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

by Blaze Ward

  “Is she better than you?” Casey asked hard, almost brutally.

  Heike hissed under her breath, almost silently. Her recoil was barely noticeable. Casey was keyed up and watching that closely.

  Interestingly, Uncle Em didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t react at all.

  Instead, his eyes got that far-away gleam to them again, trailing off over her left shoulder to find some spot on the horizon. Or memory.

  “Yes, Casey, she is,” he said simply after a few beats.

  Heike’s eyes flashed angry, just for a moment. Casey had watched the older woman long enough to spot the signs, but Heike controlled it well.

  “Just like that?” Casey asked.

  This was not the answer she had expected. But this was Uncle Em, and she had asked him an honest question demanding the truth. Imperial Princess Kasimira, asking the Empire’s premier strategist for a specialist’s technical opinion.

  Casey began to understand why her Father had relied on the Red Admiral for so long. Solid thrones could be built on such men’s shoulders.

  “Kozlov was blinded by ego,” Uncle Em explained, taking them back to the events at Thuringwell that had driven the Fribourg Empire to offer a Peace they finally meant to honor. “I let myself be taken by rage. At Petron, Keller was almost overwhelmed by despair, but she still overcame it and won.”

  Petron. Capital world of Corynthe. The battle to defend a newly-won crown.

  Queen of the Pirates.

  “Who was Daneel Ishikura, the man?” Casey probed deeper.

  Warlock. Even on distant St. Legier, romance writers, like ancient bards, had told the tale of the pirate captain who won the heart of a beautiful queen. Casey had fantasies of a man like that sweeping her off her feet and taking her away to a beach somewhere, where she might sit and paint all day, Imperial necessity be damned.

  Uncle Em’s smile turned sideways and wry.

  “When I first met the man, he was angry enough to commit treason,” the Red Admiral said. “Would have become the next King of the Pirates, after Arnulf Rodriguez. I saw the electricity between the two long before either of them would admit it. I am still surprised she survived. I’m not sure I could have lost Freya like that and continued.”

  Aunt Freya. The other half of Uncle Em, largely unknown behind all the legends of the man himself.

  The Fleet wife who kept the home fires burning while her sailor risked distant shores.

  “So is she driven by that sadness?” Heike inquired.

  Uncle Em shook himself.

  “No,” he said. “At the end of the day, that woman is driven by duty, Casey. By excellence. Nothing less.”

  Casey nodded.

  That was what drove her, as well, though she would never admit it out loud, even with Em.

  To do something, and be the best at it. To be judged on merit and not gender. Not social rank.

  Excellence itself.

  CHAPTER XIII

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC SEPTEMBER 4, 398 KALI-MA. JUMPSPACE

  “So, Mister Arlo,” the woman asked him carefully in her lovely voice. “What do you think?”

  Vo bit his tongue. It was that or grind his teeth. At the end of the day, him being here was nothing but his own damned fault. And maybe the Fleet Centurion’s, for providing him an example.

  And selling him the rope.

  Back home, uniforms more or less fit, and he had learned enough skill with needle and thread over the years to make necessary adjustments.

  There weren’t many uniforms that were sized to fit a man that was two meters tall and weighed one hundred twenty-five kilos. Less so, since all his mass was in his shoulders and thighs, rather than wrapped around his gut, like most officers.

  He had never owned a tailored anything, much less a full dress uniform.

  And never, in his wildest dreams, did Vo Arlo ever imagine wearing the full dress uniform of a Colonel in the Fribourg Imperial Army.

  And yet, here he was.

  Vo studied his image in the three-sided mirror carefully while the woman waited.

  It frightened him, when he considered that the lovely woman next to him had located and brought with her a dressing mirror tall enough and wide enough for a man his size to stand in a small conference room and put everything on.

  But then Vo remembered where Ms. Indah-Rodriguez came from. Men his size were far more common in the Royal Palace on Petron.

  She might have had this handy.

  Vo knew she and Moirrey were both experts at cloth and fashion, so he took a deep breath, amazed at how well the uniform moved with him as his ribs flexed outward, and tried to give her an honest opinion.

