by M. D. Cooper
It was another self-soothing gesture, a giveaway that he was feeling out of sorts, vulnerable, and that he had something to hide—not that Kora was surprised.
The silence between them stretched on for a minute, then five, then ten. Finally, as they crossed the twelve-minute mark, Rhon spoke up.
“If I wanted the silent treatment, I could have just told my wife her ass is too big.”
“Ohhh!” Kora gasped. “What a burn! That’s it, you’re out of my league, there’s no way I’ll get anything out of you.”
For a moment, the man’s eyes widened in surprise, a look of victory flashing across his face only to be replaced by suspicion. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“I’m a pretty humorous person,” Kora nodded in agreement, a genuine smile on her lips. “I know how to get the yuk-yuks.”
“Yeah, well, don’t quit your day job.”
“Oh I don’t need to. See, I torture people like you with my terrible jokes during interrogations, and then sell the videos. It’s a double whammy. I get paid twice for working once.”
Rhon frowned. “Isn’t that…illegal?”
“Is it?” Kora tilted her head, adopting a confused look. “To be honest, the law has been so fluid lately, it’s hard to tell what’s legal and what’s not. I suppose it might be immoral. I bet you know alllll about doing immoral things to achieve your ends, don’t you, Rhon, ol’ buddy boy?”
“Don’t think you can equate what I do for the resistance with what you do for your Nietzschean and mech masters.”
“Well, if I’m doing it all for a pocket full of credits, then I’m doing it for myself, aren’t I?”
“Whatever. You’re not going to do anything now. I bet those mechs are watching.”
Kora nodded vigorously. “I really hope they are. They’ve seen some serious shit, I’m hoping that afterward they’ll give me pointers. I mean, what I’ve always wondered is whether or not it’s better to start with the fingers or toes.”
“Nice try,” Rhon snorted. “Have at it. I’ll just get new ones later.”
“Rhon, Rhon, Rhon.” Kora shook her head. “You don’t get it. There is no later for you. Well, I mean, we’ll hold onto you long enough to ensure that your intel checks out, then off with your head!”
“You really like to ham it up, don’t you?”
A wicked grin settled on Kora’s lips, and she flicked a hand to her left, showing footage of a darkened city street. The sound of weapons fire echoed between the buildings, flashes of light illuminating blown-out storefronts and half-burned ground cars.
“This is Denmar in the Parsons System, back around midway through the war,” Kora explained. “It’s some vid I managed to get from a Nietzschean archive.”
“OK, so what? We were all in the war, we all saw shit.”
“I saw some shit.” Kora nodded. “But I was too young to be in the GAF, and lucky enough not to see any major combat—not like this, at least.”
The weapons fire grew louder, and then the shadowy figures of SMI-2 mechs came into view, moving down the street, firing at unseen enemies.
One of the mechs took rocket fire, and while one helped their fallen comrade, the third mech cast about for the enemy—who had just stepped in front of the groundcar in the foreground.
“This is where it gets good,” Kora whispered.
The mech charged the Nietzschean soldier and slammed him into the ground. Her clawed feet latched onto his chest and she reached down with her three-fingered left hand and grabbed his helmet.
A blood-curdling shriek filled the air, a combination of screams and rending metal. A moment later, the mech was holding a helmet with pieces of reinforced spinal column hanging down in a ragged, blood-soaked ruin.
“Look at that,” Kora whispered gleefully. “Isn’t that amazing?”
Rhon shot her a look that was half terror, half fury. “Why the fuck are you showing me this?”
“Well, that’s our new magnus,” she said, smiling sweetly. “That’s Rika on one of her early missions. Stars, I look up to her so much. I’m going to get a powered armor suit and try that move out on your pals to get it right for your turn.”
The man across from her had visibly paled, his eyes darting between Kora and the frozen image of Rika holding her gruesome trophy aloft.
“You’re serious….”
“Well, here’s how I look at it.” She leant forward, elbows on her knees. “Rika likes to win. A lot. Which is good, because she does win. But don’t for a minute think that she’s all about honor and the clean kill. Rumor has it that she’s beaten people to death with their own arms. So imagine how she must feel about people smuggling a couple of KK100s into the system with the intent of taking control of her mechs and enslaving them again. Not only that, but whoever did it worked with the Niets, and got her favorite ship blown up.”
Rhon pursed his lips as she spoke, his jaw tightening, fingers gripping his sides.
“So do you really think she’s going to be too upset with me if I do what I have to with you? Unless…” Kora sat back and crossed her legs, “you tell me what I need to know without any muss and fuss. Then I bet we can work out some sort of deal that doesn’t see what’s left of you being slopped into a bucket.”
For a moment, it looked like the man was going to double down in his denial, but then he glanced at the cameras in the corners, knowing all too well that someone was watching and hadn’t seen fit to stop Kora yet.
