Goddess of War (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 4)

by Blaze Ward

  Kozlov found his hands clenched into painfully–tight fists when he could see his officers again.

  “Gunnery,” he growled. “Finish that bastard off before we go.”

  He may not have guns that heavy, but he still had more guns, and that vessel was too close to get away easily.

  If nothing else today, he would kill Shivaji.

  Chapter XCVI

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

  Lane Seven at Simeon was an old friend. Alber’ had flown it any number of times in real life, and hundreds of passes in various simulators in his career.

  When he got home, he would make a case for a new lane, one where a Command Centurion did something as amazingly audacious as attack a battleship with a heavy cruiser.

  And expect to win.

  “Defense Centurion,” Alber’s voice sang across the bridge. “Continue targeting incoming missiles with all of the Type–3 beam emplacements. We’ll use the Primaries and the big guns on Varga.”

  The man glanced back over a shoulder and nodded. Centurion Saša Perko was normally a quiet man. He did not approach his guns like a diamond cutter, as some did, but as a blacksmith. A simple craftsman willing to use brute force when elegance itself wasn’t enough.

  Right now, even words might be too complicated, as Alber’ watched Perko’s hands dance over the console like a pianist exercising Rachmaninoff. All around them, gun crews would be sighting, maneuvering, firing, and repairing the guns as combat wore them out. Centurion Perko managed to hold every target, every vector, and every charging cycle in his head.

  At least the fighters were out of missiles, so they could only fire soft shots into Shivaji’s flank as she had blasted through their formation at high speed. And that, while they themselves were evading all the fire Auberon and her mates were pouring into the line.

  Alber’ even smiled a little.

  It was entirely possible, at this speed, that they would survive this encounter. Not that he had cared one way or the other.

  There was a job to do. And nobody else in the fleet better suited to performing it than the men and women who had chosen to fly with him.

  Varga was moving now, rolling on her side and shifting her bow down and away.

  It was the exact maneuver called for in this situation.

  Textbook.

  Amateur.

  “Gunnery,” Alber’ said quickly as he saw the point of perfection. “I want you to sequence the Primaries first. Let him roll on the hook before you gaff him.”

  Ikeda smiled at him. She looked like a hungry gator meeting a weakened impala in the water.

  “Sequencing,” she replied.

  Some command centurions had all of the Primaries identified by the same tone on the bridge. The vibration and rattles in battle were too fuzzy to help, but a single, bell–clear tone could tell tales. The Type–3s would be a different tone, to help differentiate.

  Alber’ d’Maine did not believe in half–measures.

  Each Primary, and every single beam emplacement, was a different note, separated by a whole step on a keyboard and tuned regularly. Training simulations often sounded like experimental jazz symphonies of a–tonality.

  Today, Shivaji was committing art.

  Perhaps he should think of Centurion Ikeda as a Muse, rather than a war goddess. Melpomene would be honored at the comparison, standing with her deadly sword in one hand as she danced.

  As Shivaji blasted across Varga’s bow, Melpomene sounded her scales, running uphill from the lowest note on the starboard wings to the highest note to port.

  And then two crashing timpanies, terrible thunder to accompany the lightning as the gods themselves took the field.

  Alber’ d’Maine felt like a god. Odin seated on his high throne, watching the entire world, twin ravens at his shoulders as Goddesses of War.

  Beneath him, incoming fire from all directions reminded him of a tide crashing in. He would pay a terrible price for this. They all would.

  But he had made that decision already.

  Sane humans addressed their mortality once, then tried to put it out of mind as much as possible. They wanted to live well.

  Alber’ lived by an entirely different motto.

  You are going to die. Die well.

  For Alber’ and Shivaji, perhaps that meant dying today in such a way that Keller’s grand strategy to unmake the Fribourg Empire took one more solid step to completion.

  He had given his entire life to the practice of war.

  He could give his death to it as well.

  Bridge lights flickered and the hull rumbled briefly, a man–made, metal earthquake.

  Somewhere, a shield had failed, but only at the trailing edge of a bolt.

  Shivaji had been kissed, not backhanded.

  That was coming.

  Had the Imperial Admiral stayed calm, the shields that Shivaji had destroyed on Varga would have disappeared around the curve of the battleship’s prow before Shivaji could fire a second salvo.

  Now, he was rolling too fast for his defense centurions, or whatever they were called, to reinforce the next shield ahead of incoming fire.

  Varga looked like a pig being gutted, but at this speed, they would pass and be gone before Alber’ could gift the man with an apple.

  For the briefest moment, Alber’ even considered turning some, or even rotating his bow backwards to keep firing, but he needed to be gone before the other two cruisers got close enough for their fire to do real damage.

  All of Shivaji’s shield readouts on his screen looked like Varga’s hull metal. Degraded, leaking, and prone to rupture.

