by Blaze Ward
“Alber’ will be insulted,” Jessica laughed. “Good thing he’s going too fast to stop and demand a duel.”
“Something like that,” Enej said. “Robbie seems to be taking it personal. Or wants to show Nina that’s she’s not the only crazy one here.”
Vanguard had continued to yaw like a sundial chasing the day. Front shields were taking a pounding, but all four big beams could track, and the Bubble Gun fired a second time as Jessica watched. Coasting on inertia, the excess power from every generator and all the engines was going into the shields. It wasn’t enough, but the station had no shields on this facing until the squadron passed to a different side, and even then the Bubble Gun had long, deadly fingers.
And VI Ferrata was also twisting like a worm on a hook. VI Victrix had turned the other way, stern-on to the station so that both Type-4 beams could fire over the shoulder, Parthian-style.
The result was the squadron splitting into two parts with most of the corvettes firing their rear weapons while continuing to accelerate with Alber’, as Denis and Robbie coasted, firing aft with the heavier front weapons suite.
That was bad, there were still Makos out there.
“Denis, Robbie, abort and stay with the rest of the team,” Jessica called over the comm. “We haven’t escaped yet.”
On the side screen, Nina made a face like she wanted to argue, but she turned to one side, nodded, and subsided. Probably Denis snapping the whip on her personally, instead of over the team channel.
Aft, she felt Vanguard’s engines engage as the ship began to yaw the rest of the way around, so she would rotate on her flat axis once. Jessica would have waited until they were lined up, because this would push Vanguard out of line with the rest of the force, but VI Ferrata was doing the same. Robbie could fly escort for the Heavy Dreadnaught until they caught up.
Alerts sounded and Jessica felt a crunch in the hull as fire penetrated a shield.
“Who’s hitting us?” she yelled.
A moment later, the sensors and projection caught up to reality to show the three Makos well off to one side and firing. She had expected them to make a run with their Maulers, but that would require them to jump right into the middle of a buzzsaw. These were using something else. Something that let them hit from the range of the Type-3’s tuned for distance.
Denis was on the screen signaling.
“These are the same Pulse-Ex that the Megalodon was using at St. Legier,” he said, more or less calmly as the beams carved lines into his ship’s flank. “Thing’s almost a Type-4 for range and power, near as we can tell.”
“Gold star for Nina,” Jessica said. “Glad she lit the engines and moved us off line. They can’t accelerate enough to catch us, and jumped where they expected us to be, rather than where we are.”
Another crunch as a second vessel fired. Again, ignoring the cruiser on her flank to go after the terrible Red Admiral. Jessica had a feeling she was going to need Valiant and Tom Provst on her next raid, just to confuse Buran commanders as to which chariot their dreaded nemesis was riding.
Robbie and Hardie fired back, but dueling at long range with a ship like that was almost a waste of time. There were three of them, taking turns hitting Vanguard on a soft flank as the dreadnaught raced to catch up to the rest of her escorts.
One of them lit up with St. Elmo’s fire as Jessica watched. And then all three blinked out of existence.
“What happened, there at the end?” Jessica asked.
“Fool forgot about us,” Senior Centurion Komal MacInerney growled over the command line. “Lost track that VI Victrix had the range to hit the bastard hard, even headed away. Like we never practice that sort of thing.”
On the screen, Jessica noted that the other cruiser had spun on her axis far enough to bring a Bubble Gun shot to bear, firing in a single salvo with all the corvettes around her, rather than everyone firing on their own.
Again, a big splash of damage hitting. And shocking surprise. Enough to make those cruisers blink and flit, even if the damage wouldn’t be that great.
She checked her records.
“All ships, designate that new class of Mako as a Tigershark, and note that they’re snipers, and not knife fighters,” Jessica said. “Bedrov was right, again. Buran’s learning. All vessels turn 345/350/350 and push your engines hard. I want us off this line before they come back for more, and then I want us gone. Buran might count this a victory, but they won’t forget what we just did to that station. Ever. Now, prepare for Act Three.”
