It was night over the Eastern Hemisphere, the twin continents of Australia and Britain visible, separated by the Irish Sea, more ocean than sea, nine hundred miles wide and littered with islands. Australia was fat and wide and located in the southern hemisphere, like her Old Earth namesake, while Britain was long and thin and stretched from the equator almost to the north pole, where a narrow channel separated it from the northern reaches of the Canadian continent on the opposite side of the globe.
Below, and to the northeast, lay the gleaming metropolis of York Town, perched on Britain’s eastern coast, a large, glowing light with a spiderweb of smaller cities radiating north, south, and west from it. Five million people had lived in York before a Hroom death cult struck it with nuclear weapons, an act that had killed the former king.
The population several years after this disaster? Five and a half million.
Nothing, it seemed, would keep Albion down. Five hundred years after settlement, the fertile, ambitious, and confident population of Albion and her sister colonies of Mercia and Saxony seemed destined to grow in numbers and power for generations to come.
“That trend will continue until it doesn’t,” she said aloud.
The others in the private elevator compartment with her—her first mate, Azavedo, plus the captains McGowan, Dwiggins, and Pearson—turned her way with quizzical expressions.
“I beg your pardon?” McGowan said.
“Never mind. I’m a part of it, too. Duchess of Segovia. What a joke.”
“That’s what you negotiated for, wasn’t it?” McGowan didn’t sound like he was challenging her, only stating a fact. “What you always wanted, yes?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest.”
McGowan raised an eyebrow. “Really? Any particular reason for the cold feet?”
Catarina fell silent. Now was not the time nor the place.
#
She didn’t expect to see McGowan again soon. He was remaining in the navy, while she was leaving her commission behind. Like the other captains, he would be taking a well-earned leave of absence to look to affairs on the family estate after so many months away from home, and she assumed he’d want to get right to it.
In fact, Catarina didn’t expect to see him again until the victory parade in two weeks time that she was required to attend. And that would be the last time. Immediately following the parade, she would be shipping out on Void Queen, which would be converted into the flagship of Segovia’s colonial militia. Her duchy was on the edge of known space, after all, with more than a hundred stars, very few of them explored, and needed a strong military presence to dissuade wrongdoers, both human and alien.
And so she was surprised when she arrived at her investiture to find McGowan and Dwiggins standing in full dress uniforms to one side of the throne, together with a number of important people: earls, baronesses, knights, members of the royal household, and various men and women of the House of Lords.
Azavedo, wearing his naval uniform, had escorted her into the palace, and she turned to him and whispered, “Good heavens, did McGowan and Dwiggins have to see me in this gown? I feel like an idiot.”
“Ay, no seas loca,” he said in Ladino. “You look beautiful. The colors suit you, and I like what they did with your hair.”
She gave him a sharp look, unable to decide if he was being serious or having fun at her expense. “I’m a Royal Navy captain, so how is it that I’m dressed like a highborn lady about to sit for her official portrait?”
“Isn’t the point that you’re going to be a duchess now?”
“I’m already a duchess, this is just legal nonsense to make it official. Anyway, I’m sure not going to be that kind of a duchess, the one who holds parties and balls. I’ve got a blasted planet to colonize.”
“I’m pretty sure the dress is just tradition.”
“Doesn’t make it any less ridiculous.”
The throne room reminded her of the interior of a church, with stone columns and a high, arching ceiling three stories above them. Except there were no pews, only a wide, open space with a royal blue strip of carpet that led to the throne where the king and the others waited. It was a large space, but simply decorated with tapestries and stained glass windows showing everything from St. George battling the dragon to the landing of the first shuttle from Old Earth.
The old throne room had been much larger and more ornate. She didn’t know if this space represented the current king’s tastes, the haste of constructing something in wartime, or if its simpler style represented Albion’s growing confidence. No need to boast of wealth and power when you controlled most of known space.
A man wearing red hose, a tricorn hat adorned with peacock feathers, and poofy pants that must have looked ridiculous a thousand years ago, which was when those clothes were last in style, came down from the dais and approached. She tried not to stare at his waxed mustache, with its tips curling up past the edge of his nose. The lord chamberlain.
“Captain Vargus? Are you ready? His Majesty is waiting.”
Was the man’s accent real? Surely it was an affectation. Not even McGowan sounded that snooty.
Catarina grunted. “I’m coming.”
She nodded at Azavedo, lifted the hem of her gown, and followed the lord chamberlain toward the throne, where the king sat casually. The king was a young man in his early thirties, a cousin of the previous monarch, and had been pushed onto the throne following the civil war where Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne tried to claim the throne for himself.
His Majesty wore a suit with an ermine-trimmed cloak swept over his shoulders. Gold rampant lions stood on a field of white on the back of the cloak. A crown studded with rubies and emeralds rested on his brow, and he held an iron staff in one hand with a gold medallion on top, also adorned with the lions of Albion.
Catarina leaned in to whisper in Azavedo’s ear as they approached. “I should have left you behind and convinced Tolvern to lend me Capp. Her lion tattoos would have made a more patriotic impression.”
