by Richard Fox
“But if Siam petitions to become part of Albion space, then there’s no violation of the Accords.” Gage ran his hand over his restraints as the shuttle rumbled into the air. “That doesn’t mean there won’t be any complaints. If the pirates can’t come through here, then they’ll find another unaligned border world. It shifts the problem to someone else.”
“You’re thinking ahead. Good. No doubt we’ll launch more anti-pirate expeditions into wild space to make others happy. Interstellar politics can be a zero-sum game.”
“You think President Hu knows what the long game is? She might tell us to leave if the choice is between our help and annexation versus going it alone.”
Sartorius looked out a porthole to the devastation stretching from the shoreline and through Lopburi City.
“If she tells us to leave tomorrow, how many of her people will die? If she tells us to leave a year from now, before the terra-formers can sift out all the dirt in the atmosphere, how many will die? We’re not the Quantou Dynasty or the Caliphate that would kick them off world or enslave them. They can keep their religion, their language, their culture, even their silly voting customs. We need their skies. Do our ulterior motives bother you?”
“We serve at the King’s command. My opinions are irrelevant.”
“No one doubts your loyalty, son, but you didn’t answer my question.”
Darkness passed over the portholes as the shuttle ascended through the upper atmosphere.
“Siam is in a difficult position,” Gage said. “The disaster is of their own making. No core world would ever mine an asteroid that size so close to an inhabited world for exactly the reasons we’re here. Our aid will save lives, but accepting our help is almost Pyrrhic for their sovereignty. I see the humanity in helping them. I see the benefit of incorporating them into Albion’s fold, but I fear they will resent it. A choice between your children dying from disease or starvation against any other option that promises life isn’t much of a decision. I see the logic—the value—in what comes later. King Randolph is a wise man.”
“For almost twenty generations, the royalty of Albion have been trained since birth to make such wise decisions,” Sartorius said. “I’m glad the last King chose Randolph as his successor. Could you imagine if we went by straight succession? We’d have King Christopher, that fop. Last I heard he’s on Beverly Station, leading some sort of variety show. Twenty minutes to the Orion, enough time for a ten-minute nap.” The Admiral tucked his head against the side of his seat and closed his eyes.
“Yes, sir.” Gage took his data slate from a pocket and skimmed through e-mail, looking for anything vital to pass on to the Admiral once he woke up. He looked out across Siam, through the haze of shields as they deflected micro-meteors.
He’d marched into the jungle to save the civilians for no other reason than to help the weak, the suffering. Did Albion’s eventual goal detract from what he’d done? He stared at the star field and passing shuttles as their ship entered hard vacuum.
Those girls didn’t seem to care about why they were saved from pirates, only that they wouldn’t be sold into slavery, he thought. If Albion’s motivations extend beyond altruism, does it even matter? Lives will be saved. A planet pulled back from the brink of disaster. Security and safety for the Siam.
Gage scrolled through an ever-growing list of messages, debating what Sartorius had shared. He could accept doing the right thing for questionable motives, but he still didn’t feel good about it.
Chapter 7
A crowd of citizens flowed by a double door recessed into the castle’s outer wall on their way to a pier extending into the bay. Enormous screens floated over the packed harbor area where people thronged around food vendors and open-air stalls. Each screen showed the same image, a small set of steps at the far end of the pier surrounded by armed Albion soldiers and a pair of Genevans.
Salis stood beside the castle access door, scanning the passersby. Another Genevan named Lucan was on the other side of the doorway. For the past half hour, the crowd had slowly contracted around the pier, which had been full since before Salis took her post.
“Underwater sensors have the whales en route,” Lucan said over their suit-to-suit network. “King will move soon.”
In the crowd, a man wearing a red and white jersey blinked on Salis’ faceplate.
“Got a biometric trip,” she said. “Elevated heartrate, neural action consistent with aggression.”
“Need a face for the database,” Lucan said.