“The mechs,” she whispered. “They’re pretty pissed about someone trying to mindfuck them. The lieutenant is cheering in my ear, he’s even picking out the best exo-armor to do the spine pulling bit. I—”
“OK!” Rhon shouted. “OK…please, look, I’m just doing my part here. I didn’t bring in Arla or the KK100, but I know who did.”
“Spill it,” Kora hissed, her eyes narrowed to slits. “No more fucking around.”
“Captain Belfas. He skippers the Jay Rig.”
“Which is where?” Kora asked.
Rhon closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. “It’s here at Capeton Command. He’s fueling up before heading back to Burroughs.”
“What for?” Kora pressed. “Why go back there?”
“I don’t know. He said something about getting someone to finish the job.”
AN UNWELCOME MESSAGE
STELLAR DATE: 06.05.8950 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: NMS Kraska, approaching Valhalla
REGION: Capitol, Pruzia System, Nietzschean Empire
Admiral Hammond reread one of the speeches he planned to give to the High Council for what had to be the tenth time. There were two variants; the first was to be used if the Pinnacle and its tech was secured, and the second if it was not.
If anyone could capture the ship at this stage, it would be Doctor Xa. Even so, Hammond was a realist. Xa was up against Rika, and thus far, she’d bested Nietzschea at every turn. The speech he’d give in the event the spy failed was the one he was spending the most time on.
“No,” he muttered, reconsidering a particular turn of phrase that did not paint Constantine’s decisions in a good light. “Or maybe yes.”
The admiral rose and strode around to the front of his desk, stopping before it and stretching out his arms. He still hadn’t decided if he would appeal to the council to back him, or tear them down and support Admiral Yara.
Initial reports of the emperor’s death had been sent as soon as he’d jumped from Genevia to Pruzia. Over the following few hours, everyone of any importance, from Lord Poulos of the High Council to naval quartermasters inquiring about refit plans for the counterstrike, had contacted Hammond.
Both Poulos and Yara had made it abundantly clear that he stood no chance of taking control of the empire on his own. What interested Hammond the most was how strident they’d both been. Rather than certainty in their own power, the admiral and high councilor’s insistence that he needed to side with them—against the other, of course—smacked of desperation. Stil
l, that didn’t mean he could stake a claim on his own.
But perhaps he could ride in the wake of one of the leaders until the time was right—
Hammond nodded, though no one could see it.
While capturing the Pinnacle would have earned him a lot of respect, killing Rika and dispersing her Marauders would gain him even more.
“And who knows,” he said aloud while stretching once more. “Maybe then I can waltz back into Genevia and just take the Pinnacle.”
HOMECOMING
STELLAR DATE: 06.07.8950 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Mount Genevia, Belgium
REGION: Genevia System, New Genevian Alliance
“I can’t tell if it feels good to be planetside, or if I’m excited for the big event in a few days,” Chase said as he walked alongside Rika in the mountaintop estate.
She rolled her shoulders and glanced around at what once had been the Genevian presidential residence, but was now being referred to as the Royal Palace on the feeds.
“It’s a mixed bag for me. I don’t mind being downworld, but this place…some mixed emotions here.”
“It’s optics.” Chase placed a hand on her shoulder. “The people need to see us taking our sovereignty back from the Niets. No better way to do that than to re-establish our rule here.”
“Sure.” Rika nodded. “I get that. I think I just miss the Fury Lance. That ship was home, not this drafty place.”
“I don’t think it’s actually drafty.”
“Feels drafty,” Rika groused. “Stars, what am I talking about? I don’t have skin. Who cares if there’s a draft.”
“I wasn’t gonna mention that, but….”
“Har har.”
The pair reached the end of the hall, and the doors swung open, admitting them to what Rika privately thought of as the throne room—largely because it was where Emperor Constantine had met with her while sitting on a throne.
At present, a large, round table sat in the middle of the room with over twenty chairs situated around it. Half of them were filled with her Marauders, while the other half were occupied by civilians, some of whom she’d only met over the Link.
This is my government.
The assemblage rose as one as she entered the room, and waited until she settled into her chair before returning to their seats.
On her left sat Tremon and six others who headed up the civilian leadership, while on her right were Chase and the company commanders and senior ship captains of the Marauders.
She felt the notable absence of Colonel Borden of the ISF. He’d been an unshakable presence since Tangel had charged Rika with taking down Nietzschea. But with New Canaan under attack, he’d taken his starcrusher and returned to the ISF’s home system, along with Admiral Carson.
