Last of the Immortals (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 3)

by Blaze Ward

  At least, not before.

  Now, she was a famous naval officer in her own right. That might have guaranteed entry into such a marriage by itself. That she was also a barbaric foreign queen with her own fortune would just be frosting on someone else’s dynastic wedding cake.

  If she cared.

  Daneel was gone.

  Loud, brash, arrogant, with a smear of grease under one eye, fighting fires from when she had come over the horizon and destroyed his base out from under him. Or later, lying in bed after a duel and as assassination attempt, asking if marriage was such a bad idea. Jessica could still taste the rage that had bubbled over, telling him to learn the Aquitaine way if he wanted to court her.

  The tricks your subconscious plays on your words.

  She hadn’t meant it to come out that way. Consciously.

  Probably.

  And yet…

  He had gone and done exactly that. Reinvented himself as an Aquitaine gentleman, forswearing all the barbaric finery of Corynthe to dress for Ladaux. Learning to harness stillness and let her energy wash over him without staining.

  Touching him, over Callumnia. Feeling his heart race.

  Making love to him.

  Watching him die at the Battle of Petron, his own 4–ring crossing her stern to distract all the missiles.

  Supernova, dying like her namesake.

  Jessica found herself on the black, featureless plane again, dreaming.

  She hoped it was only a dream.

  The sky was gray, the color of ashes the morning after a fire. No stars marred its cold perfection. The ground was a polished black stone that was not slick, but still felt like the surface of a gigantic black diamond.

  Daneel stood there, tall and laughing and alive. He wore the muted tones he had adopted when he decided to become more than a pirate, more than an enemy, more than a friend.

  His smile warmed her from the sudden cold bite in the air.

  The daemonic Red Admiral appeared behind Daneel as she watched. She tried to cry out, but was unable to make a sound or move a limb to save her lover.

  A fiercely–glowing red blade appeared in the monster’s hand. The creature smiled at her as he drove it into Daneel’s back and out through his chest.

  Her lover’s smile vanished as the pain came over him. He tried to say something to her, but no words came.

  Instead Jessica watched Daneel collapse to his knees, fall to the floor, die.

  She felt herself transform, as before, facing this terrible great daemon made red flesh.

  She became again Kali–ma, the Goddess of War, as the Red Daemon advanced on a second victim, a young woman with honey–blond hair in bangs and a French–braid.

  Jessica had never actually met the AI named Suvi, but she dream–knew who the woman was.

  Suvi wore a green uniform, not quite as dark as Aquitaine’s, but obviously related. An ancestor, if you will, with a short–brimmed forage cap and a large belt buckle made of polished bronze. Jessica recognized the logo of the Concord as the symbol on the buckle and the button on the cap.

  Suvi did not wait passively for the Red Admiral, this ancient being. This was no faerie tale princess, helpless and bereft. Instead, she was poised. Unarmed, but unwilling to become a victim.

  The bloody red blade transformed into a giant battlesword in the daemon’s hands as he swung at Suvi. Jessica/Kali–ma blocked it with their main–gauche, even as they swung their saber in response. The daemon conjured his own blade and blocked her strike.

  They struggled, titans trading blows. Blood flowed. Sparks showered the ground. Anvils rang in anger.

  Jessica/Kali–ma felt the daemon’s blade strike home in her chest, even as her own gutted the monster.

  They fell side by side to the black stone, life leaking out.

  At least I’ll see Daneel again.

  Death embraced her.

  Ξ

  Jessica awoke to partial darkness. She could feel where tears had run backwards down her face while she slept, leaving her hair damp.

  She sat up with a cry of pain, loss, anger, betrayal.

  Something.

  Marcelle was in the corner, reading by a small light.

  For a moment, they simply stared at one another.

  “Doc can give you something to sleep,” Marcelle said finally.

  “I want the pain, Marcelle,” Jessica replied, knowing it to be the absolute truth. “It reminds me that I’m alive, that I have things yet to do, that I owe that man a terrible price in blood.”

