She shook her head, gulping down more of the brandy. “That’s what the news-streams and gossip columns are saying. It has daddy mad. He wants me to come with him when his ship returns to Britannia, before we all become caught up in the lies and scandal. Honestly, we can’t drag my uncle into this, not at the moment.”
He stared at her, disbelief in his eyes. “Your uncle? What the blazes has the king got to do with this? We don’t know anything about the attackers yet, whether they were after you or the governor, or even me! Don’t forget, we were a last minute addition to the party, so it’s more likely it was the governor they were after.”
Reaching for her again, he softened his tone. “Ciara, this is just another of the random, disorganised attacks that’s been going on for the last fifty years. You know me, and after what we went through in the Ukie prison camp with our escape. Surely you can’t believe I’d be involved in something like this.”
She nodded and let him pull her close. “I know, but it’s the media. Everyone’s so afraid of scandal at the moment, what with the Ukies rattling their sabres again and all the other disgraces breaking out about government corruption. Daddy is worried about our family name being dragged into ill-repute through misinformation and indiscretion.”
Stunned, he visibly paled at her words. “I’m an indiscretion?”
Gulping large amounts from her brandy balloon, she nervously twirled a lock of the blonde curls he loved to stroke with his fingers.
“I didn’t mean it like that… don’t get upset. Oh, dammit!”
Her eyes searched for his in the pregnant silence, locking on and keeping him fixed in the stare. He was stunned by her words, feeling cast aside and betrayed.
Her family had never liked him and especially his background. An orphan from Galway that was once implicated in the rebellion and given the choice between prison or serving twenty years in the navy, he had none of the blue blood or pedigree the Royal Family preferred for their offspring. No matter that his father had been a well-respected inventor and his mother a distinguished biologist. The simple matter that he’d risen through the ranks and not been a member of the gentry excluded him from many of the Royal Family’s private engagements. Ciara saw through all that, ignoring his past and the whispered accusations. At least he thought she had until now.
“Oh, dammit. I need a shag… now!” She announced suddenly, rubbing her body against his and forcing him to step back. With a hungry movement, she pushed him backwards to the bedroom, casting aside the brandy balloon as they passed a bookshelf. “Take me to bed or sleep on the sofa… it’s your choice, mister.”
Without waiting for a response, she pushed him onto the bed. Grinning hungrily while she cast off the robe and climbed atop, the blonde curls fell over her face and across the naked shoulders. It was a distraction from all the trouble that he didn’t mind, even if it wouldn’t help solve the problems around them.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he could only hear the gentle whispers. She was saying his name over and over, making it into a chant. Bunching up the material of his shirt, she crumpled it in her hands while trying to pull his hands to her body.
He opened his eyes as their lips crushed together, her hands now supporting him as he slipped his own arms about the warm body. The perfume swept through his head, a sweet aroma of lilies and violets, and he could breathe nothing else but the fragrance. Trying to study her as red lips held him fast in a hypnotic pursing motion, he could only see the bright eyes staring back at him, stealing his soul and thoughts away.
As their breathing became laboured, she pulled her lips away to whisper words that were barely audible.
“I need you, darling, you’re my sanity in every mad thing around me.” Her speech became lost in the sighs between long, hungry kisses.
Mumbling a reply, he let the succulent lips drown him with their urgent need. They still had each other, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter 2
Aran System, Britannic Kingdom
January, 4284
“Commander Bren Caramar Montclare, Valentine Cross, Distinguished Service Cross, Meritorious Combat Cross, aide-de-camp to the late Governor General of Galway, and previous to that you were a Flight Leader in the Britannic Royal Flight Corps that succeeded the Naval Flight Corps. You have a dozen combat service ribbons, two command clusters, two wound badges and a long service record commencing seventeen years ago when you enlisted as a general entry recruit due to court orders… is this correct?”
“Yes, dammit! You know it is.”
“Don’t be insolent with me, Commander, this is a disgraceful business we are dealing with today helped through no thanks by the facetious remarks you made to news-streams following the Governor’s assassination. Fortunately for the kingdom, we instituted an emergency D-Notice before your comments could spread beyond Galway, and time will tell if we are successful. It is only by the grace of God that the interim Governor saw fit to remove you from the world before the media frenzy reached manic proportions.”
The man shook his head, the frown deepening over his face. “You’ve left us in an awful state, and the Royal Family have asked the Admiralty and Foreign Office to specifically deal with your situation, hence my presence at the behest of the Second Space Lord’s Private Assistant.”
Shaking his head, he stared at the rotund officer, studying the corpulent features and ruddy complexion. There was not a single decoration or award on his tunic other than for time in service or excellence in typing and drinking tea, there were no combat service awards or badges denoting a ship or shore command. The man was a bureaucrat like the rest of those that had ruined his life before.
Exasperated, he inclined his head to the officer. “Captain Pringle, how many bureaucrats does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“Eh, what?” The large hazel eyes flared open in confusion, caught unaware by the question. Puzzling out the words, Captain Jorsapeth Pringle frowned with one of the bushy eyebrows lifting in sudden concern.
