St. Legier

by Blaze Ward

  “CA?” Iskra asked.

  It was Petia’s turn to grin. She had the woman now. That much was obvious from the change in body language: leaning forward, eyes squinting as she made plans, fingers twitching like playing a piano, or typing on a keyboard.

  “CA,” Petia confirmed. “Tomas Kigali has proven the worth of such a design, in the hands of someone crazy enough to fly it like a battlecruiser. I know a few men and women who fit the bill.”

  “Very well,” Iskra said with a sharp nod. “I accept the commission.”

  From the gleam in her eyes, Vlahovic was more than accepting. Excited. Petia could see the woman awakening to one last mission, like Roland hearing the horn. And her force would also help Arott Whughy, letting them extend the war ever-deeper into enemy space as construction yards delivered enough of the new designs that Petia could spare ships for the front line, and not just defending against the first Buran attack here.

  Nils Kasum had spent most of his career as First Lord on defense, saving Aquitaine.

  Petia Naoumov was going to see how much of hers could be spent on offense, on the other side of mid-field.

  Chapter XLVI

  Imperial Founding: 180/03/01. Mejico, St. Legier

  Vo stared out the window of his office and contemplated the morning’s weather.

  St. Legier had been originally colonized for the near-identical conditions to the fabled Earth of distant history. The Homeworld from which humanity had originally sprung, some ten thousand years ago. The same orbital length, the same inclination, the same over-sized moon. Leap years followed a slightly different cycle, but one that only numerologists noticed.

  So it was still the depths of winter at this northern latitude, according to the calendar, but on the back side and beginning to think about spring. Except it wasn’t. It hadn’t been. The planet couldn’t make up its mind.

  Instead of a hard, unrelenting cold, the disruption of weather patterns had caused a sudden warm spell to come over them. Outside, the rain was almost pleasant, by comparison to two weeks ago.

  Everything was mud, as a consequence.

  Still, it helped harden the men, and form a tighter comradery, laughing at the poor space marines who weren’t used to dealing with mud and water getting into everything. And bitching about it to Army troopers for whom it was second nature.

  The only thing that might make the whole thing better would have been throwing in a Hussar of horse cavalry, so the men had to muck stables and curry whiny princesses every morning.

  Vo felt a smile, in spite of himself. Still, he kept it to himself. He kept all of them to himself, since they were as rare as hen’s teeth, these days.

  A knock at the door, followed a second later by Reese Borel entering.

  “Alan’s here for your seven o’clock,” he said, standing to one side so the Primus Pilus could enter.

  Vo went back to his desk and sat. The piles of paper were low today, but that was him staying up later than normal last night, getting things done.

  Alan Katche sat at the desk with almost a grin on his face and sipped coffee from a mug he had obviously stolen from somewhere. Or walked out of Tenochtitlan with, where they had found it somewhere along the line. It was from a television show popular in Aquitaine: Beyond the Dragon Gates.

  How the hell had something like that made it to St. Legier?

  Vo stared at the man who was his right hand. They had been together a year now. Alan waited patiently for him to speak.

  “We’ve done all the rescuing we’re going to, at this point,” Vo announced. “Things have settled into garrison and security, with some construction work.”

  “Affirmative, Vo,” Alan said. “Having the Emperor here with us has drawn in more volunteers and experts to rebuilding, but the area of devastation is simply impossible. We’ll be working across a zone nearly one hundred kilometers across, subject to ground quakes and bad weather for at least two years. Maybe longer.”

  “I’m about ready to walk away and get back to soldiering, Alan,” Vo said.

  The Primus Pilus responded with a bit of a start.

  “So soon?” he asked.

  “Not much left that requires us here,” Vo said. “The Emperor will decide where she wants her new capital, but that won’t be our job. Strasbourg is turning into the northern financial capital, at least for now. The civilians can handle it from here.”

  “Have you told her?” Alan probed.

  “No,” Vo countered. “And I haven’t told Torsten Wald or the Grand Admiral, either. I wanted your thoughts. Are the men starting to get blunt?”

