by Blaze Ward
Since Auberon was working under the authority of the Lincolnshire government, and this was a pirate outpost, she could legally just sit in orbit and pound the base into the surface of the moon. From here, it already looked like she had gotten a head–start on the task. Every weapons emplacement on the surface had been hit with enough force to qualify as overkill, but the living quarters would be down deep beneath the surface, safe enough unless she got serious.
Or, until.
“Enej,” she called across the flag bridge, “what are they saying down there?”
“Not much, sir,” he replied with a sardonic grin. “The accent is extremely hard to decipher, but I’m pretty sure I got the gist of what he was suggesting I go do when I told them to surrender.”
Jessica smiled and began to unstrap herself from the command chair. “Let me know if they change their minds before I run out of patience.”
“Will do, commander. Time for one of Moirrey’s surprises?”
Jessica blinked. She had been thinking of this as a nut that needed to be cracked. Maybe there was a way to handle it with flash and misdirection. “Maybe.”
She stopped what she was doing and keyed the comm. “Engineering, this is the Flag.”
“Go ahead.” Moirrey appeared on the screen immediately.
Luck of the draw. She was thinking of the evil engineering gnome, and there she was.
“What does Project Mischief suggest for cracking hardened pirate bases on low–gravity moons, Moirrey?” Jessica asked simply.
She watched the tiny woman screw up her face in concentration as she thought furiously.
“Nothing as yet, ma’am,” she said after a few seconds. “How soon would you be needing sumtin’?”
“I will let you know, Moirrey,” Jessica said. “Right now, I have a meeting with an Imperial Ambassador, and that group down there won’t be going anywhere soon.”
“Very good, ma’am. Will keeps you posted.”
Jessica closed the channel and rose from her seat. After the adrenaline from a battle, she would need a shower to clean up, especially if she was going to get into a dress uniform to receive an Imperial Ambassador.
“Flag, this is Cayenne,” came the call suddenly. “Thought you would like to know who I’m bringing back.”
Jessica opened the image that Gaucho sent with his message and gasped.
It was a grainy still, taken from a close–range maneuvering camera, as Cayenne backed into a docking airlock with the corvette. It showed a view portal next to the airlock, filled with a variety of people in Imperial uniforms.
One man stood out in the group. Not for his size, as he was a just little taller than average, and well–built but not particularly muscular. No, he looked like a senior Imperial Navy officer. Which he was.
It was the uniform that gave him away. Fribourg Empire naval uniforms were a dark blue that was often called navy, from time immemorial. This tunic was the same cut, but a rich maroon, covered with a variety of ribbons and tags. There were two thick stripes on the sleeve visible in the picture, as befit the rank.
He was, after all, an Imperial Admiral of the Red. And his face bore an uncanny resemblance to the Emperor, Karl VII of the House of Wiegand, with the same brown hair graying about halfway up the side. That was to be expected, since this man was a close cousin to his Imperial Highness.
Jessica’s prisoner was her old nemesis from Qui–Ping, and before that, 2218 Svati Prime, and before that Third Iger.
Emmerich Wachturm.
What the hell was he doing here?
Chapter XII
Date of the Republic October 3, 393 Sarmarsh System
Denis stood and came to parade rest as Cayenne finally settled on Auberon’s flight deck. He was in the presence of greatness. Admiral Emmerich Wachturm. The admiral.
The Academy at Ladaux taught tactics classes based on this man. Upper–level classes. Advanced Fleet Maneuvers. Nobody else born in the last century even rated a mention, Republic or not. Jessica Keller might, before her career was over.
And yet, for all that, Wachturm was still human. Perhaps a finger taller. A few kilos heavier. But possessed of an air of command that Denis would have said was unique, before he met Jessica Keller. They were of an ilk, if there was such a thing.
The admiral rose as well and faced Denis from across the aisle with a grim smile. “Senior Centurion Jež,” he said with a rich voice, “it has been a pleasure meeting you, regardless of the circumstances. You reflect well on your commander. I look forward to making her acquaintance.”
Denis nodded sagely and tried to look serious. Inside, he was trying to decide how immature it would look right now if he asked the man for his autograph.
How often did you meet a legend?
“Passengers, please stand by for deboarding,” Gaucho called from behind his armored bulkhead up front.
That was much more polite than Gaucho normally sounded. Apparently, even he could be duly impressed.
The rest of the admiral’s staff finished unbuckling and stood. The man had only three others with him. One appeared to be a steward, the rough equivalent of what Marcelle Travere did for Keller. Another was obviously a bodyguard, but well–trained and unobtrusive. He had surrendered a whole suitcase of weapons into Denis’s custody without a peep. The last was a younger officer, probably a flag centurion. No wait, didn’t the Fribourg Empire call them command lieutenants, or something equally strange?
They were taking this better than Denis had expected, although nobody over there looked happy. Not a surprise, considering the circumstances. Who liked being mousetrapped?
Denis nodded politely to the men. All men. The entire Fribourg Empire was run by men, for men. Women were not allowed into the military, lest they be somehow “soiled” by the experience. It was a dumb idea.