Her gestalt nudged her attention toward a bar stall. The man in the jersey walked close to it, and she picked up his reflection from a tip jar. She snipped his face from her HUD with the barest movement of her fingers and sent the image to Lucan.
“Known narcotics user,” the other bodyguard said. “His bio’s in line with a recent hit of ersatz cocaine. I’ll send it to the locals for action. Not our responsibility. Good technique with the reflection grab. Your gestalt teach it to you?”
“Yes, how’d you know?”
“Andrin liked that trick. The personalities of previous wearers fade from the armor in time, but some things stick with the gestalt, almost like instinct. You must be synching well if the gestalt is sharing this with you.”
“I don’t have much of a frame of reference.” The armor pressed onto her shoulders, almost as if the gestalt within was sad. Salis decided to change the topic away from the absent Genevan and keep the gestalt focused on the job at hand. “I’m a bit surprised that we’re being ignored by the Albians. Few pictures taken from the crowd. No nuisance or harassment. I trained for much worse.”
“We’re exempt from local laws by contract, but it’s illegal to impede us in our duties. If anyone tries to take their picture with us or address us for any reason other than official business, we send up their bio reading. Offender receives a fine in the mail. Noncitizens get a levy when they leave the planet. Keeps things running smoothly.”
“I’m anxious to get access to the local networks. I can’t say I feel entirely useful right now.”
“King Randolph has his quirks. Doesn’t want to put his full trust into someone until he’s looked them in the eyes.”
“Such as things are,” Salis said, paraphrasing an old Genevan saying for accepting fate.
“Principal moving.” Lucan raised his head to the right and a hovercraft flew over the outer wall. A cheer rose from the crowd, starting at the very edge where the hovercraft flew over and spreading down to the tip of the pier.
The craft stopped near the steps and Captain Royce jumped out of a hatch. After he quickly swept the area, a ramp lowered from the hovercraft. The crowd cheered even louder as Prince Jarred, Prince Nathaniel, and Princess Daphne, all adults in their thirties, descended, all waving and smiling. Salis felt a chill from her gestalt as a rumble rose through the crowd.
King Randolph came halfway down the ramp, a wide smile showing within his salt-and-pepper beard. His crown was little more than a circlet atop his thinning hair. He was healthy-looking and broad-shouldered, and Salis found some comfort in knowing she’d swear an oath to defend a man that at least cared enough to take care of himself.
Queen Calista came behind him, dressed in a shimmering silk gown that would have driven the finest fashion lords of the haute couture of Reuilly or Gangnam green with envy. She led a small boy by the hand, who was positively wide-eyed at the throng of people along the pier. The hovercraft rose straight up, where it remained ready to return at the barest hint of danger.
“Quite the age disparity between the children,” Salis said.
“Prince Aidan was a surprise,” Lucan said.
“Which is in line to inherit the throne?”
“Albion doesn’t do succession by age. The King or Queen creates a secret list the day they take the crown. Only royal blood can be on the list, and the sovereign can change it any time they choose. There are expulsions from the royal family from time to time for lack of interest in leading or for conduct,
but by and large, the family is deeply vested in leading Albion well,” Lucan’s head snapped up as a camera drone the size of the palm of his hand rose from the crowd.
A mechanical falcon dove from the battlements over their heads and snatched the drone from the air with a crack of breaking polymers.
“Tourists,” Lucan muttered.
“Who’s seen the list?”
“Royce, the King and Queen. There’s a copy in the deep vaults in case of a catastrophe,” Lucan said, quickly crossing himself. “The sovereign abdicates well before they’re especially elderly or infirm—tradition. Only twice has Albion lost a king suddenly, both times in war.”
The King stepped up to a microphone and all the screens hanging in the air switched to a close-up.
“New Exeter…” Randolph’s words boomed across the crowd and they answered him with a prolonged cheer. “The whales have graced us once again. It was here, in that first season after our ancestors made landfall and settled the city, that Good King Nathaniel the First met the whales and they bestowed their blessing.”