“It should be none because we don’t use them anymore, but the bureaucracy doesn’t know that and specify it must be at least twenty-four people signing off on the change. I saw it in the Base Standing Orders today, officially routed from the Second Space Lord’s office as a point of concern for Maintenance Officers’ excessive light-bulb replacement claims. So are you one of them?”
“One of what?” The Captain puffed his cheeks at the question and just as quickly released the air with a quiet pop. “Oh, look never mind all that piddle, we have serious business to discuss. The allegations are that you conspired with rebels to assassinate the Governor, supplying weapons and intelligence of the route to the Opera House on the evening he was killed. The Judicial Branch opened an investigation, however pending new orders it has since been deferred.”
The Captain held his hand up in protest at the imagined interruption, forestalling him from speaking.
“Yes, I know what you’ve been saying and how you were in the car and saved the Duchess. In light of the matter, there’s been much discussion between those three offices I mentioned previously and we believe a solution is at hand that can benefit all of us. There was talk of sending you away to one of our allies such as the Independent States of America and serving in a liaison role at the Lexington Naval Yard, or off to the Merovingian Kingdom for a similar task in La Rochelle, however there was fear you’d be dragged into the public eye with such generous postings. Instead, another solution came to light for which it was felt your unique talents and skills could be applied in a useful manner. Tell me, Commander, have you heard of the Aldanis System?”
“No, can’t say that I have… should I?”
“Definitely not, the very existence of the world is beyond Top Secret Classification and I don’t need to remind you of the Official Secrets Act that you signed upon your enlistment, and on subsequent commissioning as a King’s Officer. The Aldanis system have been building a number of vessels for us, called the Artemis Class, all very h
igh-tech and several generations beyond what we can build ourselves. For the purpose of… well, let’s just say that the entire group of experimental vessels are being dispatched out to the Hinterlands region to observe, report and sometimes carry out work to further our interests in that area. To all intents and purposes, they will seem as mercenaries or merchants undertaking free trader operations, buying and selling cargo or moving passengers around the region. Project Artemis, is named after the lead vessel of the class and we have an opening aboard one of the vessels for you. In light of the media mania, the Admiralty and Foreign Office are ordering you to take command of the ship and head out on deployment for a period of no less than two years… possibly longer if you’re up to the challenge.”
“You’re shafting me… is that what this is all about? I’ve had the Royal Family and Secret Service telling me to forget my fiancée and not even think about trying to find her while she’s in hiding after the assassination. Then they rush me out to this world, or perhaps dragged here is a better way to say it, with a Marine escort and now you’re telling me they want to send me to the arse end of known space. What do I do there, just hang around for a few years with an experimental ship, some crew I don’t know anything about, on a mission that’s a waste of my skills and experience?”
“Don’t look at it in such a negative manner, Commander, this is an honourable assignment. The other Artemis Operatives have been chosen very carefully and selected from the best personnel available in the navy and marines, although in your case we will send you out alone without a crew. The ship carries an advanced artificial intelligence, and enough weaponry to take on warships ten times her size, you’ll find it a challenging mission that will hone your talents and enable you to learn diplomacy and tact when dealing with our foreign missions in the region.”
“Sure… so when am I supposed to go?”
“There’s just one other thing we need you to do… it will produce an airtight cover that will allow you to undertake intelligence operations more effectively in the region. Commander, we need to court-martial you and discharge your commission. If we don’t, the local media will continue to stream your past links with these rebels, and may bring dishonour to His Majesty’s government and any activities you undertake on this mission will be seen as blatant provocation by the kingdom. Your true record will be kept in secure files back in Richmond at the Admiralty, and a flagged précis of your involvement in the Artemis Project issued in all datastore updates to the diplomatic missions in the region… viewable only on a need to know basis.”
In the silence following the pronouncement, he turned away in disgust and focussed his eyes out the window. Aran was a winter world, the terraforming never moving beyond the basic stages of making the planet habitable and atmosphere breathable. Somehow, the population had survived the mountainous snow drifts and glacial conditions, keeping a light of civilisation shining on this world during the Long Night, even reaching out to the neighbouring systems of Perth, Galway and Manx to form a simple trading union.
Until the Britannic Kingdom decided to annex the Aran Union, this had been a simple and to modern standards, primitive world, but it was like the home he had grown up on in the Galway system and unfettered by the wider politics or warfare ravaging the sector.
Through the window and visible in the distance beyond the Naval Station, snow-capped mountains lined the horizon to offer this area respite from the sub-zero winds and blizzards. The crystal clear air gave the view a depth of clarity that made you perceive the mountains close enough to reach out and touch, even if the temperature was somewhere close to fifty below zero today. Beyond the protective screen of the mountains lay open plains extending several hundred klicks to the Berg Sea, haven of whales, seals, and other arctic wildlife seeded here fifteen hundred years ago by the first settlers.
