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

by Blaze Ward

  Imperial Security troops. Bunch of them.

  The gig was up.

  Open field. Minimal cover. Hostile force closing from the rear. Outmanned. Outgunned.

  But not surprised. Oh, no.

  Navin had pounded those lessons home.

  “Stop them,” a man in the center commanded as Vo’s team kept moving.

  Even from here, Vo could see the white uniform standing out against the gray of the other boys.

  And he recognized Admiral Dittmar, an Imperial cousin, Pretender to the Throne, as the one giving orders.

  The man was unarmed, so Vo ignored him and opened fire on the troops around him as they moved to open up.

  Walter’s old slugthrower made an impossibly loud noise in the confined space.

  Moirrey’s beam shot was barely a beat behind his.

  “Get them to safety,” Vo ordered over the din.

  Someone would handle it. Probably Danville, since Horst and Street had pistols that could range and cover.

  Vo slid sideways into a doorway and fired again. He had been on the right going forward, so his left shoulder was tucked in as he fired again.

  Downrange, a third man fell and the rest woke up.

  Vo glanced back as Street moved up and grabbed Karl by the hand, dragging him forward.

  The girl, the young Princess, Steffi, did the thing Vo should have done, before his training had taken over and moved him out of the way.

  She stepped close to her father like a proper bodyguard, nearly hugging him from behind as she pushed him forward.

  The shot took her high between the shoulder blades with a sick, meaty thump.

  Even from here, Vo could smell the Princess die. The heavy body armor he normally wore in the field would have barely made that shot survivable.

  Silk burned.

  Everything turned red.

  Somewhere, deep in the ugly parts of his brain, Vo heard the Fleet Centurion speaking again.

  Remember that you’re there to make the 189th proud of you, too. And not just me and the entire, damned fleet.

  He had screwed up, and it had killed the girl. She was the one doing the right thing.

  And it just cost her her life.

  Someone howled in primal rage. It might have been him.

  Time had slowed before. Now it stopped.

  One man was responsible for this. For all the men and women that had died today. For all the damage done to the planet and the citizens.

  For that girl never growing up.

  Vo raised his pistol as an extension of Justice itself. No, not Justice.

  Vengeance.

  He drew a line that connected his rage, his soul, and eternity.

  The shot rang off the marble hallways like Rebekah’s tank slamming into a brick wall and crushing it.

  Downrange, the Imperial troops were just starting to scatter, intending to pin Vo down while they called for help. Nothing more was needed at this point, surrounded by an army of men in gray that could be vectored in on the radio.

  Sigmund Dittmar, Admiral of the White, Imperial Pretender, would not be able to appreciate the tactical situation.

  What was left of his face was a bloody ruin. Vo could see that, even from this distance.

  Vo fired several more shots as fast as the pistol would cycle, noise be damned.

  He glanced over, to be sure, but the rest of his men had done their jobs, better than he had. The Emperor and his family were moving smartly away, protected by Street and Edgar, both backing and firing, while Danville took point.

  Moirrey had done the same as Vo and taken a doorway. She was firing almost as rapidly as Vo, although she was taking time to aim, instead of just forcing those men to evade.

  The only other person close was the Princess. And she would not be moving again.

  “Cease fire!” a man called from the other end of the hallway. “Stand down!”

  Incoming fire tapered off and stopped as the man repeated himself at the top of his lungs, so Vo and Moirrey did as well.

  Silence fell as the Emperor and his family got around the corner to safety. Hopefully, Team Two could get them to the wall and freedom.

  “Sir,” a young man’s voice sounded. “I’m moving out into the open so my team can surrender to you.”

  Surrender?

  Even from here, Vo could hear the murmurs of surprise and shock from the Imperial Security troops over there. The survivors, anyway. More than half of those men weren’t available to surrender at this point.

  Moirrey really was at least as good as he was.

  “Go ahead,” Vo called back.

  At least those men hadn’t been issued grenades as part of their duties today. Just one, and it would have all been over already.

