Goddess of War (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 4)

by Blaze Ward

  Iskra nodded up at Jessica as she entered the room and leaned into a microphone.

  “Sky Team Eight,” Iskra said calmly. “Launch and form up.”

  Lights on her board went green so the Flight Centurion turned back to Jessica.

  “We’re all set for you, Fleet Centurion. Petron is loaded and primed.”

  Jessica frowned.

  “I was planning to take an administrative shuttle down. The building’s not big enough or sturdy enough for a DropShip to land on it.”

  “This is still an active war zone, Commander,” Iskra said flatly. “You will be protected. I’m also sending Sunset along with four of the fighter jocks.”

  “And a GunShip, Iskra? What if I order you to break out a shuttle?”

  “My Flight Deck, Jessica. My rules. If you don’t like them, don’t fly.”

  Jessica nodded. If that woman could somehow bottle stubbornness, she would be rich.

  Still, it was good to be surrounded by professionals. If they thought the situation warranted it, they were probably right, and her job was to let them do their job.

  Jessica nodded at her Flight Deck Commander, and then grinned.

  Iskra let her serious face crack just long enough to grin back before she turned back to her boards.

  Jessica passed through the next hatch and onto the flight deck itself, Enej in tow. Auberon only had four DropShips, instead of six, partly to make space for the Orca medium bombers, partly because she had modified the overall design to carry things like an entire Construction Ala in addition to the eighteen hundred ground troops she normally transported. Star Controllers were big, but there were still limits.

  Next campaign, she might strip out half the landing capacity and stuff the Flight Deck to the gills. And bring along another Transport Carrier like Andorra, currently sitting docked to the remains of the orbital station, slowly unboxing an entire Flight Wing worth of fighters to serve as a local defense force.

  There were any number of ways to keep Imperial planners awake at night.

  DropShips were big creatures. In private service, Petron might qualify as a medium freighter, except that she didn’t have the legs for long sails in JumpSpace.

  Jessica paused so suddenly that Enej bumped into her from behind before he could stop himself.

  He started to say something, but she waved him silent and considered the evil plan that had inserted itself in her brain. Fighter craft were not Jump capable. GunShips and DropShips were, over very short distances.

  Jessica had a sudden vision of one of the big, monster freighters, like the ore carrier that had died on Thuringwell below her, carrying a whole wave of GunShips to the edge of a planetary system and then launching them to sweep in ahead of a battle squadron. It would be an avalanche, instead of merely a sledgehammer.

  Jessica smiled a warm, wicked grin at Enej and then started walking again.

  “Is it safe to ask?” he inquired from over her shoulder.

  “Next time we pull a 2218 Svati Prime, someone’s in for a very, very rude surprise,” she replied, almost bubbling.

  Some people played chess. Others liked to knit. Jessica solved tactical and strategic situations for relaxation. It was what she should have been doing earlier, when she felt so isolated and lost as her plans kept failing.

  She should have gone back to the filing cabinet and made more plans. She would make up for it tomorrow.

  The smell as she came up the stairs and into Petron’s airlock reminded Jessica of home. Just inside, Marcelle was seated with the DropShip’s Commander, Flight Centurion Branca Rocha, and the two women were sipping freshly made coffee. Jessica could see the pot, grinder, and press on a sideboard behind them.

  Marcelle must really like Rocha. Or lost too much money to her playing poker.

  Jessica couldn’t think of any other reason the pilot rated freshly ground and hand–pressed coffee. It was Jessica’s one serious indulgence. Marcelle was somehow always able to find beans. Jessica made it a point never to inquire how.

  “Ready to launch, whenever you order, Commander,” Rocha said, starting to stand, a flight bulb on her hand.

  “Finish your coffee,” Jessica waved her back down.

  Since Marcelle had obviously come down early to set up the whole performance, the least Jessica could do would be to sit and be catered to. It wasn’t like they could start the meeting on the planet below without her.