  “Not these men,” Alan laughed. “The biggest problems I’ve had with discipline have been a few men who got overwhelmed by things and had to be talked off ledges. Survivor guilt, but more, because they see themselves as failures, for not having stopped it. There’s nothing fat and lazy with these men. Probably won’t be, for another year.”

  “Understood,” Vo nodded. “I sleep with those demons every night. And I think it’s going to get worse, as time goes. That’s why I want to focus them on a new task.”

  “Which would be?” Alan asked.

  “Vengeance,” Vo snarled quietly. “We can’t hold an enemy planet, not with anything less than about fifteen divisions of troops and complete orbital control. But we can land, and cut a swath of devastation across a few before we withdraw. I would like the folks over there to understand what it means to have their world shattered by monsters from deep space.”

  “What will she say?”

  There was only one woman Alan would refer to that way. Emperor Karl VIII, the former Lady Casey zu Wiegand.

  “Alan, I’m not going to ask her for permission,” Vo retorted. “Maybe her blessing, but that’s it. I promised the people of this planet that I would carry the sword to Buran. Not even an Emperor is going to stop me from doing that.”

  Alan was silent for a few seconds, considering.

  “What if she forbids it, Vo?” he finally asked. “Or worse, promotes you to something like Grand Marshal and chains you here?”

  Vo considered the man, in turn. Alan Katche wasn’t someone he drank with off-hours, except when the cohort centurions were having dinner. Wasn’t really a friend, in that sense, but Vo was hard pressed to identify his true friends.

  Jackson Tawfeek, once upon a time, but he hadn’t seen the man in years. And he was a Chief now. Moirrey, but she was busy as a Lady-in-Waiting cum Mad-Scientist these days. Hans and Iakov and a few of the men from the old days, perhaps, as far as that went, but they were enlisted grunts now and he was an officer, and that was a big divide. Dash and some friends from Fourth Saxon.

  All people he had served with, and liked. None who knew the inner Vo. He had managed to keep the entire galaxy at arm’s length. Even Rebekah Kim had moved on, eventually, unable to accept that distance around him.

  What if she did forbid it?

  “I would resign, Alan,” Vo finally admitted. “All my commissions and ranks. Every award. The works. And then I would go find a banker willing to loan me enough money to start a mercenary company, with returns paid on loot or sense of patriotism for the worlds I would shatter under my fist.”

  Alan blanched in surprise.

  Then again, he might be the first to see the inner fire that drove Vo. At least since a scrawny eighteen-year-old first stood at attention on Navin Crncevic’s deck and took the oath.

  Navin had known the truth. Vo supposed that they might be peers enough, these days, that they could be friends. Perhaps when they both retired, if old marines like them ever did.

  “Walk away?” Alan sputtered.

  “Nobody has any hold on me, Alan,” Vo stated. “That’s part of the reason I can be successful in this job. I was willing to meet Rohm on any dueling ground and kill him like a chipmunk. Before that, there were others who thought their noble birth and careful breeding made them better than me. I would have happily crushed any of them, as well.”

  He tapped an an
gry finger on the desk between them for emphasis.

  “I promised these people that I would do something, Alan,” he ground out the words in the rage he had been hiding. “Nobody will stop me. Not her. Not the Grand Admiral. Not even the Fleet Centurion. The only question I have for you is this: When I light that fuse with them, will I be going out there alone, or will I have the entire 189th behind me?”

  “Vo, I haven’t kept you up to date on the recruiting tasks I have to handle as Primus Pilus,” Alan countered in a hard voice, smiling slightly. “We could spin up an entire second legion just from the men trying to find a spot with us now, because they know where we’re going. Perhaps an entire Corps. If I pushed, you might have access to something like Seventh Guards Army backing you when that day comes, so don’t you worry about us. You work on those three people. I’ll bring the rest of the damned Army along behind you.”

  Vo nodded. Primus Pilus meant First Spear. The man closest to the enemy. He had chosen Alan Katche for exactly that personality, that temperament. He would be first.

