by M. D. Cooper
Though the Fury Lance had been Rika’s flagship for over a year, it had never really felt properly lived in. The reason for that was simple: the four-kilometer-long vessel could house thousands, but the typical Marauder complement was just a few hundred.
But now that her ship was effectively the center of government for the re-emerging alliance, everyone who wanted a voice in the New Genevian government had found their way aboard, inserting themselves into the decision-making process.
The conversations in the administration area grew muted as she walked through the atrium, those gathered around holotanks and desks glancing her way and straightening as she passed. Some of them were mechs, a few more were human Marauders, others were Genevians who were trying to secure resources for their corners of the system.
No, that’s not fair, she thought. A lot of them have come forward to help. Don’t let the few bad apples ruin the bunch.
By some miracle, no one stopped her with an emergency that required her attention, and after passing through the administrative area, she walked in silence through the ship, nodding in greeting to any crew she passed, her thoughts churning over the work that lay ahead of her.
The problem she grappled with was that she couldn’t decide what to do next. Genevia was the fourth system her Marauders had liberated; in all the others, she’d struck hard and fast, then moved on in just a few weeks. Already, she’d been in Genevia System longer than any other since….
A shudder rippled through Rika at the thought. Being a mech, she didn’t wear pants—which meant that any ants would be crawling around in her armor. That had happened before, and it made for a nasty cleanup job.
Rika countered, shaking her head in frustration as she stepped onto the lift that would take her down to Bay 14.
Rika didn’t respond to the AI’s statement, remaining silent the rest of the way to the bay.
A week ago, in the heat of the battle, she’d laughed along when her Marauders had joked about her being crowned queen. Though she suspected Kelly and Jenisa were sincere, she’d believed that everyone else had been kidding.
She’d been wrong.
Rika wasn’t so sure about that. Many of the Nietzschean merchant ships that had entered the Genevia System in the past week had readily accepted the system’s change in management.
That was one benefit of the enemy’s master morality. They recognized when there was a new master.
Even so, she’d debated this matter with Niki several times, and would be having the same conversation with Tremon in a few minutes. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing how many times she could have the debate in a day.
The fact that it was even a debate to begin with was what bothered Rika the most. In battle, her mechs followed orders without hesitation. Her ships were where she needed them, when she needed them. There was no discussion.
But when it came to rebuilding the nation, everyone wanted to have their say.
I suppose that’s fair, to a degree, she allowed.
Entering Bay 14, she calmed her mind, preparing for that and whatever else Tremon would level at her. The fact that he hadn’t reached out over the Link during his approach was enough to convince her that it wasn’t going to be fun. The former president always liked to have important conversations face-to-face.
A minute later, the shuttle was on the docking cradle. Before the ramp had lifted from the deck, the airlock was cycling open, revealing Tremon looking even more dour than usual.
Rika scolded herself for the uncharitable thought. The former president of Genevia carried a heavy weight on his shoulders, blaming himself for the defeat that the alliance had suffered at the hands of the Nietzscheans.
The Marauders under Rika’s command had forgiven him for his part in the war that saw the end of Old Genevia. No one wanted to dwell on past mistakes and assign blame—there was enough to go around.
It seemed to take forever, but the ramp finally rose within a half meter of the airlock, and Tremon leapt down onto it; his personal guard, Yakob, following after a moment later. When they reached the bottom, Rika extended her hand.
“It’s good to see you, Tremon.”
“And you, Colonel Rika,” he replied, his calm voice a stark contrast to the frustration visible on his face. “I’m glad you had your fun shooting Niets. Things have been a bit more trying back here.”
“More trying than Niets with antimatter bombs?” she asked, glancing at Yakob and giving him a nod. “I suspect nothing so dire has happened in my absence—not that came to my attention, at least.”
She hadn’t shared the details of the encounter with the Nietzschean colonel with anyone other than her inner circle, for now wanting to ensure that rumors of an ability to see stealthed mechs didn’t spread. So far as Tremon knew, the antimatter had been the worst of it.
Tremon’s lips twisted and he sighed, nodding in agreement. “Perhaps nothing so immediately urgent as that, but trust me, it is a serious matter.”
Rika gestured to the bay’s interior doors. “There’s a briefing room down the passage. Let’s talk there.”
The former president seemed to suddenly realize that there were others in the bay, technicians moving to service the shuttle, and a few pilots playing a game of snark atop a nearby crate.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he grunted and followed Rika as she led the way out the bay and into the corridor.
