St. Legier

by Blaze Ward

  St. Legier

  The Jessica Keller Chronicles: Volume 7

  Blaze Ward

  Knotted Road Press

  Contents

  I. Overtures

  Overture: Jessica

  Overture: Emmerich

  Overture: Denis

  Overture: Vo

  II. Emergency

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  III. Emperess

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  IV. Expedition

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Chapter XLIX

  Chapter L

  Chapter LI

  Chapter LII

  Chapter LIII

  Chapter LIV

  Chapter LV

  Chapter LVI

  Epilogue: Forlorn

  To be continued in…

  St. Legier Cast List

  About the Author

  Also by Blaze Ward

  About Knotted Road Press

  Part 1

  Overtures

  Overture: Jessica

  Date of the Republic February 8, 401 SC Auberon, Forward Base Delta

  The door chime brought Jessica Keller up from the day’s paperwork. The never-ending battle. She shouldn’t have any more meetings tonight. That was the whole point of staying up late and diving in now, when it might have waited for tomorrow.

  Get more done now. Then go to bed. And then start the whole mess over again tomorrow with a little bit of a head start.

  She still wasn’t sure if it was economical to repair the horrendous damage that Steadfast at Dawn had done to Auberon on that last jousting pass. Any lesser vessel that had survived such a mauling would have been de-commissioned and scrapped at this point. The flight back had taken twice as long as normal, just to limp home to base.

  And Jessica was finally willing to admit how badly she had underestimated her foe. Not Steadfast at Dawn, but the being known as The Eldest, according to Yuur Ul.

  That had been the hardest part: Admitting she was so wrong about this entire campaign that they should all be dead now, but for luck and timing. Good on her part, bad for many others.

  Jessica considered the door. Her office was the usual mess when she was working uninterrupted. Piles of notes on paper to enter into the system, or just memorize and then burn. Her favorite sippy cup mug with less than two centimeters of cooling coffee left in the bottom.

  She flipped a coin in her head. Someone had walked up to Willow Dolen, guarding the outer chamber, or pinged Jessica’s assistant Marcelle, and asked for a meeting right now, instead of scheduling it. And whatever it was had caught their attention enough that they decided to bother her with it, instead of putting it on her calendar for later.

  Both women were trained and cognizant of the needs of their boss.

  Jessica pushed the button on her desk that opened the hatch. A shadow entered.

  Marcelle.

  Just from the look on her face, the wry smile, Jessica knew it would be good news, or at least a most interesting change from the current piles of crap.

  “Pint-Sized,” she announced in her quiet, alto drawl, bringing a smile to Jessica’s face.

  Normally, Centurion Moirrey zu Kermode was introduced as simply Moirrey. As far as Jessica knew, only she and Moirrey’s best friend from school, Dina, ever called the petite engineer by her junior high nickname.

  And Marcelle wouldn’t, unless the Evil Engineering Gnome was up to the best kind of absolutely no good.

  “Will I need more coffee?” Jessica asked, assuming that this might take a while.

  Marcelle considered things.

  “Yes,” she said. “Decaf?”

  “Please,” Jessica replied.

  Probably going to take a while.

  Marcelle stood to one side and Moirrey entered, a stack of non-regulation notebooks tucked under one arm. At least she was in uniform, the black and green that marked them all, or had, when Jessica was younger.

  Before she became The Fleet Centurion, in white. Or an Imperial admiral, in red.

  “Sit,” Jessica said.

  Moirrey grinned and plopped down into one of the two chairs, putting three notebooks on Jessica’s desk. None of them were the same size, or color, being black, red, and teal. Marcelle departed with Jessica’s mug to get out the good coffee.

  Jessica noted that Moirrey was practically fidgeting tonight. So, they were back nearly a decade, then. Before this young woman had grown into herself and become the serious scholar who had shaken empires.

  Before Moirrey had grown still.

  Tonight did not promise seriousness.

  “Am I going to become an accomplice, just by listening to you?” Jessica opened the conversation.

  Moirrey screwed her face sideways as she thought about it.

  “Mebbe,” she replied slowly, grinning so wide her hazel/blue eyes nearly disappeared.

  “And it’s not in any computer system, is it?” Jessica continued, pointing at the notebooks.

  “Nope,” Moirrey nodded. “Dinna think worth commitin’ tha’folly. Least not yets. Mebbe, ifn’s you ken.”

  Jessica powered off the slab she had been typing into and considered this woman. This Advanced Research Weapons Technician. This Evil Engineering Gnome. This woman looking so innocent right now that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  “Out with it,” Jessica said.

  “So’s,” Moirrey began with a long drawl. “Bin readin’ reports from the Trusski-guy. The Khan. Ex-khan. Whatevers. Lookin’ fer idears.”