  Jessica took the spot across from the pilot as Marcelle stood. The smell was enough to brighten her day even more than solving tactical impossibilities. Enej formed the fourth point of a small square.

  Recently–roasted beans poured into the grinder and reduced to flakes by hand. Water already close to boiling in the pot. Grounds and water into the press and stir, until the first, perfect layer of foam formed, filling the air with that acrid tang of caffeine. Press slowly. Cut with a little water. Add locally–sourced honey liberated from the ex–Duke’s former estate, along with fresh cream from a recently–nationalized cow.

  It was amazing how friendly folks might get when you set down a whole patrol of heavily–armed cavalry on a horse and cattle ranch, with instructions to treat the place like they would have to pay for damages later.

  Fresh cream in her coffee. Fresh vegetables from the Duke’s own hothouse.

  The man even had what Jessica’s spies on the ground suggested might be the smallest, most perfect Japanese garden imaginable, though Jessica had not figured out how to steal it and install it aboard Auberon.

  Yet.

  Five minutes for the perfection of coffee was a moment worth wasting. Down on the ground, things were likely to get testy.

  Chapter XXVI

  Imperial Founding: 174/05/09. Yonin, Thuringwell

  For a moment, he thought it was a second apocalypse descending from the heavens. Then Metthias remembered that the first one wasn’t over yet.

  On a clear, cool morning, the sun disappeared, plunging him into sudden shadows as he stepped away from the coffee stand and back into the flow of traffic on the sidewalk. Many heads turned to look at the sky, but most of them went back to their day a moment later.

  Only Metthias stood transfixed, an ebb in the current of bodies.

  Quickly, he came back to himself and started moving.

  Never stand out, or someone might ask questions.

  Questions would be bad. Deadly. Suicidal.

  Metthias found a quiet lee, a recessed doorway to a shop that would not open for another hour, and watched the sky fall in.

  The thing was huge. A blue–gray steel whale bigger than a building, slowly descending from the stars and taking up a hovering position over the City Building. The galaxy’s biggest hummingbird preparing to sip its breakfast.

  Finally, his mind found words for it.

  DropShip. Republic of Aquitaine. Nightshade–class.

  Invaders.

  Why was it hovering?

  It was too big to land, and is delivering someone. Someone important enough to be personally conveyed to the City Building, rather than landing at the port and coming over separately.

  They waited patiently, the two of them. A minute passed.

  The DropShip shivered once, rotated in place, and sedately ascended a bit as it flew in the direction of the port.

  So. Taxi awaiting the return fare.

  Metthias smiled, just a shade and just for a moment.

  There should be time to get into position.

  Chapter XXVII

  Date of the Republic May 9, 396 Yonin, Thuringwell

  It certainly wasn’t Gaucho flying. Jessica and Marcelle could have broken out the fine porcelain for their coffee without risk today. Of course, Gaucho would have probably set a new sky–to–ground record doing this. He would have at least tried.

  Jessica had gotten spoiled by the crazy man.

  Still, the landing pad atop the building was clear. A team of marines surrounded the edges of the building as Petron gently settled into position and
lowered her landing ramp, two of her landing struts deployed and just touching the stone of the roof.

  Jessica moved quickly down a ramp designed for armored vehicles, Enej and Marcelle trailing two and three steps back. The Yeoman in charge of the marines nodded at her as she approached and gestured for her to follow him into the stairwell and down out of sight.

  Behind her, the hum of Petron’s engines changed camber as the DropShip surged skyward.

  Inside, out of the wind, she found one of Wakely’s people, a young man she only knew as a scholar on loan from the University of Ladaux.

  “Welcome, Margrave,” the man said formally, turning immediately away and descending the stairs into the building.

  Jessica and the others followed him down ten quick flights, nearly a third of the thirty–five story tower, before emerging into the reception area where Wakely had taken her offices. The spaces that were reserved for Imperial high officials, for the Mayor, the Governor, and the Duke’s Castellan, comprised three of the top five floors and had been sealed off and preserved for now. At least until Wakely decided what she wanted to do to fill in three offices that each took up most of an entire floor with empty space and a single desk.