  But Vo zu Arlo would only be one step behind him.

  Chapter XLVII

  Imperial Founding: 180/03/03. Mejico, St. Legier

  “First St. Legier?” Torsten sputtered, staring in shock at the document General zu Arlo had brought along to their regular meeting. “Don’t we already have enough divisions of troops?”

  “This isn’t a division, Chief Deputy,” Vo said carefully.

  Torsten was always amazed at how little the man moved. How emotionally compact Arlo had grown in the last two years that Torsten had known him. Vo zu Arlo would make an amazing poker player with so few outward indications about him.

  Torsten set the paper down again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He should have known Vo would have something big in mind when he asked for their weekly meeting to stretch to two hours from the sixty minutes he normally allotted.

  Vo wasn’t one to sit around and chew the fat.

  “So let’s pretend I’m an old, Imperial Fleet hound, Vo,” Torsten offered. “Who’s easily confused and a little lost here?”

  That got a grin out of the man. Just a ghost of one, but the first he could remember from Arlo since they were both aboard Auberon together. In the distant past.

  “Division is what Fribourg’s Imperial Land Forces calls their single, largest, maneuver unit,” Vo said, stacking his hands on the desk for emphasis. “Squads form platoons. Companies. Battalions. Regiments. Divisions. Corps. Armies. Fronts. Depending on the type of division, you’ll have somewhere between three and twelve thousand men involved.”

  “Why such a disparity?” Torsten asked, engaging the econometricist side of his brain rather than the politician.

  “Smallest number of men is a tank division,” Vo said. “Largest is pure infantry, with just enough attached transport to move the headquarters around in a pinch.”

  “Got it,” Torsten said. “And you want to raise a new unit, but not a division? A legion on the Aquitaine model, right? Why?”

  “Correct, Torsten,” Vo agreed. “Because the 189th has so many men trying to get into it that there are no empty billets, anywhere. And more keep trying, plus all the civilians rushing to sign up for service. This is a way to channel that enthusiasm. Most Army units are designed for garrison and defense.”

  “But not a legion?” Torsten let the doubt creep into his voice.

  “Oh, most legions as well,” Vo agreed. “But not the 189th. I specifically designed it for planetary assaults.”

  “I see, and you can’t just add more…what are the various units called?”

  “In an Armored Rifle Legion, like mine, the smallest unit is a lance, made up of three transports, with nine crew and twenty-one passengers at full load,” Vo explained, patiently even, which Torsten appreciated. Land forces were not something he had ever studied in detail. Certainly not Aquitaine’s.

  “Three lances make up a squadron,” Vo continued. “With an extra command vehicle and team thrown in. Three squadrons makes up a patrol, with a Support Lance of three engineering vehicles. Three patrols makes up an Ala. Around eight hundred and fifty men when fully equipped. Plus another hundred or so mechanics and armorers.”

  Vo paused until Torsten nodded, absorbing the details rapidly.

  “Good,” Vo said. “So a normal legion has four Alae, plus a headquarters unit that has the artillery, transport, construction, and support teams. Except that one of the four Alae is almost always swapped out to another Legion, to provide training and expand that Legate’s options.”

  “Three Alae of horse cavalry, with armor attached, such as at Thuringwell,” Torsten noted, feeling his feet finally settle under him.

  “Exactly,” Vo agreed. “189th is Reinforced, so we have three Alae of Armored Rifles, with an Alae of tanks, plus an Alae of Heavy Scouts that are then getting a fourth Patrol added as soon as Pyotr Martin can get Moirrey’s winged troops idea equipped and trained. Five Alae, all total. As much as I can handle in the field.”

  Torsten leaned back and considered the man. He had probably known Vo the longest, of everyone in the Empire, having traveled from St. Legier to Ladaux with him and Jessica at a time when Lady Casey was trying to become an ambassador to the Republic, and later a Centurion. And Torsten possibly knew him the best of everyone, recognizing the unquenchable drive underneath the man, a glacier happily grinding down whatever mountains might get in his way.