  The officer over there was serious about this, stepping into the open with his hands out. Not up over his head in the universal signal, but obviously trying to be not-dangerous.

  He was young. That much was clear.

  Ramrod straight, clean-cut blond hair, perfect uniform slightly marred by sudden activity.

  Vo watched the young man carefully draw a pistol from a holster and then bend down to place it delicately on the marble tile, like it might bite. He stood, and walked into the middle of the hall, turning to face the men on his left.

  “Weapons down,” he ordered in a sharp, parade-ground voice. “Form up.”

  Around him, the men looked confused.

  “I said down, damn you!” the kid snarled savagely.

  That got through to them.

  Bewildered men lowered pistols and short guns to the floor before falling into a rough line in front of their officer.

  Vo detached himself from the doorway with a nod to Moirrey. She could cover him just fine.

  Vo moved forward, back itching like he was about to get shot. He got all the way up to the young officer commanding the team.

  From here, Vo could see Dittmar’s corpse, face up in the middle of the hall, draining blood in a pool.

  Dead.

  Based on the similarity of the uniforms, the man dead next to Dittmar on the floor was an Imperial Security officer, like the kid who had come to attention at one end of the line of much older men. Higher ranking, given the two stripes on the corpse’s arm to the kid’s one.

  Dead Centurion, roughly. Live Cornet.

  “Sir,” the kid began. “My men and I are surrendering to your authority.”

  “Why?” Vo snarled, unable to keep the white-hot rage out of his voice.

  Unwilling. There was a dead girl behind him. He should have protected her.

  It was all he could do to not kill every single one of these men.

  The kid gestured to the dead Admiral that made a weird, artistic symmetry to the scene.

  Noble blood spilled at both ends of the hallway.

  “Admiral Dittmar, the man who would be Emperor, is dead,” the young man said with utter gravity. “Emperors Karl VII and Karl VIII are both still alive. Our actions no longer have purpose, sir.”

  “Your men have committed treason, Lieutenant,” Vo growled angrily, the legalisms of his centurion training finally coming to the fore, in spite of the rage underpinning.

  “No, sir,” the kid snapped back harshly, his own officer training backing him up. “These men were acting under Commander Hauss’s authority, and then mine. I am the only surviving officer present, so the act of treason was mine alone. These men are at most guilty of knowingly following illegal orders. That is a Court Martial offense. I’m the only one who should hang.”

  Vo had to give the kid credit.

  He hadn’t met that many officers willing to die on the same sword that they lived by. This was up there with a Command Centurion going down with his ship.

  “You probably will hang, Lieutenant,” Vo replied, rage bleeding slowly out of him.

  Some of it.

  “Should I have lived as an outlaw, sir?” the kid fired back with a chip on his shoulder almost as big as the one Vo frequent
ly saw in the mirror. “I took an oath.”

  “No, you should not have,” Vo granted him. “Do you have a radio on the command frequency, Lieutenant…? What is your name?”

  “Lieutenant Grantholm Safavid, sir,” the kid replied, reaching slowly for a radio unit on his belt and handing it to Vo. “Channel six is the command frequency. Channel three is general push.”

  Vo nodded.

  He had to give the kid points for dying with honor. But he was pretty sure what the outcome of that trial would be.

  Vo turned and signaled Moirrey to come closer as he stared down at the faceless corpse at his feet.

  Channel three.

  “Members of the Imperial Security forces, this is Army Colonel Vo Arlo,” he let all of his rage focus down into his voice and broadcast it across the entire planetary system, a bass so deep that whales might answer him. “Admiral Sigmund Dittmar is dead. I repeat, Admiral Dittmar, the pretender to the Imperial throne, is dead. All Security units will stand down immediately and return to barracks. Officers will identify the nearest Naval or Army unit and turn themselves in. Failure to do so is no longer an option. In six hours, you will be considered outlaws and dealt with accordingly.”