  At Ballard, she intended to collect.

  Chapter XVIII

  Date of the Republic June 6, 394 Ladaux System

  Nils suppressed his twitch before it manifested itself as he entered the room. At least he thought he did.

  This wasn’t his flag bridge anymore. And hadn’t been for more than half a decade. He wasn’t supposed to sit at the head of the table. He was just a passenger aboard Athena.

  Still, apparently his stifled movement had been seen. At the head of the projection table, First Fleet Lord Petia Naoumov smiled wryly at him. She suppressed it just as quickly and nodded instead, her straight black hair pulled into a tail with a dark green ribbon that matched the rest of her uniform.

  “First Lord,” she said, gesturing to Athena’s flag bridge around them as he stood. “I would be honored if you would give the order.”

  It was a warm smile she gave him. They had been friends for nearly thirty years.

  Nils looked around and took a seat at the foot of the table. Of the twenty or so faces looking up from their stations, only a handful were still here from his time in command.

  His look got serious as he studied these men and women around him. Few knew what was going on, only that they had suddenly been detached from Home Fleet and given priority to load up and depart. Given the alacrity with which Auberon had just left, many could draw their own conclusions. Some might even be right.

  “Squadron, this is First Lord Kasum aboard Athena. I have the flag,” he said carefully, knowing what probably awaited him at the other end of this journey. “Take her out.”

  It surprised him when the crew gave a cheer. But then, they were warriors aboard the Flagship of the Republic of Aquitaine Navy. There was no better berth available. These people were the best.

  And it was certainly the first time in several generations that a First Lord had taken physical command of a force in the field. That’s what the fleet lords were for. Still, this was not a task for anyone else. He had made the mistake. He needed to own it.

  Around him, faces turned to screens and tasks. Athena had already undocked from the station. The engines came live now and she surged outward to the edge of the gravity well, a queen bee surrounded by a hive of activity. Around her, her oversized destroyer squadron and four cruisers of various designs fell in.

  It was a lovely force. An entire battle squadron, led by a Star Controller, a vessel that combined the firepower of a dreadnaught and a fleet carrier’s entire flight wing.

  Powerful, capable, nearly unstoppable.

  Now if only there would be anything left at Ballard to salvage…

  Ξ

  Nils settled into the seat across from First Fleet Lord Naoumov’s desk and let the air out of his lungs noisily. He could have done this in his own suite. He was First Lord, after all. And Athena had an entire wing of cabins and conference capabilities designed to transport important senators and their staffs in full comfort. He had already appropriated the best one when he came aboard.

  He was punishing himself by doing this in her office, on her turf.

  “Talk to me, Nils,” Petia said simply.

  “What rumors have you heard?” he replied.

  Not evasive, but not ready to own up to such a potentially catastrophic mistake, even with a woman he had known since their first tour of duty together. Hell, Nils had even introduced her to her future husband, his second cousin Artur.

  Still, nobody likes to fall on thei
r sword.

  “Auberon was home just long enough to load up for bear–hunting and leave,” Petia replied carefully. “Her little escort broke just about every navigation rule in the book and nobody said a peep, so his orders came from the top. You sent Arott and Stralsund with her with almost no warning. Now we’ve got a serious task force running for Jumpspace as hard and fast as we can and we’ve plotted a course to Ballard.”

  She paused to consider him.

  “Are we the cavalry?” she said finally.

  “I really wish we were, Petia,” he replied, his voice heavy. “But unless you can get us there in under ten days, I’m afraid all we’ll do is chase off the Red Admiral if he’s still around, and then pick up the pieces.”

  “The Red Admiral?”

  “Emmerich Wachturm, Petia. It’s a term Jessica Keller picked up on the Lincolnshire border. We found out he was launching a surprise raid on Ballard and I sent Jessica to stop him. I would have sent you if I had known the truth.”