Laughter from the crowd.
“Nathaniel got drenched by a whale spout,” Lucan said. “The Queen declared it a sign of good fortune and everyone went along with the idea.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“That’s why there are so many people on the pier. The wetter you get from the whales, the more good fortune you’ll have through the next year.”
“And I thought the Cathay were superstitious.”
“I was on the pier five years ago, got hit by those beasts. Went home on leave and the missus and I finally conceived. I’ll not question it.”
King Randolph continued with an almost rote recitation of the prism whale festival. Royce stepped close and whispered into his ear.
“Our cameras tell me the whales are nearly here,” Randolph said. “I sent them an exact itinerary, but they think they can ignore their king.”
“Same joke every year,” Lucan said.
Queen Calista hoisted Aidan onto her hip and the boy began waving his arms wildly.
Around the pier, pale white whales the size of a city bus broke through the surface. Their bodies shimmered, then changed color, like they were made of fractured rainbows.
King Randolph went up the steps and Royce attached a safety line to his belt with a single swift motion. The King spread his arms wide.
“King ever fallen in?” Salis asked.
“Once, before our House was hired. Right before we were hired, actually. Now we’ll see if the whales will spout. The wetter the King gets, the longer the holiday.”
There was a long, unfortunate pause, then one whale let off the barest puff of a spout and all the whales sank back beneath the water. Groans of disappointment rippled through the crowd.
Randolph came down the steps and went back to the microphone, his face long.
The Queen came over and gave him a pat on the chest, back, and shoulders. She leaned over to the microphone and said, “I find the King to be rather dry.”
“Alas,” Randolph said, putting his arm around Calista’s waist, “this means work for us all on Monday.”
The crowd grumbled, but Salis didn’t make out a single boo.
The Queen whispered into Randolph’s ear. He frowned, then began nodding with enthusiasm. Salis felt an electricity build in the air.
“The Queen, in her excellent wisdom,” Randolph said, “asked me to bestow a boon on you all for your patience, and I agree with my wife…because I am a wise king. I hereby suspend tax on all food and drink for the rest of the weekend. Celebrate responsibly. May the whales grant us even more fortune next year!”
The royal family waved to the crowd as a decent cheer rose around them. The hovercraft returned, and Royce ushered them back on in short order.
“Is that tax excessive?” Salis asked.
“Up to twenty percent on liquor,” Lucan said. “Be glad we’re not local law enforcement. They’re in for a hell of a weekend.”
“Small favors.”
Chapter 8
Gage straightened out his dress uniform top in front of a mirror just outside the Admiral’s wardroom. Every medal gleamed and ribbon rows were laser-straight over his chest. The black cloth with gold trim was devoid of the slightest wrinkle or speck of dust. Gage wondered, not for the first time, how Bertram could take such exceptional care of his officer’s uniform but be something of a slob himself.
Gage brushed a finger over a fan of scabbed-over scratches near his temple. While preparing for this mess, he’d come across several minor injuries from his time in the jungle. He wore every combat award he’d ever earned, but he wasn’t one to flaunt that he’d just come from a life-and-death encounter with pirates.
He pressed his palm to a slate on the doorframe and the entrance slid open with a hiss. The smell of tobacco-scented mist wafted over him as he entered the waiting room where almost two dozen officers chatted with each other.
Most lounged around the carved wood furniture or perused the shelves packed with data slates. A group clustered around a sim table as two teams played Fleet Strike, a tactical simulation with dozens of tiny holo ships pounding away at each other. Admiral Sartorius encouraged officers of similar rank to debate tactics and the issues of the day for an hour before the infrequent formal dinners aboard the Orion. He believed that without access to a rugby or football pitch, the officers needed a venue to spark comradery and competition.
Every ship’s executive officer in the fleet was here while the Captains and the Admiral entertained themselves in the main dining room. No one was quite sure what they did in there, but guesses ranged from dirty jokes to arcane rituals to determine the next to receive an admiral’s star.