  Impractical. That was the word that came to mind. The Republic of Aquitaine Navy was boringly practical in uniform choices. Everything designed to go under an emergency suit quickly. Nothing sticking out. The colors were muted and professional. The fabrics tight and light, assuming a controlled environment on a starship.

  Nothing like this.

  Vo would grant that he looked the part of a Dire Peacock. People would be in awe of his presence. Moirrey and Ms. Indah-Rodriguez would guarantee that.

  But who the hell was that guy in the mirror?

  Close-fitted, doublet-style jacket in cobalt blue, or maybe a shade lighter. Moirrey would know the color’s hexadecimal number off the top of her head. It conformed to his waist and flared out to wrap around his broad shoulders in a way that reminded Vo of a sail. Or a big, blue tree.

  Twelve brass buttons down the center of his chest. Six of them were hooked now, and the other six, from what his studies had covered, were largely decorative these days. Indeed, the top half of the front was intended to fold back into notched lapels that displayed what heraldrists and tailors called a facing colour, in this case, a red soft enough to be polite, when he had been expecting bold and obnoxious.

  He could handle polite.

  Every visible seam of the jacket was done in a yellowish color, about as wide as his smallest finger, and then embroidered over that in gold-colored thread. Down the center of his chest, around the waist, both wrists, along the edge of the jacket facing. The pattern was also worked into little, half-moon shapes that flared nearly a handspan out over each shoulder point and were apparently called wings, but looked more like something useful in armor to protect the joint.

  At his wrists, a single white star was apparently his only rank insignia, the uniform stating the case for the rest.

  And pearls, let us not forget the several dozen little, white pearls, apparently real, drilled off center and hand-stitched onto the fabric as part of the embroidery.

  The lapels of the doublet were folded back now. He wore a linen dress shirt in cream underneath, buttoned up the center, with collars that folded down at the neck into strange, little triangles over a tiny, silk neck scarf Ms. Indah-Rodriguez had called a cravat tie. He was more than willing to let one of the tiny women stand on a footstool and tie it for him, and to put the stick pin in that held it all in place.

  He would have ended up bleeding all over the nice shirt if he’d tried.

  Around his waist, Vo wore a sash in a style Moirrey had called a cummerbund, two hands wide and tied into a decorative knot on his left hip with bits that dangled down to his left knee. It should have made his jacket hang funny, but the two women knew what they were doing.

  It fit perfectly with front of the doublet that just covered his belt, while the back dropped down into blunt half-tails just about long enough to cover his butt if he stood still.

  The pants he wore were uncomfortable and baggy, but that was by design. He was used to straight legs with lots of pockets when he was in the field. Instead, he had stirrup pants, tight around his calf to tuck into tall boots, and then poofed, almost jodhpurs, above that. With a blue stripe down the outside that matched his doublet. And the pants were made from the starkest white linen he could imagine would attract every dust bunny and speck of dirt in the room.

  Plus, they had no po
ckets at all. None. And instead of a proper fly, they had a pair of small brass buttons, eight centimeters apart, that held up a flap embroidered in the same yellow thread as above.

  Vo presumed that the overall look was designed to obscure the fact that an officer had turned into a lardass from too much sitting and too much wine, so they had just gone ahead and given everybody that disguise ahead of time.

  At least there were two, small pockets inside his doublet.

  It was the boots that were insane. With feet his size, Vo had a cobbler’s appreciation of quality footwear. What he had on met that criteria, but the original fashion designer was nuts.

  Dark brown leather with pitifully thin soles originally, Vo had required that they redo them with outdoor treads and padding inside, plus a metal cup over the toes. One put them on by stuffing stirruped feet down the tube, hooking fingers in little loops at the top, and then pulling hard. Once on, you folded the top down twice, to mid-calf, in a look Vo couldn’t help but compare to a low-budget pirate movie.

  And then, the accessorization began. Began, mind you.

  On each deltoid muscle, there was a flap of cloth, blue with that same yellow facing line running along both outer edges. It was sewn at the shoulder and hooked with another brass button up near his neck. Vo had thought they were purely decorative, initially.

