by Blaze Ward
Retired Fleet Lord Bogusław Tesar came in first, hanging on the arm of a lovely young lady in a costume that must have been sprayed on.
“Bogusław,” Loncar greeted the man loudly, warmly, “well met.”
Tesar joined him, moving a touch stiffly as old age and inactivity began to take their toll. “Congratulations, Loncar, my boy,” Bogusław said. “Heard the wonderful news. Feel good to be back?”
“It is only my due, Tesar,” Loncar purred. “And only the first step in my glorious plan.”
“Plan?” Tesar inquired, sipping from a freshly delivered highball glass filled with caramel–colored liquor and ice.
Tesar’s young lady associate kissed him lightly on the cheek and withdrew without a word.
Loncar leaned forward and dropped his voice down to a low rumble as Tesar sat. “Aye, Tesar. A tour of duty and glorious conquest out on that frontier, cleaning up the mess that snotty little brat Keller left behind. And then, when I get back in a year, it will be time for the Senate to force Kasum out for someone who understands what this Republic was founded on.”
“I see,” the old Fleet Lord said, leaning forward as well. “And who would you propose as a new First Lord?”
The younger man smiled gloriously. “If called, I would find it in my duty to save the Republic from those meddling fools and their lower–deck peons. We are the Fifty Families, Bogusław Tesar. We own the Republic. It’s high time we got back in charge and started running it better.”
“All well and good, Loncar,” the old Fleet Lord said, “but how do we manage it?”
Loncar pointed at the door by way of answer. A well–dressed, plump woman stood in the door, glancing around until she spotted them. She looked out of place without her Senatorial robes, but Andjela Tomčič still stood out in the room, younger than most of the men, often by a generation, and without the erect carriage that came from a lifetime of Fleet Service.
On her arm, an unobtrusive man in his late thirties. He wore a dark suit and moved with care, as if intent on not leaving an impression. Only the shaved skull marked him in any way that a bystander might remember later.
He worked hard at that, especially for these players. Brant was one of the key operators behind the scenes that kept the Senate working well. Some things could only be done in the shadows.
She strode to their table, bringing the man along with her.
Loncar smiled an alligator smile up at her, toasting her with his glass. “Andjela,” he said, “good to see you again.”
The younger man stood at her side, perhaps half a step back. Quiet. Observing.
“Brant, let’s get you something to drink, and then we can retire to a private room where we can chat.”
Brant studied each of them in turn. “Fleet Lord Loncar,” he nodded, “it is good to see you again. Fleet Lord Tesar, we have not been formally introduced, but I’ve heard a great deal about you. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Both men rose to kiss the woman on the cheek and shake hands with the man. The staff escorted them to a small chamber to one side and settled them around a small table.
Loncar raised his glass to the assembly. “My friends, I give you our duty to the Republic.”
“The Republic,” they chimed back.
Chapter IV
Date of the Republic September 23, 393 Edge of the Ramsey System
Jessica watched the big three–dimensional projection slowly rotate in front of her, left to right like a spinning top. It dominated the center of the conference table in her Flag Bridge, surrounded, as always, by the ghostly images of her command staff, each comfortable on their own bridges as they appeared and settled in.
A deck above and a little forward from where she sat, Denis Jež commanded Auberon. Technically, he was just the first officer of the big Strike Carrier, while she was the command centurion, but she had a squadron to control. Plus, he was good at what he did, and would have already been given command somewhere else, if anyone had noticed his skill before she came along. She wasn’t about to give him up.
One of the only two other people physically present at the table was her Flag Centurion, Enej Zivkovic, the young man responsible for passing her orders to the other vessels.The ghosts visible at her table were Command Centurion Alber’ d’Maine aboard the Heavy Destroyer Rajput, and Command Centurion Tomas Kigali of the Fleet Escort, the former Revenue Cutter, CR–264.
