Goddess of War (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 4)

by Blaze Ward

  Keller would grasp that, eventually.

  She would not order it. Would never demand it.

  She would even understand it. Had done it herself.

  She had faced the Goddess of War unleashed.

  “Navigation,” he ordered sharply. “Come right zero–seven–zero, down ten, maintain plane, accelerate to maximum. Acknowledge.”

  If his crew had any doubts, any reservations at all, he could not hear them.

  But then, they would not be on his deck if they did.

  This was a warship, a vessel dedicated to War.

  “Acknowledged, Shivaji,” the man replied promptly. “Zero–seven–zero, down ten, maintain bow plane, maximum acceleration.”

  And it was good.

  “Defense Centurion,” Alber’ continued. “We are the Light Brigade. Half a league, half a league, half a league onward…You will shield us into the valley of death.”

  “Acknowledged, Commander,” the man just ahead of Bösch said with a lilting challenge in his voice.

  “Gunnery Centurion,” Alber’ concluded. “We are Achilles, challenging Hector himself before the high walls of Ilium. Your strong, bronze sword will guide us.”

  “Roger that, Achilles,” the woman just before him on the left called over her shoulder without ever looking up from her screens.

  Alber’ d’Maine looked over the bridge of Shivaji and smiled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said quietly, by way of fiery speech to rouse his troops. “Charge.”

  This vessel was not just a ship of war.

  Today, she was its Avatar.

  Chapter XC

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 Somewhere, Thuringwell

  Crop–dusting didn’t seem to be working any more. Or maybe Gaucho had dusted all the crops that were willing to lay there and take it.

  They had started getting fussy.

  And smart.

  Nobody had popped out in while, but shots kept chipping away at his log.

  Gaucho had come to appreciate Takouhi hiding behind trees they had just knocked over, all wet and much less likely to burn. She was leaving smoke around them as she put potshots into downers that had dried out over the winter.

  That just made the field even weirder, as a fake bar–fog rolled over everything else and blurred details. Fortunately, there were just enough branches and crap overhead that nobody would get a really good wicket run going and pitch a grenade this far, nor bowl one across the bumps and holes between here and there.

  Apparently, his loadmaster knew her shit.

  But he already knew that.

  Movement drew his eye, kinda back in the trees a little. Gray on blue, maybe.

  Somebody had just come out from behind a great big tree, moving like moss growing.

  Gaucho would have missed him but for already staring that way and watching shapes do unnatural things.

  As he watched, the guy over there pulled a big, gnarly, black tube up from his side and rested it on his shoulder.

  Missile launcher.

  Loaded even. Gaucho could see the orange warhead when it was suddenly pointed right at him.

  The guy flipped out the little view–finder glass and started tracking.

  About that point, Gaucho broke out of his stasis and realized he was about to be hit with an anti–tank missile.

  He brought his pistol up and fired.

  A shot exploded about head–high on the tree beside the guy over there, but that one was kneeling.

  Gaucho pulled the trigger a second time and nothing happened.

  He looked at the gun in his hand.

  The little red charge marker had popped out to warn him he was out of shots and needed to change clips.

  Over there, the guy had recovered from his flinch and lined things up.

  Gaucho could see a laser line connecting his little bolt hole with the launcher on the guy’s shoulder.

  Time stood still.

  Gaucho was still stuck in flying squirrel mode, crop–dusting and maneuvering.

  All he could think of at this moment were sudden power lines.

  Crap.

  Chapter XCI

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 SC Auberon. Above Thuringwell

  “Repeat that, Enej,” Jessica said sharply, unsure she had processed his words properly the first time. There was a great deal going on around her on the Flag Bridge. She might have missed something.

  Enej took a breath and looked down at his own screens before proceeding.

  “Shivaji has broken formation, Fleet Centurion,” he said again. “He has turned inwards towards the Imperial formation and begun to accelerate.”

  Jessica wanted to curse. To rail. To spit and claw and bite.

  It was bad enough in the old days when Jouster had done stupid things like this. Pilots were supposed to be crazy and invincible, it was practically in the job description. At least Jouster had to deal with his own headaches these days from Bitter Kitten and Furious.

  But Alber’ d’Maine was supposed to be more rational that that.

  Jessica laughed, mostly to herself.

  And then, louder, at the entire situation.

  Her, here, calling him crazy.

  It made a nice symmetry.

  “Bring him up on my main projection,” she said simply.

  There wasn’t a lot that could be said now. Alber’ had made his choice. Knowing him, he was adamantly committed and his entire crew with him.

  Willing to go past the Gates of Hell itself, if necessary.

  They were like that.

  His face appeared, calm, composed. Only the fire in his eyes betrayed him as she studied the projection.

  “Thermopylae, Command Centurion?” she asked briefly, taking him all the way back to the ancient Hellenes that undergirded so much of modern Aquitaine.

  “Horatius, Fleet Centurion,” he replied with a smile and slight shake of his head, equally calm, equally quiet.

  Silent moments passed. There was nothing to say.

  Alber’s eyes were dark green. Jessica wasn’t sure she had ever stared at him long enough and hard enough to register the color. If fire could be dark, his green eyes were lit right now with black fire.

