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

by Blaze Ward

The Capriole Drive signal turned green on the screen.

  Dancer In Darkness shuddered once as he twisted space and slipped away into the night.

  On the other screen, high tide struck and began to recede.

  Less than two percent of the bucket remained empty, death averted by the thinnest edge of the blade.

  But averted nonetheless.

  In six seconds, they would drop into a hollow spot. Safety, clear down at the edge of the planet’s atmosphere, the last place anyone would expect them. And then, a brief respite to recuperate and flee into the deep darkness.

  Something had changed. Fribourg had up-ended warfare itself.

  The Lord of Winter needed to be warned.

  CHAPTER LIII

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 ABOARD AMSEL, ABOVE ST. LEGIER

  Jessica thought she had prepared for an aggressive foe. As her triangular-hulled adversary dropped back into space, she understood that she had planned too small.

  The image that crossed her imagination in that moment truly was a shark emerging from the depths to strike a swimmer in coastal waters.

  Except this swimmer was a whale, and woefully unprepared.

  “All guns fire,” someone yelled.

  It might have been her. Or Emshwiller. Perhaps Saar.

  Maybe Amsel herself.

  The Battleship rumbled like a small avalanche picking up speed at the top of the hill as her gunners let loose a torrent of hellish energy.

  And then dust and bangs as every screen went blank.

  Jessica would not have believed survivors later, had she not been here at this moment.

  Had not seen electricity physically arc between metal bulkheads and humans close by, even this deep inside the great beast.

  Had not watched a man be knocked across the room, still strapped into his chair, as it torqued under some unimaginable load that ripped it loose from the deck and cast it and him sideways into a bulkhead.

  The Mauler.

  “Medical teams to the bridge,” Jessica yelled as she took it all in.

  Captain Saar’s command station had landed closest to her, so she disconnected her safety harness and raced to his side as the noise began to settle. At least the gravplates had held.

  “Corbeil,” she continued, waiting for the Executive Officer to turn her direction. “Saar’s injured. Take command.”

  He blinked, absorbed the situation, and turned back to the rest of the room.

  “All guns, continue firing as long as you have a weapon and a target,” he commanded. “Damage control teams have priority on every deck.”

  Jessica understood that her value right now was in not being seen. Not by these men.

  She had prepared them for this attack, as much as anyone could. Gotten them mentally into a place where they could return fire, surprised as they were by the ferocity of the foe they faced.

  Now she needed to let them do their jobs. If she understood Buran’s tactics from the file she had absorbed, he wouldn’t be here long anyway. A quick flit in, and then another hop away.

  The same as he had been doing for however long it had been today.

  Saar’s heart was beating as she put a hand on his neck, even if his eyes didn’t focus on her. His hair was even beginning to settle back down, static discharging itself into the deck.

  He started to lurch upright, and Jessica’s weight was barely enough to hold him in place.

  A moment later, an Emperor appeared at her side and added her own mass.

  Jessica heard the man growl, low and deep, a naval officer to his deep core, unwilling to miss a battle, even one he couldn’t follow any longer.

  “Rafferty,” Jessica commanded. “Stay put. You’re injured. Corbeil has command.”

  That seemed to get through to the man.

  Jessica felt his tense muscles begin to relax under her fingers.

  A moment later, a man appeared on her other side, sliding into place on his knees.

  “Admiral,” the medic said calmly. “Your Majesty. We’ve got him.”

  Jessica lurched upright and looked around, giving Casey a hand up as well, as two other men began to treat their injured commander.

  There was smoke in the air.

  Not much.

  The smell of a short cooking a circuit someplace close, rather than an insulating wrap igniting.

  Dust jarred from cracks and seams hung heavily as the air systems strove mightily to suck it away from human lungs.

  The voices and hums and pings had fallen largely silent as Jessica took notice.

  “Commander Corbeil,” Jessica called out, still the Admiral on her deck. “What is our status?”