Jessica couldn’t see it from here, but her mind was tracking the spot of darkness that would be Winterhome’s star if she was close enough for it to become visible at this range.
Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning…
Not today, you bastard, but soon.
She just needed Tom Provst and Valiant. First Expeditionary, reinforced. Moirrey and Yan.
And then she would see what Winterhome looked like from orbit.
As bombs rained down.
Chapter LVI
Imperial Founding: 180/05/01. Imperial Palace (Temporary), Mejico, St. Legier
It was a new and uncomfortable feeling for Casey. All her life, she had been decisive, even when she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted. Father had taught her that lesson. That it was easier to adjust things while in motion than it was to impart momentum on a still object.
Tonight, she was unsure. And worse, she was standing in the middle of her closet considering how she should dress for the coming meeting. Nothing she had worn previously seemed to convey the mixture of her needs right now. Powerful yet feminine. Imperial but approachable. Capable nonetheless uncompetitive.
She had showered, toweling her long, blond hair dry and brushing it back and down. Simple and elegant, without requiring an hour of Moirrey’s time, or the attention of someone like Anna-Katherine, to pull it into more-demure braids. The warm robe around her protected against the odd drafts from the old building, coupled with thick, wool socks comfie enough to wear indoors without shoes.
Idly, Casey touched one outfit, and then another. The Ritter sundress was too official, the Imperial robes too severe. Some things here were only for summer, and she would be freezing if she picked one. She wondered if field utilities would make the right statement, but realized it would look too desperate.
Slowly, she worked her way down the length of the walk-in closet, touching and rejecting one after another until she reached the dark end. Down here were the outfits she hadn’t tried yet. New things from Vibol that had not spoken to her in the ways necessary to move them closer to the door.
One spoke to her now. Made promises as she considered. She wondered what had inspired Vibol. As far as she knew, the man didn’t even like women that way, although it was probably best to say that he was wed entirely to his art, and everyone who had ever entered his life merely qualified as either inspiration or customer.
Casey pulled the hanger and held the piece in one hand. It was so new that she hadn’t even separated it into component parts, to be mixed and matched as she needed. Long, skinny pants that would hang to her ankles and cling to her thighs and hips, done in a black denim that had been softened from normal dungarees. Two slit pockets at her hips, and a wide, fabric drawstring to hang it from her waist.
She would have never worn the accompanying red-and-white top alone, at least not when she was expecting anyone around, but it came with an outer piece. The first piece was like a halter top, except that the straps didn’t tie, but slipped over her head, letting the rest of the outfit cling too much for most public company. Too much skin exposed.
She supposed that the other piece, the forest-green outer top, might be considered a minimalist’s bolero jacket, perhaps. Long sleeves that would fit tight, all the way down to her knuckles, in something stretchy, heavy, and warm. At the shoulder, the jacket crossed her shoulder blades and in front ran in from flank to neck so as to barely cover her collar bones, ending in a standing col
lar that only went from earlobe to earlobe across her neck. Tiny, but it would frame the top, and cover enough skin that she could still be demure, even as it would accentuate her muscles and shoulders to best advantage.
Casey dropped the robe and pulled on just the halter top and pants, tucking the former in and tying the latter. The bodice of the top was a soft white, in a heavier fabric midway between the toughness of the pants and the stretchiness of the bolero. The hand-wide straps were a dark maroon that was almost a merlot, mirroring with a stripe that ran up both of her flanks.
Casey turned and located the cheval mirror in one corner, full length enough to show off even a woman as tall as she was.
The outfit wasn’t right. Too girly. This was the sort of thing she might have worn five or eight years ago, a teen princess trapped in a loving palace, but still plotting her escape. She started to remove it, and then caught sight of the bolero, still waiting on the hanger.
She trusted Vibol. Her entire public image was wrapped up in that man’s understanding of appearance. She would trust him now.