  “What’s that, Nils?”

  “It’s a trap. He was never going to launch a raid on Ladaux, like other reports had suggested. So Jessica is going to take on Wachturm and Amsel with Auberon, Stralsund, and a lot of finesse. He’s not there to attack Alexandria Station, like we originally thought, although he will destroy that if he gets the chance. He’s there to kill Jessica.”

  “Well, I can’t get us there in less than sixteen days, Nils, but I’ll have the squadron push it. The old record was a little over fourteen days. I looked when you told us where, but Tom Kigali has probably blown that out of the water. We’ll get there as soon as a squadron this size can.”

  “For all the good it will do, Petia. For all the good it will do.”

  Chapter XIX

  Date of the Republic June 11, 394 Jumpspace en route to Ballard

  Sleep had been elusive. Jessica knew better than to simply lay there and let herself fret. Certainly, Marcelle would be awake if she was. At least this way, Marcelle could get some reading in.

  Jessica needed the fighting robot tonight. She could only relax in the center of Valse d’Glaive, the dance of swords. Meditation in motion.

  She took her place in the middle of a cleared area about six meters on a side, wearing a skin–tight black bodyglove. She had considered the royal black uniform that Moirrey and Desianna had worked up. But her heavy combat boots were the only part of the long–standing–customs of the ring she was willing to disrupt tonight.

  This outfit showed off her powerful thighs and shoulders, muscular curves that she knew would turn to fleshiness and eventually fat if she let herself go. That was a daily battle she was never going to lose. A headband, black with the gold logo of Petron, dominated her forehead, keeping her face dry and a few stray wisps of hair out of her eyes, even as the rest was tied with a scarlet ribbon.

  In her left hand, she held a long, straight, single–edged sword, the saber. Instead of something more exotic, it was made of simple steel. Other alloys, more exotic, lighter, stronger, were possible, but she was too much a traditionalist. Steel it would remain.

  In her right hand, the much shorter blade, heavier, with a pronounced cross–guard instead of a basket protecting her left hand. The main–gauche. Literally, it was the left hand, except it wasn’t.

  She settled herself and then dropped into a fast squat once, bouncing back up to make sure everything was still flexible.

  “Fighting Robot activate,” she called across the space to the humanoid combat drone facing her. “Challenge Rating Eight.”

  Once, rating four had been enough for a day like this. Before Daneel. Before Ian Zhao. Before Petron. Six would have been for when she had been at her peak of training and rest.

  “Warning,” a soothing woman’s voice replied. “Challenge Rating Eight requested. Safety overrides have engaged. Please confirm your request.”

  Six was for experts. Seven was for masters of the blade and the dance. The man who had first introduced her to Valse d’Glaive has assured her that the number of people capable of taking on a fighting robot above Rating Seven could be counted on two hands, not including himself in that number.

  And then she had gone to Lincolnshire to learn diplomacy, and returned home as the queen of Corynthe, and the Goddess of War.

  “Override confirmed,” she said calmly. “User Jessica Keller. Security code one–seven–seven–nine–four–six–three. Confirm: Challenge Rating Eight.”

  At those speeds, even a non–lethal fighting robot might accidentally kill someone. Certainly they could seriously injure an over–confident rookie just by miscalculating their errors.

  And even at Eight, she still generally took the machine nine falls in fifteen.

  Perhaps, after this, she would have to explore Rating Nine.

  “Override confirmed. Combat Mode initiated,” the woman’s voice replied. “Challenge Rating Eight confirmed.”

  Jessica blinked, contemplated the robot’s first quivering movements, and made time stand still.

  PART II: BALLARD

  Chapter XX

  Date of the Republic June 12, 394 Ithome, Ballard

  He wasn’t really a fan of planets. Nothing personal. They just weren’t deep space, where he was free to roam. For Tomas Kigali, days planetside were days wasted.

  Still, they were sometimes part of the job. Especially when you got to do something as loud and impressive as was about to happen.

