by Blaze Ward
Dealing with people was where it got messy. At least, it always had for her.
Perhaps she just hadn’t take the time to be elegant, before now. Not that the pirates would appreciate it. But what she had planned wasn’t for them. They just got to be the victims if it worked.
Chapter XXI
Date of the Republic October 27, 393 Edge of the Petron System
Denis had come down to the flag bridge for this meeting. The two other commanders from the squadron had already shuttled over, but this was much more of a conclave for war than an opportunity for High Tea. He took the seat next to Keller and watched her face.
She gave nothing away.
“Okay, people,” she finally said, “we’re about to go into the lion’s den. Unless someone happened to be out this far and then hopped in without us seeing them, the King of the Pirates, and all of Corynthe, will know that the Republic has arrived in the next six hours.”
She looked at each of the faces of her command staff in turn. Denis felt the weight of her gaze last. He nodded back.
“I plan to treat this like any port call on the outside,” she continued. “We’re here to say hello and drop off a bunch of shipwrecked survivors, not pick a fight. I don’t think we could win against the forces down there anyway.”
Denis studied the orbital projection rotating slowly above their heads. Petron looked like a nice planet. A little warm and mostly land, instead of ocean, but not badly so. There was a LOT of traffic in orbit, but it was mostly composed of little freighters coming and going. However, there were a whole bunch of armed shuttles and small country craft moving around as well.
“They don’t have anything comparable to Auberon,” he heard her continue, “but they do have this.”
The viewer flipped to show the craft that had fled Alpha at Sarmarsh IV when they had arrived, or at least a ship that was very similar. At one end of the vessel was an arrowhead–shaped bow made up of four blades equidistant around the centerline. The other end was very obviously an engine cluster and Jumpdrive assembly, ripped from something else and welded together in someone’s back–yard instead of a professional facility. It was the middle three–quarters of the ship that looked interesting.
The centerline of the ship was a narrower cylinder, like a goose’s neck connecting the two ends, but much, much longer. Around the neck, like mosquitos squatting on skin ready to bite, were several rings of fighters and miniature gunships, no two of the same design. Again, thrown together in someone’s back–yard, if the back–yard had at least three of every kind of starfighter ever flown, chopped into pieces and stacked randomly, waiting to be welded into some new configuration by a demented beaver with a laser torch.
Denis looked closely. This was craft that had fled them at Alpha. Three rings of five or six fighter craft, so about sixteen fighters. The fourth ring was comprised of four larger gunboats, roughly the size of the pair of S–11 Orcas that Auberon carried. Nothing like Cayenne or Necromancer, though. Still, but for a lack of missiles visible, that thing could put up almost as many craft as one of the big Republic Fleet Carriers, such as Archon or Ajax.
Denis whistled unconsciously.
“Yes,” Jessica said to him. “You see it.”
“Sir?” Command Centurion d’Maine off of Rajput said.
“We could slaughter them with missiles, probably,” Denis said instead. “That is, until they got close. Then it’s a knife fight. Very messy. Gut us like fish.”
“Correct,” Jessica continued. “This is the largest class, what the locals call a 4–ring Mothership, and they have at least six of them, according to Lincolnshire’s intelligence. Most of Corynthe’s ships are smaller, one to three rings. Those things would be murder on a freighter. Drop out of Jumpspace on top of him and unleash a horde of snub–fighters.”
“So what’s the plan, sir?” Command Centurion Kigali said. CR–264 would have a field day in such a battle, right up to the moment that they overwhelmed the little escort with numbers and shot holes in it.
“Pick a nice orbit, well out, and talk,” she replied. “When they decide that they’re going to be nice and talk, I’ll probably need a lift to the surface, but I plan to ride down in the jumpseat on Necromancer, while she and a sizeable chunk of the flight wing escort Cayenne. After that, hopefully nothing more dangerous than politics.”
That got a good chuckle out of the group, especially after the adventures at Ramsey.
Denis watched her neutral face turn deadly serious.
“If they decide to take me prisoner,” she said calmly, “I would appreciate Navin the Black and his people rescuing me. If something happens to me, I will leave standing orders to do to Petron what we did to Alpha at Sarmarsh IV.”
The silence turned nearly solid as the implications settled around them, like a heavy quilt on a cold night. Physics was physics, after all, but hitting an inhabited world like that violated every single tenet of civilized warfare.
Of course, so did killing a Republic of Aquitaine officer under safe conduct. Hopefully the pirates wouldn’t need to be reminded of that. The survivors being brought home from Sarmarsh IV, bringing their story with them, would help.
Denis figured that Auberon’s crew would be willing to stay around for several weeks afterwards, reigning fiery death down onto the planet, if something happened to Jessica Keller. She was probably counting on that.
“Understood, Commander,” Denis said, signaling to the rest that he would be willing to end his career on that sort of note. The others growled back at him. It sounded like a pack of hungry wolves spying sleeping chickens.
Jessica fixed each of them with a hard look.
“Then we are ready to go to war, people.”
Chapter XXII
Date of the Republic October 28, 393 Above Petron
Jessica was down on the flag bridge with her flag centurion and a few crew members, when the door opened on the right wall. Daneel Ishikura, Warlock, entered slowly and looked around.