Casey grabbed the bolero, figured out which way was forward, and pulled it on. There were thumbholes at the wrist, she discovered, that would hold it in place when she moved and still let her grasp a paintbrush. The collar was weird, having been possibly starched just enough to stand up, and just tight enough to cuddle her shoulders.
The feel of the cloth on her skin was something she had never appreciated, even as the spoiled princess with her pick of fashion designers desperate to dress some member of the Imperial family. Almost a warm, second skin.
Casey turned to the mirror and her breath caught in her throat. Who was that person? The precocious teen was gone. In her place was a young woman, sexy and female in ways that Imperial culture didn’t really understand, and rarely permitted, at least at her station.
This was something a young, university student-athlete might wear on her way between class and gym on Ladaux, flattering her curves and lithe shape. She turned, right and left. Hair would need to be up in a simple ponytail, perhaps with a few bangs loose. The difference between teen, matron, and woman.
Quickly, she grabbed a pair of warm, dark socks and house slippers from their shelf and emerged back into her bedroom, plopping down on the bed and considering her next phase.
Makeup needed to be light. A little color, and little base. Just enough to connote strength and independence. Moirrey had already offered several good suggestions, and it took Casey all of five minutes to get it just right.
Jewelry was the hard decision. Casey’s ears were pierced twice on each side, but the only earrings she had worn since she became Emperor were a pair of small, gold hoops given to her by Father and Mother on her eighteenth birthday. The rest had stayed in the jewelry box, along with rings she had accumulated and a variety of necklaces.
There was one piece she would wear tonight. It was a platinum pendant, roughly the size of her thumbnail, with the Imperial eagle worked into it and decorated with rubies and sapphires. She found it in the back of the box, strung it on a short, silver chain, and hung it around her neck.
Originally, her grandfather, Karl VI, had given it to his young wife Ailina as a wedding present. Here, it set off the rest of her outfit, resting right at the pit of her neck as a cool spot against her warm skin.
Casey took a deep breath as she rose, facing the door to her bedroom as one might approach the guillotine. She paused with her hand on the knob and forced herself to relax.
In the outer chamber, Moirrey looked up from the slab she had been reading. Her eyes got big.
“Wowsers,” she exclaimed, following up with a wolf whistle that made Casey blush.
“You think it will work?” Casey asked.
“Babes, if’n I weren’t all sets to let Digger make an honest woman o’me, I’d be chasin’ ya,” Moirrey grinned. “Rawr.”
That just made Casey blush worse, but it also helped her focus on her goal. Approach him like a woman, and not an Emperor.
“Thank you,” Casey said.
“Don’ be nervous, Casey,” Moirrey said. “I’ll be’s yer Marcelle an’ all will be good.”
Casey nodded.
She let Moirrey carry the conversation for perhaps fifteen minutes while they waited. Gossip. News. Some strange new design she and Yan Bedrov had submitted to Em for consideration. Something called a butterfly.
Calming things.
“He’s always dead accurates fer time,” Moirrey said, checking a clock. “I’ll sets the tea ta steepin’ now. You waits here an’ I’ll brings him in when I’m ready.”
Casey drew a breath. Held it meditatively. Willed her limbs to relax from their current stiffness. She studied the hotel room one last time.
Gray sofa and two, unmatched chairs, the brown one firm and the blue one so overstuffed she feared falling into it. Sometimes that was good, but she was in the brown one today, perched as much as anything. Two side tables. A rarely-used desk where she could sit and type out messages, if the couch wasn’t working for her peace of mind.
Across the sizable suite, a wet bar where she frequently made her morning smoothies from fruit stocked in the refrigerator, and next to the bar was a sliding, glass door with a view of an interior courtyard and the empty swimming pool.
She hadn’t made a decision about having it refilled, come summer, unsure where she would reside. With Digger and a whole legion, she might already have the beginnings of a palace compound somewhere, by the time this hemisphere got warm.
Another decision to approve. Another brick in the foundation of her rule.