“And here I thought you’d come up here to chide me for taking part in the assault on Lisbon,” she said once they were out of the bay.
“I would,” Tremon ground out the words, “if I thought it would do any good.”
“Me being in the field is the very definition of good,” Rika countered.
“For you, maybe. Look, Rika, I don’t have the energy to have that debate right now. You lead from the front. I get that—it drives me nuts, but by the same token, you’ve met with incredible success, so I’m not going to contest your methods.”
She didn’t bother to hide her surprise at his words and nodded appreciatively. “OK…I suppose we can just leave that be for now.”
“Good,” he replied, following her into the briefing room.
Yakob peered inside, seemed satisfied that no assassins were going to jump out from under the table within, and then took up a position in the hall.
“So what’s this about?” Rika asked as the door slid shut.
“Oda.” Tremon said the name with clear distaste. “He’s prepared an official proclamation that since the Refuge housed the ‘Government in Exile’, and he is the leader there, he is the de facto president of Genevia. And that Faneuil should be the capital.”
Rika gasped. “What?”
She was more than happy for someone else to take the reins of power—just so long as that some
one wasn’t Oda.
Not only that, but the Refuge’s position was far from ideal. The secret facility lay within a dwarf planet named Faneuil in the far reaches of the Genevia System. It was there that a group of rebels—though ones with little interest in fomenting an actual rebellion—had resided since the fall of Genevia.
Over the years, they’d become complacent, happy to live in their hidden world, doing little to forward the cause they purported to support.
Even when Rika came to them with the means to defeat the Nietzscheans and kill their emperor, Oda and his people had refused to help, instead attempting to actively obstruct the Marauders’ operations.
“Faneuil. Really?”
“He’s calling for it to be the location of the government until Belgium can be ‘properly secured’,” Tremon clarified.
Rika snorted. “Which is to say that he’s lived in his hidey hole for so long, he’s afraid to come out. But that doesn’t explain why I hadn’t heard anything about this proclamation.”
“He’s sent the message out to a number of his contacts, pre-seeding it around the system so it can transmit simultaneously on the disparate worlds. I got wind of it because I still have a few friends here who prefer me to Oda.”
“I should hope that everyone would prefer you to Oda,” Rika muttered. “OK, what do we do?”
Tremon leant back against the table, placing his hands on the edge. His dark eyes locked on hers. “You know what we have to do.”
“Seriously?” she asked. “That’s our only option?”
“Our only expeditious one. No one wants me as president—well, not anyone sane—and half the regional governors in the system are new to me. I don’t know where their true loyalties lie, nor what they might have been complicit in over the past decade.”
Rika pursed her lips. She’d had the same reservations about the Genevians in power. Finding out who was clean and who was a Nietzschean crony would take time.
Time it seemed they no longer had.
“So how would we do it?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“We don’t need to get too formal right off, but an official declaration of you as interim president of New Genevia, and a declaration that the estate on Mount Genevia is the center of government should do for now. We’ll also need to announce that you are going to convene a cabinet and soon, probably in a few days.”
“OK,” Rika nodded, her lips twisting to the side. “I don’t see a way around this.”
“Really?” Tremon shook his head in disbelief. “I expected you to fight a lot harder.”
“Yeah,” Rika agreed, adding a heartfelt sigh. “I’d even accept being crowned queen to keep him from ending up in charge—if for no other reason than I’d rather fly into a star than take orders from Oda.”
“Fair enough.”
“Oh, make sure the first cabinet meeting is at least four days out.”
“Why four?” Tremon asked.
“Because we’re going to have a football game in three.”
A rare smile tugged at Tremon’s lips, and he pushed off from the table, placing a hand on Rika’s shoulder. “See? I knew you were the right woman for the job.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, still smiling. “You’ve surrounded yourself with the right people. That’s the most important thing any leader can do.”
PREPARATION
STELLAR DATE: 05.25.8950 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: City of Jague, Belgium
REGION: Genevia System, New Genevian Alliance
Luxom’s light was fading in Belgium’s skies as Caleb walked through the streets of Jague. The towering buildings obstructed much of the view, but every so often, he caught sight of the western sky awash in reds, yellows, and oranges as the dying light bent around the planet and lit the clouds that lay low on the horizon.
The multitude of skyscrapers within the city further shrouded the light, and the primary source of illumination became the lights lining the streets and the glow from the windows of the towers that surrounded him.
