by Blaze Ward
She had even brought out her father’s old, battered briefcase with the leather–clad metal sides, filled with paper documents. It was older than she was, and dated to him first purchasing Seventh Son.
Merryn was aiming for a particular look today, although she was not sure if the effort would be wasted. On many worlds, looking like the upper–class widow of an important businessman frequently deflected the inherent sexism of Imperial men by playing on their own perceptions of nobility and rank, as well as their upbringing.
If you didn’t know who a woman was related to, you dared not insult her, at least not in public.
It frequently worked.
Today, was a different story. Nobody had a handle on the new Governor.
Redyert had dutifully applied for a license to bring in a shipment of very specific repair and replacement parts for office equipment and consumer goods. The humdrum things that kept the lights on and the comms working. Infrastructure nobody noticed until it failed.
And it would, without regular maintenance.
The Governor, Lady Wakely Okafor, had summoned Merryn instead of Ulaffson to a meeting in her office.
Again, Merryn wondered if the man had really been a spy all these years. She could never ask him, or anybody else, but it would explain many things in a more satisfactory manner than him just being a cutthroat business type moving fast and settling old scores.
There was enough of that going around these days as well.
The front of the State Building had been repaired. The damage had been largely confined to the third through fifth floors. Merryn could only tell because she had seen pictures from the fighting and knew where to look for fresh paint and occasional dimples filled in.
To get here, she had already walked through two checkpoints. Both were friendly, but the men and women manning them left no doubt how serious they could be if pushed.
And the front of the building was guarded by a pair of tanks, crouched like the stone lions wealthy families occasionally sat on either side of the front walkway. Big, weathered, and mean–looking.
The guards at this door went through her briefcase as well as subjecting her to a thorough and hands–on search. Again, friendly and polite, but professionally paranoid.
Very much not fooling around.
The elevator quickly whooshed her to nearly the top of the building. There were more guards here. At the same time, there was also a range of office workers, all heads down typing, or talking quietly on comm sets.
Merryn was a few minutes early, but was quickly ushered into the Governor’s office.
Again, a radical change, where she might have previously been kept waiting by the former Mayor or Governor for an hour, for no other purpose than to establish her place in the pack hierarchy of Yonin society.
Or perhaps, she had been upgraded. Aquitaine was a society that saw eye to eye on the sexes. Maybe just being a woman here had gotten her in the door. If so, she would need to play that for all it was worth.
There was the potential for amazing profit in the chaos and fog of war. Redyert had seen it, if he hadn’t instituted it.
The new Governor looked just like her pictures, but they failed miserably to convey the depths and strength of the woman behind them. She was a few shades darker than the former mayor of Yonin in skin. And her centimeter–long ringlets were just starting to turn gray along the bases and edges in a way that somehow conveyed majesty and intellect on a body that still looked like she spent several days a week in the gym.
Certainly her hands and arms were stronger than Merryn’s, but Merryn generally only worked the machines aboard Seventh Son just enough to stay in shape.
Governor Okafor was in better shape than Imperial women half her age, Merryn concluded. All of them. And many of the men.
Merryn wondered what that said about the Admiral overhead. Jessica Keller also had a reputation as being a hard woman, a warrior at least the equal of the best of the men.
She must be an ogre.
Merryn sat and steeled herself.
The fencing started with Tea.
Not tea, but Tea.
One lump only. A soft dollop of cream. Darkest black brew. Steam billowing off both cups.
Blow on it a bit to cool it. Sip as quietly as possible, eyes never leaving eyes across the desk, but otherwise silence.
Waiting.
Imperial society would fill the vague space with generalities of weather and health. Futile chatter designed to obscure the fact that nothing was actually being said. Long minutes of time wasted that might be more usefully dedicated to commerce in its myriad forms.
But Merryn was also accustomed to waiting in antechambers for stupid amounts of time.
The Governor was unlike any politician she had ever met. Or bureaucrat.
Okafor pounced.
“I have a bid from Herr Ulaffson Redyert to make a run across the new Imperial border to the Imperial planet of Kittras,” she said suddenly, jarring Merryn from her idle lethargy. “A shipment that requires, requires mind you, the vessel Seventh Son, and no other.”
Merryn managed not to choke on the sip of tea in her mouth.
Suck it in carefully. Swirl it around to cool it, regardless of the heat damage. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes down. Swallow before engaging. Breathe before choking.
Merryn managed to look innocent and surprised when she looked up.
She hoped.
“So he proposed, when I met him for dinner last week,” she replied neutrally. “Even a colony as small as Thuringwell would suffer unexpected economic damage if they tried to shift hardware paradigms so quickly.”
Hopefully, innocent enough. Nothing whatsoever about smuggling. Not that there was much need to smuggle if the merchandise on the manifest was so valuable. Just pack in as much as you could possibly hold and use it to print money here.
“I find it interesting that he requires the one ship in this entire sector owned and commanded by a woman to handle this task,” the Governor countered.