  “Squadron, this is Keller,” she raised her voice loud enough to rattle it off the far walls of her Flag Bridge. “All vessels, priority override. Launch all available missiles and retarget all beams at the Imperial frigates and fighter escort. Shivaji is sailing into the wind and we must open her a passage.”

  Around her, very quietly, cheers. Perhaps they were just coming across the comms, and not from her own staff.

  She would not look. She would not ask.

  “Thank you, Fleet Centurion,” Alber’ said once.

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter XCII

  Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Thuringwell Orbit

  Clearly, Aquitaine had gone mad.

  Saveliy Kozlov could think of no other explanation.

  One moment, a standard, starboard pass between battle lines. Predictable, rational.

  Normal.

  The next, that damnable Heavy Cruiser, the tormentor of his Fleet Carriers, the reason he had fallen so far this day, was turning towards him and charging across his bow, like a wild bull seeing a red sweater.

  At the same time, the entire Aquitaine fleet opening up with everything they had, like a blizzard, but all of it focused on his line of escorts. There was not a single enemy weapons lock on any one of his cruisers. Only that doubly–damned Survey Cruiser so much as looked at the anchors of the Imperial fleet.

  And it wasn’t even the entire warfleet charging him.

  Just Shivaji.

  A lone wolf. A maddened bull.

  Kozlov rechecked the flight vectors on a secondary screen, but Shivaji was not on a collision course. That might have at least made the commander’s behavior marginally understandable.

  This was utter madness.

  And Kozlov’s own cruisers
were out of position to help, trailing behind him when Shivaji looked to cross his bow at high speed. Plus, the frigates were suddenly concentrated on stopping a barrage of missiles that threatened to shadow the sun.

  This would be a slightly–damaged battleship against a newcomer heavy cruiser.

  Insanity.

  “All vessels,” Saveliy called. “Continue defensive measures against the missiles. Retarget all Primary beams for the heavy cruiser and fire as you range.”

  Green lights started to come on around his main screen as vessels acknowledged his new orders.

  He would kill Shivaji first, and then he would come back for Auberon.

  Chapter XCIII

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 Somewhere, Thuringwell

  For a city boy, Vo was beginning to relax around trees. Shevi seemed to appreciate low branches and generally managed to pick the side of the tree least likely to dump Vo on his ass.

  Somewhere, he had gotten separated from the rest of First Lance and Dash. Aoibhín was around here from the calls, but the trees echoed strangely, so he couldn’t tell from where she was sounding her horn.

  That might be on purpose. It would certainly unnerve most folks, especially if they had no idea how many squadrons of cavalry were coming for them.

  Scout Patrol must be close to the Imperial troops. Vo could hear the sudden eruption of brush carbines, that flat crack of a bullet going hypersonic at half a meter, and then slamming into something solid not far away.

  But at the same time, he was completely alone.

  Nothing moved in his line of sight except trees and smoke.

  Weird.

  Shevi cantered around another tree and Vo saw the red wall of Cayenne’s shoulder where she had plowed a furrow in the valley floor, pushing a small wall of dirt and rocks in front of her.

  It was like he was in a bubble as silence fell everywhere.

  White smoke. Blue shadows. Brown bark. Green leaves.

  A quick chirp on his right turned Vo’s head.

  A head popped up from behind a log, wearing a battered, old cowboy hat over a bald pate, with a ginger handlebar mustache, looking to one side.

  Gaucho.

  Vo smiled and heeled Shevi in that direction.

  Gaucho fired a shot into the trees on Vo’s right, and then pulled his trigger on a depleted pack. That model pistol was lousy for visual cues when it was empty. Vo preferred a different maker, who had added a bar that popped from the top of the pistol telling you needed to reload.

  Battles got messy. It was useful to not have to turn the gun sideways to realize why it wasn’t shooting.

  Gaucho cursed.

  Vo realized that the man was trying to shoot something back in the trees, and was out of charge.

  Vo spotted movement.

  A man kneeling on one knee. A missile launcher deployed on his shoulder.

  Targeting lock.

  Forty meters.

  Shadows.

  Man–thick trees for cover.

  Shevi was moving at a rising canter that threatened to break out into a full gallop. Vo had one hand in a death–grip on the saddle horn, and was desperately trying to hold his right hand steady with the revolver as his damned horse decided to take matters into his own hands.

  When in doubt, empty the clip. Thank you, Navin.

  Vo fired six shots as quickly as he could pull the trigger. He dropped the pistol, knowing the annoying lanyard connecting the handle and his belt would keep it dangling without falling to the ground.

  Shevi was at a full charge now. And there were trees coming.

  Vo reached down and drew that nasty saber from the saddle scabbard, feeling like a Mongol hordesman.

  The world silently lit up white and dumped him on his ass.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter XCIV

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 CAX Shivaji. Above Thuringwell

  “Time?” Alber’ asked the room, as if there was any doubt in his mind.

  This was battle. His instincts were true. His crew had come to that highest place with him, the plane of pure battle.

  He was Achilles. Hector stood across the shield wall from him.