“A nip, sir?” A steward had come over, holding a silver tray with several glass snifters, each containing a finger of brandy. The steward’s eyes lingered over Gage’s ribbons as the commodore picked up a glass. Gage was used to the extra attention. Very few officers in the fleet had a St. Michael’s medal for destroying an enemy ship in combat, or a Blood Stripe down the side of their legs for being wounded.
“Thomas, heard you had a dustup down there,” said Commander Michael Barlow, executive officer on the Concordia.
“Couple Wyverns left behind decided to raid an outlying town. Local guide led us to them. Pirates aren’t a problem anymore.” Gage took a sip of his brandy.
“You look no worse for wear. Trust you didn’t go in with just you and some safari man. Isn’t there some dreadful kind of cave bears or something out in those jungles?”
“Took a gunnery crew sent down to work the supply yard. No injuries. Civilians are safe. Can’t ask for a better outcome. And they’re drop bears…they’re horrifying.”
“I’ll stay up here with the risk of explosive decompression and the freezing grasp of the void, thank you,” Barlow said, finishing his drink. “Daresay the crowd’s been waiting for you to arrive. You’re the only one getting any excitement this trip. We’re supposed to be out on maneuvers in the Cygnus Phi sector, not carting supplies back and forth like an armed-to-the-teeth logistics corps squadron.”
“Bad luck—or good, if you ask the Siam—that we were about to weigh anchor for slip space when word of the disaster came through. Arriving so fast with a few cargo ships loaded down with supplies saved lives,” Gage said.
“Yes, lovely all that, but up here, we’re dreadfully bored.”
“You could volunteer to come to the surface. A chief would find something meaningful for you to do.”
“Ghastly. I’m an officer. I supervise and direct. I don’t actually get my hands dirty. Chiefs get all bothered when we try to do more than expected.”
“I say, Commodore Gage,” a commander called out from the holo table. Arlyss of the Renown waved him over.
“Oh, not this twat,” Barlow mumbled. “He’s been rehearsing this for some time. Be careful.”
“If he’s not going to shoot me in the face and wear m
y rank insignia for a trophy, I say he’s not the worst man I’ve come across lately.” Gage walked up to the holo table and raised his drink slightly in salute.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” he said.
Arlyss tapped his ring against the holo controls as he brought up a simulation. He, like almost all the officers present, wore a Sanquay class ring. The elite officer training school took in only the most well-connected noble-born officer cadets; every admiral in Albion’s history wore one of those oversized gold rings.
Gage’s thumb rubbed against the back of his class ring, one earned from Portsmouth, a school known best for not being Sanquay.
“We’ve had a lively debate about you, Gage.” Arlyss tapped two fingers against a screen and the holo changed to a single desert world with two ship icons breaking out of orbit.
Gage’s chest tightened as the worst day of his life came up for all to see.
“The Starchaser’s encounter with the Harlequin pirate ship Robbins over Volera II…” Arlyss said, “…where you were the gunnery officer serving under Lieutenant Commander Darrens.”
“I know. I was there,” Gage said with a restrained smile.
“Certainly, but I and our comrades weren’t.” Arlyss sent the holo into action and the time sped up greatly. The Starchaser, Gage’s destroyer, closed on the much larger Robbins, trading cannon shots and torpedoes that flared out between the two ships as point defense turrets and counter missiles sparred.
“The Starchaser was certainly faster than the pirate ship, but they had something of a head start before you engaged in pursuit,” Arlyss said. “What I don’t understand is why the Starchaser did…this.”
The holo slowed with a tap from Arlyss. The Albion ship’s fire ceased and it veered to port as the maneuver thrusters flared like miniature suns. A pirate torpedo exploded off the prow, sending a storm of metal spikes into the hull.
The deck shaking beneath his feet, the shouts of alarm, and the thick smell of blood played through Gage’s mind.
