his old comrades, the few of them that weren’t dead or in prison. Of the rest, very few of them would ever recognize him, especially today.
But Vo Arlo had made a promise to himself.
That he would come to Anameleck Prime. To see who he had become.
It was a cool morning, late spring at mid-latitudes. The boulevard he was walking along was wide and straight, lined with big trees and small shops. The city known as Anameleck Core was the capital of the Republic’s industrial might, the center of finance and manufacturing, and existed in the shadow of some of the biggest shipyards in known space.
At the intersection, he paused, looking left down a street where things got…more interesting. Z’Shani was down that way, the slum where he had been born, lived until he was sixteen, had escaped from. A kilometer and a half walk would pass him through the Dragon Gates and into the old warren of cramped streets, tall buildings, and laundry hanging from lines strung between balconies.
Mankind could fly between stars, and yet there was still a core of rich folks who demanded that people be poor, just to give them someone to be superior to.
Vo caught himself grinding his teeth and stopped. He wasn’t here to be a cat burglar any more, not like the old days. And he wasn’t here to change the world down there, although he understood now what levers could be applied to do that.
And he knew who to talk to, about changing things, but she wasn’t here, and didn’t need this on her plate right now.
Maybe, when he got back to Ladaux. And maybe not. He had other options now.
Vo caught a reflection of himself in a glass storefront that made him pause. The weather had promised mist or rain later, so he had worn his third-best dress uniform today, the one for regular events. Auberon’s patch on his shoulder, as always. Tags for Security and Command on the right breast. The Big Four awards on the left. It was impressive for a simple Centurion, if he could be said to be one.
Vo wasn’t sure what he was anymore, except that he was a thirty-one-year-old, active-duty marine with a job to do. So he was here.
He crossed the street to the monumental edifice that took up the entire block, slate and tan stone rising fourteen stories into the gray sky like a semi-malevolent pyramid. An altar squatting angrily on the roadside, chewing up young lives and frequently not spitting them out until it was too late.
The Temple of Law.
He had escaped. Luck, timing, something. Being the right person on the right morning, perhaps. Vo figured he might never know, and that was okay.
Through the door, two middle-aged men in security uniforms looked up from their morning gossip. The day was early, so not many people had come to the Anameleck Courthouse yet. It would get crazy later, he knew.
The one on the left sat bolt upright as Vo approached. He rose suddenly and saluted smartly, staring intently at the ribbons on Vo’s chest. Not many people survived winning the Republic Cross. Almost none did it twice.
Vo returned the salute anyway, even though it was unnecessary for the man to have done it in the first place: indoors, and a civilian to boot, but the guard had obviously served his hitch.
“How can I direct you, Centurion?” the guard asked in a scratchy tenor.
“Judge Metharom’s chambers,” Vo replied simply.
It was nobody’s business but his, why he was here, in dress, unannounced.
“Fourth floor, sir,” the man said, turning to point. “Lifts are on your right.”
“Thank you,” and Vo was gone.
He ignored the murmured conversation the two guards struck up as he walked. Presumably, the one explaining the uniform and the medals to the other. Vo did catch the word hero being bandied about. He shrugged, but only internally.
The fourth floor was a long, quiet hallway with closed doors, frosted glass for the most part. Senior Judge Holman Metharom’s door was on the very end, down that protracted walk.
Vo took a breath and opened that door into a small office.
A woman sat behind a broad desk, looking up slowly as he closed the door behind him. She had a heavy-set kind of bulk to her. Not fat, but solid with an extra ten kilos about her. Gray hair with only traces of brown still in it. Crow’s feet and lines. Sharp eyes.
Vo would have guessed a rough mid-fifties. Anameleck Prime was not a soft place to live, unless you were one of the blessed.
Her eyes got an appraising cast as he approached her. Hard, but with a small grin tucked in. She reminded him of one of his teachers, back when he was ten, with that same knowing look.
Vo felt like a side of meat as she caressed his whole frame with her eyes. He still didn’t understand how an ugly grunt like him could have that effect on some women, but he did. He had learned to live with it and keep his opinions to himself.
“You were a lot skinnier, then,” she said by way of opening.
Vo blinked in surprise, but the woman did look familiar. Fourteen years ago, she probably would have been about forty and still a brunette. Skinnier, too, but never skinny.
And he had been skinnier, too. 198 centimeters tall and built like a pencil, but that was when he was climbing walls and breaking into buildings for a living. Or whatever you called the occupation of a cat burglar. No extra mass because there was never enough food for a sixteen-year-old from the wrong side of the Gates, and anything extra he got always went to his little sisters and his family.
