“How?” she asked in mixed awe and excitement. “How did they install so much weaponry? The turbo-lasers alone should have been impossible to build in such a short time.”
“They didn't build those,” he allowed, proffering a data slate with his inspection record on the newly-installed gear, “they were salvaged from void-space hulks that had been adrift for decades. Their rate of fire is three percent worse than current Imperial spec and the power draw is a tick or two worse, but other than that they match up well with anything we'll encounter. The heavies, mediums, plasma throwers and PD gear is all up-to-date.”
“And the power plants,” she pressed, “were those salvage jobs, too?”
“Appears so,” he said with a nod. “All told, the extra four fusion plants should help keep our shields up while powering all this extra weaponry—which, I don't have to tell you, outweighs your average Battleship by about a third.”
“More like half,” she corrected, “the downside is that once our shields come down, the weapon placements will be a lot easier to scrub than those on a real battleship—and that doesn't even address the vulnerability of these new fusion plants.”
“It's all trade-offs,” Spalding shrugged, drawing a sudden, strange look from McKnight for some reason at which he could not immediately guess. “Personally, I feel a lot better rolling through in this version than the other.”
“We'll be more conspicuous and our EM profile will be a hundred times what it was,” she mused before finally relenting, “but you're right: where we're going, this is going to be a huge improvement.”
“And combined with the Rainbow's main gun, which can be partially-powered by the new reactors,” he added pointedly, “we'll have what might prove to be a decisive measure of surprise.”
“What about the antimatter?”
“They provided us enough to get to our destination even without using the Conduit,” he explained, “though that's about all we could have done. We wouldn't have been able to exchange much in the way of fire, either. But with the power grid's upgrades combined with the Conduit cutting the majority of our fuel consumption during point transfers, we could get into two, maybe three knock-down, drag-outs like we had coming here and still reach the target system with antimatter to spare.”
“Good,” she said with a nod. “What's your recommendation on crew transfers?”
“Sooner begun, sooner done,” Tiberius said, gesturing to the data slate he had just handed her. “We can move everyone into the forward hab section immediately while the droids spend the next few weeks refitting the stern hab module. It'll be tight until both are up and spinning, but nothing we haven't already dealt with.”
“Make it happen, XO.”
“Thank you, Captain,” he said, hesitating before delving into a subject he'd been reluctant to approach. “There's something that's bothered me, ma'am.”
“Let's hear it,” she said invitingly.
“Back on the moon base,” he explained, “when you stayed behind...you knew Nazoraios would keep Tremblay and the others from launching without you, didn't you?”
The corners of her mouth twisted into a moue, “If this is about my private life—“
“Not at all,” he said with a firm shake of his head before realizing she had been playing with him. He gave her a brief, chiding look before resuming, “It's just that...well, the story of how you went back for Jarrett has made the rounds. It's rightly earned you a lot of credibility with the crew, including the Tracto-ans who put a premium on integrity and loyalty.”
“You're worried that I orchestrated the situation for the sake of a morale boost?” she quirked an eyebrow quizzically.
“Partly, yes,” he admitted, “you tactical types are always layering your options, building contingencies and lining up dominoes. I'm not going to lie: I'm impressed by you going back for him, even if it was orchestrated—which I don't happen to think it was, but what I think isn't important. The part that's kept me up at night,” he fixed her with a searching look, “is whether or not you knew Traian would come back for you. We thought we had him in lockdown aboard the 24, but he managed to slip through all of our precautions without us being any the wiser until we'd already left the system.”
At that, her bemused smirk melted away to reveal something harder, darker, and considerably harder to read. “The answer to your question is: no, I didn't know Traian would come back for me. I had made prior plans with Nazoraios, who approached me with an offer of helping us to survive whatever plot Tremblay had hatched, and I was convinced he would come through for us—for me,” she corrected belatedly. “But no, I did not know that Traian would—or even that he could—escape the 24 and make it back down to the command center in time to make a difference. I was banking on Nazoraios keeping Tremblay from lifting off without me.”
Spalding had never been exceptional at reading people, but his experience in the military had taught him plenty of so-called 'tells' and indicators that someone was attempting to either deceive or obfuscate their real intentions. He saw nothing in McKnight to suggest either, which gave him no small measure of relief. “Thank you, Captain. I just wanted to know what to expect if rumors eventually surface—you wouldn't believe how devious some of these Tracto-ans can be.”
“You might be surprised,” she said with a short-lived grin before shaking her head dismissively. “Your concerns are primarily regarding morale, yes?”
“They are,” he agreed. “There will be some who insist that, since you made the deal with Nazoraios, your staying behind to get Jarrett out was more of a political move than a moral one.”
“Why?” she asked with what seemed to be genuine surprise.
“You have to remember,” he chided, “these people are from a society where honor and duty are deeply-ingrained into their individual and collective consciousness. Someone standing tall in the face of overwhelming odds, knowing—actually knowing—that she'll be torn apart for doing so makes the act of attempted sacrifice meaningful. But if someone is found to have concocted such an appearance for personal or political gain, the backlash can be worse than the backlash for not doing anything at all.”