  “Intact, I think, Admiral,” the man replied, looking at his screens. “Could have been much worse. Navigation, flank speed. Get us somewhere else before he can come back for more. Any heading, ahead full.”

  Up front, the pilot acknowledged the command and began rapidly pushing buttons on his various consoles to turn the big beast and dive to deeper waters.

  Somewhere out there, the shark had disappeared back into the depths, lurking.

  Jessica had goaded him, that Buran commander. Waved the shamrock-colored Imperial flag in his face like a red cape before a bull.

  Amsel had nearly paid the price. She could see that on her screen. The newly minted Battleship had suffered greatly, from the sounds of various damage control parties furiously cutting, pasting, and welding to get the ship back to readiness.

  “Admiral,” Corbeil called, snapping her eyes from the screen to meet his. “Engines are nearly undamaged. Maneuverability is generally stable.”

  “Guns?” she asked, knowing that nothing else would matter if the Raider came back for a second pass.

  “Better than I expected, sir,” the new commander replied.

  “Roll to two-four-zero and begin a yaw,” Jessica ordered.

  She could see the man wanted to ask a question. Demand an explanation. A moment later, he nodded to himself and relayed the command.

  They had been thinking two dimensionally, against an enemy moving in three.

  It was necessary to throw the invader off his line of attack.

  Now, would he come back to finish the job?

  CHAPTER LIV

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 ABOARD KALI-MA, ABOVE ST. LEGIER

  Yan Bedrov had served aboard a warship named Kali-ma for most of his twenty-five years in space.

  First, under Georges Basserman, and then rising to Second in Command under Ian Zhao.

  Before.

  He had no other way to describe his life.

  Before. After.

  Before, when he was a thirty-eight-year-old, dumbass teenager pirate.

  A dead-ender happily dead-ending.

  Ian Zhao had been a charismatic man, a leader men wanted to emulate and follow. Popular, successful.

  For a brief time King of the Pirates.

  He would have been a good one, too, as those things went.

  But that was before the hurricane known as Jessica.

  She wasn’t a woman. No, not even a queen.

  No, Jessica Keller was a force of nature.

  Even Wiley was just a determined bad-ass, by comparison.

  Before. After.

  After Jessica happened, Yan had been forced to grow up, if he wanted a place in this new world. A lot of them had.

  Many others had just walked away, or retired, or crawled into a bottle or a gun barrel, unable to cope.

  Unwilling to change.

  There was no middle ground anymore. Not with Jessica Keller.

  There were nights where Yan still woke in a cold sweat, staring up into those eyes from his knees as she approached him, anger radiating off her body like speed lines, still dripping Ian Zhao’s blood on the deck.

  A monster coming for his soul.

  But she hadn’t killed him that day. Had taken a chance on him. Several.

  She could have just as easily had his head on a pike as Zhao
’s at any point along the way.

  Instead, she had kept him. Promoted him, even, when you considered what she had done to upgrade the battle fleet Yan had served his entire life.

  Sent him to Ladaux to supervise the construction of her new flagship, a task that left him suited to become Corynthe’s Master Builder when he wanted to return to the ground. That was a respected job, especially in the Keller household. Maybe he could give Pops Nakamura a run for design aesthetic.

  Yan had even been invited to dinner with Jessica’s father, himself a Master Builder, and her mother as well, an event arranged under the auspices of the First Lord of the Aquitaine Fleet himself.

  But even that was something of a before.

  Before Kali-ma, the new goddess of war.

  Before this trip, deep into Imperial space and an unknown future, had changed him.

  Before After.

  After, when he had turned into a grown-up, a knight on a silver steed, rescuing a princess.

  And Jessica was here. Now.

  Flying under the flag of the Fribourg Emperor. Commanding that other woman’s fleet. Trying to make the galaxy a better place.

  Counting on him to be there when she needed him to be. Saving her ass, after all the times she had saved his. Given him purpose. Given him hope.