  “In the field,” Torsten noted. “Generals aren’t supposed to be in the field with their troops in battle.”

  “Nor are Legates, Torsten,” Vo completed the thought. “But that’s why I can only command five combat formations at once. I’ll be on the ground with them.”

  “And a second Legion?” Torsten probed. “What would we do with it? What would you do with it?”

  “I wouldn’t do anything, Chief Deputy,” Vo countered. “Alan Katche, my Primus Pilus, tells me that he could recruit an entire legion just from people trying to join us when we go after Buran. Traditionally, a legion is named after the planet where it was first raised, and numbered accordingly. I’m proposing that you raise First St. Legier this year, while you have a number of very angry people who suddenly discovered how much they value the Empire.”

  “And not divisions?” Torsten asked.

  “Divisions are the old way of fighting, Torsten,” Vo said. “They’ll hold ground, and put down uprisings. It’s what they have always been used for. Legions go out and conquer worlds.”

  “If you were interested in taking supreme command, you could just order it, Vo,” Torsten trod lightly.

  He was rewarded by the most sour, angry face he could ever remember Vo making. It reminded him of an angry dragon, just waking up to find you in his hoard uninvited.

  “No,” Vo said. “Next stupid idea?”

  Torsten grit his teeth rather than take the bait. He knew Vo wasn’t angry with him, just with the entire, galactic situation.

  “Who would you suggest, then?” Torsten continued. “Is Rohm good enough to handle it?”

  “Arald Rohm is a political general, Torsten,” Vo echoed Iakov Street’s assessment, reinforced by personal experience. “You’ll need political acumen and maneuvering, once you start to pull together elements from regional commands and schools, and tell them they have to re-invent Imperial Lands Forces itself. There are a number of Flag Generals and Field Marshals out there who will need to be soothed and assuaged after the rough treatment I’ve given them. We’ll also need the support of the Crown, the government, and the Grand Admiral during the rebuilding phase.”

  “But you won’t be involved?” Torsten said. It was in the nature of a question, but they both knew the answer.

  “I’ll be out wreaking my terrible vengeance on Buran, Chief Deputy,” Vo said. “I had this conversation with Alan Katche, and I informed him that I would rather turn into a pirate if that was what it took. I know a few who would help, so it’s not an empty threat.”

  �
�And you’ll leave me to explain it to her?” Torsten asked.

  “I’ll handle that,” Vo said. “I want you providing calm analysis rather than emotional reactions when it comes up. You and Wachturm will be the first two people she asks.”

  Torsten considered the hard-headed man in front of him. And the equally stubborn woman ahead of him. And the things that maybe nobody else saw. He wondered if those relationships could survive.

  Chapter XLVIII

  Date of the Republic Mar 10, 402 IFV Vanguard, JumpSpace

  Jessica confirmed her next appointment on the schedule, one final time. She had a standing meeting with Denis going back years. It had been daily, back when she commanded the first Auberon and he was just her amazing Executive Officer. When he took command of the second Auberon, they had gone to three times per week in his role as flagship commander of her Task Force.

  They had retained that rhythm, spending thirty minutes going over anything that needed to bubble up from the ship to her as Fleet Centurion or Admiral, but Denis had a good crew and rarely needed anything from her except to check in.

  So him adding a meeting off-schedule had her concerned somewhat. Not much, this was Denis. But still.

  She was drinking freshly reconstituted fruit juice this morning, one of the thousands of containers stuffed into every available space on the ship and in the squadron. One freighter had to be the general store for everyone, and she wanted to strike deep, so they would be gone for a while.

  Not so long as to constitute a risk to food stocks, but it was always better to have too much food for the crew, rather than too little, when a navy was only as good as its larder.

  The hatch signal chimed, followed by its opening and Marcelle poking her head in.

  “All good?” she asked.

  Jessica nodded. Worse come to worst, she could sneak off to her private stash of more juice in her attached cabin, or run off to pee and leave him here for a few moments.