Another sip. Swallow. Buy time.
“One of only three I know of in the Fribourg Empire,” Merryn evaded.
“So I surmise, Sri Teke,” Okafor purred. “Does that make you more or less reliable as an Imperial citizen?”
Do not react. Do not flinch. Remember to breathe. You have not just been caught with your hand in the cookie jar unless you let them think so.
“I have not ever known a home beyond the hull of Seventh Son, Governor,” Merryn shot back, hoping she sounded confident and not panicked. “I was born aboard her, and with luck, will have children someday that I can pass her on to when I want to retire, as my father planned.”
Imperial world? Republic world? Who’ll be nicest to an old lady who hopefully has a lot of money put away?
Merryn made a note to withdraw a significant chunk of her personal savings from the Imperial Bank at Kittras and convert it to something she could deposit in a Republic bank against future need. Maybe third–party bearer bonds from one of the fringe empires.
Thuringwell had stopped being a quiet backwater where she could make her usual margins with very little risk.
“So you might be amenable to regular runs to Kittras?” the Governor asked lightly. “There would of course be complications, but even in a war–zone, commerce must continue.”
Merryn still felt like a cockroach in the middle of the kitchen floor when the lights came on, frantic to scurry for the corner.
“I think we should consider a single run, Madame Governor,” Merryn managed. “After that, we can reassess our options.”
Like running like hell for the Imperial interior and never, ever looking back. Or maybe Aquitaine’s. Girls were still treated better on Ladaux than St. Legier. The commoners, anyway.
“And when Imperial Security asks you to be a spy, Sri Teke?” Okafor fired back. “Then what?”
As if Aquitaine won’t make the same demand? With the same outcomes?
Merryn did not chok
e on her tea. She was a little more prepared now.
She smiled. Light at the end of the tunnel.
“Hopefully, the profit will be too great to consider it,” she purred in turn. “After all, those are the sorts of things that disgruntled citizens undertake.”
“Yes,” the Governor agreed with a shark’s smile. “There have been rumors and innuendo about yourself and Sri Redyert being bandied about. I chalk them up to sour grapes, now that it’s possible the wyrm has turned and Thuringwell faces a much more interesting future.”
Merryn managed not to sputter. Her tea cup barely shook. Okafor was watching her like a hawk.
“Yes,” she agreed after a too–long beat. “Sour grapes, I’m sure.”
“I thought as much,” the Governor said, rising and holding out her hand. “I look forward to doing business with you, Sri Teke. At least as much as you’re willing to undertake.”
Merryn was never sure how she managed to get out of the room alive and not in custody. Most of it was a blur. Smiles, and nods, and words. Down an elevator. Out into the street. Down several blocks on autopilot.
Order a shandy from a yard–side bar she had frequented over the years. Someplace with honest booze at honest prices and a quiet booth in the back where the waitress would deliver a glass and go away.
How much did they know? And if I’m about to be hung, who’s buying the rope?
Chapter XLII
Imperial Founding: 174/07/05. Backcountry, Thuringwell
It required every element of skill and luck Fraser had accumulated in the last four years to get this close.
He really missed Eli right now. Her skill. Her savvy. Her instinct for when to freeze and spend an hour pretending to be a particularly ugly tree, just before an Imperial patrol wandered by without realizing it.
With all of Thuringwell as a hiding place, just finding Haussmann’s forces was enough of a problem. Doing it without them realizing it was another level of difficulty.
Doing it while gathering up the fragments of the various liberation fronts was even harder.
Very few of his people had turned themselves in to Admiral Keller. Fleet Centurion Keller.
That woman.
The rest had stuck with him. As other teams had disintegrated, and largely snuck back into town, a few had filtered in and joined him, men he trusted, or who were closely vouched for. Long–serving rebels.
There would be no more new recruits joining. Anybody trying now was either a spy or an Imperial patriot with foolish delusions about what Fraser was really up to.
He rested now, just on the lee of a ridge, with Conrad and Roald on either side of him. To an outsider, it would have been impossible to describe what he was doing.
Watching. Smelling.
Knowing.
They had found human tracks in the forest.
There were always tracks, generally from lone hunters. Occasionally from other liberation teams. Nowadays, even hoof prints from Republic patrols.
Truly, hoof prints.
These were different. Not amateur, but certainly not people gifted in forest craft. Hunters in the deep green, rather than those used to being hunted. Arrogant and dominating, rather than submitting to the will of the trees to hide.
Fraser considered just how far he had come from that first week he’d spent in the wilderness after Jeannine was killed. A city boy from the slums, barely educated by Imperial standards, eking out a life on a mining contract, far from home, with only his wife to keep him on track.
Now he was surrounded by a family he had assembled. Other survivors who looked to him to keep them alive.
Could he really demand that they potentially throw their lives away on one last raspberry?
It was forty men and women, taking on hundreds. Worse, two score intending to attack hundreds, not trying to escape.
Actively pursuing Imperial Security forces. And he had found them. Down there, below.