  Seven men stared back at Vo in various states of shock and horror. He really didn’t give a damn.

  What he did do was hand the comm back to Safavid and pull out his own unit.

  “Horst, this is Arlo,” he said. Much of the emotion was gone from his voice now, crammed back down into his soul where it belonged.

  “Sir, we heard your broadcast on the other line,” Horst replied instantly. “What is your status?”

  Vo could tell that Horst thought someone had a gun to Vo’s head, issuing orders.

  “Find a safe spot and stay quiet for now, Sergeant Major,” Vo replied. “I’ll send Moirrey when we have friendly reinforcements. Let me know if anyone in gray presents a problem.”

  “Will do, Colonel,” Horst replied.

  Vo flicked to another channel and took a deep breath. Moirrey reached over and laid a friendly hand on his arm, even as she watched the unarmed troops like a hungry raptor spying mice.

  “Amsel, this is Arlo,” he finally said.

  Best to get this over with quickly. There was no good way to do this.

  The Fleet Centurion was there instantly.

  “Go ahead, Vo,” she said.

  Her own tone let him know that she had been listening in on the other channels.

  Now he just had to explain his failure to two Emperors.

  “Dittmar is dead, Admiral,” Vo said. “The survivors of his personal guard have surrendered and I have ordered the rest to follow suit. Request Shore Patrol and Army troops to reinforce my position at the palace soonest.”

  Vo fell silent for a moment. There was no easy way to say these words.

  “The Emperor is safe,” he continued in a voice that threatened to break on him. “The Empress as well, and the Crown Prince. Princess Stephanie was killed in the fighting.”

  Another voice came on at that moment.

  Vo probably could have handled it if the Fleet Centurion had said the words, but this was the Emperor.

  The other Emperor.

  The younger sister of the woman he had just failed to protect.

  “Thank you, Colonel Arlo,” Princess Casey, The Emperor Karl VIII, said quietly.

  Vo felt hot tears run down his face.

  Rage. Hatred. Failure. Self-loathing.

  It didn’t matter.

  What he really wanted to do right now was break something.

  Anything.

  Everything.

  From the look on Safavid’s face, the kid was expecting Vo to start with him.

  It was tempting.

  “You confirm that Dittmar is dead, Arlo?” Keller was back on the line, official, authoritative.

  Speaking to future historians.

  Again.

  “Affirmative, Admiral,” Vo replied quietly. “I killed him myself.”

  EPILOGUE: VO

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 19, 398 DOCKSIDE DISTRICT, WERDER, ST. LEGIER

  It had become his bar. Vo had no other way to describe it.

  The Maltese Cross had been just another pub down by the docks two months ago. A dive with a rough clientele, spacers and professional girls mostly. One place in a dozen just like it on this stretch of road. Nothing whatsoever to rate it above any of the rest.

  Until Colonel Vo zu Arlo, Hero of St. Legier, happened to be drinking here one night when a criminal gang came in to make trouble. And ran into the 189th Division.

  The legend had already outgrown him. At his size, that was an impressive feat.

  The Maltese Cross wasn’t normally closed on a Wednesday night, but the men of the 189th had arranged a private party. By invitation only. And those invites were not available on any black market. Family only.

  The piano had been tuned. By someone from the palace, no less. Someone else had provided six new sets of darts and a custom board. Imperial Caterers had parked their vehicles out front, nearly blocking the street, but the local gendarme were out there with batons and attitudes, making sure nobody bothered the guest of honor on his night.

  Twenty-four men in their best field uniforms filled the tables as food and drink was consumed in prodigious amounts. This was not a party for formal attire, although Vo wore the maroon cloak that was his badge.

  He sat at the center of the bar, being served by one Foster Calderin, owner and publican of The Maltese Cross, a footnote all his own.

  On Vo’s right, Moirrey, in her own cloak. She wasn’t as serious as she might be, but there was no glitter in the air tonight, either.

