Sun King (The Void Queen Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  She wanted to point out that no, it was Broderick’s arriving fleet that turned it back. But he was right, to a certain extent. She didn’t see errors in her command decisions, so much as losses suffered against a superior opponent.

  “You fought two engagements, Tolvern, and the way I see it, they were both tactical victories.”

  “That’s a generous assessment, sir.”

  “Assuming Vargus and McGowan have done their jobs, the enemy remains bottled up in Persia thanks to you. There are more harvesters in construction on the planet, but we don’t know how many will be ready to fight in time. Meanwhile, Drake is only a few days out from Nebuchadnezzar, McGowan and Vargus have fleets of their own, and my forces are intact.”

  He gave a confident nod. “We’re ready to take the fight to the enemy and finish them off once and for all. HMS Blackbeard and her captain and crew will be an integral part of that fight.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nine days later, Tolvern stood in front of the viewscreen with her hands behind her back, staring as HMS Dreadnought arrived at the front after an absence of several months. The battleship looked like a monster of the deep—a hunter, a predator—surrounded by other long, lethal shapes that gathered like swarming fish hoping to collect scraps.

  A massive fleet accompanied Admiral Drake’s flagship, including three Punisher-class and three Aggressor-class cruisers. Five swift, powerful corvettes. Six sloops of war and a handful of star wolves to reinforce the Hroom and Scandian forces already gathered. A pair of war junks. Eleven torpedo boats and three missile frigates. And a whopping nineteen destroyers.

  Drake had firepower from distance and close range. He had fast-attack capabilities. And then there was HMS Dreadnought herself, a battleship that had once been the flagship of that old traitor, Admiral Malthorne, and a symbol of vainglorious ambitions. Blackbeard and Void Queen’s experiences notwithstanding, Dreadnought was only ship in the navy capable of standing up to an Apex harvester ship on its own.

  The combined Blackbeard-Sledge fleet sent out a host of small shuttles, frigates, destroyers, and torpedo boats to claim desperately needed supplies from Dreadnought’s massive hold and crammed storage rooms. Dreadnought had arrived at the front without expending any ordnance, and no doubt the crew was happy to empty some of it out so that they could walk the corridors without bumping into it all. And how desperately did Tolvern’s forces need what the battleship was carrying? Tolvern would have said that she was most anxious to get tyrillium scale to repair damaged armor, except that there was one small piece of cargo on board that she was more anxious to get her hands on than anything else.

  James. You don’t just want him on your ship, you want him on your bed.

  “Might be better to take it over there,” she said in a low voice.

  She was standing near the tech console, and Oglethorpe looked up from his work. “Sir?”

  Tolvern looked at him, blinking. “Once Vargus, McGowan, Mose Dryz, and Olafsen arrive, we’ll have a war council. Makes sense to take it to Dreadnought, but James—that is, Admiral Drake—might choose another location. Maybe even Blackbeard. We’d better get cleaned up—this ship is a mess.”

  “Engineering is asking if we have enough time to strip off the number three shield.”

  “Probably not. The number three needs reforging, and we’re certainly not going back to Viborg any time soon. She’ll have to make do with plate repairs.”

  “When is the plate coming over?”

  Tolvern eyed the screen. “Soon as that logjam clears around Dreadnought. I figure a few hours.”

  “The sooner the better,” Oglethorpe said. “Finch needs all the time she can get.”

  Tolvern had been watching Dreadnought with a little too much interest, and no doubt the others were thinking of the marriage between the admiral and the one-time Singaporean governor, now a less-than-legitimate match between two of the highest-ranking officers in the fleet. She returned to her console with an air of nonchalance, though inside she was churning with emotions.

  Catarina Vargus and Mose Dryz had arrived on the far side of Nebuchadnezzar about twenty hours earlier, and were racing toward the rendezvous near the Persia jump point. McGowan’s ships were popping into Nebuchadnezzar through a separate jump point that led from Euphrates, and he’d already sent word that Olafsen’s small blackfish fleet was with him.