Their eyes locked for several moments across the space.
“Commander,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “What can I do for you today?”
She pointed at one of the chairs around the big table. “Have a seat, Warlock,” she said firmly. “I’m about to talk to the King of the Pirates. Any advice you have would be useful.”
He moved to sit with a steady, economical grace, moving lightly, like a much smaller man than he was.
She watched him study her face for several seconds before he spoke. “The King of the Pirates is an interesting title,” he said, “and Arnulf Rodriguez is a very complicated and capable man. He might actually be capable of founding a dynasty. That has always been his goal.”
“I see,” she said. “Would it work?”
Her reward was a shrug. “Corynthe has always been a democracy of the Captains, Commander Keller. It makes for a government by strong man, rather than something stable. Part of the reason Corynthe has always been weak and the fringe has always been plagued by piracy.”
“How did you end up in Sarmarsh, then?”
Another shrug. “I was probably perceived as a threat. Better to take a distant exile than suffer a night of long knives. I argued against the provocation of invading Lincolnshire, but it worked out. Right up until you came along, that is.”
“How much risk are your people at, coming here?”
Again, a shrug. Too many unknowns. “I’m far less of a threat now,” he said. “We’ll see what the near future brings. You never know when someone is going to show up with a lot of warships and overturn the order of things.”
She studied his face closely. Something about the tone of his voice rang false, but she couldn’t identify what set her off. Or perhaps, he was being a little too blasé for someone in his position. He was certainly unwilling to tell her more.
Still, it was obvious that there was far more to the situation than she had been able to read. The Fribourg Empire was involved somehow, but Wachturm w
asn’t talking. Criminal elements in Lincolnshire had their hands in it, but retained enough of a hold on Bedrosian to keep him quiet. And Warlock was up to something as well, although he seemed to be the most open to conversation of the three. That in itself was worrisome.
Just in case, she activated the sound damper field around her station. Normally, it kept her from distracting everyone around her in battle. Here, it would keep Warlock from speaking to the man below.
She did turn on a speaker, so he could hear both sides of the conversation. Jessica figured he could get her attention with a gesture, if he really needed to speak.
A flashing red light on her console told her that a channel was open to the surface, and that someone below was waiting for her. She keyed the channel live and hit a secondary button to bring the man up on the projector, three times the size of life.
Arnulf Rodriguez, from the caption someone had added to the image. So, the King of the Pirates himself. Jessica took a moment to study the man, even as he did the same. She felt the same appraising look on her face as she saw on his.
He was a muscular man, broad across the shoulders, but starting to go to seed around the middle. It was the kind of paunch Fleet Lords got when they ate too much and stopped working so hard to keep it off. He wasn’t soft, but was getting there. Perhaps three years. Maybe five.
He was still a distinguished–looking man, with dark hair kept short and a clean–shaven face. There were gray hairs along the edges, but that just added dignity.
“So, Commander Jessica Keller of the Republic warship Auberon,” he began, in a measured tone and a deep baritone voice, “I am told you wish to speak to the King of the Pirates. How may I be of service?”
Jessica resisted the smile she felt tugging at her lips. The man was a master showman, obviously used to playing to an audience of hard men and women. There were probably several out of sight of the camera, watching on his side. It had that feel to it.
“It’s more what I can do for you, sir,” she replied brightly. “Or should I call you King Arnulf?”
He smiled like a lion. “I am the Supreme Commander of the Corynthe Fleet, among my other titles. Perhaps you should address me as Admiral Rodriguez.”
“Just so, Admiral.” Jessica nodded politely to the man. “The reason I am here is because your research station on Sarmarsh IV was destroyed by an asteroid. I rescued a number of survivors from the surface and am bringing them home so they can be reunited with their families.”
His eyes got a canny squint to them. “Research station?” he asked, one eyebrow dancing upwards. “How many survivors did you rescue?”
“Seventy–eight, Admiral, including the man who introduced himself to me as the governor.”
She watched the man’s eyes flicker to the left for a split second before coming back to hers. So, there were people off–camera watching, same as here, just as she’d suspected.
“Being refugees,” she continued, “they had little but the clothes on their backs. I plan to deliver them to the main spaceport and let their families know. I am broadcasting the names over the top of one of your planetary sporting networks so everyone knows who made it home safe. I hope that is acceptable.”
For a moment, his visage grew terribly grim, but he quickly recovered. “That will save us the effort of notifying people, Commander Keller, although it would have been appropriate to ask first.”
Jessica nodded again with a half–smile. “I was not sure that our own arrival in system would be met entirely peacefully, Admiral. Especially since Aquitaine and Corynthe do not have any formal diplomatic relations. Perhaps that could be addressed as well.”
All sound dropped off from the transmission, so Jessica figured that someone was speaking off–camera to the man. He nodded absently, eyes wandering for a moment.
“Yes, Keller,” he said finally. “I look forward to granting you an audience in my Court when you arrive. And please make sure Warlock is with you. I will have questions for him as well.”