Though he was tangentially aware of the edifices that stood all around, his attention was not on the kilometer-high buildings, but rather on the ground, and the route tomorrow’s parade would take. He needed to find the best place to strike.
An amateur might try something simple, like firing a shot from a distant building in an attempt to kill the target from outside Colonel Rika’s security footprint…. Caleb might have considered that himself, but he didn’t think there was a location to be found within a hundred kilometers that her people weren’t watching.
A shadow passed between Caleb and the distant sunset, and he knew by the amount of occlusion that it was a ship in low orbit. By the size of the shadow, it would be none other than the mech’s flagship, the Fury Lance.
A Nietzschean ship.
Everyone had heard the story by now, the tale of how Rika and her Marauders had flown beneath the cloudtops of a gas giant to seek out a Nietzschean fleet and capture it. Her flagship was chief of those spoils, one of the largest dreadnoughts the Niets had ever built.
Until the Pinnacle.
The fact that she flew a Niet ship was just another example of what was wrong with Rika. She had her choice of dozens of vessels, and she’d opted to remain aboard the Fury Lance.
“Just further evidence,” he said softly, careful not to note what the evidence was, and what it was for.
There were ears everywhere.
He finally arrived at his destination, a small restaurant that served raw fish wrapped in rice and seaweed. A connoisseur would argue that there was a lot more to it than that, but Caleb had tried the food on several occasions, and each time, it had not agreed with him.
However, his goal that evening was not to partake in a meal, but to prepare for the day to come—should what he was looking for indeed be present in the establishment.
He pushed through the door to find himself in a dining room that was not much more brightly lit than the skies outside. A woman led him to a seat, and he ordered a dish that he knew would at least be somewhat palatable.
The woman asked Caleb if he’d like a drink, and he decided that it would be just the thing—after all, what he was planning to do was momentous.
I could do with something to steady my nerves.
He ordered a beer and leant back in his seat, staring out the front window, watching the pedestrians walk past as he waited for the right time to kill the restaurant’s staff.
* * * * *
Leslie hated how a peaceful street could often feel more dangerous than a battlefield.
She’d fought in more urban engagements than she cared to remember, on a thousand streets just like the ones running through Jague—except they had been crawling with enemies or littered with corpses.
A thousand streets in a hundred cities, she mused, then decided that adding a zero to those numbers might make them more accurate.
She watched a couple pass her by and realized what made the situation so dangerous.
There was no fear.
In battle, everyone was afraid. Honest civilians were in hiding, and soldiers on both sides exhibited varying levels of anxiety that the current conflict would be their last. That worry, the twitch reflexes, the flight or fight response, it was all a symphony to Leslie. It told her who was a threat and who was not. So far as her comrades were concerned, it told her who she could trust to stay on-mission and who was going to lose their shit at the worst possible moment.
It all made sense to her…but a peaceful street was a minefield.
A cunning enemy could blend into the sea of no
nchalance and be almost impossible to spot. Especially when the civilians were all excited for the coming day’s celebration.
The end result was that everyone felt threatening to Leslie, a notion she knew to be ridiculous, but a notion that took up residence in her mind, nonetheless.
Yeah…some of these people have done terrible things. Maybe some in the name of Genevia, some in the name of Nietzschea. Stars know I’ve done my share as well.
But somewhere in the crowd was a killer who intended to harm Rika. To assume otherwise was to be a fool.
The remnants of the resistance’s spy network had heard chatter that there was a bounty on Rika’s head. It wasn’t much more than rumor, and no one knew who was offering the bounty, or even how to collect, should someone succeed. Even so, Leslie had to take it seriously.
Security forces were scouring the route, but she’d brought in the big guns and asked Piper, the once-multinodal AI that was now the ship’s AI aboard the Fury Lance, to quietly sift through the city’s comm traffic while she walked the parade route.
Leslie had carried out her fair share of hits in the past. It wasn’t something she was proud of, not even a little bit. But it did give her an advantage: she knew how to think from a killer’s point of view.
Somewhere along the parade route was the perfect place to kill Rika, and she was going to find it.
Of course, the problem Leslie had encountered was that there were many excellent places to make a strike against the parade, though most would be easily mitigated by additional security—which she had organized. What she needed to find was the location an enemy would think they’d miss.
She had been patrolling the route for several hours, and it was well past midnight—not that one could tell, from the number of people on the streets. The city had the atmosphere of a giant party. From conversations she’d overheard, a lot of Jague’s residents, as well as the sizable number of visitors, had no intention of finding their beds before watching the parade in the morning.