  “Sixty seconds to Point Alpha, Shivaji,” the Science Officer called from her corner. “We are beginning to suffer ranging fire from the escorts, but we are well ahead of their line and most shots will be soft at this distance.”

  Alber’ nodded.

  It was one thing to charge directly into the middle of an enemy warfleet, daring them to shoot him with everything they had. It was an entirely different proposition, and much smarter, to blast across the Imperial’s bow at high speed, a tigershark attacking a killer whale.

  Shivaji would suffer a terrible mauling, just from the amount of destruction a battleship could vomit forth, especially against someone swimming across the longest arc of his Primaries. If Alber’ was wrong, the rest of the Imperial fleet would pile on and pummel him into the sort of flaming wreck Rajput had been, after First Ballard.

  But they were counting on a simple heavy cruiser. A Founder–class vessel, designed for exceptionally long cruises in comfort, as prepared for diplomacy and scientific exploration as for warfare. In her youth, a vessel remarkably similar to the Flag Cruiser at the far end of the Imperial line right now.

  Alber’ wondered if anyone over there had noticed that he had not fired a single missile during the entire battle.

  He had none.

  The tubes had all been removed, along with all the storage for the ammunition.

  In its place, a whole group of decks had been cut out, with a wall of auxiliary power reactors and banks of capacitors and batteries put in, all wired to the new dorsal turret that First Lord wanted put through its paces.

  And even those were not enough for what Alber’ had planned. He was confident his engineering staff could get him six shots before something got so overheated that he would have to shut it all down. The cooling fins could only handle so much heat before they melted.

  He would be dangerously close to that limit.

  But he was Achilles, standing before the gates of Ilium, challenging Hector to single combat.

  There would be no Patroclus, nor Paris.

  Only Shivaji and Varga.

  And at this speed, he doubted there would be time for more than six shots, anyway.

  “Engineering,” Alber’ called loudly, as though Priam needed to hear this as well. “Stand by.”

  Alber’ took a deep breath and pulled it into himself.

  Live by the sword, bronze though it may be.

  “Gunnery,” he continued. “Fire the Type–4 beams as you bear and reload. Hold for the command to fire again.”

  Centurion Lauma Ikeda turned her head to look at him and nodded. She had killed a light cruiser, once upon a time. She had been with him since she earned her first broken stripe, a young cornet fresh from school.

  She was his sword arm now.

  Perhaps, she was another Goddess of War.

  He seemed to collect them.

  “Firing One,” she said, pressing a single blue button on her console without looking, eyes locked with his.

  The entire bridge dimmed significantly and hummed loudly for nearly a second, before everything returned to normal.

  “Firing Two,” she continued.

  Again, Shivaji’s entire soul cried out, a sound that ground its way down into his own.

  “Navigation, maintain turret arc, but begin evasive maneuvering,” Alber’ commanded. “Defense, we will have everyone’s attention now. Gunnery, cycle the Primaries as they bear.”

  Chapter XCV

  Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Thuringwell Orbit

  Saveliy Kozlov had not known that it was possible for the hull of a battleship to ring like a bell. They were built too solidly.

  Varga still did.

  At least he had been prepared for madness. For Keller. For her devious Weapons Technician and the things she had
done at the Battles of Petron and Ballard.

  With no other incoming risks, every erg of power had been routed into the shield facing as the cruiser charged.

  The shot had still gotten through.

  Some fool, some maniac, had actually mounted Type–4 beams on a warship? Station–grade firepower, designed to range beyond Primaries and engage hostile warfleets from a point of superiority?

  The first one alone had nearly kicked in the shield. The second had finished the job. But for the reinforcements, there might be a perfectly round hole all the way through Varga on a diagonal right now, like the entry and exit of a bullet through soft flesh.

  “Maneuver, damn you,” he cried, uncaring who executed the command. “Shear off and roll.”

  Anything to bring a new shield facing to bear, and to get some distance before the cruiser could repeat herself. Another of those volleys and he might not make it out of this system alive.

  The proud sound of Primaries and the weaker tone of the Type–3 beams suddenly seemed like three–day–old kittens batting at a ball, rather than supremely dangerous implements of war.

  On his screen, Shivaji began to rotate on her axis, but that was Varga twisting like a crocodile onto her left flank to protect her savaged nose. At least Varga’s own fire was getting home.

  Shivaji lit like rime–fire under the hail of energy.

  “Where’s Keller?” Kozlov turned to his sensors officer.

  “Maintaining her line, Admiral,” the man replied. “Beginning to open fire on our escort line and apparently ignoring the battle line completely.”

  Of course she would ignore him. At Ballard, she had crushed Wachturm’s escorts as a surprise appetizer before going after his heavier vessels, a pattern than had made no sense, until you knew what she had done next.

  Saveliy Kozlov had no intention of being next.

  “All vessels, this is Admiral Kozlov,” he ordered. “Down seventy and maximum acceleration. Rendezvous at Point Seventeen and prepare to withdraw from the system. Aquitaine will hold the field.”

  Varga rocked again, and the entire room went dark for nearly four seconds, lit only by emergency strips and consoles along the wall.