Flight of the Blackbird (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 5)

by Blaze Ward

  Vo blinked at her. Not counting passing greetings, today might be the most words she had ever said to him conversationally.

  He took a breath. There were two entire armies and at least one fleet counting on him. And he was going to go be a hero on St. Legier?

  Vo just shook his head and hung the bow, afraid his hands would be shaking too much to even hold it right now, let alone fire a clean shot.

  Colonel Centurion Ritter Vo zu Arlo.

  How the hell did that happen?

  CORYNTHE

  CHAPTER V

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC JUNE 2, 398 SC AUBERON. EDGE OF THE PETRON SYSTEM

  Jessica told herself to breathe. And stop grinding her teeth in public, even in front of her own people. Her Flag Bridge. Her Auberon.

  But it still felt like one of those terrible nightmares you couldn’t wake up from. Not the one where you’re walking naked through the hallway of your boarding school in front of everyone.

  No, the one where the last twenty years of your life have all been a daydream and suddenly you’re back in class, clueless, and facing a final exam you can’t remember studying for.

  She was back as a wet-behind-the-ears Cornet on her first cruise, on someone else’s ship, watching him work.

  But she wasn’t. She was just out of place. Out of self.

  “Battle squadron, this is Fleet Centurion Whughy aboard Auberon,” the man’s voice said deliberately. “I have the flag. All hands stand by for possible enemy action.”

  She must have cringed, looking around the enormous Flag Bridge of the Star Controller from her spot off to one side. Her bridge. But not hers anymore. Not today. Not for a while.

  He glanced over at her with a sardonic grin. From this angle, Arott Whughy really did look like Tomas Kigali’s doppelgänger. Tall, blond, and Hollywood handsome. Probably smarter. Far more serious, if quite a bit less committed to his task than Kigali.

  “Seriously, Keller,” he said for the tenth, or maybe twentieth time, with a wry smile. “I’m just keeping the seat warm until you get back.”

  That helped, barely. Technically, she didn’t even belong here right now, being on detached duty and just getting in the way occasionally. At least Whughy had taken over the Ambassador’s quarters while he was aboard, and let her stay in the smaller chambers she had originally customized for herself.

  She wasn’t in command here.

  It didn’t help her frame of mind that she was standing on what was now his deck, or that she was wearing the uniform she thought of as Admiral of the Corynthe Fleet. Or Queen of the Pirates.

  Charcoal gray pants, so tight as to be stretched on, in case she needed to move into combat suddenly, as a Queen of the Pirates might. Knee-high, black leather, armored combat boots with metal toes, originally picked up for her first visit to Bunala. Over her sports bra, a light gray pullover shirt with a mock turtleneck collar. Atop that, a slate-gray, open-front jacket with a short, standing collar, in a shade midway between the shirt and the pants. It was longer than a bolero, but not much, just to the top of her hips. Much like her everyday Fleet Centurion tunic but not buttoned shut. Functional for shipboard, with pockets inside, and a useful waterproof shell she could wear on the ground on any sort of moderately unpleasant day.

  On each wrist, a single band of color as wide as her hand. It was a deep maroon, almost the color of the wine she occasionally drank.

  On her left breast, over her heart, a stylized logo of a beautiful woman with blue skin and four arms, holding a saber, a main-gauche, a severed head, and a planet, specifically Ian Zhao and Petron respectively, in this instance.

  It was something the locals would appreciate.

  At each side of her jacket collar, a single hexagon, solid and the size of a Lev coin, forged with gold from one of Arnulf Rodriguez’s favorite bracers after he had died.

  Had been murdered.

  Had forced her to become something she had never dreamed, never wanted.

  Queen of the Pirates.

  And now she was home.

  As much as Penmerth was the home of her youth, quaint and comfortable, the city of Corynthe, on Petron, was the place that drew her now.

  “Flag Centurion,” Arott continued. “Please notify the Court that we are on a diplomatic mission and request orbital assignment.”