  Given him place.

  Yan popped his shoulders up and back, and then rotated them individually forward.

  Stress distracted. And there was just no time for proper yoga to get the body loose.

  It would be enough for the mind to come to stillness.

  “Pilot,” Yan called suddenly, struck by a thought bubbling up from the evil, black depths of his tactical mind. “Roll us up three. Bad guy’s coming in high, but tight. He’ll buzz the ’bird and then jump. Centerline me here.”

  Yan spun the projected image of near space with both hands, like holding a bubble blown by one of his grandsons, and then stuck a hand in and triggered a glowing pulse of red where he wanted things.

  “Gun Captains,” he continued, triggering the push out to the whole ship anyway, so everyone would know what was coming.

  There was nothing worse than sitting in Engineering, or a Wardroom, listening to the ship hum and crackle, with no idea what was happening outside.

  Plus, he had personally trained those five men. And only had to break and demote three others out of the way to get the kind of crew he wanted.

  Demanded.

  The Command Centurion might be in charge.

  Tactical Officer fought the ship.

  Yan Bedrov drew the lines everyone else toed if they wanted their place here.

  Kali-ma was the flagship. If you were going to serve on her, you were going to be the best, but this was a team effort, just like him and Wiley. There was no space for ego on a gun deck.

  “Center your guns here and prepare to traverse them to port,” Yan commanded quietly. “Vector will be unknown on emergence. Use your best judgement. Lowest accuracy rate team buys beer for the top team.”

  A good dose of competitiveness, on the other hand, was healthy. And it gave the boys an outlet, since dueling and blades were no longer acceptable ways to handle disagreements.

  Not after Jessica.

  “Wiley,” the sensors dude called. “Bad guy just jumped.”

  “Flight Wing,” the Command Centurion replied. “Everyone shut it down and roll on your gyros right now. If this is it, you have about five seconds to be in position. Light Wing, prepare for phase two.”

  Good.

  Yan wasn’t responsible for the pilots out there. He only had to fight a single ship. And that would take every gram of his attention right now.

  He took a deep breath.

  The man over there had jumped at least a dozen times so far today. Those drives were cute, but not all that dangerous. Strategically amazing, but still tactically predictable.

  If you were paying attention. Or angry.

  Or protecting the life of the woman who had turned you into someone your grandkids could be proud of.

  “All guns, commence firing now,” Yan ordered.

  There was nothing in that spot but hollow space, suddenly filled with pulses of energy as the modified, long-range Type-3’s Moirrey had gifted them with fluoresced against tiny wisps of atmosphere, even at this altitude.

  In any other circumstances, folks over on the Blackbird would throw a hissy-fit right now about how close his shots were trailing above them.

  Tough luck, buddy.

  Pause. Breathe.

  Shark.

  Got you, bastard.

  Almost on cue, bad guy popped into existence, barely more than a ship length away from the center of Yan’s targeting circle, flying right into the hornet’s nest of heavy beams.

  You’re good, buddy, but you were never a pirate.

  “Pilot,” Yan ordered. “Roll me down left and yaw hard upwards.”

  Kali-ma was still a cruiser-class warship. She couldn’t dance on her axis like the killer bees around her, but she had been designed by someone who expected crazy maneuvering in tight quarters. Her gyros could do some amazingly stupid things, in the hands of a man crazy enough to try.

  Downrange, the Raider lit up like a winter tree briefly.

  It was weird, watching all that energy disappear. Normally, you hammered on a guy’s shields and it was like watching sparks flair off or water splash. Here, everything just faded, sucked into whatever the hell those guys used, like water poured over sand.

  Still, there was only so much sand to suck up that much water. He and Jessica could still drown that asshole, if he stayed around long enough. Science Officer was tracking with every ear and eyeball he could bring to bear.

  Hopefully, it would be enough.