  Drake sent a general message. He had scheduled a time for the war council shortly after McGowan and Olafsen arrived. And he had a location for the meeting that, to Tolvern’s surprise, was not Dreadnought. It wasn’t Blackbeard, Void Queen, or any other Albion, Scandian, or Singaporean ship, either.

  The meeting would be held on the bridge of General Mose Dryz’s sloop of war.

  #

  Catarina took a curious look at her surroundings as she climbed out of the away pod and into the Hroom sloop. The walls were smooth around the curved bay, with geometric designs high on the walls that reminded her of the ruined Hroom temples on Peruano or San Pablo, former Hroom planets where she’d spent a good deal of time as a mercenary and pirate. The air was as warm and humid as a tropical port.

  Two Hroom guards in flowing robes stood to one side with shock spears clenched in their long hands. They hummed softly to themselves, but made no attempt to greet Catarina or Capp. No sign of the general or the other invitees.

  Capp came up next to Catarina and rubbed her hands together.

  “I’m gonna feel out of place in there, Cap’n. All them others is captains and the like.”

  “You seemed pretty puffed up when you found out you’d been invited.”

  “Yeah, but now I ain’t so sure.”

  “Scandians will be there. They’re even more uncouth than you are.”

  Capp brightened. “Aye, that’s right.”

  “And besides, I’m half-pirate myself. I’ll keep you company.”

  Capp put her hand over her mouth. “This air’s like breathing soup, ain’t it?”

  “I thought this wasn’t your first time on a Hroom ship.”

  “Yeah, but I forget after a while. Why them Hroom need to live in a steam room, I can never figure.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Catarina said. “I always thought the air on a navy ship was too cool and dry.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re part Ladino, right? Your people was tropical back on Earth, right?”

  Catarina laughed. “My people?”

  “We cold-blooded Albion types, on the other hand . . .” Capp rubbed a hand over her scalp, which was already glistening with sweat. “And you ain’t even seen the steam rooms they got.”

  A strange, vibrating whistle sounded, a door opened on the outer wall, and another pod slid through an airlock and into the bay. This one was smaller than Catarina’s, and it didn’t have the same ovaloid, functional appearance as the standard Albion away pod. Instead, paintings of Old Earth longboats decorated the surface, together with runes and a horned figure that looked like a god or demon.

  “The Vikings have arrived,” Catarina said.

  Olafsen and Longshanks stepped out of the capsule. They wrinkled their faces at their first breath of the thick Hroom atmosphere, unclasped their cloaks, and stripped out of their jackets until they stood in linen undershirts that showed their bulging muscles.

  The brothers spotted the navy officers and came striding over. Longshanks growled something in Scandian, and Olafsen offered a curt nod.

  “It’s a bloody swamp in here,” Olafsen said.

  “That’s exactly what I been saying,” Capp said. “And you lot live in the ice and snow, right? So it must be doubly bad for the likes of you.”

  “The ice and snow?” Olafsen said with a puzzled expression. “By the gods, why would you think that?”

  “You know, Vikings in the far north. Like Greenland and fjords and all that rubbish from Old Earth.”

  Olafsen shared this with his brother, who threw back his head and laughed until tears ran from his good ey
e. Olafsen grinned. Capp harrumphed, crossed her arms, and looked away, muttering about barbarians.

  A door opened on the far side of the loading bay, and a tall, almost gaunt figure with flushed purple skin stepped through. In contrast with the mottled green robes of the guards, this Hroom wore a white toga with a sunburst on the chest and an iron circlet around his bald head.

  Between the clothing, his regal bearing, and the way the guards stiffened and stopped leaning on their shock spears, Catarina guessed that this was the Hroom general even before she got a good look at him. He made an impressive noble figure as he took long strides toward them.

  “Clasp your hands like this,” Capp said, showing the others. “It lets the Hroom know you’re peaceful and all that.”

  The general clasped his own hands as he approached. “I apologize for my tardy arrival. I was sharing a welcome meal with my old friend, Jess Tolvern, who arrived before you.” He whistled through his nose slits, sounding pleased. “Captain Broderick has arrived as well. We are only awaiting the arrival of the king of suns.”

