by Blaze Ward
Yuur took a deep breath, turned back to the Grand Admiral, and bowed again.
“I will no longer serve The Holding, Grand Admiral,” he announced. “You may execute me as a free citizen, instead. Both our consciences will thus be clean.”
Amala held her breath. Wachturm studied the man, fought some entire war in his head, and then nodded. Not much, just enough to establish a tone of communication.
“Free citizen?” he asked slowly.
“The Eldest has chosen to bombard an inhabited world,” Yuur replied. “To kill countless millions of innocents. Keller had the same opportunity, and chose to drop a javelin into my garden and deliver an Ambassador to my Court. I will no longer serve such evil.”
“Yuur?” Amala asked.
“No,” he snapped harshly. “I will no longer accept that name. Henceforth, I renounce my birth. No longer will I be Ul Banop Cheani Yuur.”
“What shall we call you, then?” the Grand Admiral asked in a surprisingly-agreeable tone.
Amala watched the former-Khan’s eyes lose focus for several moments. They came back with a new fire inside. Angry and implacable. A mirror for what Amala had seen in Wachturm’s, out in the hallway.
“I do not believe your histories cover the man sufficiently,” he said. “But his name is taught in The Holding as an example of the old prophets, the old dreamers. As is his legacy. He failed, but we all fail, given enough time. The lucky ones die as heroes rather than living long enough to become villains. I will see The Eldest fall for the evil he has committed.”
“Sri?” Amala asked.
She was a security marine. Or had been. Keller had ordered her to remain as an Ambassador, and allowed her to remain a personal representative of the Crown of Corynthe.
But there were only so many books, so much knowledge, she could pack away in her spare time. Even as impressive as the list she had consumed already had grown.
“Rama Treadwell, Scholar Bhattacharya,” Yuur said. “His preaching and his words formed much of the intellectual underpinnings of an ancient star-spanning effort known as the Union of Worlds. It was itself destroyed in one of the imperialist convulsions of the Pocket Empires Era, paving the way for the later rise of the Concord. But his teachings live on fifty-nine centuries later.”
“Fifty-nine centuries, Sri?” Wachturm asked, incredulous.
“Why not, Grand Admiral? There are those who follow the Prophet of Allah to this day. Or The Christ. The Great Buddha has conquered entire sectors of modern space since his death fourteen thousand years ago. But Treadwell taught that all humans are united and must seek the greatest ethical interactions with one another. Yes. I am not sufficiently advanced to call myself a Shepherd of the Word, but I will be known as Seeker. Personally, I am not even certain that the Shepherds survived the Great Darkness, but many of them wrote of their dreams in the long, pleasant afternoon before. I discounted it all as worthless drivel when I read it before, but that was when I believed that The Eldest had the greatest utility for mankind in his plans. The last year has unfortunately been an education.”
The man now known as Seeker bowed again, first to the Grand Admiral, and then deeper to Amala. She presumed he honored Keller, who had shown the Scholar that not all barbarians are uncivilized, and that the so-called civilized could be monsters in their own way.
“What is to be my fate, Grand Admiral?” Seeker asked simply.
Amala could sense no fear in the man whatsoever. No trepidation. None of the hesitation to simply walk off a cliff. Wachturm was within his rights to execute the diminutive Scholar, as Buran had refused all other diplomatic overtures.
But his action grounded her. And she had never felt ungrounded before.
A door opened in her mind suddenly, warming her with unexpected light.
Wachturm cleared his throat and assessed the man.
“I would appreciate you completing your first document, Seeker,” he said. “For the historical context, if nothing else. After that, perhaps a new ethical standard would be welcome. Fribourg and Aquitaine have been at war almost since the Empire was founded, in one way or another. Keller upset the ancient balance and Buran has destroyed the scales upon which such things were measured. A new kind of Emperor will take power, and her reign will hopefully be the dawning of a new age, as well as an expansion of a war to heights previously unseen. We need to remember who we are. Is that sufficient?”
“It is, Grand Admiral,” Seeker replied, taking a deep breath and turning to face her with a serious face. “Scholar Bhattacharya, I embark upon another new adventure. It would please me greatly to have you accompany me.”
Amala nodded and bowed.
“I look forward to following, Seeker.”
Chapter XVII
Imperial Founding: 179/11/13. IFV Indianapolis, Above St. Legier
It should have been a celebratory moment, launching this silver beast, this brand new cruiser, from her dock into free space.
Yan Bedrov had even let Ainsley talk him into getting a new suit made, of a very fashionable bent according to Imperial standards. Back when they planned today to be a party.
The first Escort Cruiser, Expeditionary in Fribourg’s fleet.
IFV Indianapolis, CEE.
Being aboard her for the final bits of Builder’s Trials before Acceptance had been why Yan and Ainsley hadn’t been down there on the surface, at the office of Bedrov & Keller, three days ago.
To die by fire, like so many of his contemporaries had done over the decades. Only Faisul and Mori had been there in the office, two promising, young pirates that each had the touch to maybe design some pretty decent ships, given a few more years and some guidance they would never receive now.