Denis kept his smile to himself at the thought. Roughly half of the Republic of Aquitaine Navy was female, and, if his boss was an example, it was the better half.
Denis checked the landing camera screen and saw that everything was in order. He keyed the comm live.
“Cayenne, this is Jež, standing by.”
Gaucho responded by opening the side hatch.
Denis went first, down three steps and onto the deck. He stepped to one side and turned inward, part of a reception line that included a significant amount of the command crew, although the flight wing was all still outside keeping watch on the bad guys.
The rest of the deck was cleared of everything. Denis couldn’t remember the last time it had been set up like this. Certainly not when Command Centurion Kwok took over, four years ago.
And Denis and his staff had pushed their luck by leaving the deck a mess when Jessica first came aboard, just barely a year ago. Had it really only been a year?
The best comparison Denis could think of would be if the First Lord, Nils Kasum, were to visit. Then it would be just like that in here. As it should.
“Attention,” Denis called, projecting his voice off of every flat surface in the bay like thunder on a calm day.
Feet came together and bodies came still.
The last trailing tidbits of noise vanished, leaving only the hiss of air systems.
“Presenting his Imperial Excellency, Admiral of the Red, Emmerich Wachturm, Hereditary Duke of Eklionstic, Imperial Ambassador.”
The Admiral appeared at the top of the steps, alone, as befit his rank and station. He paused there for a moment, majestically, before carefully stepping down onto Auberon’s flight deck.
Two rows of officers and crew in their best day uniforms lined a carpet, red for historical reasons, down which the Admiral slowly walked.
Denis fell in as the admiral passed, one step behind and to the man’s right. The rest of the admiral’s staff trailed behind Denis silently. Everything by the book. Everything was in the book, even this. He followed the man to a small dais that powered up out of the deck for exactly this sort of reception.
Command Centurion Keller
stood alone atop the dais. Normally there would be several other officers with her for this ceremony, but he was down here escorting the man. Tamara was over on the corvette, being politely in charge after the Admiral had threatened to practically excommunicate the Imperial Captain if he did anything wrong. Iskra Vlahovic, the flight deck commander, was happy not interacting with people unless she had to.
That left Keller alone to face the man and his entire suite of assistants. It looked evenly matched. Denis fought down his grin.
“Admiral Wachturm,” Jessica said, warmly despite the formality of the language, “it is my pleasure to welcome you aboard Auberon and to place myself and my crew at your service.”
Denis waited. His job at this point was to provide diplomatic lubrication in the case of awkward circumstances. After several hours with the man, he couldn’t imagine awkward circumstances here. So he waited.
The admiral actually clicked his heels together and nodded deeply to Jessica. Again, appropriate between a visiting grandee and a simple command centurion, regardless of the situation outside.
“Command Centurion Keller,” the man replied. “I look forward to my visit. I have studied your career with interest since the episode known to Republic historians as Third Iger and look forward to being able to make the acquaintance of you and your crew.”
Denis watched as the man stepped up onto the dais and turned to address the crew. The rest of the afternoon would be formal speeches and a reception, but the admiral looked like a man who felt he held all the trump cards. He obviously had never had to deal with Jessica, or any woman like her.
The Fribourg Empire didn’t have women like her.
Denis let himself smile.
Wachturm was going to realize soon that he had a tiger by the tail, not the other way around.
Chapter XIII
Date of the Republic October 4, 393 Sarmarsh System
Jessica had decided to have this meeting in her office, rather than one of the big or little conference rooms. The First Lord had taught her the importance of that level of personal touch, especially with a situation as delicate as this.
It was one thing to capture an Imperial courier–cum–spy doing naughty things and chastise him. That was practically part of her job description.
It was something entirely else to take the Emperor’s cousin and best fleet commander hostage. She would, very soon, be explaining this one to the First Lord, and possibly the entire Senate. Best to do it right.
Her office was plain, almost to the point of severe. Her desk. A backboard with two non–standard filing cabinets, because few commanders liked paper. A sideboard where Marcelle’s coffee service normally sat. Two chairs for guests.
Her only decoration was a small quilt her mother had made for her when she’d been first commissioned, with the Republic seal in white on a dark green background, framed and hung on the sidewall above the sideboard. Other knick–knacks would have to be bolted down for emergency maneuvering, and would have taken up space, so she just had the desk, the sideboard, and two chairs.
Clean, simple, focused.
Marcelle knocked on the door and then opened it.
Jessica rose as Marcelle escorted Admiral Wachturm into her sanctum.
“Admiral,” she said simply, shaking his hand.
He smiled a gruff smile. “Commander.”
She waited for him to sit and then joined him.
Rather than make small talk, they both watched Marcelle make coffee by hand, grinding the beans she had roasted two days before, pouring them into a press, adding just enough hot water to soften the stark bitterness. Honey, syrup, and freshly thawed cream were placed on the table between the two before Marcelle took her leave.
The two warriors studied each other silently for several minutes over the rims of truly excellent coffee. The air had taken on a warm feel.