Footsteps in the hallway drew her attention. As Moirrey had said, he was always on time. Dependable. Reliable.
The door opened and Moirrey came first, hauling a teapot and service on a silver tray.
And then he was in the doorway, calm, but she thought she detected the faintest hint of apprehension in the man’s face. It was gone like dew, leaving no trace that it had ever been there, but it gave her hope.
If he could be unsure, she had an opening.
“Lady Casey,” Moirrey announced as she placed the tea off to one side and gestured to the two of them. “Lord Vo.”
“Your Majesty,” Vo rumbled as he took exactly one step into the room and stopped.
“No,” Casey said sternly, unwilling to let him fall into that place in his mind. “Tonight I am merely Casey, and you are Vo, and this is Moirrey. Please close the door and sit. I’d like us to chat about various plans for the future.”
Again, a flicker of emotion across his normally impassive face. A magnificent stag scenting the hunter, perhaps.
He closed warily and put just enough of his bottom on the couch to qualify as seated, while leaving most of his weight forward, as if he might need to flee on short notice. While she was dressed for comfort, Vo was wearing the sage uniform he always referred to under his breath as business.
“Casey,” he said, as if tasting her name for the first time.
Thinking back, she couldn’t remember if he had ever addressed her by name. Even on that first flight to Ladaux, after the coup, she had always been Lady Casey, or more frequently, Princess. Later, Centurion.
But that had been more than three years ago, and much water had vanished under that bridge.
They fell to an awkward silence as Moirrey served tea and adjusted it to taste. Tonight was a night for decaffeinated leaves. Casey felt she was already so wound up she might not sleep until daylight anyway.
Finally Vo fixed her with his own hunter’s gaze. He studied her with such intensity that she felt a blush creeping. Perhaps she had always been a symbol of something to him, and now he was seeing her for the first time as a person. A woman.
Casey glanced once at Moirrey, mostly to confirm how serious the little goofball was being, serving them tonight as a chaperone and matron, in addition to being a Lady-in-Waiting.
Vo sipped the tea and turned to inspect the room itself for several seconds.
“Based on the setting, would I be safe in presuming that it is not official business that brings me here tonight?” he asked in a low, gruff voice.
She had heard that man angry. And emotional. This was him almost emotionless.
Tightly-wrapped.
“It is official business, Vo,” she replied quietly. “And personal.”
“Personal,” he repeated.
“It touches on a broad variety of things,” Casey offered.
Rather than speak, he fixed her with those eyes, dark hazel that might be almost a burnished gold in the softer light of her salon. A sip of tea seemed to communicate the questions he would not voice.
But she had known that. Vo reminded her of Torsten Wald that way, and she and Jessica had spoken often about quiet, resilient men.
“I have spoken to a number of people recently,” Casey began as Moirrey seemed to fade into the background, as she had promised she would do. “Torsten, Alan Katche, and Judit Chavarría, most importantly. The arrival of Digger Wolanski, however much Moirrey was thrilled, has forced my hand earlier than I had hoped we might have this conversation.”
Breathing, blinking, and sipping tea were the only indications that Vo zu Arlo hadn’t turned into a granite version of himself.
“Anthohn Jenker tasked you with turning the 189th Division into an Aquitaine-style legion, yes?” she asked, just to force him to stay at the surface, rather than withdrawing completely from her.
“He did, among other things,” Vo rumbled.
“And after the Catastrophe, you promised the people of St. Legier vengeance,” she continued. “Your sword taken to worlds of The Holding. Your Legion falling on them like demons from the pit.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“But until now, you did not have the final piece you needed to put your mission into action, am I correct?” Casey pressed.
“Alan and I had given it some thought, Your…Casey,” he said. “There is nothing like an Assault Carrier in the Imperial Fleet, which would have required us instead to either assemble a mismatched set of smaller vessels, or have Bedrov design us something for zu Wachturm to build. That was a task for the coming spring.”