  On his left, twelve-year-old Annette Fuchs, the innkeeper’s daughter who had sounded the alarm and saved the day, as the legend went. Beyond her, her father Walter, the man who had supplied Excalibur, and mother Frida, looking a touch nervous at all the energy and attention.

  One ugly fist held a shot glass of something on the bar. Vo could probably shatter it if he wanted to. Just squeeze until it came apart and drove shards into his palm.

  It was tempting.

  “Colonel Arlo, are you okay?” Annette asked in a shy, tiny voice.

  On his other side, he felt Moirrey’s hand on his arm. Warmth. Solace.

  Vo came back to himself from that cold, dark place.

  He drew a breath and wondered.

  He was alive because he had screwed up. Steffi was dead for the same reason.

  Would there ever be okay, again?

  There were no words.

  Annette hesitated for only a moment, then scooted her stool over and leaned against him, like he was a great, big, puppy dog.

  She had no words, either. Or so he thought.

  “You saved the Emperor and killed the bad man,” she announced with all the seriousness only a twelve-year-old can manage.

  Vo felt tears well up. Again.

  Moirrey leaning on him from the other side didn’t help.

  Annette leaned away enough to turn and look up at him.

  “And you saved all of us,” she continued.

  Whatever reserves he had shattered. Tears poured down his face.

  Vo sniffed and drew a deep breath into his lungs. Maybe it would warm his soul.

  Vo reached out his left hand and hugged Annette close, smiling over her head at her parents and whispering thank you.

  One more deep breath.

  Vo raised his glass high in the air.

  “My friends, I give you a toast,” he called.

  The room had already fallen silent as people watched. He saw other tears as well, as glasses came up.

  “The Empire.”

  EPILOGUE: JESSICA

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC NOVEMBER 22, 398 KELLER PALACE, WERDER, ST. LEGIER

  The changes were subtle, but Jessica had come into this meeting keyed up to spot them.

  In the past, Vo had always been rigidly in control of himself, sitting perfectl
y still in her office, even just drinking coffee and talking.

  She had been accused of never being off duty, but that was untrue. She just never stopped thinking, planning.

  Vo was never off duty around her. Never relaxed.

  Or hadn’t been.

  Something had changed.

  He was leaned back in the chair across from her desk, one leg crossed and the hand not holding a coffee mug draped out across the back of the other chair.

  His breathing was regular, when he was normally tight.

  She hadn’t pried in the last few weeks, realizing from her first look at him after the revolution that he needed time to find himself.

  Apparently, he had.

  “I have a document here,” Jessica said, picking up the offending parchment and glancing at it. “It is a note from the Emperor himself asking for some clarifications about a clemency petition filed by one Vo zu Arlo.”

  Vo nodded in his serious way.

  Did he just grin at me?

  It was gone in a flash.

  Perhaps she imagined it.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” Jessica continued.

  “He is a kid, doing what he thought was right,” Vo replied gravely. “He was willing to take the responsibility, to hang alone, so as to protect his men from doing the same.”

  “And?”

  “At that critical moment,” Vo continued, his eyes suddenly light years away, “he could have killed us all. Wouldn’t have taken much. He had us pinned down and could have easily called in others to bottle us up. And he chose to surrender instead. Everything was over at that moment. We won.”

  “And you think the Emperor should pardon him?” Jessica probed.

  “I think that he shouldn’t be put to death for following what he thought were legal orders, Fleet Centurion,” Vo fired back. “He acted with honor. Very few others did. Very few were in a position to influence the final outcome that much. Even Grundman, the man behind the whole coup, got off easy. Moirrey had no idea who he was when she shot him, except that he was one of the bad guys. Safavid was the junior-most officer present, just a kid, and suddenly in charge when it all fell apart. I don’t know if they will rehabilitate him, but he shouldn’t be put to death.”

  Jessica let the silence hang. That might be the most words Vo zu Arlo had ever spoken to her in one breath. Normally, he was much more reticent, at least around her.