  Even that was wrong. It wasn’t her in the command seat at the big table. And instead of Enej Zivkovic, Whughy had brought his own Flag Centurion.

  Cheng Yin Dominguez was a tall, skinny woman. She had played varsity volleyball at the Academy. She still looked like she could spike anyone else in the room, most of a decade on. Her skin was dark brown, almost nut colored, and her brown hair was just barely long enough to show the rings it would grow into if allowed.

  “Acknowledged, Commander,” she said smoothly.

  Five weeks sail getting here had given everybody time to get used to one another. The six to nine months before she got back would give this squadron time to reinforce the ties of civilization with those Corynthian planets inclined to act like adults. And it would let the rest have a chance to see what kind of help Jessica might be able to bring, if they did get out of line.

  If she wanted to stomp them like annoying bugs for starting another war.

  Corynthe was still more of a concept than a nation. If the piracy had thinned out over the last few years, that was because of the slaughter Jessica and her allies had inflicted on the kinds of men inclined to banditry, rather than letting the angels of their better selves come to the fore.

  That was why First Lord had sent an entire battle squadron now.

  Auberon was the biggest warship that had ever crossed the frontier, hands down. And possibly the biggest ship of any kind. And her two destroyer squadron escorts were each a match for any 4-ring Mothership by themselves. The smaller pirate carriers were even less of a threat.

  Among her cruiser escorts, the Battlecruiser Nyamboya was the most dangerous-looking, but possibly the least effective in a space where battles would be fought between packs of beam-armed snug fighters.

  On the other flank, Alber’ d’Maine had apparently talked to someone with a clue about what he expected out here. Shivaji’s two flank modules had been filled with generators, batteries, and Type-2 beams.

  Just exactly what you needed, in a world with lots of fighters flying around and hardly any hostile missiles incoming.

  On one corner of the formation, Ishfahan was loaded with Archerfish missiles, and hallways had apparently been packed to the gills with reloads. Jessica didn’t expect Doriane to need them, but she hadn’t expected an Imperial coup attempt four years ago. Anyone trying their luck would run into a Manticore of Persian legend. Doubly so with Doriane Matveev in command.

  And it was probably the Survey Cruiser Ballard that was going to have the most fun over the next year.

  She was carrying a fully-funded archaeological mission from her own namesake, the University of Ballard, as well as a team of expert engineers from Home Fleet.

  The Fast Fleet Transport Mendocino, who had somewhere along the way turned into Jessica’s personal trucking company, had accompanied the squadron to Corynthe, and would be available to transport home interesting finds.

  Arott eyed her speculatively.

  “We’re fifteen light minutes out,” he began. “It’s mid-morning at your palace and you’ve said you didn’t want to combat drop on them at the edge of the gravity well. One last working lunch before a State Dinner and you turning into your other self?”

  At least he was working to make it easy. And was working well with her people.

  If she was going to drop into Corynthe and disrupt all their lives, at least they would do it in a friendly manner. After all, who liked having an entire warfleet suddenly appear on their doorstep?

  CHAPTER VI

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC JUNE 3, 398 CITY OF CORYNTHE, PETRON

  Five years.

  Half a decade had passed since Jessica had first entered these halls,
angry and ready to crack heads together, if that was what it took to bring peace and security to Lincolnshire’s frontier.

  Four years since she had become Queen, avenging Arnulf and losing Daneel.

  And starting to reshape an entire nation.

  The throne room, her throne room, had not changed in that time. Some traditions were worth keeping. Others weren’t worth the effort to overcome inertia.

  At least today, things were different.

  On her first trip, the room had been filled with Captains, and a few of their doxies. Jessica had been either ignored, or studied in amazement. Some sort of exotic creature from the lands where indoor plumbing wasn’t considered magic.

  Okay, that wasn’t entirely fair. Corynthe was extremely technologically advanced, especially for one of the nations out at the edge of the galaxy, where stars were thin and scattered, and you often found yourself looking out at the darkness of intergalactic space.

