by Blaze Ward
“And Resolute Revolution?” he pressed.
“We have to become someone else,” she grinned. “Did some research and found us an awesome ship name, but Heather vetoed it. At least until I dug out the thesaurus and made it less obvious. Got Markus aft, changing the IFF transponder now.”
“What name did Heather say no to?” he asked.
“Queen Anne’s Revenge,” Siobhan replied. “It was a famous pirate ship, way back into the pre-starflight days. Maritime pirates. Sailing on water.”
“Huh,” Trinidad grunted something that sounded to her more like a placeholder than anything. “Okay, so who are we now?”
“Anna’s Vindication,” she laughed. “Close enough, and not like anybody is ever going to get the joke.”
“So what happened to the original?” he pressed. “Queen Anne’s Revenge?”
“According to the files I read, she was grounded off the coast of the country of North America in the early Eighteenth Century, pre-Starflight Era,” Siobhan said. “The command centurion offloaded his crew to other ships, and as much treasure as they could, before splitting up. The guy was named Blackbeard, and whole legendary mythologies still abound about him.”
“So he got away?” Trinidad asked. “I thought that pirates always got caught, eventually.”
“Well, the system said he accepted a pardon from a colonial governor, not long after the ship was sunk,” she explained. “But then went back to being a pirate within a year. Eventually, the authorities caught up with him and killed him. Couple of centuries later, they found the ship, and excavated it. Sometime after that, some crazy, rich guy built a full replica and sailed it around for the longest time before it ended up in a museum. But, yeah, most of the pirates I looked up all got taken down eventually. That’s why I chose Anna’s Vindication. She got away.”
Siobhan nearly laughed when Trinidad reached out a hand and rapped on a bulkhead lightly with one fist. Every spacer she knew was superstitious enough to touch a hull like that for luck.
“Works for me,” he said quietly.
“So you came up here for something before I sidetracked you,” Siobhan remembered.
“Right,” he snapped his fingers. “Everything is finally stowed aft. You’re in Lan and Kiel’s cabin. The rest of us are hanging hammocks in other places for now. We’re ready as soon as you are.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “Let everyone know they should get ready to depart. I’ll call Phil, and as soon as they say go, we’re jumping somewhere so we can figure out what it feels like and how hard it will be to navigate.”
“And we’re off,” he said, turning and bouncing down the eight steps.
Siobhan watched him go. For everyone else, their job was easy. Trinidad and Nakisha hopefully only had to point guns at people, and not actually shoot anyone. Max was along in case someone got hurt. Markus was mostly good, with the cut on his arm healing well, and was the best redneck engineer she knew. He would keep them flying and breathing.
She had the hard part: playing the role of Edward Teach, the infamous Blackbeard.
Maybe the most fun part, as well.
Hopefully, she wouldn’t end up like he had.
“CS-405, this is the prize,” Siobhan began, opening the comm relay. At no point was she going to use names, even encrypted and on a laser. Who knew what magic a Sentient starship could weave to decipher it all?
“Go ahead,” Heather came on the line a moment later.
“We are all stowed here, Heather,” Siobhan said. “Initial target has been identified on our nav charts and we’re ready for our first jump. Conservative estimate seventy to eighty hours to reach our rendezvous.”
“Acknowledged, prize,” Heather replied. “Initiate when ready. We’re right behind you.”
“See you on the far side,” Siobhan closed the line. Hopefully, the far side wasn’t death, and everyone would be waiting for them when they arrived.
“All hands, this is your commander,” she said, switching to the interior announcement system. “Stand by for transition.”
Siobhan took a deep breath and considered the third button along the top of the screen in front of her. She had done all the math, reviewed the engineering logs, and read about all the places Lan and Kiel had gone to, at least what little she had been able to find in 405’s systems. The rest awaited her taking the time to translate the ship’s logs more cleanly. Another task for later.
Now she had to throw herself into the darkness, trusting a Jump system she had never imagined she would ever have to use.
Ten thousand years of successful navigation, she reminded herself. We escaped the mother solar system and colonized the galaxy with that technology.
Here goes nothing.
Siobhan pressed the button. Around her, Anna’s Vindication seemed to shimmer once, and then they were gone.
The Long Run (April 7, 402)
“Engineering, this is the bridge,” Phil said in a firm, authoritative voice. He knew this tape would be played at his next Court Martial, regardless of outcome. Might as well make it sound good for the Fleet Centurions who would be sitting in judgment that day.
“Rushforth here,” Kam replied a beat later.
“Stand by for powered flight,” he announced. “Pilot, take us out.”
“Acknowledged,” both Kam and West Lovisone managed at the same moment.
West was flying, for now. Normally, Evan would have shifted responsibilities, but Phil needed the man on the sensors.
There was no sudden wiggle of acceleration as the engines began to push the solid mass of CS-405, so the gravplates were still stable everywhere. Nothing in the world like losing internal systems integrity when maneuvering. No, just a little distance indicator number slowly getting larger, since it was locked on Severnaya Zemlya.
And they were finally, successfully, running away.