“Very good, sir,” Jessica said. “It will take us a day to arrange everything. I will have my Flag centurion contact your seneschal to make arrangements. Thank you.”
She cut the signal before the man could reply. The sound dampening field went with it.
Warlock was turned towards her. His face was white.
“They are going to think you have turned me, Keller,” he said quietly. “Made me join you as the price of survival.”
“Perhaps,” she smiled at him, “if you were more forthcoming about things, I could have maneuvered better. As it is, I’m largely flying blind. If I’m at risk, you can join me.”
“Do you think that this fleet can protect you from these people?”
“I’m betting my life on it, Warlock,” she snarled. “I’m okay with betting yours, as well.”
He was on the verge of speaking, his mouth open, one hand raised, when something stopped him. He fell silent and gave her a hard look.
“You have no idea what’s coming next, Keller,” he said finally.
That was true, but she could plan for a very large number of possible scenarios.
She did that very well.
Chapter XXIII
Date of the Republic October 29, 393 City of Corynthe, Petron
Jouster checked his screen one last time and committed to entry into Petron’s atmosphere. Uller and Vienna flew on his flanks, a lethal arrowhead pointed at the horizon.
Behind him, the DropShip Cayenne, loaded to the gills with refugees and marines, started her descent as well. Gaucho must have been feeling nice today. He was flying a sedate pattern, instead of diving straight down as fast as the heat shields on the ship’s belly could handle like he normally did.
Above that, just below the three big ships, the GunShip Necromancer was starting to begin her run. The dragon lady, Keller, was aboard Necromancer instead of Cayenne, in case anybody did anything stupid below. Not that anybody expected them to, but things out here weren’t always what they seemed.
His job was to make sure nobody did anything dumb. Or, at least, that nobody survived the attempt. Nothing like flying bodyguard for a VIP to keep you paranoid. At least none of the freighters or shuttles in orbit had wanted to be close to Auberon and the fleet. They had almost ten degrees of orbital arc to themselves up there.
Below, the city of Corynthe, capital of the kingdom of the same name, began to take shape. Rather than come in flat, blind over the horizon, the landing party was spiraling slowly in, with all the firepower of the squadron directly overhead. Again, ready to shoot first and ask questions to any survivors. Not exactly polite, but the people down below were proud to call themselves pirates.
Jouster had a long history with pirates, mostly chasing them away after they had done bad things. He wouldn’t mind evening the score a little while he was here.
A single tone jarred him, scratching the inside of his head like nails on a chalkboard.
Someone down there had just locked on him with a targeting sensor.
His thumb dropped down to confirm that his shields generators were putting all their energy down. There was nothing above him but friendlies right now. He figured he could flip to the universal setting inside of a 4g barrel roll if he had to.
“All ships, this is Jouster,” he called out as he pushed the nose of his M–5 fighter deeper into the dive. “Someone has targeting lock on me. Request permission to engage.”
There was a pause as he felt his speed build up, gravity working with him to turn the fighter into something like the Harpoon it was named for. Uller and Vienna dropped with him, lethal hawks looking for little mice.
“Negative, Jouster, do not engage,” Jež called on the secure comm. “The locals have not gone to a war–footing, and no other ships have been targeted. This is just someone playing games.”
Oh? Really?
“Flight wing,” he said, popping his knuckles on the flight controls without letting go, “please confirm my scanner reading of a clea
r horizon.”
There was another pause before da Vinci came back over the comm. She would be sitting in a different orbit, keeping watch as well. “Roger, Jouster. Clear skies for maneuvering.”
Jouster smiled inside his helmet. So the locals wanted to play?
“Uller, Vienna. Triangle break now. Execute.”
One of the many advantages of flying with the same mates, training with them daily for more than three years, was a near–telepathic link for anticipating one another. On a side screen, Jouster watched the maneuver unfold, just like in the simulators.
His controls were all on a single complicated wheel, letting him touch twenty–some functions without moving any of his fingers more than a centimeter. He shoved the stick forward hard, pushing his nose straight down, while his thumb red–lined the throttle and a ring–finger rotated his shields back to the universal setting.
All the enemy guns were below him in the gravity well, but that wasn’t always down as he snapped the fighter into an outside loop to the right. Above him, his wingmates did the same, almost at the same instant. The sensors down there might still be locked, but missiles would have to adjust, and guns would be pointed all wrong as the three fighters accelerated into their plummet, gradually separating as they spun.
Jouster activated his own targeting sensors and let them paint the city loudly. Any kid with a radio down there would catch a burst of static as the pulse bounced off the ground. Uller and Vienna did the same. Above, da Vinci had apparently been expecting this maneuver. Her pulse was probably loud enough to make teeth rattle.
There. Right on the edge of town, rather than at the primary space port. A missile tower designed to protect a high–value target. He altered his rotation to center on that edge of the city. Around him, his wingmates did the same.
On his targeting screen, the building lit up with a caption that read Palace. Oh ho. Somebody getting stroppy over there?
Jouster already knew the answer, so he didn’t bother asking to engage again. This felt like a pissing match with the locals rather than an ambush. He would have turned on several more towers, and waited until everyone was much closer to the ground.