“Good afternoon,” Jessica smiled to the faces around her. It was just the small staff today, plus one other person who occasionally joined them. She smiled at Yeoman Moirrey Kermode to welcome her. There wouldn’t be any fireworks, theatrical or otherwise hopefully, today, but her regional expertise would be invaluable for other reasons.
The various faces around the table nodded back as Jessica sipped her coffee.
“We’re sitting at the edge of the Ramsey system right now, at the capital of Lincolnshire,” she informed them, “and, contrary to a combat jump, I plan to stay here for a few hours. After that, we’ll head in on the normal transit lanes, like we were a freighter convoy, to give them time to prepare. It’s not that they won’t welcome us, but they don’t know we’re coming.”
“How long will this port call last, commander?” d’Maine asked. He was a serious, almost dour man, on a cramped little warship. He never complained about the conditions on Rajput, but she knew a few extra days shore leave would do his crew well, especially if they were going to be in back end of beyond for a while.
“I’m not sure,” Jessica said simply. This was one of the few times that command did not demand decisive solutions on the fly. “Lincolnshire is nominally an ally of the Republic, and we’re coming in response to a direct request for aid, so we’ll play it by ear. There really isn’t even that much information available about this sector of space, beyond simple sailing directions and the usual political map, so I’ve asked Moirrey Kermode to join us today to answer whatever questions you have.”
She nodded to the little raven–haired engineer with a smile. “Perhaps a little background?”
“Aye, ma’am,” Moirrey replied. “First off, Lincolnshire is much less organized than Aquitaine.” She pronounced the word Link’nsheer with a soft burr as she spoke. “And very much more poor than the great fine folks of the Republic. Worlds out here is few an’ far between, and pirates–r–common, both the formal kind and the neighbors.”
“You mean Salonnia and Corynthe?” Denis asked.
“Aye, sir,” Moirrey growled, “the first one’s a bunch o’ businessmen thugs, and th’ other’s ruled by the King of the Pirates.”
“Seriously? Sir?” Enej amended himself quickly. “King of the Pirates?”
“That is correct, Zivkovic,” Jessica said. “According to the records, it is an old title, dating back several centuries. The worlds out on the fringe of the galaxy are very rough places, ruled by hard men. They rarely die peacefully of old age. Hopefully, we won’t have to deal with those folks.”
“Are they likely to be behind the troubles?” Kigali asked. CR–264 was an escort, built for exactly this sort of thing. Most of the rest of her original class of Revenue Cutters had been decommissioned but not sent to the wrecker, according to Jessica’s research, and many had instead ended up in places like Lincolnshire, having been sold out of service.
“It’s possible,” Jessica replied. “Our orders are to work with the locals. They asked for a hammer big enough to crack a tough nut, and the First Lord sent us. Questions?”
“What about docking, sir?” d’Maine asked. “Sensors show a very small station in orbit.”
“You are correct,” she said. “We’ll drop into a high orbit, above the usual traffic, and ferry things up and down with the shuttles. It will give the crews practice, and keep my pilots from getting bored.”
“Wow,” Enej said. “We really are out in the backwoods.”
“Jes’ ye wait,” Moirrey chimed in with an evil grin, “until you sees how the supplies be deli
vered.”
Chapter V
Date of the Republic September 24, 393 City of Landing, Ramsey
Jessica walked down the landing ramp to the big crimson DropShip, Cayenne, and marveled again at what kind of person would paint an Assault Shuttle bright red. The pilot, Hollis Dyson, generally known as Gaucho, was in a category of his own. According to him, red ones went faster.
Along with shuttles from CR–264 and Rajput, they were parked at the far north end of the landing field, right below one of the big defensive towers that protected the field and had tracked them all the way to the ground. Cayenne dwarfed the other two shuttles, as well as many of the smaller freighters in the vicinity.
The morning sun was bright in the clear sky, but barely warmed the field. According to the sailing gazette, it was still mid–spring on Ramsey at this latitude, so Jessica had worn a heavy forest–green pea coat over her day uniform at Moirrey’s suggestion. Others had settled for day jackets. She expected them to be sorry in about an hour or so.