On Phil’s personal screen, the way forward was clear. Emptiness beckoned, like a hidden siren luring sailors onto the rocks. He almost felt like Moses, standing on a suddenly-dry shore, with all of Pharaoh Buran’s armies closing in behind him.
“Ship underway,” West announced, looking up with a serious face that still seemed to be all smiles. “Acceleration constant. All systems within tolerances.”
It wasn’t often the Yeoman got a chance to shine. Siobhan had been so good at her job that Phil had let her monopolize things, perhaps a little too much. But she had the makings of a good command centurion, one of these days, and it was one of his jobs to see that she could get there. Now it was West’s turn.
Phil nodded back and waited. Kam’s face was a small image on the left side of his personal screen, looking away and talking silently to someone close by aft, with the line muted.
Queen Anne’s Revenge was already gone. Phil had heard the whole story from Heather, and agreed with the rename, but in his mind, the original name would probably stick forever. Anna’s Vindication sounded so much less impressive. Less martial.
Pretty good for a wolf in sheep’s clothing, though.
He looked down again and found her face on the screen.
“Kam, everything still stable?”
Her eyes came back to the screen and found his, then flickered away to take in all the readouts she had in front of her. His was boiled down to just a few, but hers always looked like a musician’s mixing board: virtual sliders, knobs, and gauges ranging over any possible thing the engineers need to tweak electronically. Plus a few that could only be torqued with a two-meter prybar.
“Everything’s green so far, bridge,” Kam finally said.
Phil nodded and switched to the public address system.
“All hands, stand by for transition to JumpSpace,” he said.
More fodder for Court Martial. Unlike many places, and much of human history, the Republic of Aquitaine Navy used frequent, public Courts to render judgment after the fact. Not just to punish, but to make it clear that a command centurion in a bad situation had made the best possib
le choice among bad ones.
They considered it a training tool, and Phil agreed. The interesting decision sequences were frequently taught at the Academy, straight out of the Court’s records, so new officers coming up would understand how bad things could get, and see which choices would be acceptable. And which might get you cashiered.
Right now, Phil figured he was slightly better than fifty/fifty to lose his command when he got home. Much of it would depend on what the engineers found when they pulled apart the ass-end of his ship, something he really couldn’t do until they were all safely home.
If the design itself had flaws, then much of the blame would fall elsewhere. If not, then he had held the responsibility to train his officers better, and had failed. He didn’t think that was possible, with Kam and Bok, but anything could happen, especially in the light of retrospective expertise.
For now, he needed to make sure that the rest of his crew followed clear orders, so that everything else would fall on his head, if it had to roll over this. That their careers wouldn’t be ended if his was.
Command Centurion in the RAN was a heavy responsibility, even in a tiny, largely-unarmed scout corvette. But this was war, and they were all warriors. He had to get his people home. And then, if he could, exact as much damage to Buran’s war-fighting capabilities as he could.
“Pilot, make your jump,” Phil finally ordered, allowing what he thought was the right amount of time for everything to build up and weigh on people.
This would hopefully work.
The transition was weird. Phil had no other word to describe it. Some people had described the normal transition as falling suddenly into a pool of warm mud, causing you to float in happy medium. Coming out was just the opposite: warm and damp becoming suddenly dry.
This had a sharp flex to it. Not painful, like a punch to the gut, but a giant hand grabbing you from behind and briefly squeezing your entire ribcage, just the least amount. The air had the lightest tang, like someone had just opened a lemonade mix and let too much powder poof up into the air.
Maybe he was imagining it. It was gone almost as fast as it had occurred.
Except West had the strangest look on his face, as did Evan.
Henri Baudin had invented the modern JumpSail, right before he went on to Found the nation of Aquitaine. The secondary unit they had just engaged was a design that probably was finalized in his lifetime and then left alone. Phil had never been on a ship that used one before.
That would change, if he ever got home. Everyone would have to use the secondary from time to time, just to prove it was working. And maybe tasted like lemons.
“Status?” Phil called out.
This was the iffy part. They had rebuilt the emergency Sail’s controllers, but there was only so much testing you could do. At least this first hop was intended to be short. Just an hour in JumpSpace at most, if everything held, and then drop back out and recalibrate everything.
Assuming nothing important melted in the meantime.
“Running hot but stable, sir,” West called.
“Kam?” he followed up.
“Concur, Phil,” she said, looking away and talking out of the corner of her mouth. “Putting Bok and his team on it. I’ll scram the drive from here if we need to.”
Phil realized he had been holding his breath. He let it go slowly, silently. Nobody needed to know how tight he was right now. They needed a calm example of unruffled leadership in front of them.
A commander infects his crew. If he panicked, they would join him quickly. If they panicked, then he must become the rock upon which such dread will founder.
“Very good,” Phil announced. “Evan, I’ll be in the office doing paperwork. You have the bridge for now. Heather, go off duty and get some sleep.”
The last comment was addressed over the internal comm. Emergency Bridge was almost always listening in, so they could step up in a pinch, a virtual extension of the room here.
CS-405 had just made the first step in what would be a very long run home.