  Ego.

  The three men would have said power, if asked, but Jessica knew that true power could make do with a shoebox office tucked away in a distant, basement corner of the palace. The kind of man who could fill whatever space he entered. She had a fairly low opinion of the men who had been in charge here.

  Miles Gunderson had at least been a gentleman, but his office still had window–to–window silk carpeting in a soft rose color that certainly cost more than most of the miners on this planet earned in a year.

  Wakely met her in the oversized reception area stuffed with mismatched sofas, lots of desks, and maps tacked to every wall.

  It was a vaguely jarring transition for Jessica, to go from being surrounded by the nearly identical uniforms of her people to the sorts of civilian mufti in this room. The man who had escorted her down the stairs was in a sedate blue. Wakely was wearing a flowing linen outfit with a mixture of salmons and oranges. Around the rest of the suite were a half–dozen others in everything except green. Only the four marines stationed around the edges of the large space wore green, but they were carefully keeping a low profile, here as guardians, not bodyguards, per se.

  Jessica guessed that was an unconscious move by the civilians to distinguish themselves from the several thousand people in uniform around them.

  Wakely had a spring in her step this morning almost as good as Jessica’s. It was one of those days where everything seemed to be going right.

  “So,” Jessica said as she got close. “We have a prisoner?”

  “Worse,” Wakely replied with a droll smile. “We have an ambassador.”

  Jessica shrugged. The man could call himself anything he wanted. She and Wakely were the power in this system. The stranger was nothing more than the assistant to a small–town mayor come to the big city. The question would be to discover what he wanted.

  “Is he ready for us?” Jessica asked.

  “He is,” Wakely smiled. “He had a visit with a doctor yesterday, dinner, breakfast, tea, and a good night’s sleep. I’ve got him in a conference room with a guard right now, and I think it would be best if it was just the three of us talking.”

  “Good enough,” Jessica agreed and let Wakely lead.

  This was one of the reasons Thuringwell had been first on her list. Unpopular Duke. Armed resistance movement that wasn’t big enough to be an existential threat by itself. That those men might be willing to deal was just a bonus, at this point.

  Largely empty world on which to maneuver. Dramatic upside if all of her and Wakely’s plans worked. The new plans.

  Not that she had expected them to. Jessica had been firmly convinced they had all failed explosively in the first twelve hours, when the station blew and then the ore carrier followed.

  She would never let on to anyone, but Wakely knew her well enough by now to guess.

  The conference room was obviously intended for little people, and not the Duke or his favored. Industrial white paint over sheetrock. Bland taupe carpet designed to hold up to a lot of traffic. Pseudo–wood conference table a meter and a half by three, with ugly metal legs underneath. Nine mismatched chairs, mostly in black, with a shockingly–blue one that looked stolen and hidden out of the way.

  And one prisoner.

  Conrad Penztler. Former miner. Former labor organizer. Former political prisoner. Current armed resistance fighter. Proposed Ambassador to the Huns.

  The other Huns.

  He fidgeted in the same way that Enej had once. The two men were of a look physically as well. Tall, wiry blonds without a gram of spare flesh. But Enej had a calmness to him now that this stranger was lacking.

  Penztler cast her a very wary eye as he stared at her. He rose as she came into the room, causing the marine in the corner to flinch for a second.

  Jessica was more amused than anything when the marine relaxed on realizing it was the Fleet Centurion coming in, since she could supposedly take care of herself with any man, according to her marines. Apparently, stories about her fighting to the death with blades had made the rounds with the new unit, as well. She wasn’t sure if she should thank Vo Arlo, or give him a stern talking to.

  Penztler carefully held out a hand to shake, an interesting Imperial custom.

  Jessica reached across the table and took it in hers.