Several armed marines spread out to keep watch, while Auberon’s stevedores began the process of unloading four massive containers, each a three–meter cube, under the watchful, loud, and occasionally profane supervision of Cayenne’s Loadmaster, Takouhi Nazarian. Jessica was amazed at the volume coming from such a small woman, but it worked.
Jessica gestured the others to join her as she moved into a clear spot. Denis, Enej, and Marcelle had all dressed for a relaxed port call. Moirrey was bundled up much warmer and carried a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. She was the reason Jessica was warm while everyone else was blowing on their hands to warm them.
“What’s that?” Denis said incredulously, pointing across the tarmac.
“That,” Moirrey smiled back, “is almost the state of the art for Ramsey when it comes to transport technologies.”
A vehicle approached, slowly, loudly. It was a mostly metal frame with skinny rubber tires. The flatbed in back was packed tight with metal cylinders with a rough silvered finish. What made it stand out was the fact that it was drawn by two big horses, one roan and one black.
“Horses?” Enej said.
“Aye,” Moirrey replied. “’Tis way easier for two horses to make more horses than for two tractors from Anameleck Prime to beget ye spare parts.”
“What are they delivering?” Denis whispered with awe.
“Those be milk in ninety–liter jerry cans,” Moirrey said with a smile. “Ramsey’s big on cows, too. I did warn you that Lincolnshire were not up to Republic standards, sirs.”
Jessica snorted. Nobody had actually listened to Moirrey. Their loss.
In the distance, Jessica heard and saw a small airship take off from the control building and begin to careen wildly in their direction.
Overhead, she heard a solid thump of metal as Cayenne’s gun turret suddenly deployed and began to track the little airship. She imagined the things her pilot was yelling at the pilot of the flitter over the radio. Jessica rolled her eyes, but wasn’t about to rebuke Gaucho for it. The pilot over there should have known to fly more politely in a confined airspace.
Apparently, he got the message quickly. Something about staring up twin barrels seemed to jar his sensibilities. The next moment, he braked savagely, flared his nose back so hard he nearly stalled the craft, dropped down to almost ground level, and then proceeded at slightly more than a walking pace.
Jessica didn’t believe that Gaucho really would have opened fire here, but she was never sure. Her pilot was crazy.
You needed that in a DropShip commander. At least the good ones.
The flitter turned out to be more like a transport as it approached and landed. In the middle, what appeared to be two rows of seats faced each other, with a large, open cargo deck in back, separated by a bulkhead.
A stout, middle–aged man, slightly rumpled after bouncing around the interior, climbed out of the back seat. He looked like a farmer, dressed up for going to the big city.
“Command Centurion Keller?” he asked as he approached.
To Jessica, he sounded like a farmer as well. His voice had the sort of gruffness she had grown up hearing from her uncles and their neighbors. She smiled and stepped toward the man.
“Here,” she said.
Up close, he was a small man, barely taller than her own diminutive height, but possessed of a broad solidity that reminded her of the phrase salt of the earth.
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” He smiled as he shook her hand. “I’m Radoš Fiala, mayor of Landing. Governor Wapasha asked me to unofficially greet you here and then transport you up the hill to Lincoln for a proper, formal reception.”
Jessica nodded. In the more urbane worlds of the Republic, this might be a state visit, an event that would require hundreds of people and days of planning. Moirrey had explained that things were much more laid back on the periphery.
Being met by the mayor of Landing was actually a pretty big thing, as locals judged them, but even the main spaceport was a small place. The capital city was not much larger.
“That will be perfect, Mayor Fiala,” she said. “May I introduce you to my staff. Denis Jež, my executive officer. Enej Zivkovic, my flag centurion. Marcelle Travere, my steward. Moirrey Kermode, from my engineering staff.”