Prisoners of War (Day 98?, Common Era 13,449)
Lan eventually found the new circumstances interesting, once he got over his rage at being kidnapped by barbarians. And having his ship stolen.
The nerve of these people.
Still, he and Kiel had been kept together, unharmed, in a cabin larger than the one they had previously shared aboard Resolute Revolution. The walls were a soothing foam green color, with the floor painted a brown probably intended to evoke wood. The bed had proven to be extremely comfortable, and they had been fed regularly by a group of armed men and women who were singularly uncommunicative.
At least the room had a video presentation system, even if most of the choices were unintelligible. Few of the movies or entertainment shows were even in Mandarin, and none had Mongolian sub-titles.
The only reason he hadn’t gone insane was that at the first meal, the gunmen had brought a pair of fancy tablet computers loaded to the top with books. Interestingly, many were originally published by the Lord of Winter, rather than the barbarians, so Lan assumed they had been looted at some point.
At least he had enough material to keep his mind engaged for perhaps as long as a year. Kiel read faster than he did, so she would probably emerge in one hundred and eighty-two days needing new material.
Right now, she was on the bed, reading. Lan had found that the tablet also contained a text input system, so he was recording his observations and memories of the last few days. It helped him get over his pique.
These people had been polite, but they were still barbarians.
The door opening suddenly caused both he and Kiel to look up in surprise. Lunch (had it been lunch?) had been served only a few hours ago. Certainly, it was too early for whatever the next meal should be?
A woman in partial armor, face-shielded-helmet, and short rifle entered, standing impassively to one side. She wasn’t threatening anyone, at least not any more than her mere presence was a threat.
Lan felt his simmering rage bubble, just a bit, so perhaps it was good that obvious and overwhelming violence was available on their part. Kiel would certainly counsel caution, but she was like that. It was one of the reasons he had been so happy when she chose him. Kiel completed him in ways he had not understood as a younger man.
Another soldier entered. This one had a pistol, but it was holstered. It took Lan a moment to realize the new visitor was also a woman. She was tall and wearing the same partial armor as the first, but she lacked a helmet, with red hair shorn almost as short as Kiel kept her darker locks.
The face said European, with rounded cheek bones and pale, almost bleached out skin, compared to he or Kiel. Her eyes were an interesting blue, so rare in The Holding, but apparently common among the barbarians. He had just never met one before the group that stole their freighter.
“Commander ask talk you,” she said in a slow, laborious voice, obviously trying to work her way through a new language.
It was interesting that she tried Mongolian, when the barbarians already knew that he and Kiel were fluent in Mandarin. But that was also a barbarian tongue.
Perhaps there was hope for these savages.
With a careful eye on the armed soldier, Lan set down his tablet and looked over at Kiel. She nodded and did the same. While she slid over to the edge of the bed, Lan rose slowly. Non-threateningly.
As a typical male of The Protectorate of Man, Lan was taller than Kiel, and heavier. Stronger overall, but probably not as tough. Either of these foreign women looked like they could handle him without assistance. The way they both stood conveyed that utter conviction that they were safe here. Being on an alien (enemy?) starship meant that he had nowhere to go, even if he was stupid enough to start something.
Plus, they had asked, rather than marching in and ordering him about. Perhaps there was hope for these people.
“Yes,” Lan said simply.
He stepped close to Kiel and took her hand. It was a promise fa
r older than these newcomers. He drew much of his strength from his spouse.
“You come?” the redhead said carefully, her accent rendering the words almost impossible, but her body language conveying the rest fairly accurately.
She stepped back, into the corridor and to the right. The other soldier stepped away from the door as he and Lan approached it, and then followed them.
“We will follow you,” Kiel said slowly.
It took Lan a moment, and then he realized she was enunciating the words in such a way that the other woman would learn. Perhaps there would be language lessons soon. Kiel had always been better at picking up new terms and new languages.
He wondered what the barbarians spoke at home.
The hallway was just as impressive as the cabin had been. Large and airy. Lacking any oil or rust stains anywhere, or perhaps cleaned up. The hallway was nearly three meters across, where Resolute Revolution’s main corridor was barely more than a meter.
Nobody would have to turn sideways as their partner needed to get by, and use it as a cheap excuse to grope their spouse when she did.
Lan felt Kiel squeeze his hand. He glanced over at her and realized, from the grin on her face, that she had probably reached the same conclusion. Briefly, he felt sorry for the barbarians, to miss something like that, but he also remembered that this was a warship, with a crew of perhaps hundreds, and not an old married couple who might occasionally stop and snuggle in the hallway, because they could. Lan squeezed her hand back.
Warship.
He had heard rumors that the barbarians had armed ships without aspects of The Eldest in charge. He wondered what it must be like to live without proper guidance. To flail aimlessly about, lacking the subtle wisdom and memories of a God to give your life structure and order.
But that was why they were barbarians, after all. They had not seen the wisdom of joining The Holding voluntarily. Had resisted, as pitifully as that might be, while The Eldest continued his course to eventually enroll all of lost humanity into the great project.