  Around him, the bridge lights went dim as every single beam, even the little, defensive Type-1’s on both flanks, let loose with everything they had. Generators on every deck were already overheating. Cooling systems would be laboring for hours to bring it all back to green. There was no spare juice for anything.

  Not for the next however many seconds he had until the other guy could move clear and escape Yan’s wrath.

  Just as quickly, empty space.

  And not the kind of emptiness you got when some stupid mook exploded, either.

  Nope, gone.

  “All guns cease fire,” Yan yelled, reaching out and tripping an override that would cut them out of the firing loop anyway.

  It was an eerie calm.

  The lights came back up to normal. The air system had apparently shut down briefly, because fans kicked on again and there was a breeze with a hint of staleness underneath that he could taste.

  But the bastard got away.

  Blackbird looked like street pizza right now. Hopefully, everyone was okay, but that wasn’t his responsibility right now. Tactical Officer stayed inside the hull.

  Wiley was a big girl. She knew her shit.

  “Got him,” the Science Officer practically sang as his sensors located the Raider. “Transmitting now.”

  “Strike team,” Wiley channeled calmness. “Phase Two.”

  Yan leaned back and let go a heavy sigh.

  Yeah, you got away from me, buddy. And Jessica.

  You still haven’t gotten away.

  CHAPTER LV

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 8, 398 ABOVE ST. LEGIER

  Rocket Frog had actually stopped firing a few seconds early. At this range, her Type-1’s were a joke. Instead, she had sent a text-only comm to her sister on their private channel.

  Neon Pink had stopped firing almost at the same instant anyway.

  Outsiders were always surprised when the two of them thought so much alike. Insiders knew better.

  Gustav just always assumed that whatever he told one of them would instantly be transmitted via telepathy to the other one.

  It wasn’t really instant.

  Silent now, Saša took a moment to spin her little knife back to center on the gyros before red-lini
ng her engines. Somewhere close, Asra was doing the same thing. There wasn’t much time to do this, not if they wanted to do it right.

  “Strike team,” Wiley channeled calmness over the airwaves. “Phase Two.”

  A file popped open on a side screen, showing her a destination and making the first, rough cut at a flight vector calculation.

  Saša was the artist with the welding laser and grinding wheel who tended to lead. Asra had always been the nerdy one who did math. But the compact Starfighter known as The Rocket Frog was centered and accelerating, with her sister in The Neon Pink hanging tight on her right back corner. Just like the training runs on asteroids and dipshits.

  And Gustav.

  Two identical arrows in flight, a tiny flight cockpit with a weak gun on the front, generator and jump drive behind her, and two huge engine pods on the sides. Underneath, the payload.

  The Buran Raider had been in place for thirty-three seconds engaging on this pass. Considering the amount of fire he had been taking, Saša baselined that as the fastest he could jump again. That gave her and Asra nineteen seconds and counting.

  Piece of cake. Every variable they could plan ahead was already in the difference engine, just waiting for the last numbers and the lever to be locked down before some crazy chick lit a jump drive inside a gravity well and expected the machine to take her where she demanded.

  Raider had obviously thought he was being cute, going down so deep. None of the warships would usually risk coming so low after him, where atmosphere might grab them as they went by and make their flight an adventure.

  And you sure as hell didn’t light a Primary pointed at an inhabited planet you liked. Even this one.

  So. Mouth pointed forward. Three tentacle-looking towers on the triangular corners up front, with probably more on the flanks and something aft, like her Mothership.

  Saša plotted a high-speed pass at an even-crazier angle, locked the gears on the drive into place, and waited.

  “Neon Pink, transmitting,” she called, letting Asra and the rest of everybody know they were in motion and riding to the rescue.

  Asra already had the same primary settings. It took her all of two more seconds to set the rest and blink a green light back at her.

  Computers did stupid things when you bounced in and out of JumpSpace so quickly. Lost their bearings, sometimes their marbles.