  No, it was the culture that was backwards. Had been backwards. Was coming into the future slowly, painfully, snapping and biting every step of the way as it overcame centuries of poverty.

  Today was another step on that journey, she hoped.

  First Lord had sent the fastest Dispatch Boat available, once her own plans were known. David Rodriguez, Crown Prince and Regent in her place, had time to prepare.

  The whole Court, her whole Court, awaited her.

  Jessica had considered arriving here today with an entire company of her marines in full battle gear. The Free Captains of Corynthe still reacted best to strength. But dropping into orbit with a battle fleet capable of annihilating the entire Corynthe Navy in an afternoon was enough of a statement, she felt.

  Instead, she found herself in that last hallway with a compact group of her people. Enej as Flag Centurion to the Crown. Marcelle. Yeoman Dolen wearing her normal day uniform, with a thigh holster holding a heavy beam pistol added on the left, and a poniard on the right. Apparently the woman was adept with either, or both, and at the same time.

  Marcelle had personally interviewed all the candidates for the job before Dolen made the final cut. So she was probably hell on wheels in a bar fight, too.

  Marcelle thought that way.

  The double-doors were five meters tall, arched at the top and plated in chrome and gold over a solid, steel core. They opened now on silent hinges and Jessica found herself facing the Court’s Herald, Girisha Dhaval Misra.

  He had been an older man with a noticeable limp and a shaved head five years ago. He appeared to have achieved timelessness now, with a roguishly impish smile and a decidedly excited twinkle in his brown eyes today.

  Jessica had inherited him, along with the rest of the Court infrastructure. He was one of the few pieces that had remained, after she and Desianna Indah-Rodriguez finished reorganizing things to suit their desires.

  He still did pomp and circumstance with a grace and style that would have impressed the First Lord and the Republic’s Senate. She had considered bringing him with her to Aquitaine, at least once, but his place was truly here.

  Misra had carried a lovely carved-wood walking staff that first time, a carryover from a limp that had healed, but tradition had turned it into his badge of office. He smiled at her, nodded formally, and turned back to the room.

  The tremendous thump of his staff, capped in Sanskrit-carved bronze, echoed through the larger chamber now revealed. Jessica was taken by how quiet everything had grown.

  “Her Majesty arrives,” Misra commanded into the vast space. “All hands to stations.”

  Without looking back, Misra began to walk.

  The throne room had a slight downward slope to the otherwise flat floor, a serving-dish of an amphitheater with a raised platform at the bottom. The crowd had already parted and provided her a corridor to her throne that averaged six meters wide.

  The difference today was the number of women in the crowd. And their position. Perhaps a quarter of the people here, and they weren’t prostitutes.

  With Jessica’s Peace on the frontiers, and the death of so many menfolk, women had stepped into the gap. Merchants, sailors, Captains. Even warriors.

  They had always been there, but now they were allowed to be seen. To be known.

  To be proud.

  The two women on the platform, standing at attention on either side of the throne, would see to that. Ruthlessly, if necessary.

  Misra walked slowly, partly from age, and partly from the dignity of the situation. He didn’t get to show off like this very often, Jessica’s duties to the Republic of Aquitaine keeping her away for long stretches.

  Like yesterday. And tomorrow.

  Jessica followed, trailed in turn by her three aides.

  The throne, the physical object she had inherited from Arnulf, was a monstrous, gold and chrome thing, designed for a man who had stood more than two meters tall. The man standing next to it now had his father’s size, and the man’s canniness, plus his mother’s wisdom.

  David Rodriguez. Crown Prince. Acting Regent. The man who, if she could keep the meddlers and thieves at bay long enough, would be king in the eyes of Corynthe, one of these days.

  He wasn’t that much younger than her, but Jessica had no interest in ruling here permanently. In another decade or two, she could become Dowager. Or something.