  “Okay,” Jessica prodded, when Moirrey ran out of words.

  “M’I’llowed ta gets filthy, stinkin’ rich, if’n’s I invents something totally awesomes whiles in service?” the tiny woman asked. “Somethin’ fer civil folks?”

  “Depends,” Jessica replied. “Military things are part of your job, so probably not. Yan’s a civilian now, and designing starships being built by three governments, so far. He gets licensing fees. What are you up to?”

  Something was off about the woman. Not bad, just not right. Fidgety.

  “Buts they never dealt with planetary invasions’n’stuff,” Moirrey continued her thought with an almost scholarly tone. “Buran-folk. An’ Vo’s gonna hafta go do something like that. Gots ta thinkin’. An’ maybe me’n’Yan’n’Willow mighta been a little drunk. Designed some crazy stuff. Vo took it with him.”

  “I remember,” Jessica said. “I read your notes. He did specify exotic.”

  “Yups,” Moirrey agreed. “Then I hads’n even betters idea.”

/>   Jessica held her breath as the woman leaned forward and flipped open the top notebook to page one. She spun it around for Jessica to see.

  The image Moirrey had drawn in colored pencil was an angel. Well, no. Angels don’t carry a pistol in one hand and a sword that looked nearly two meters long in the other. But the creature, the woman, had wings. Stubby ones, barely half again as wide as the person’s arms. Maybe three meters across total. Two rows of feathers.

  The figure, the woman, was also wearing some kind of suit. It didn’t look like a simple skinsuit, but it also wasn’t heavy armor. Maybe a modification of an armored lifesuit. Close enough, anyway. The helmet was strange, looking like an ancient gas mask or something similar, but it also swooped way up in back, like the skull came to a point nearly a foot above a normal, human one. Feathers trailed off the top of the helmet’s crest, like something an even-more-ancient Hellenic warrior might have appreciated.

  Jessica glanced up. Moirrey nodded and flipped to the next page. It was the same person, now seen from the back. The wings looked metallic in this image. Two stubby tubes rode on either side of the spine, from collar to kidneys. Two more, much smaller, were visible on the wingtips. Jessica could see fins on the woman’s calves.

  “Interesting,” Jessica offered, unsure where Moirrey was taking her.

  “So I hads this crazy idea in th’shower,” the engineer said. “Does my best thinkin’ there. Ya takes a repulsor pod off’n a zip-bike, and tunes it down significantly. Hafta customize each lifter every time ya wears it, just to keeps it in synch with mass’n’weather conditions. Power pack’ll need work, but I figger Yan’s good at that sorta thing. But you could fly.”

  “I’ve seen similar things in civilian use,” Jessica said. “Personal lifters that could loft someone and give them gliding capabilities.”

  “Yup,” Moirrey agreed. “Totally unsafe fer anythin’ but bridge inspectors and emergency parachutes, unless yer complete crazies. Howevers. I wanna mix in a thruster pack from the zip-bike, too. Add mosta the electronics from a space pilot’s flight helmet. Puts you in a body suit with some armor so’s yer not street pizza first times you fly. Adds you to a planetary invasion. After Fourth Saxon, somebody’s gonna be lookin’ for weird. Ain’t nobodies gonna sees this comin’.”

  Jessica pulled the notebook closer and flipped a few pages. More schematics, getting progressively more technical and detailed as the woman’s thoughts had come together. Variants with heavier weapons, different shaped skulls, bizarre logos painted onto oversized foreheads.

  “Why?” Jessica finally asked.

  “We come up with a giant, robot-looking tank fer Vo,” Moirrey chirped. “Man-shaped, but eight meters tall. Weird looking and intimidating as hell, but not something we’d ever build. Buran might, though. We needs ta know hows to kill it.”

  “With you so far,” Jessica replied.

  “So’s the tactics book always reminds ya on page one that the enemy ain’t no three meters tall, but ain’t no one meter tall, neither,” Moirrey continued. “We got no idea what Buran might have fer land army. But they ain’t got no ideas on us, same same. So maybes we can be three meters tall and scary alien angel of doom. They won’t know better.”

  “Purpose?” Jessica felt herself dropping into strategic and tactical thinking now.

  “Scoutin’,” Moirrey replied. “Ya gotta be total loon to strap that thin’ on and fly into combat. Them folks fit. Plus ya get major mobility on the surface, so’s they can hit from s’prise flanks and corners, ’specially ifs ya put them on zip-bike that’re smart ’nuff to coast to a safe stop when the crazy pilot jumps fer sky. Scary-ass critters comin’ fer yer liver, lady.”

  “This one’s a female,” Jessica observed dryly. “Fribourg won’t let women into combat like that. Not in our lifetimes, anyway.”