“Nine months ago, we chased the fleeing remnants of a Nietzschean armada to the Sepe system,” Rika began, her gaze sweeping across the faces of those assembled. “My Marauders were newly formed, only a few weeks out of our first battle in the Hercules System, and fresh from the fight in Albany. Tangel, Field Marshal of the Scipio Alliance, had hired the Marauders to do the impossible: take back Genevia and defeat the Nietzscheans. Even she expected it to take the better part of a decade.”
She paused, a smile flitting across her lips as she considered the events since leaving Albany.
“Let’s just say that we’re a bit ahead of schedule.”
Muted laughter came from those present. The mechs and ship commanders all wore expressions of proud satisfaction, while the civilians appeared somewhat uncertain, but appreciative.
“Exactly what we do from here is what we’re here to discuss today,” Rika said. “Captain Travis’s battlegroup has already jumped out to Gerra. We’ll likely not know for a few more days how things are shaping up there, but we have to assume that the Niets will be doing the same thing in other nearby systems.”
“What if they’re retreating from all Genevian systems, burning as they go?”
The question came from Regan Harl, the newly minted minister of finance. Rika couldn’t tell if he was genuinely worried or being combative, but Barne responded before she had a chance to consider it further.
“Well, aside from the fact that it will take a year for retreat orders to filter across Old Genevia, there’s no reason for them to fall back yet. They want to create a crisis that we have to respond to here around the Genevia System.”
“Be a mighty big crisis if they burn every system in Old Genevia,” Commissioner Megan of the Genevia Federal Police said.
“And it would unite us against them once more,” Rika said. “Which is why they won’t do it. Nietzscheans are opportunists. They’ll milk everything they can out of Old Genevia before they turn and run.”
“So what is your plan, Magnus?” Leslie asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Leslie sent a wink over the Link.
“We’re still in the midst of fleet re-org,” she replied aloud. “But in two days, we’ll be ready to send aid to Burroughs, Oran, and Morres. Ten ships each, which will leave a Marauder fleet consisting of seventy-three ships in this system.”
“Stars, that’s not a lot to defend an entire system,” Commissioner Megan said in a quiet voice.
“You’re right,” Rika replied with a resolute nod. “It’s not. However, if the Niets do hit us, they’re going to do it in the outer system, most likely at Orden Station, out by where the jump gates were set up.”
“Were?” Regan Harl asked. “I hadn’t heard that they’d moved.”
“And you won’t,” Rika replied. “At least, not outside this room. The gates are all coming insystem, but we constructed decoys, a little bait to lure the Niets in.”
“What if the Niets have more jump gates?” Tremon asked, an eyebrow raised. “I know it’s unlikely, but it’s possible.”
“It is,” Rika replied with a nod. “However, the Niets won’t know that the ISF has left—at least not yet. They won’t strike where they expect the bulk of Carson’s fleet to be. That means they won’t jump deep insystem. That would see them facing a three-day flight to the closest jump point.”
“Let’s just say they have a bunch of suicidal commanders,” Regan Harl pressed. “Are we going to leave Belgium undefended?”
Rika shook her head. “No, I have a plan to keep Belgium safe, don’t worry.”
From there, the conversation moved to appropriations measures aimed both at bolstering government resources, and also at securing assets that the Nietzscheans had seized and redistributed to their own lackeys. Rika wished they didn’t have to waste time on such mundane tasks, but Tremon had impressed on her the importance of showing the populace that she cared about justice.
Four hours later, the meeting was finally wrapping up when Chief Ona called down from the Marauders’ Lance.
Rika accepted the message, and a lanky man appeared in her mind.
The captain’s voice cut out, and he glanced to his left.
He stepped back, and a woman walked into view. She was rail thin with a pinched face, but her eyes were wide and expressive.
The captain cleared his throat, shaking his head at the woman before speaking once more to Rika.
The message ended, and Rika pursed her lips.
None of the senior leadership had left the room yet, and Rika rose and leant against the table. “We’ve got a new development. It looks like the Niets are still preparing to hit Chad. If we send a force now, we can stop them.”
“Chad?” Regan Harl asked. “Of all the places.”
“It’s a place with our people on it,” Rika replied. “We’re going to defend it with extreme prejudice, show the Niets how we feel about them trashing our worlds.”
“We have thirty ships here at Belgium,” Chase said. “Which should we send?”
Rika’s gaze met Heather’s. “We’re sending the Marauders’ Lance and a destroyer escort. Captain, show the Niets what payback looks like.”
The SMI barked a laugh and rubbed her hands. “Oh with pleasure. Who’re my ground pounders gonna be?”
“Colonel Chase?” Rika quirked a smile at the method of informing Chase of his promotion. “Who would you like to send from your battalion?”
He cocked an eyebrow and then winked at her. “Well, if we’re sending the Marauders’ Lance, then it’s gonna be M Company. I’ll make sure Captain Karen is ready to roll.”