Few human settlements were located on the peninsula used by the station, the isolation and tumultuous climactic conditions kept them away, which suited the service well for their goals. Aran Naval Station, primarily a watch keeping post with close to ten thousand personnel and dependants served an additional purpose; it was the regional headquarters for numerous Special Forces units of the Navy, Marines and Army. From mountainous terrain training to ice world operations and survival preparation, special operations teams had most of this peninsula for their own need with the close support of a well-equipped base facility.
When they had dragged him from Galway, literally minutes after his fiancée’s father had taken her aboard his Cruiser; it had been a squad of Recon Marines based out of this world seeing to it that he went nowhere else, but here. The men and women in the squad had treated him fairly, even respecting his rank and the crimson ribbon of the VC on his tunic, unlike the terrorist he was personified to be in media streams. Despite that, it had still been an unsettling experience. Within the space of twenty-four hours, he’d gone from being in the back of the Governor’s limousine when it was attacked, to fighting off assassins and saving his fiancée… and then to a virtual prisoner on a Packet Boat bound for this place.
Since arriving four weeks ago, there had been a carousel of visitors, from service psychologists to the Foreign Ministry and representatives of the Royal Family, interrogators and counter intelligence analysts, with even a naval chaplain attempting to counsel him. Amongst the entire circus, no one had told him why the navy weren’t standing up and defending him. Despite seventeen years of meritorious service, the salad of brightly coloured decorations on his uniform or the sacrifices he’d made for the service, it was as if they all wished he would disappear into a black hole and remove the public relations nightmare with him. Now, it appeared they’d found a way to make him jump into the black hole voluntarily.
“Commander, are you still awake? I said there would be a number of processes we need to go through over the next few days to ensure the cover looks good. After that we’ll ship you out to Lexington where you can begin familiarisation and conversion training to your ship.”
He shook his head to bring his focus back into the room and away from the mountains and stray thoughts. Switching his attention to the officer, he processed the words.
“Lexington? I thought this was all hush-hush… why’s the ship at an Indie naval base?”
The Captain gave a sigh as if he’d already explained the details, letting silence follow his exhale. After labouring the point with a roll of his eyes, the man waved a flex in the air.
“Like I’ve already mentioned, this is a joint operation with our closest allies… they also have a vested interest in the region and are deploying a handful of their own craft for a similar purpose. You’ll find more details on this flex, basic information and overview documents only at this stage, and please remember it’s keyed to your SSID with a shelf life of one week.”
Frowning, he felt the tingle in his back about the words. There was something in this that was unsettling and he could feel it clearly in his bones. This instinct had served him well over the years in combat, saving his life and other members of his flight from ambushes or mistakes. But what was it telling him about all this? Was he being set up by the Admiralty or Foreign Office, used a sacrificial lamb for some esoteric purpose known only to the nobility?
Pointing to the flex, he cleared his throat. “What else is going on here, it just doesn’t make sense that we’d build or buy high-tech ships and not use them to our advantage in the fleet at home? What aren’t you telling me?”
The Captain shrugged his shoulders, looking uncomfortable at the very question being asked. He waved the flex around again as if to use it as a shield. “Read these first, and you’ll then have a better understanding of everything. Aboard the Packet Boat there shall be a couple of specialists to help prepare you for the deployment. They can answer any questions that come up on the trip out to Lexington. Have you worked with the ISA before?”
Not pursuing his questioning of the officer, he gave a noncommittal grunt.
“You’ll find them remark
ably casual and informal, perhaps not so much as the colonials of Australis, but close enough at times. Some of them might be critical that you never went through the selection process for the mission, or have necessary Special Forces or Intelligence Officer training, but your experience in the fleet should overcome all this. Indeed, old chap, you’ll be the only VC in the entire Artemis Project!”
“Nice honour considering there’s few of us still living with it pinned on our uniform. Do I get any say in this?”
“No, not really. I have orders cut from the Admiralty here with me seconding you to special projects and Artemis. Plans have been set in motion on Britannia, so you don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s for your own good, giving you a chance to rest and see something that few people will have a chance to, out there in the wilderness of the Hinterlands.”
“And if I refuse the secondment?”
“It would be seen as a career-wrecking decision and you’d find yourself on the beach for a long time, perhaps the rest of your life. It’s been made clear from the very top and from certain… civil channels… that you need to take on this assignment. The Admiralty has also had orders from the Royal Family requesting you be removed for the immediate future, until this all blows over.”
“Hah, I’m sure they do… So what about all my belongings, they’re still back on Galway.”
“Those have all been collected, including your personal grav vehicle and are being sent on a fast packet to Lexington. You’ll be able to pick and choose what to take with you on this mission and we’ll put the rest into storage at the fleet depot on Yarrow.”
The Captain was anxious to leave, eyes diverting to the doorway in an obvious attempt to be out of here. He pondered whether to draw the meeting out, making the man suffer for bringing this burdensome duty his way. Shaking his head at the thought, he discarded the idea so he could be alone. Even though the man was a desk jockey, never seeing frontline service or knowing the pure, god-like adrenalin rush of battle, let alone the gut-wrenching aftermath, there was no point in torturing the man.
Artemis Files 0.5: Lexington Page 2