  His skin was leathery and calloused. A shower had gotten the man clean, but there was still dirt under his nails that would require a good manicure to eliminate. She considered suggesting it, but remembered that there were only three shops in all of Yonin, given the dearth of civilized citizens needing such a service.

  One more mark of barbarity I need to address, one of these days.

  Jessica added importing qualified manicurists to the list in her head.

  “Sri Penztler,” Jessica released his hand and sat, with Wakely taking the chair on the end, rather than sitting across from him. It softened the room.

  He sat, or rather perched on the edge of his seat nervously.

  She thought about making him wait. Silence could be just as sharp, just as effective as a saber, used expertly. But her time was valuable and this man had come to her. His folks could shave years off the effort, or drag it on forever if they chose to be stubborn.

  More stubborn.

  Easy–going men didn’t fade into the bush and take up arms against the Imperial family.

  “You asked for a meeting with myself and the Palsgrave,” Jessica continued. “And provided us valuable intelligence about a pending Imperial attack. I am here. How can I help you today?”

  Wakely had helped hone them, but it was really First Lord that had taught her the verbal tricks to get inside someone’s skin without them realizing it.

  Penztler reacted like someone had stuck a needle into his hand. Not much, just a shuddering flinch he couldn’t control.

  A woman in charge. Women in charge. Aquitaine women. And he was here to try to make friends, or at least common cause.

  Fish very much out of water.

  Jessica smiled to soften the blow.

  Penztler let go a held breath audibly and settled backwards into his chair, just about the time the marine looked like he was willing to get twitchy.

  “What is your mission on Thuringwell, Admiral?” he asked carefully.

  Not exactly subtle, but Jessica hadn’t asked about the weather or his family. This wasn’t a social call where they might spend twenty minutes getting around to the topic at hand. This was business. More to the point, this was a war.

  “Margrave,” Jessica corrected him simply. “We control the system. We control Yonin and the mines now. The Imperial Army and the local government have surrendered on terms and been taken into custody for repatriation.”

  Her smile turned a shade more ugly as she leaned forward.

/>   “There are two armed forces currently operating in the wilderness beyond my control,” she prodded him. “At least one of them will need to be annihilated root and branch in order to succeed in securing Thuringwell as an Aquitainian planet.”

  “One?” he asked carefully, holding his cards close to his vest.

  Again, not used to a woman giving orders. His mother had probably been the last one in his life, and maybe not even then, considering modern Imperial notions of culture.

  “Colonel Dieter Haussmann of Imperial Security is currently in the field somewhere with several hundred men under arms,” Jessica said simply. “I don’t expect they are the kind of people who are willing to surrender on any terms. So I will hunt them down like vermin and extirpate them. I’m fine with making them martyrs, Penztler.”

  “And the liberation movements?”

  Penztler had gotten perfectly still, but it wasn’t calm self–assurance. Rather, it was the look a rabbit got when a hawk appeared overhead.

  “You haven’t committed any crimes against the Republic of Aquitaine, yet,” Jessica said carefully.

  This was the sort of conversation that would probably be recounted at a Court Martial. Her next one.

  They didn’t get any easier, but at least the Republic of Aquitaine Navy was careful to have public court proceedings when things got this complicated. It served to exonerate an honorable officer from any questions, and to provide a learning tool for others to know where the lines were supposed to be brightly drawn.

  That the next one might be held before the Republic Senate was just a mark of scale and consequence, not style.

  The man shook his head in vague agreement with her statement, but didn’t speak.

  “And also understand that poaching will be a serious crime shortly,” Wakely spoke up suddenly.

  Penztler was jarred even further off center. He had apparently forgotten about her in his concentration on Jessica.

  Jessica watched him mouth the word without speaking it.

  Poaching?

  “Poaching,” Wakely repeated firmly. “Fleet Centurion Keller has purchased and transported to Thuringwell several herds of livestock intended to expand the local food supplies. Those herds are privately owned, but will be managed for the good of the colony.”