  It was enough to remind everyone that they would have to take the crown from her, and not David. The battlefleet in orbit overhead was a quiet statement of what those sorts of costs might entail. The worst of the Free Captains had all been purged or killed, and the common folk were beginning to appreciate not having to deal with pirates and brigands preying on them constantly.

  Thus are civilizations changed, one mind at a time.

  On David’s right, his mother, Desianna Indah-Rodriguez. Dowager widow of Arnulf, but more importantly, the First Minister of the government. A woman whom time seemed to ignore, with all the beauty of her youth mostly intact. The same woman who made sure the freighters ran on time, and that any plots against the throne were discovered early and dealt with as messily as might be appropriate to make a statement.

  And Desianna lost no love for men plotting against her oldest child.

  It was the woman on David’s left that Jessica had been looking forward to engaging, as much as Desianna on the right was probably her best friend in the galaxy.

  Wiley.

  As Acting Regent, David was technically still only the Captain of her flagship and temporarily only made all decisions in her name. But Wiley on the stage next to him told Jessica that there had been changes since her last visit home. Breakthroughs, she hoped.

  Shiori Ness. Flight callsign Wiley. One of the handful of female, combat-certified, fighter pilots in Corynthe, four years ago. Since then the woman had decided that the nation could best be served by her learning to command starships. Warships.

  Motherships.

  She was wearing tight black pants, almost leggings, and a tunic that bore a remarkable resemblance to the Republic of Aquitaine Navy’s standard day uniform, save that here it was gray, with the same black stripe across the chest and upper arms but square cuffs above the wrist bone. But then, she wouldn’t spend as much time typing.

  The uniform appeared almost stretched across Wiley’s frame. She was a big woman, almost as tall as Marcelle, but built more like a man in the bones. A Polish peasant, as Jessica’s mother would have said. Broad shoulders. Big breasts. No waist at all above her hips, as her body seemed to be just a block of concrete.

  Wiley’s skin was almost the same liver chestnut of one of her uncle’s horses Jessica remembered from childhood, with bright, russet eyes, and curly rings just long enough to move in a good breeze. She was plain in the face, almost homely, but had a smile that could light up a room, on the few occasions she used it.

  She grinned down at Jessica ever so slightly when their eyes locked, and then she was serious again.

  But something had happened to Corynthe.

  On her b
lack-clad upper right arm, three rings encircled the muscle, just as they had Jessica’s, back when she had been a Command Centurion on this floor, lo those many years ago. Scarlet, but so similar. On her left shoulder, where Jessica had worn Auberon’s badge, was a large gray hexagon, with a four-armed, blue goddess in the center. It was remarkably identical to the logo over Jessica’s heart right now.

  Jessica nodded and ascended the steps with a smile.

  She had added a footstool to the throne, so she could climb into the damned thing without acrobatics, and sit without her feet dangling like a six-year-old. She did so now, and looked out over the audience, expectant and smiling faces. She hoped that it was a good sign.

  “Citizens of the Court,” Misra called out in a voice audible a county away. “Jessica Keller. Lord of Petron. Admiral of the Fleet. Queen of the Pirates.”

  The staff sounded a single note like Doom itself on the stone floor.

  The cheers and whistles seemed more energetic than dutiful. That was good.

  Now she had to up-end their entire world.

  Again.

  Jessica had kept the Crown’s primary conference room unchanged, save for the color of the walls.

  It was a small-ish space, comfortable for perhaps a dozen people, rather than the hundreds who had danced attendance this afternoon for her first visit home in almost a year. A giant oval of a table, polished from some local, speckled orange stone, dominated the space, surrounded by a bevy of comfortable chairs and cloth-covered walls, sea-green now when they had been gray before.

  It made the room warmer, friendlier.

  Jessica sat at the end of the oval farthest from the door, facing Marcelle and Willow, themselves flanking the entrance and ready for anything. Although the six men of the Queen’s Rifles outside should be enough.