  This morning, he found himself in the outer office of the planetary governor. Ballard was way more civilized than Ramsey had been. He wouldn’t even have to blackmail anyone this time.

  Probably.

  Maybe he’d get lucky.

  Centurion Ariojhutti was with him, today in his best dress uniform, while Kigali wore his comfortable ship’s utilities with the tailored jacket. This wasn’t a social call. He had no intention of treating it as such.

  He had been sitting here for eighteen minutes already. Ten minutes after his appointment with the governor was supposed to have started. Kigali should have already been on his way back to the spaceport by now.

  The little alarm clock in his head went off.

  Kigali rose and walked over to the receptionist’s desk. The man looked up at him with almost a sneer on his face.

  “What are you doing?” Ariojhutti whispered at his back.

  What better time to kick someone when he’s down, than when he’s not looking?

  “In forty–five seconds,” Kigali began politely, that same happy–go–lucky smile on his face masking the sledgehammer he felt like using on the man’s console right now, “I am going to depart and return to the spaceport. When I do, your boss will get to answer to Jessica Keller when she arrives, and to the Republic Senate after that. I can’t imagine either conversation will take very long. Your choice.”

  The secretary paled a little, underneath his already pasty, doughy pallor. About this point, his brain had apparently registered that Kigali’s anger wasn’t bluffing.

  “Just a moment, sir,” the man said as he rose and scuttled to the door, opened it, and disappeared into the inner office.

  “Kigali, are you insane?”

  He found Ariojhutti standing just behind his shoulder, alternating between bright red and white.

  Kigali missed having Robbie Aeliaes with him. Ramsey had been so much fun, playing a game of good cop/bad cop. This person was just taking up space.

  “Ariojhutti,” Tomas replied, “there is an Imperial battleship out there somewhere. When he gets here, he’s going to blow up Alexandria Station and probably bomb the surface of the planet at least enough to make his point. I’m pretty sure I can outrun the bastard, so I’ll be able to escape. He’ll squish your station and your people like bugs.”

  “But that’s the Governor,” the local replied, trying to keep his voice level as he pointed at the closed door.

  “Yeah, and if he doesn’t start to get his shit together in the next ten minutes, there are likely to be about fifty thousa
nd people on that station when it explodes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The voice was angry and loud. Planetary governors tended to be loud people. Big fish, even in little ponds.

  Governor Ezardyonic didn’t look to have fallen very far from that tree.

  Kigali found himself facing a strange replica of himself, almost a doppelganger, when he turned around. The Governor was also blond and tall, perhaps three centimeters above Kigali’s own lankiness. But the man also had easily fifteen extra kilograms, mostly around the middle, but some also across the chest and shoulders.

  Too much time behind a desk instead of a command console. Deep space kept him lean.

  Kigali took three quick strides and lightly put his finger on the governor’s chest, politely moving the man back and to the side as he stepped around the governor into the office. Ariojhutti had followed, so Kigali closed the door while the governor stared at them in shock.

  “What’s his security clearance?” Kigali said brusquely, pointing at the receptionist, trapped in the office by the bodies at the door.

  “What? Who the hell do you think you are?” the Governor half–bellowed, anger evident in his features.

  Kigali suppressed the snarl that threatened to overtake his face. This was too important to let get out of hand in a pissing match. Especially one that Kigali wasn’t about to lose. Not with this provincial idiot.

  “Top level, Command Centurion,” the other man replied quietly.

  “Good,” Kigali said, pulling the declaration from the inside pocket of his jacket. He started to hand it to the receptionist. “Go make some copies of this and get ready to distribute them. There isn’t a lot of time.”

  “Get out of my office before I have you arrested.”

  Seriously, were all governors morons?

  Kigali stared up at the man with the same sort of look he had used when his nephews were teenagers and acting stupid.

  Fine, you nitwit.

  Kigali stopped and took a breath. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.” He opened the scroll.