Azavedo chuckled, and the lord chamberlain glanced over his shoulder with a scowl that seemed meant for both of them. Catarina almost wanted to goad the man just so she could hear his ridiculous accent once more.
But they were soon approaching the throne. Azavedo left her at the foot of the dais, and she continued up the stairs alone. The king stood and held out his hand. A massive ring sat on the middle finger of his right hand, encrusted with so many jewels that it was a wonder he could lift the blasted thing. Catarina swallowed her distaste at this royalist nonsense and kissed it.
“Take a knee, Captain Vargus.”
She did as she was told. The king lowered the staff and rested the lion medallion on her right shoulder.
“Captain Catarina Santorini Vargus Van Dyke, by the authority vested in me as King of Albion, Mercia, and Saxony, Lord of the Six Colonies, and Emperor of the Combined Realms—”
Catarina resisted lifting her head. Combined Realms? That was new. What the devil did that mean? Was he claiming sovereignty over the other human planets of the Alliance? Or maybe he only meant Persia and Castillo, who’d already officially been named protectorates. Or maybe . . .
“—I hereby name you Duchess Segovia, invest and bequeath upon you the planet Segovia of the Segovia System in the Omega Quadrant, to settle, develop, and defend, to serve as a bulwark of the glorious Albionish civilization against hostile forces known and unknown . . .”
The king blathered on, enumerating the responsibilities and rights pertaining to taxes, defense, settlement, and the like, but she knew all her responsibilities already, and had, in fact, been de facto duchess for some time before Drake recalled her to the navy. This was only a long-delayed formality.
Growing restless, she lifted her eyes and saw McGowan studying her. He had an intense look on his face, thoughtful and scheming. He caught her gaze and smiled.
A tap on both shoulders, and it was done.
“Now get up off that floor,” the ki
ng said, his tone light. “You look miserable.”
Even as he said this, he was shrugging out of his cape and crown and handing them to servants who appeared from behind a curtain that concealed the exit to the rear of the throne room. The servants arrived at a near run, as if knowing the king couldn’t stand another moment of the ceremony. He practically tossed the scepter to the lord chamberlain, then unbuttoned the jacket as quickly as he could and tossed it over the back of the throne.
Thus shed of his royal garb, he looked her over. “Am I projecting, or is that dress as uncomfortable as it looks?”
“More uncomfortable than it looks, Your Majesty.”
“Then you’ll want to change out of it immediately, I suppose.”
“Immediately isn’t fast enough. I wanted out of this gown from the moment the tailors started measuring me for the stupid thing.”
“I thought your fitting was a year ago, back when we were supposed to do this the first time.”
“Exactly right. I’ve been dreading it ever since.”
The king laughed and rested his hand on her shoulder in a way that felt comradely, like something Drake or Tolvern would have done. “I know what you’ve done for the kingdom, what sacrifices you’ve made. Well done, Vargus. Very well done, indeed. Now I shall leave you to the congratulations of your peers and to your changing room.”
“No congratulations necessary. The changing room is all I need.”
#
Catarina got turned around coming out of the throne room, and wandered down a side hallway, lost in her thoughts. She’d left Azavedo chatting with McGowan about fleet business while an elderly earl who was a retired fleet captain shamelessly listened in. Her thoughts ran to raising colonists, gathering funds for her elevator and orbital fortress, and other mundane details, and by the time she realized she’d gone the wrong way, she was in a part of the palace she didn’t recognize.
She stopped a servant to ask directions back to her changing room and quarters, and when she turned around to retrace her steps, saw McGowan approaching at a brisk stride.
“On a sightseeing tour?” he asked, his tone breezy, “or are you out gathering ideas to decorate your future palace?”
“Apparently I can navigate two hundred trillion miles of empty void, but can’t find my way two hundred feet to my bedroom,” she said.
“Could be this is your future home, not Segovia. The king seemed quite smitten with you.”
“Ha!” Catarina looked him over. “And what are you doing down here, anyway? Equally lost, or up to some scheme or other?”
“I’m looking for you.”
She scowled. “Whatever for?”
McGowan stepped closer and reached for her arm. “Listen, Catarina.”
She stiffened and pulled back. “I think you mean Captain Vargus. Oh, excuse me, that is Duchess Segovia now, or Your Grace, once I have acknowledged your presence.”
He let his hand fall to his side and stood awkwardly. To his credit, he didn’t again intrude on her space, and she softened.
“My apologies,” she said. “What do you need?”
“We have some history,” he said. “Not all of it good. I’ll admit that some of what went wrong was my doing.”
Her face flushed. “It was all your doing, not some of it. You threw me over. You found out my tainted lineage and then . . . my God, you would have had me arrested. Most likely I’d have been hung as a pirate.”
“That isn’t exactly what happened.”
“Close enough,” Catarina said.
“Whatever it was—and I’m willing to take personal responsibility—a lot has happened since then. We’ve fought together several times, and I’ve come to see your qualities.”
“You knew my qualities before. They didn’t change because Drake gave me a battle cruiser, or because the king allowed me to settle a planet that I discovered, whose colony I financed, and whose resources I loaned to the Royal Navy to fight its wars.”