Yan supposed some might classify his as a charmed life. Being the only survivor, so many times, probably had that look to it.
At least to an outsider.
Ainsley must have been reading his mind. She leaned against his side and squeezed his hand as they watched the flag bridge’s main screen, showing an image from a camera secured over on the dry-dock wall. A fierce, tiny tugboat pushing the big cruiser out of her sandbox.
Because Indy was designed to be a flagship for a squadron of Expeditionary-class vessels, the flag bridge was extra-spacious. Because Yan had designed it, everyone was seated, either in facing pairs, or with a singular, clear view inward, to where they could look up over their monitor screen and see the flag officer gesticulate madly in battle, as they were frequently likely to do.
It was the way Yan did things. The Corynthe way, because space was always at a premium. Aquitaine had liked it. Grand Admiral hadn’t thrown that big of a hissy fit once he stopped and thought about all his years of staring at the backs of heads, and how much human communication was non-verbal.
Not that Yan would have listened to the man. Emmerich Wachturm might place the orders, but Karl VII officially Accepted the ships into service.
Had.
Would have, too, with Indy. Would have come up here with them and stood on this deck, next to where the Grand Admiral was sitting now, the surviving man’s face frozen in a rictus somewhere between a scowl and tears. Yan and Ainsley were off to one side, civilians with the best ticket in town.
And nowhere else to be right now, with the Fribourg Empire suddenly going through what Corynthe had when Jessica took over.
The Revolutionary Future.
Technically, all of Yan’s contracts had been with the government of Karl VII, when there had been such a thing. At the direction of his true sovereign lord, Queen Jessica.
He wasn’t sure what the future was about to bring, but Yan was a man all about brass tacks when it got down to contract language. Not that he would ever call this a vacation, never even more than whisper that to Ainsley in bed, with the music turned way up and the lights dimmed. Nobody but her would understand and appreciate what he meant without being offended at the words themselves.
The wonders of finding love in middle age.
B
ecause if Buran thought that blowing up the damned planet was going to cause Fribourg to suddenly roll over and play dead, those people were as dumb as a mud fence post. You were probably safer, and smarter, kicking a rabid porcupine.
Yan squeezed Ainsley’s hand in return. Her eyes twinkled with all the jokes they’d shared during the project that were entirely inappropriate to mutter aloud, surrounded by these serious men. Ainsley had only been half-joking when she thought that Wachturm needed a hug.
It would be like comforting a tree. A Russian olive, at that. All thorns.
“Indianapolis, you are clear of the dock and we are withdrawing to a safe distance,” the voice came over the loudspeaker. The captain of the tugboat sounded just as fierce as his ship. “Smooth sailing.”
“Acknowledged, Foss-Six,” Captain Kingston’s voice replied. “Stand by for powered flight.”
On the screen, the tugboat had bounced backwards like a hand accidentally touching a hot stovetop. Yan grinned. There was almost nothing he could do to improve that little ship’s design, except maybe let Moirrey loose on the exterior with some paint. Not that Imperials would appreciate speed lines, but it would look good on the screen.
“Grand Admiral,” Captain Kingston continued in a mechanical tone. “Your orders, sir?”
Yan watched Wachturm rouse himself from whatever funk had overtaken the big man.
“Come to Zero-Three-Zero, ahead full,” the Grand Admiral ordered, his voice finally sounding like him again. “Transition to JumpSpace and I will send you the current set of coordinates for Forward Base Delta.”
Current. Yan grinned over at Ainsley, who grinned back at him.
A freaking mobile base. JumpSails on a monitor-class killer runt, parked out in the middle of the M’Hanii Gulf somewhere, threatening all lines of communication between the original area of Buran, what they called The Holding, and the new colonies around Samara that were such a threat to Fribourg.
Jessica being her usual, evil self.
Yan was looking forward to seeing what she and Jež had done with the Heavy Dreadnaught supporting Kigali, Aeliaes, and d’Maine. While he missed carrier operations, and had worked with his new partner-in-crime to create a jump-capable strike fighter, Jessica’s war would be big guns.
And whatever other swords his Queen needed him to build.
Chapter XVIII
Imperial Founding: 179/11/14. The Death Zone, St. Legier
Vo studied the airy news studio around him. Off-white walls. Soft-textured, hanging ceiling. Ugly tile floors with scrapes of something gouged into them randomly. Two dead cameras, like drunks leaning on chairs, or maybe tombstones in the middle of an empty space.
He flashed back to a day this last spring, addressing the men who desired to become the 189th Legion. That had been a clear field, orderly lines, a pleasant day. What stretched out before him now in all directions was hell brought to Earth.
His scouts had located a spot in Mejico, a satellite suburb of Werder that had been close enough to be largely protected by the planetary shields, and far enough away that the explosion that knocked those same shields down had more or less leapt over the shallow valley, leveling the heights on both sides, but leaving the core of the city, down below on a small river, mostly intact. At least physically.
Psychologically, the place had been crushed. War did that to civilians. Soldiers, too, but they were trained to overcome that. These people had just watched their world be annihilated around them.