She watched him shake hands and greet each in turn. When he got to Moirrey, he gave her a very close look. “There are Kermodes in and about Saxilby,” he drawled appraisingly.
“An’ they would be kin,” she replied, lifting her chin at the man.
“Then we might be cousins by marriage, young lady.” He smiled.
“Dunno,” she shrugged. “Grew up up–country. No been home in many years.”
Jessica stepped into the conversation. “It would be most helpful, Mayor,” she said, “if you could provide my first officer and Yeoman Kermode a lift to the administration building on the way up the hill.”
“It would be my pleasure, Commander,” he smiled, gesturing them to precede him.
Ξ
Jessica sipped a glass of strong wine from a local vineyard and watched the large number of guards around the outside of the converted gymnasium housing the event. The watchers seemed more heavily armed and keyed up than one would expect for this sort of thing. Even for a place like Lincolnshire.
The formal reception had turned out to be a long afternoon event, a buffet with more than one hundred guests, locally prominent people interested in button–holing her or the governor or the mayor about some topic or another. Most of the questions directed at her had to do with the increase in crime or piracy recently and well–wishes that she would do something about them.
A few also included circular inquiries into her marital status. She had simply ignored those.
A particularly–oily looking man approached as Jessica was considering another run at the buffet. It had turned out to have pretty good barbeque.
The man had a furtive smile on his face. Jessica pasted a polite smile on her own face. Behind her, she could practically hear Marcelle bristle.
“Command Centurion?” he said quietly. “A moment of your time?”
She took his measure critically, a taller, heavy–set man, stoutness verging onto rotund, as one gets eating the richest foods and not exercising it all off again immediately.
And I always thought shifty eyes was a literary thing.
She nodded warily.
He stepped close and bowed slightly. “Marcus Auric, at your service, madam.”
“Republic of Aquitaine Command Centurion Keller, sir.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marcelle move to one side, capable of protecting her back or stepping behind him quickly.
Really, Marcelle, this isn’t about to turn into tavern brawl. At worst, he’ll suffer a glass of wine thrown in his face.
And perhaps limp for a few weeks.
Jessica smiled at her thought processes. That in turn seemed to relax the man.
“It is customary,” he began, “when maj
or fleets from the Republic arrive for port calls, they bring with them trade goods to help stimulate the local economy.”
He paused, waiting for her response.
Jessica let her smile tell any or no tales. She sipped her wine with an expectant air.
“May I inquire if your vessel, the carrier Auberon, brought such materials?”
“And if we did, Mr. Auric?” she asked.
“I am a merchant, command centurion,” he replied, ingratiatingly. “I would like a chance to bid before my competitors arrive. They will circle you like sharks.”
She smiled broadly at the image. Perhaps guppies threatening a shark. But it would be impolite to point that out to him.
“Well, sir,” she said with a smile like a mousetrap, “if you hurry, you should be able to get there in time. My first officer is unloading four Mark 2 shipping containers at Landing right now. The contents of all four are identical, and prices are Freight on Board from Ladaux, with a standard drayage fee to Ramsey, non–negotiable. Buyers will be allowed to purchase exactly one container.”
He blinked as if she had slapped him. No, sucker–punched him in that ample stomach. She had, in her own way. He certainly paled.
“You’ll pardon me a moment, please?” he said, already turning away from her and pulling out a pocket comm.
Jessica watched him walk towards a corner, gesturing wildly as he walked. All she could hear were hisses and mumbles. She smiled at Marcelle and began to make her way back into the mob over by the buffet.
“A moment, Command Centurion?”
Jessica had already forgotten about the merchant.
He had one hand extended, as if he was about to grab her by the arm at the very moment when both his manners and his survival instincts kicked in.
She eyed him from under a heavy brow. Stories of David and Goliath flashed through her mind. Apparently in her eyes, as well, because the man stepped quickly back a half–stride.
“Were you successful, Mr. Auric?” she asked innocently, letting the sudden rush of adrenaline ooze slowly away.