  “King of suns?” Catarina raised an eyebrow. “You mean Admiral Drake?”

  The general hummed deep in his throat. “He is the master of this fleet.”

  “I thought the Albion crown was touchy about the use of king and queen.”

  “It is not a human term,” Mose Dryz said, “but an old Hroom title, and perhaps does not translate well into your language. Perhaps the master of suns would be better, a warlord who straddles star systems. The one who will bring us a final victory.”

  “What about McGowan?” Capp said. “Has that bloke show up yet?”

  “Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten about Edward McGowan,” the general said. “He has also arrived for the war council.”

  “I can see why you might have forgotten,” Olafsen said, “given that McGowan has yet to see combat.”

  Catarina smiled appreciatively, but Capp only grumbled some more.

  “We got the king of suns on the one side,” Capp said, “and the prince of piss nozzles on the other side.”

  “Remember what you were worried about just now?” Catarina said. “You might keep that in mind before you sit down with Drake, Broderick, and McGowan. They like their deference and protocol.”

  “Yeah, right. Sorry, Cap’n.”

  “Just saving you another court-martial,” Catarina said.

  Olafsen studied Capp. “I like this woman,” he announced. “She would make a good wife.”

  “That’s what you think.” Capp jabbed her finger at him. “I ain’t the sort to fetch your beer and make your bed in the morning, you know. Anyhow, I already got me a pirate, see? Carvalho’s twice the man you are.”

  “I’ve never met your man,” Olafsen said, “but I am guessing he’s a pretty boy with no scars and not enough muscle.”

  “He’s got more muscle than you do, mate. Especially the one muscle that matters.”

  Olafsen shared this with his brother, and the two men roared with more laughter, but it was good-natured, and Capp was grinning, too. Maybe not a wife, but Capp would make a good navy liaison to the Scandians, Catarina thought. She wouldn’t take their garbage, and they wouldn’t take hers. She made a mental note to mention the idea to Drake if they ever won this war.

  There you go, thinking like an Albion naval officer.

  Once this was over, she reminded herself, she was collecting her ships, her people, and her reward, and setting off for the Omega Cluster. Well, those who had survived. Not Orient Tiger. Not Da Rosa and the rest of the poor slaughtered crew of her old pirate frigate.

  The general let out an impatient-sounding whistle. “If you are finished with your human banter, I would like to clear you out of the loading bay so that James Drake may dock in peace.”

  “Ah, yes, the sun king,” Catarina said dryly. “We wouldn’t want to get in the way of his glorious arrival, would we?”

  The general nodded solemnly. “That is precisely my thinking, Catarina Vargus. Follow my guards to the prayer room, if you please.”

  #

  The prayer room was a strange place for a war council, Catarina thought as she took in her new surroundings. The round room was about fifteen feet across, lit with dim red lights, and contained a stone altar at the center decorated with geometric designs and carved figures of strange beasts. There must be a way of bringing in data if they intended to hold the council here, but there were no visible consoles or viewscreens.

  McGowan and Broderick sat on saucer-shaped seats behind the altar. They nodded as the newcomers entered, though McGowan turned away quickly, with no warmth in his expression.

  No other seats were visible, and Olafsen looked around.

  “Where the blazes are we supposed to—”

  He didn’t complete the words before four more saucer-shaped seats rose from the floor at elevations that seemed perfectly tailored for the height of the respective occupants. The seat changed shape to conform to Catarina’s body as she sat, and was surprisingly soft and comfortable, but it left her feeling constrained.

  “You know what this feels like?” Catarina said to Capp. “Like a baby cradle. Like my mother has swaddled me in blankets and is standing over me with a warm bottle.”

  “We didn’t have nothing like that. My mama had me sleeping in an empty whiskey crate with a bunch of old diapers for blankets.”

  “Please tell me they were old, clean diapers, at least.”

  “Well, yeah. We was poor, Cap’n, not barbarians.”