But enough of the town survived. And the downrange hilltop had been more parks than houses, so the 189th had put down markers and started building a base amidst the fallen trees.
Survivors were slowly trickling in. Some were whole, at least physically, and Vo’s men put as many of them to work as wanted. The rest got evacuated to further-out bases as fast as places could be identified and tents deployed.
There were far too many.
Vo was surprised how many people had managed to survive: the initial blast and fireball; the shockwave like a tsunami of super-heated air; the ground itself moving like gelatin; buildings falling in or catching fire.
But humans were resilient creatures. Vo knew that. Hard to kill. Easy to make angry. He had seen the first embers burning in the eyes of some of the people who had passed through. Most were still numb. But not all of them.
As the non-comm in charge of the HQ detachment, Reese Borel hadn’t gone for a big, outdoor stage today. Instead, they had simply imposed martial law and evicted most of the local video news staff, extra bodies who would need to be fed at a time when he needed to work.
There would be no evening sportscast or traffic report for the foreseeable future.
Vo was standing today, resting his hands on a lectern he had dragged into the room. Reese had wanted to seat him behind a desk, but Vo had vetoed that. He worked and thought better standing up. Even if it was designed with a much smaller person than him in mind.
Today was already going to be the worst day of his life.
He wore sage. That damned Class Two uniform, when he had wanted to do this in his field gear. Battle dress. But he had to project the right image. And he understood the value of that image, especially today.
Grand Admiral had transitioned to JumpSpace eighteen hours ago. The admiral in charge, Tom Provst, was in orbit, supervising things like a hungry, angry eagle.
Vo had the whole damned planet to take care of, at least until the Emperor returned.
So he wore sage. And the bigger, gaudier awards pulled out of storage, the better to impress people. Civilians would react well enough to the uniform itself, especially as he had added the maroon cloak that marked him as Ritter of the Imperial Household. The military men would study his chest and draw their own conclusions.
Enough of the officers would appreciate that Vo zu Arlo had to be a dangerous man, to survive winning some of those.
The kind of man who had been willing to shoot pretty girls and would-be emperors.
The maroon cloak was flipped back over both shoulders. Not that he needed to get at either the sword or the pistol, but people needed to know he wore them.
That he was not playing around.
As he had in the spring, he’d written and rejected a dozen speeches. There was no model to guide this thing. None.
And Creator-willing, nobody would ever need his work as their own precedent.
Well, maybe Winterhome, the capital world of Buran.
Vo would happily stand off in orbit and bombard that planet past the point of human viability.
He was not alone in that desire.
Reese appeared in Vo’s line of sight and held up a hand to get his attention. Brought him back to the present.
“Ten seconds to live, General,” Borel stated calmly.
Vo needed calm. It was one of the reasons Reese Borel had this job. Street and Danville and their team did other things, but Vo needed Borel’s help to stay grounded.
Vo drew an immense breath, held it, released. He flexed both hands to loosen them. Pulled his shoulders back and relaxed. Leaned forward and rested his hands on the lectern with the Imperial flag on the front.
A red light came on next to the camera.
“People of St. Legier, I am General Vo zu Arlo,” he rumbled, letting the emotion, the anger, push his voice deeper. Down where maybe whales might answer. “As of this moment, all of the planet is declared under martial law. Grand Admiral Emmerich Wachturm, speaking for the throne, has placed me in supreme command of all Imperial forces inside the atmosphere.”
He paused, letting that sink in. All around the world, every screen and radio had been overridden by the Emergency Broadcasting Authority. And then the Imperial anthem had played, ominously, as it did. People were going to be listening, watching.
Hoping.
Right now, he was likely looking out at the entire population of St. Legier, some nine billion people, minus all those who had died at Werder and in the aftermath.
Another momen
t, for people to study him. To prepare themselves for the news. Nothing had been official until now, as everyone had held out the slimmest thread of hope.
After four days, the Imperial Palace had been declared a recovery zone, on the off chance that the bodies of Karl VII and Empress Kati could ever be found. The earth itself had been compressed, like a boulder dropped on loose dirt. The palace grounds were somewhere around two hundred meters closer to sea level than they had been a week ago.
“The Imperial capital city, Werder, has been destroyed,” Vo continued. “Emperor Karl VII is presumed to have been killed. Crown Prince Ekkehard was slain aboard IFV Firehawk during the fighting.”
Vo took a breath, partly to steady himself, but partly so he could scowl at the camera.
“Emperor Karl VIII will resume the Imperial mantle,” Vo commanded the people listening. His tone left no doubt. As he intended. “I will enforce the Grand Admiral’s will until she returns, and then hers until she sees fit to remove me. People of St. Legier, hear my words, and hear them well. There will be no second chances. Under Martial Law, many crimes are punishable by the simple expedient of a quick firing squad. Looting, theft, robbery. Those looking to make a quick florin cheating the military or their fellow citizens, will face a rough and unforgiving nemesis. Me.”
Vo let the raw anger spill out now. Trying to hold it in would damage him in ways nobody would understand. Except perhaps Moirrey, but she would have her own demons to contend with.