“So...by manipulating the variables to my own advantage prior to making such a gesture,” she said with open amusement, “you're saying I might have offended some of the Tracto-ans?”
“Something like that.”
“I'd rather be lucky than good,” she said with emphasis, as though repeating it from some recent conversation—one which he did not recall, “but why be one when you can be both? If I made my own luck, and if that let me do both the political and the moral thing, that doesn't diminish the value of the act—it enhances it.”
“Some might call that a cynical outlook,” he mused.
Something in her expression hardened. “Some might,” she allowed, “but they wouldn't if they could make their own luck as well as I've been able to lately.”
“True enough,” he said with a grin. “Shall I get started on those crew transfers?”
“Yes,” she said with a nod, “Mr. Largent will be staying with the 24 after we get underway aboard the Rainbow. It seems he'll be the only one, however, since the Droids appear to have reached consensus on the matter of coming with us to the Gorgon Sectors. Mr. Chester asked us to return this freighter to him if we no longer needed it, and since it can't keep pace with the Rainbow it appears we no longer need it.”
“Can't say I'll be sad to disembark,” Tiberius said with a meaningful look at the freighter's interior, “this thing has served its purpose, but I feel naked without a few inches of duralloy and some heavy weaponry between me and the enemy.”
“We're eye-to-eye there, XO,” she agreed.
“Then I'll get to work on these personnel transfers,” he waved the data slate on which the transfer orders were recorded. She nodded, accepting the slate and affixing her signature to it before handing it back, after which he went about the task of getting them aboard a proper warship again.
/> Chapter XXXV: New Hope
“You don't know how much this means to me—to us,” Largent said far more solemnly than Lu Bu had ever known him to be.
“I am glad my family has been able to help,” Lu Bu replied, tilting her chin toward the pair of data crystals which contained all of the medical information on herself and her children that could be gathered by the 24's medical equipment. That information, along with the rest of their medical records from earlier in her time with the MSP, was potentially valuable enough to enable the small but potent community of Imperial clones—or 'tanks,' as they called themselves—to modify their reproductive systems sufficiently to permit them to procreate in the natural way. “I ask that you do what you can to keep my childrens' identities secret; I do not want them to be approached about this by anyone—ever,” she added severely.
“I understand,” he said as he placed the crystals in a durable protective case, which he slid into his jacket pocket. “You're good people, Girly—and you're flat-out good at what we do. Who knows, maybe one day you'll be the second best operator in the known galaxy?”
She scowled at him but held her tongue. “I learned much from you,” she grudgingly admitted.
“And I from you,” he said, again displaying uncharacteristic sincerity. “You gave me—all of us, really—the best possible motivation to keep doing what we were made to do. Truth be told,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “I'd only give myself two-to-one odds against you now in a straight-up fight—but if you tell anyone I said that I'll deny it.”
“You are too devious,” she shook her head resolutely. “I could never match you in that way.”
“Probably not,” he allowed, flashing his trademark cocky grin, “but you're on my level most everywhere else, and I'm not ashamed to admit I've never thought that of anyone before.”
She furrowed her brow, “Why would you be ashamed...never mind,” she shook her head in exasperation as his cocksure grin broadened. Thrusting her hand out, she nodded firmly, “You are a skilled warrior; I am glad to have fought alongside you.”
“And you've got to be the MILFiest MILF I've ever fought beside. Even after using all of my best moves, I still failed to bag you,” he retorted irritably, and this time Lu Bu made no attempt to hide her own self-assured grin. “Oh well; can't win 'em all,” he sighed before turning serious. “You take care of yourself, Fengxian. And, no matter what happens, don't let the bastards get you down.”
“I will not,” she assured him, and with that he turned and made his way through the airlock where the 24's shuttle had docked with the Rainbow. She stood there as the inner and outer doors cycled closed, and after they had done so she heard the telltale clang of docking clamps decoupling. A few seconds later, she heard the expected gunning of that shuttle's engines as the exhaust hissed against the outer airlock door—an uncouth move, to be sure, but one that was so perfectly Largent that she knew it would be a fitting final memory of the man for her to carry til the end of her days.
“This facility appears to have everything we will need,” Guo remarked staidly after perusing the facility's specifications and performing a quick diagnostic of its crucial systems.
“Good,” Tremblay said with satisfaction, turning to Bellucci, “this will do for the next phase of our mission.”
“I should hope so,” she said languidly, “seeing as it cost a small fortune to establish here, of all places. I only hope you do not squander this asset wastefully; you will not gain access to its equal again.”
“Something that's been bothering me,” he said, sliding into the nearest seat and reclining slightly as he activated the nearby console, “is why you came out of hiding to make that vote on cultural appropriations—the one that gave us the opening we needed to retrieve the Elder Protocol Fragment.”
She quirked an eyebrow, and Bethany—who was no longer pregnant, having delivered both of her children some weeks earlier—watched intently as the golden-eyed Imperial replied, “We needed that vote, which only passed by a margin of a single vote—my vote.”
“That's the official line,” he waved a hand dismissively, “but we both know House Bellucci owns that entire subcommittee. You could have called in favors for two of the dissenting votes, swinging them back your way and keeping you out of the limelight. Why reveal yourself—are you trying to get caught?”