  He was wrong.

  Now, a white leather baldric was attached under that epaulet on his right side, crossing over to hold up a dress saber on his left hip. At least that one was from Aquitaine’s Fourth Saxon Legion. Another strap ran from the left shoulder to a messenger bag tucked in on his right side.

  Take away all of a man’s pockets, and you have to provide him a purse to carry things around.

  And how had these two women done it all? Vo had seen the pallet of flat rolls of fabric that had arrived for him. Bolts. Fabric came in bolts. Lots of blue, lots of white, half as much red and yellow. Apparently, according to the women, enough material for four full uniforms, even at his size. There had been time to get one done, and get it perfect. So they did.

  And it was.

  Well, almost. There was currently no provision on this uniform for a pistol, and no expectation that he would need one, but Moirrey had gone ahead and made him one that would attach to his belt. Vo had left that in one of the carrying cases.

  Carrying cases. He would need an entire room soon, just for the cases, and the damned hats he was accumulating, at this rate. And the small, aluminum cases to protect them during shipping.

  The hats thankfully came already assembled. Custom measured for his oversized skull.

  Atop his head, a tube of black leather and bangles called a shako. Short brimmed in black leather in front as well. Flaring out slightly as it ascended, with a brass badge on the front, about the size of his hand. Two leather and brass straps, highly decorative, but still functional, rested across the brim, but could be disconnected from each other and turn magically into a chinstrap. A short, braided rope in white hooked above Vo’s left ear, dangled across the front above his eyes, to hook on the right, with a complicated, fringed knot hanging down from that.

  A cropped, yellow feather, called a hackle, stuck up another twenty centimeters from the peak of the shako, attached to the two-centimeter red cloth band that ran around the top. It was a good thing there were three-meter ceilings in here.

  Peacock.

  Dire peacock. Crossed with a giant, carnivorous emu.

  But, damn, he looked impressive, especially with exactly two awards pinned on his chest: the full-sized Order of Baudin, rather than the simple bar for his medal rows, and his Republic Cross. With Bar.

  Vo took one more breath, deep and heavy, flexing just to see how well the doublet moved. It didn’t pinch anywhere, which was a first for him.

  Desianna Indah-Rodriguez, First Minister of Corynthe, widow of Arnulf Rodriguez, fashion expert, smiled up at him. He knew she was tall for a woman, but everyone was tiny standing next to him. She didn’t feel tiny. Any more than Moirrey did.

  Vo sighed.

  “If I said ceremonial ox on the way to a sacrifice,” he said. “That would cover it. But you two did an amazing job making me look distinguished on the way, especially with what you had to start with.”

  She laughed, a throaty, warm sound that filled the small room.

  “Vo,” she said with a broad smile. “If Jessica hadn’t specifically declared you off-limits…”

  She reached out a hand and brushed away something on his chest, and then looked up and grinned at him, like they were sharing a secret.

  Wait. Fleet Centurion had declared him off-limits? Him? Really?

  What was it about him that woman found attractive?

  Vo studied his look in the mirror one more time. Colonel (Honorary) of the Third Regiment, 189th Division Imperial.

  Yeah, at least this ox would look good.

  CHAPTER XIV

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC SEPTEMBER 14, 398 KALI-MA. JUMPSPACE

  “Damn, girl,” Saša, Rocket Frog, exclaimed at her sister, standing there on the scale. “You’re nearly a kilo underweight today. You been skipping breakfast on me?”

  “No,” Asra, Neon Pink, replied with a sigh, stepping back down to the deck. “Been working too many late nights tuning the jump computer. Probably forgot a dinner somewhere.”

  “Well, here,” Saša said, picking up her sister’s bundle of clothes and then reaching for her own. “We’re going down to the Wardroom and I’m stuffing a bagel or something down you right now.”

  Asra took the clothes and started dressing slowly.

  Up close now and paying attention, Saša could see how bloodshot her twin’s eyes had gotten.