It wasn’t obvious to the average person. Fraser had developed a third eye for these things. Eli had been born with it.
Haussmann was down there.
The maps would tag the valley as an old, played–out mine, thin to begin with and abandoned when the seams petered out. Sure, there was still ore to be had, but Thuringwell had so many places where it was easier to get at, and a Duke who really only wanted enough peons digging to support his lifestyle. At least the grandfather had been that way.
The next two generations were even greater dandies, spending most of their lives at Court and living on the rents their Households produced.
Aquitaine would never grasp what was down there. The tailing piles would tell a singular story, one of rust and despair. The two holes in the side of the mountain were nothing more than eye sockets in a hollowed out skull found by the side of the road.
But tracks had led to sensors mounted on trees. And Conrad had been an electronics tech in his previous life. He knew where to tickle the little bugs to get them to give up their secrets without crying for help.
Sensors led to communications lasers. Quiet, serene, invisible, right up until you found them and recognized them. Then they turned into searchlights illuminating the night.
It had taken a week to get this far with the entire team. Two people could have done it in two days, but it took time blinding the right sensors and creeping under them, like thieves in the night.
And there was still the entire valley below. The monstrous mouths of the mine, those eyes in the side of the mountain, were distant little holes from here, fifteen kilometers away.
Fraser assumed minefields and weapon emplacements below him. Anyone getting this close was certain of where they were going and would need to be engaged with force. Briefly, he considered digging out a telescope to see if he could get a better view, but his soul had already recognized the place.
Megiddo, if you will.
Was he really going to go down there and get himself killed? Was he about to ask all of his closest comrades to die with him?
Was he utterly deranged?
Fraser looked over at Roald Dreyfuss, laying close by and watching the sky and trees with a close eye. He was a former mucker from the same mine that Conrad had fled. A man of few words but quality deeds.
Roald stared back at him now. It was a calm look. Not placid in the way of cattle or sheep, but simply waiting.
Calm, but there was anger hidden carefully away, awaiting expression when the moment arrived, as it had not yet. This was a man with a cross to bear, and an axe to grind. Intelligent brown eyes attested to that.
Roald wasn’t here because his Captain had ordered him. He was here because his Captain needed him.
Fraser suddenly realized that he would see the same thing if he turned the other way and asked Conrad the same, silent question. Or the rest of the team, hidden carefully down the slope and waiting for his words.
This was the other burden of command. These men and women would be willing to die for him, because they knew he would be at the forefront of the charge, striving to make the world, the galaxy, a better place.
And he wasn’t about to throw away those lives on a pointless act of suicidal defiance. Not when there was another way. A better way.
Fraser nodded.
“I’ve seen what I need,” he whispered. “Roald, back us out and away. I need to make a call.”
“To who?” Conrad asked quietly.
“To Keller,” Fraser said. “It’s time she and I talked.”
Chapter XLIII
Imperial Founding: 174/07/05. Imperial Fleet Command, St. Legier
He did not wear his full dress uniform often. Not the one with all the good ribbons, and the loop of braid around his left shoulder. And the sash and the saber.
And Emmerich had never worn this one before.
In the last year and a half, he had lost nearly ten percent of his overall mass, mostly around his belly. More walking to and from his office across the Fleet Conservatory’s large campus, combined with mor
e quiet dinners with his wife and fewer grand banquets with too much food and alcohol.
Emmerich suspected that the Duchess Freya was in league with her cousin–in–law, the Empress, to make him take better care of himself. Certainly, he hadn’t been in this good of shape in decades, regardless of all the exercise he used to get when he was aboard a starship.
He stopped dead as he arrived and took a deep breath.
Em wondered if he would ever command a warship again. He stared hard at the door in front of him as if he could divine his future in the grains of oak.
From this side, a simple wooden panel with a conference room number. But on the other side, his former life. One that might be lost to him forever. Would it be worth existing, if he had to live the rest of his life grounded?
Could he?
Enough. Be The Dread Red Admiral today, regardless of what you might feel. The Empire requires it.
He pressed the old–fashioned latch handle and pushed the door into the room.
Inside, he was the guest of honor. Everyone rose from their places around the long oval table and came to attention. Heels clicked and spines popped as shoulders came back.
Em knew every man in here. They were all his in some manner, either his students and former team members, or men that had been trained by his acolytes.
At the long end of the great table, where the Emperor would sit if he were to join, they had left the space open for Admiral of the Red Wachturm. Twelve captains filled the long sides, with an Admiral of the White at the lower end of the table.
The other Admiral had shaved his head clean as he had gone bald. On some men, the look was a touch pathetic. On this man, it added a level of fierceness to his otherwise pale skin, complemented by green eyes that shown like emeralds.
Admiral Saveliy Kozlov. An exceptional tactician, if a bit linear in his thinking. But that could work, if you had a big enough hammer. Kozlov might.
Without a word, Em grasped the entire strategy and battle plan behind the attempt to liberate Thuringwell from its new–found masters.