Bellucci cocked her head and gazed at him with those perfect, bottomless, golden eyes for a long moment before quirking a grin, “Very good, Mr. Tremblay. After a fashion, yes, I am trying to 'get caught.' Charles Cornwallis is a powerful man whose interests are rooted into every dark corner of the Empire; it is not a question of 'if' he will locate me, but 'when' and—more importantly—a matter of 'what will he do once he discovers my part in this plan?' By controlling my revelation, and making my presence and well-being known, I ensure that he captures me on my terms rather than on his. Destroying the Core Fragment was the deathblow which will put an end to House Cornwallis—and all of its would-be ideological successors—once and for all. But, like a stag shot through the lung, this particularly narrow-minded beast does not yet know he has been killed. He thinks he has not only escaped danger, but is actually bringing about his enemies' destruction. House Bellucci has played—and won—this game for far too long,” she said contemptuously, “to be bested by an upstart like Cornwallis.”
“So,” Bethany interjected, “what happens to my House?”
“Your House will, for the time being, remain a viable structure,” Bellucci said casually. “The noble investiture of your children will be made public knowledge soon—but not until Mr. Fisher plays his new part sufficiently well to convince Cornwallis that he knows the lay of the land.”
“That wasn't the deal,” Bethany hissed.
“Any prior arrangements were predicated on your childrens' father making direct contributions to the effort,” Bellucci said dismissively. “This is not a negotiation; I am telling you what must happen, lest everything which has gone before be rendered naught. Your allowing the true Raubach Prince to be killed, whether by tacit complicity or blatant stupidity, is of no concern to me.”
“Fisher already agreed to do it,” Tremblay interrupted before Bethany dug a hole with her forked tongue that they would never get out of. “It's a moot point.”
“Correct,” Bellucci agreed, casting a haughty look Bethany's way before sighing. “Do not fret, child: your wildest dreams will come true sooner than you may come to have wanted them to. You will be invested as House Raubach's Princess, your children will be made true Imperial Nobility, and you will elevate yourself far above a station to which anyone currently residing in your region of the galaxy can claim to have risen. Try to demonstrate a fraction of the patience required to retain the great status you will soon possess.”
“Don't patronize me,” Bethany spat, but fortunately she left it at that.
“So sometime soon you'll be unavailable to us,” Tremblay concluded.
“Correct,” Bellucci nodded. “For a variety of reasons, it will be most beneficial to our cause if Cornwallis' agents apprehend me en route to the Spineward Sectors, so due to logistical necessity I will be unavailable sooner than you might have surmised. But with me apprehended, Cornwallis' attentions will be turned largely elsewhere which will give you room to maneuver. Until then, my advice would be to spend your efforts quietly gathering information and refining your contingencies—make that our contingencies—based on the ever-shifting sands of variability.”
“Enough waxin' poetic,” came a strikingly familiar voice—one which Tremblay had expected, but was still caught by surprise at hearing. He, Bellucci, and Bethany turned in unison toward the door, where a dark-skinned, muscular figure with medium-length dreadlocks stood and smirked, “Guess I don't need no mirror to gauge how effective the makeover was.”
Tremblay stood from the chair and moved toward the newcomer, appraising him head to toe as he did so. He was joined by Bellucci, whose keen eyes seemed to almost lasciviou
sly lick up and down the newcomer's deep, brown skin. “Convincing,” Tremblay admitted, “you've even got the accent down.”
“There are variations,” Bellucci mused, “but they are subtle, and I doubt Cornwallis' agents knew of 'Lynch's existence, let alone his physiometrics. But perhaps we should as the best-credentialed among us to perform the defining appraisal?” she said, turning theatrically toward Bethany.
Bethany approached, but stopped a few steps short of where Tremblay stood before shaking her head, “The eyes are wrong—too hooded. And the posture,” she gestured with an outstretched hand to his torso and hips, “not confident enough.”
“Not confident enough?!” 'Lynch' blurted, and for the first time Tremblay could hear the real man—Fisher—come through the incredibly accurate disguise. It wasn't the voice, which was still pitch-perfect, or even the accent, which Lynch had been known to switch between accents irregularly. It was something about the intensity of his voice, and possibly the inflection, which had given him away.
“This is the best work available in the Empire,” Bellucci sighed. “The appearance, should he be 'recognized,' is passable especially at a distance. But the voice would fail to meet the same standard, which would invite potentially devastating scrutiny.”
“Then we've got a problem,” Bethany said scornfully.
“Indeed,” Bellucci agreed before shrugging, “but posture and body language can be coached—as both of us know,” she said, slicing a sideways glance Bethany's way. “It is the voice which gives the most cause for concern...”
“So?” Fisher asked into the pregnant pause. “What's the play?”
“That is up to you,” Bellucci said, turning on her heel and making for the door.
“You're leaving now?” Bethany demanded.
“Indeed,” Bellucci demurred as she reached the portal, stopping just long enough to snipe over her shoulder, “if you want my advice, here it is: keep his mouth shut and pay someone else to do the talking.”
A House United Page 30