  “That can’t be all of it,” Rocket Frog continued. “You can’t fool me, you know. I’m the only one that can tell us apart.”

  Neon Pink laughed at that.

  “No, I don’t suppose it is,” she said, pulling on a fuchsia sweater to make it easier for everyone else to guess.

  They would probably still guess wrong fifty percent of the time, aware of the practical jokes the twins liked to play.

  “So talk, younger-by-eight-minutes,” Rocket Frog commanded.

  “It’s got to be perfect, you know,” Neon Pink replied, pulling on her slippers. “I can always board with an extra brick to bring me up to baseline. That’s why we have them. But St. Legier’s mass base is a frigging state secret. You have any idea how hard it is to estimate all the variables when the big one is X?”

  “It does NOT have to be perfect, you know,” Rocket Frog said, always faster to dress and waiting on her. “No way Jessica wants to show us off the first week we’re in system. We’re her trump card, you know. All she’s gonna want us do is outfly all the Imperial punks who think they know how to walk the curves of space-time.”

  “Then why does it matter if I’m under by a kilo?”

  Rocket Frog glared at her, but Saša was there underneath the bluff façade.

  “It means you’re cutting corners, Asra,” Saša said. “It’s okay to take a little break occasionally, you know. We won’t get there for another two weeks. But you’ve got to talk to me, you know. United front. Us against all the dipshits in the galaxy. And Gustav.”

  “And Gustav,” Neon Pink echoed, her voice starting to warm finally.

  It was an old joke.

  Eel had made it known early on that he didn’t think either of the girls was good enough to fly, certainly not with him and the Queen’s Own.

  They hadn’t taken all of his money. Just enough to make a point.

  But it had turned him into one of their biggest cheerleaders afterwards.

  “Now, food,” Rocket Frog commanded. “A week in-system and either Bedrov or Himura will have all the data we need. Plus, this is supposed to be an Earth-like paradise. Did you ever consider using the Homeworld’s stats as a baseline?”

  “Crap,” Neon Pink giggled in sudden amazement. “That’ll work, too. Now I have to deal with y
ou being right, as well? What’s the world coming to?”

  CHAPTER XV

  IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 176/09/22. IMPERIAL CONSERVATORY, WERDER, ST. LEGIER

  Emmerich was back in his old office, while the Emperor sat in the hard, wooden, guest chair. The door was closed.

  It was going to be one of those conversations.

  Armed men had politely and quietly cleared the rest of the hallway. At least Joh had chosen to do this late in the afternoon, when all the other academics on this floor could leave early for the day without much guilt.

  Emmerich leaned forward and put both elbows on the desk so he could lean on his thumbs as he thought.

  “Am I wrong?” Joh asked sincerely.

  He could do that, with the door closed. Emperors weren’t generally allowed mistakes in public.

  “In what you did? No,” Em replied. “It is possible you could have handled it differently.”

  “I needed the Imperial public behind me on this one,” the Emperor said.

  “And you have them,” Em countered. “And most of the Fleet, as well.”

  “But?”

  “But there are some old-fashioned elements in the Brevadel, the old nobility, Joh,” Emmerich continued. “The thought of elevating her to be one of them has roused a great many of them from their torpor, my dread Majesty. You are hearing the yapping of angry, purse dogs.”

  “They are still important ones,” Joh replied. “Both Kunibert and Sigmund have bent my ear on the topic in the last week. Privately, but the whisper campaigns are getting louder.”

  “In the interests of preventing a public break with the two men over it, what are your commands?”

  Emmerich leaned back and looked at the lines just starting to trace themselves into the man’s face and forehead. It was like looking back in time several years at an oddly distorted mirror.

  Joh leaned back as well, relaxing some of the tension out of that face.

  “We have already made Keller one of the Brevadel, technically,” Joh said with a quiet smile. “I would propose that we reduce the size of the personal reception we had planned for her to something more of a family dinner. There will still be a State Dinner for Queen Jessica, but she would get that anyway, and it will be stuffy and stilted. I know Casey wants to meet her. Would Heike be insulted by doing it that way?”