“Not many people,” the admiral finally began, “have the patience to out–wait me. Especially not in a situation like this.”
Jessica nodded with a wry smile. “I fear you are correct, sir.”
He reached inside a breast pocket and pulled a small leather wallet, a courier satchel, with his right hand as he continued to sip the coffee. He placed the satchel on the desk, next to the water pot, and opened it one–handed. The admiral pulled a heavy piece of paper from the dark leather and laid it flat, spinning it around so she could read.
“Just to get the diplomatic niceties out of the way, Commander Keller,” he said quietly. Expectantly.
Jessica took the paper from him and studied it. Imperial Ambassador at large. Diplomatic immunity. Etc. Mind your p’s and q’s.
Jessica considered her response. Like every campaign, she had planned a number of maneuvers and solutions ahead of time, to make it easier to react in the heat of battle.
“Should I address you as Admiral or Ambassador?” she said, opening the bidding rather high.
His eyes got a canny look, squinting slightly as he took her measure across the desk.
“That would depend,” he drawled, “on your official capacity here.”
Jessica nodded. Call.
“Officially,” she countered, “my squadron has been seconded to assist the Lincolnshire government with a piracy problem on their outer borders. In that capacity, we were on patrol, investigating reports of a pirate base in the neighborhood of Sarmarsh.”
She paused to take a long sip of the coffee before it lost that perfect edge. Marcelle made the best coffee, especially when she knew she had an audience that would appreciate it.
“Once we arrived, we came under fire from said pirates,” she continued. “While dealing with that issue, we encountered two vessels attempting to flee the area. Given the circumstances, I chose to pursue and apprehend your vessel, and let the other escape.”
Again, more coffee.
He watched her like a mongoose watched a python. Or perhaps how a python watched a mongoose.
“Upon review,” she said, upping the ante a notch, “the other vessel, the one that did escape, was a class of carrier called a Mothership, of a design commonly used in Corynthe. Which would suggest that the base below was part of a quiet invasion of Lincolnshire’s space, and not just a bunch of pirates. How did you come to be in the vicinity?”
She watched him take his own long sip of the coffee. His face gave away very little, not that she had expected it to. Perhaps a twinkle in his eyes, as if this was a game he was playing with her. One he expected to win.
“We were on a trade mission,” he said with great seriousness.
“I see,” she replied. Rolling her eyes at that statement would be rude. Appropriate but rude. She settled for a neutral smile.
“So when I go down there and destroy the place,” she continued, “I won’t find any evidence of an Imperial conspiracy with Corynthe or Salonnia?”
He gave her a feral, hungry grin. “Anything you found would obviously be a fake, Commander, planted to make the Emperor, and the entire Fribourg Empire, look bad.”
“Yes, I expected as much,” she said quietly.
Jessica set down her coffee and picked up the document to more closely study it.
“Which brings us back to this document,” she said.
“Yes?” He was all ear, confident in his position. Obviously, the great admiral had planned his response well.
“If you’re an Ambassador,” she pounced, “then I should be escorting you and your vessel to Ramsey to present your credentials to the government there. Anything else might suggest that you really were a spy, and the rules of war are very different for that sort of thing.”
She was greatly rewarded by the sudden flickering of his pupils as they shrank. Nothing else about his face changed, just that.
It still spoke volumes.
She watched him finish the coffee.
“I did not want to mention it earlier, Commander Keller,” he transitioned smoothly. “My vessel was actually responding to a distress call from the base, not long
before you arrived. I felt it would be impolite to broadcast to everyone that the colony down there was so poorly run, you understand.”
Jessica smiled. Admiral Wachturm was far more entertaining to fence with than the robot.
“I do,” she replied. “Understand, that is.”
She carefully folded up the parchment and handed it back to the man.
“In that case,” she continued, “you would simply be a neutral vessel on a mercy mission in deep space, and not really an ambassador to a group of pirates causing troubles to a Republic ally. Am I correct?”
For a moment, he gave her the look of a man that had sucked a lemon dry. But only for a moment, before he recovered.
“Indeed,” he recovered swiftly. “So I will be free to go on my way shortly? After, of course, all the diplomatic niceties and receptions, of course?”
She inclined her head slightly, baiting the hook one last time. “While I believe that it would be proper for your vessel to return to Imperial space as soon as possible, Admiral,” she drawled lazily, “the circumstances of why you came to be here, now, instead of heading directly to Ramsey to present your credentials, require some investigation. And while I would like to be able to transport you to the capital to explain it, I fear that my vessel will, of necessity, have to continue in pursuit of this apparent pirate invasion, which will likely take us to Corynthe. Unfortunately, your staff will have to travel with us until proper arrangements can be made.”
She finished off her coffee as well. Marcelle would be two steps outside the cabin door, waiting patiently, probably with a book, but Jessica suspected that they would not need any more coffee. At least, not right now.
Admiral Wachturm grimaced. Gruff and friendly was gone. This was harsher, far more stoic. A man who might have met a competitor worth engaging, possibly even his match.
“Hostage is such a vulgar term,” he said into the gap.