  “Yup,” Moirrey agreed. “Easy ’nuff to make a male version. Bigger torso half-plate that don’t need to cushion boobs. But I figgers crazy folks like the rednecks from Saxon might wanna play. You ’magine a whole legion of these loons coming over a ridge at you?”

  “I can,” Jessica said dryly. “So where’s the getting crazy rich part?”

  “I start building these things, an’ every bored kid in the Republic’s gonna wanna have one,” Moirrey said. “Any maybe a few of them nice ladies from Fribourg. Wanna nail down all the copyrights and trademarks’n’stuff first. Then license ’em and start rolling in the Levs.”

  “Sounds good,” Jessica decided, imagining the craziness such a trend might entail. And where. “Mark it all highest security clearance for now, and then tell someone in the Legal Services department you have my approval for them to handle that side of things, at least until my brother can get involved and advise you.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Moirrey swept up everything and vanished as the door opened and Marcelle entered, swerving to barely avoid being run over.

  “Looks like I missed the party,” Marcelle observed, placing the two mugs of coffee she had made on the desk. A moment later, she shrugged and started drinking the one she had made for Moirrey.

  “Pint-Sized might have outdone herself, this time,” Jessica agreed, reaching for the fresh mug. “Hopefully, it won’t actually come down to brass tacks and we’ll never have to find out if it would work.”

  “Amen to that,” Marcelle said.

  Overture: Emmerich

  Imperial Founding: 179/04/11. Imperial Fleet Headquarters, St. Legier

  Emmerich Wachturm, Grand Admiral of Fribourg, Commander of the Fleet, Hereditary Duke of Eklionstic, etc., sat and waited with something approaching dignity as the door to the conference room opened.

  He had chosen to take this meeting close to the place where the Inner Staff met: Joh and the cousins of the Imperial blood. It would rank close to that in overall importance, even if his spies and aides had warned him that the situation was likely to be far less serious than one would normally expect.

  Em rose from his seat on this side of the heavy, oaken conference table as the signal turned green. Formal affair. Handle it as such, for at least as long as he thought necessary.

  Four guards were visible in the hallway outside when the hatch opened, to go with six more inside. Heavily armed men prepared to unleash the very hounds of hell at the drop of a hat.

  Em suspected they would be even more confused by the coming performance than he would have been, but for the private letter of introduction Jessica had sent along with the visitors.

  Republic Senior Security Centurion Amala Bhattacharya came first, dressed in elegant civilian robes done up in a soft color somewhere less than teal, but more than aqua. A product of one First-Rate-Spacer Vibol Harmaajärvi, Scholar of Fashion, according to Jessica.

  Whatever that meant.

  The woman was average for height, so shorter than most Imperial Ladies. Darker as well, with skin tending towards a golden brown of the ancient, South Asian Diaspora, rather than the red-brown Hispanic that was more frequent in Fribourg. Black hair longer than appropriate for a security marine who needed to put it under a sealed helmet, plus dark eyes alive with barely-suppressed laughter. If there was anything that stood out about the woman’s face, Em probably would have said the nose, oversized with a mild hook, but even that just lent her face character.

  Bhattacharya bowed and smiled at him.

  “Amala Bhattacharya,” she said distinctly. “Scholar. Ambassador to the Khan of Trusski. Personal Representative of Queen Jessica of Petron.”

  Em nodded back. No mention of her military duties, currently on hold as she escorted the man behind her.

  Telling, that.

  “Ambassador Ul Banop Cheani Yuur,” Amala said, stepping to one side as the man followed her into the room.

  Clan name: Ul. Crèche name: Banop. Family group: Cheani. Personal name: Yuur. The presumably-former Khan of Trusski.

  Em found him short, barely taller than Bhattacharya, with the same darkness of skin, perhaps even more golden and less brown, with p
iercing blue eyes, a bald skull, and a similar nose. The man wore pants and a tunic in a sand color today. Formal, but neutral.

  According to Jessica’s notes, while he might still be technically a Khan, and probably a Minister of the Eighth Rank, the man was probably also a fugitive with a Buran bounty on his head.

  He certainly acted the part of an Ambassador well enough, coming to a serene rest and smiling lightly at Em before bowing formally.

  “Grand Admiral, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” Ul said in a soft, high-pitched tenor.

  Em bowed back and gestured to the table as the marine by the hatch sealed them in silently. He sat and watched the two of them settle down.

  A moment of companionable silence passed.

  “I’m given to understand that dealing with the two of you occasionally appears, to the uninformed outsider, as some sort of improvisational comedy act,” Em broke the silence.

  Jessica HAD warned him in no uncertain terms not to underestimate the two of them, but not to read too much into that performance, either.