  Olafsen turned toward them. “My cradle was a shell casing, cut in half, and my blanket was an animal skin. I had a toy in my crib made from my great-grandfather’s skull, filled with dried pig knuckles to make a rattling noise.”

  “All right,” McGowan said peevishly from the other side of the room. “That’s enough complaining about whose childhood was the most miserable.”

  The marauder captain blinked. “I wasn’t complaining. I was boasting.”

  The door swung open, and Mose Dryz and Admiral Drake entered. Catarina and the others climbed to their feet, struggling to get out of the strangely grabby chairs.

  There were salutations, with Capp so pleased to see her former captain that she slapped Drake on the back like he was an old drinking buddy. Catarina winced, and McGowan gave a disgusted shake of the head, but the admiral only looked pleased, and slapped Capp back, twice as hard.

  “Ow!”

  “That’s what you get for striking a superior officer.” Drake grinned. “After all these years, you still haven’t learned your lesson?”

  “Ha!”

  Mose Dryz looked around the room. “I do not spot Jess Tolvern. Yet I told her specifically to come to the war room. Perhaps she is still in the feasting chamber.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she couldn’t tear herself away,” Drake said. “Gobbling down raw snails and those spicy fruit that make flames shoot out your nose—who could resist?”

  “I am intrigued!” Olafsen said. “And do the Hroom brew any beverages?”

  The door slid open before the general could answer, and Tolvern came staggering in, looking flustered and unkempt.

  “Well, then,” McGowan said with a snort, “can we start this meeting now?”

  #

  Tolvern had been skeptical when Mose Dryz offered her a “feast.” She’d eaten Hroom food before. Some was palatable enough—especially a type of farm-raised crocodilian that tasted vaguely beef-like—but other foods were nasty or bitter, or some other flavor or texture that didn’t agree with the human palate.

  But he’d apparently asked her old pilot, Nyb Pim, for advice, and served a variety of Hroom foods that were all tasty, albeit unusual: a dish with a paste-like consistency that reminded her of ground pecans or walnuts, a dish from alien eggs that was almost custard-like in its consistency, although not sweet, and a vegetable that tasted like eating beer in its solid form. There was a beverage that was fluorescent purple and seemed to be either milk of some kind or a juice
. She asked, but the general offered that it was better she not know its origins.

  No desserts, of course—the aliens had never had sugars before humans introduced them to the Hroom civilization with disastrous results.

  When word reached the general that his other guests were arriving, he left her in the feasting chamber with instructions on how to get to the prayer room once she’d finished. She’d already eaten all that she could handle, and moments after he left her, felt an ominous gurgling in her stomach that strongly suggested the imprudence of continuing the feast.

  Tolvern set out for the prayer room, but the journey quickly turned into a desperate search for a bathroom. A Hroom crew member seemed to understand her urgent pleas, and pointed her toward what looked like a bathroom, in that there were showers and sinks. But no toilets.

  Tolvern had her hand clamped over her belly and was heading back for the door to continue her desperate search, when a Hroom entered, dropped his robe, and stuck his rear end up to the wall. To her astonishment, the wall opened and enveloped his backside.

  The Hroom studied her with a curious expression, spoke/hummed/whistled something, and pointed to a blank spot on the wall.

  “Oh, please, no. You’ve got to be kidding.”

  An urgent abdominal gurgle cured her squeamishness. She dropped her pants and stuck her butt up to the wall.

  It was best not to think too hard about what happened next, but the Hroom technology was made to facilitate the process, and didn’t merely wait for it to happen. Her stomach was still unsettled and threatening mutiny, so she sat there with her backside enveloped in the wall as Hroom of both genders came and went.

  By the time she hurried into the prayer room twenty minutes later, she was sure the others would have all been kept waiting, but they were still standing, saluting and the like.

  James came up to her, and she started to salute her husband awkwardly, but he grabbed her in an embrace, then kissed her hard on the mouth. She responded in kind, but pulled back when McGowan cleared his throat.

  “Some of the people in this room might die before this war ends,” James whispered in her ear, “and if I’m one of them, I’m not going down regretting that I didn’t take every chance to kiss my wife while I still had the chance.”