He looked pained. “This is very difficult for me. I’m not naturally a humble man.”
“You don’t say.”
“What I’m trying to get across is that I’m sorry. I’m very sorry about everything, and I want to express my admiration for what you accomplished. Can you forgive me?”
Catarina stared at him for a long moment before answering. McGowan looked and sounded sincere. And there was no question that he’d softened his arrogance—softened, not eliminated—during the war against the Adjudicators. Maybe Drake excluding him from the admiralty had caused him some self-reflection.
Maybe.
“Very well, I accept your apology. And if my anger at being unjustly and cruelly treated by you in the past led me to ignore your change of attitude in the present, then I will apologize for that, as well. Are we now reconciled, Captain McGowan?”
“Call me Edward, please.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to call you Catarina again.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Is that what this is about?”
He started to reach for her hands, then seemed to think better of it and withdrew them. “Yes, yes, it is. I made a terrible mistake before, and I would like to take it back. I know what you must think about that.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.”
“And why should you take me back? You’re still young, you’re beautiful, you’re rich and powerful.” And now he did take her hands. “You will have plenty of options. Can I be one of them, please?”
Catarina laughed and took her hands back. “You almost had me there. Maybe if you’d mentioned determined and intelligent, and that’s why you wanted me. Oh, and forgiving.”
“That, too.”
“This isn’t a romance novel, McGowan. It’s not a movie or a viseo-drama. You don’t get to act like a pompous, arrogant piss nozzle for the first twelve and a half episodes, only to change your mind at the last moment and get your heart’s desire because you’re just that handsome.”
She laughed again at his forlorn look. Maybe he really was serious, but she didn’t care.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I have a planet to settle, and I sure as hell am not going to do it in this dress.”
Five years, she decided as she left him behind. That was how long he’d acted like a jerk before she’d noticed the first spark of self-improvement. If Edward McGowan could act like a mature adult for the next five years, if he were still unmarried, if she hadn’t found someone else who caught her fancy—the king, for example—and if the demands of her duchy allowed for such a thing, then maybe she would reconsider.
She laughed at the thought. Nah. It would never happen.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Admiral James Drake waited until HMS Blackbeard entered the Earth System before setting foot on the bridge. He’d entered his old cruiser on a transfer pod hurled over from Inferno twenty-four hours before the jump out of the Gateway System.
After lengthy negotiations, it was agreed that only one Albion ship would approach Earth, escorted by Fontaine, on Scorpion, with four Terran vessels standing down beneath the guns of Inferno and the other Royal Navy ships in Gateway as a sort of mutual hostage taking to ensure good behavior all around.
The sole Albion ship to enter Terran space would be Blackbeard. Psychologically, it had to be, not only to complete the ship’s mission from before the war, but because of everything the battle cruiser represented, both for himself and the crew.
Drake was nursing a huge mug of hot tea, no sugar, when he entered the bridge, as his defense against the post-jump headache. And there, standing ready and waiting for him, were the familiar faces of his old crew: Tolvern, Nyb Pim, Capp, Smythe, even Barker, up from the gunnery, the old salt looking at him from beneath bushy eyebrows with his walrus mustache twitching. Carvalho, too, who stood next to Lomelí at the defense grid, with a formation of his falcons showing on a small side screen, where they were running patrol.
A few were missing, of course, notably Man
x and Oglethorpe, killed in the treacherous attack by Adjudicator dragoons during the first, aborted mission to Old Earth. But the rest were all there.
Tolvern gave him a raised eyebrow, amused about something. Or maybe his wife was just happy to see him. They’d already shared quarters one night—the regs be damned—and surely some of the edge had been taken off of their collective desire. It must be something else.
“Look at the lot of you,” he said. “A bunch of pirates, mutineers, and other misfits.”
Capp grinned. “We been wondering when you’d show up, Admiral.”
He gave her a mock frown. “And you, weren’t you sentenced to the Helium-3 mines for striking a superior officer or something?”
“Aye, that’s right. We was on the same prisoner transport, ain’t that right?”
“Notice anything different about the bridge?” Smythe asked from the tech console.
He looked around. It all looked familiar. Too familiar, in fact.
“No, it looks about the same as when . . . hold on. You put it back the way it was.”
The captain’s chair had the first mate’s console next to it, with the pilot’s at its side, Punisher-class style, instead of staggered, with the third ranking officer forward, as on an Ironside-class battle cruiser. The assistant tech console was a shiny blue cupped seat, and some of the panels and carpeting had been swapped out for something old and familiar.
He gave a laugh as he realized what they’d done. After the mutiny that had freed him from Lord Malthorne’s unjust court-martial, they’d seized a Van Dyke-class pirate frigate, Captain Kidd, dismantled it, and used it to rebuild the ship’s crippled armor and other damaged parts. It was after they fixed the shield segment containing Captain Kidd’s skull and crossbones that Drake changed the name of his ship from Ajax to Blackbeard. Even after returning to loyal service, the name had stuck.
“Where did you find all this stuff?”
Eyes turned to Barker. “That was my doing, Captain. Er, Admiral.”
The Alliance Trilogy Page 76