  Two more cruisers getting close would finish him off, even with every shield overloaded and set to burn out.

  “Navigation,” Alber’ ordered over the sounds of music. “Redline the engines and get us gone from the field. We can always take our time decelerating later out in the cold darkness.”

  “Acknowledged,” came the call.

  In his bones, Alber’ could feel the ship change. Shivaji herself came to that higher plane he and the crew were inhabiting as they were apparently going to survive this day.

  On the screen, the big turret continued to track as they recharged.

  There should be time for one more shot, Parthian, before battle was broken.

  Melpomene’s sword hung poised.

  Chapter XCVII

  Date of the Republic July 19, 396 Somewhere, Thuringwell

  “You awake?” a voice called from a great distance.

  Vo swam back towards himself and felt like Atlas uplifting the world, just to get his eyes to open.

  Sky.

  Trees.

  Faces.

  Dash. Rebekah. Gaucho. Takouhi.

  “Vo,” Dash said as he started to sit up. “That was the craziest damned thing I have ever seen.”

  Rebekah leaned into his shoulder and helped push him upright.

  He smiled at her as he shifted his butt around and found a rock he could hold down.

  Shevi whickered at him from a few meters away.

  “What happened?” he grumbled.

  The world seemed awfully loud today. And red, but that was Cayenne’s hull in front of him, and not blood leaking down his scalp.

  He hoped.

  Things slowly began to reassemble.

  “Arlo,” Dash continued. “You are not a horseman. We can all agree on that.”

  Vo shrugged. He’d never touched a horse a year ago. He and that stupid gelding got along pretty well, these days.

  “However,” she said. “I have never, ever, seen trick–shooting like that from the saddle.”

  Things were still not coalesced enough to make sense.

  Or maybe she was the one that was not making sense. Dash could be like that.

  “What did I do?” he asked Takouhi.

  She was likely to give him an answer that made sense.

  Takouhi smiled down at him and squatted. It put them on a le
vel when looking up kinda hurt.

  “You shot the guy dead at a dead gallop,” the petite loadmaster said. “You galloping, not him. Well, your horse at a dead charge, and you shooting. And him lining up with a missile launcher to shoot me and Gaucho.”

  “Yeah,” Vo agreed. “Remember that much.”

  “So I presume he was dead and pulled the trigger anyway,” Takouhi continued. “But he was falling forward when he did, and the warhead was already armed.”

  “Yeah?”

  Still not making sense, but hopefully the punchline was funny. He needed a beer.

  And Shevi needed a good currying.

  “So it hit the ground about three meters in front of him and went off,” she said. “Killed the rest of his team, right about the time Scout Patrol got here.”

  “How’d I end up here?”

  Rebekah laughed.

  “I can show you the video, Arlo,” she said with a warm smile. “You dropped the pistol, drew your sword, and slammed face first into a tree branch that knocked you on your ass. The vet and the medic both agree that nothing’s broken.”

  This being a cavalry troop, Vo was more likely to trust the vet, but he wouldn’t say that out loud.

  “Then what?” Vo continued.

  Things were starting to settle back into coherence. Cohort Centurion Rebekah Kim still had her hand on his shoulder, but that didn’t make him twitchy, so maybe it was an okay sign on his part.

  “Forty of them decided they didn’t really want to play rough with ninety of us,” Dash said. “’Specially not with heavy armor kicking the door in. Rounded up the rest and called for the Legate to send backup, but apparently, the idiot Imperial Fleet decided to show up today. Keller’s got her hands full, sky–side, so nobody will worry about us until probably tomorrow.”

  Vo looked up at the blue sky, and wished he could be there with his friends.

  But thne he looked around and realized he already was.

  He let Kim easily pull him upright. She had muscles in places where most girls didn’t even have places.

  And that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Chapter XCVIII

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

  “Last one just jumped, Fleet Centurion,” Enej announced.

  Jessica looked up from the damage reports she had been studying. Auberon could be repaired in the field, but Jessica might have to build a small dry–dock in orbit of Thuringwell to do it. And that might turn into a viable business in a hurry, if she could find enough locals, trustworthy enough to work in it, or recruit folks from back home.

  The fleet could do field repair and replenishment here, instead of heading back to one of Aquitaine’s core systems. And handle civilian vessels in need.

  War by accountants was turning into an even more dangerous place than the one waged by the fighters.

  “Get me d’Maine,” she said simply.

  There had been nothing she could do but watch.

  Shivaji racing across Varga’s sailing line like an impala hunting a rhinoceros, slashing while being gored as the rest of the Imperial fleet dropped down and raced for safety, leaving behind all of the bereft fighters.

  Those pilots had at least had the sense to withdraw to a safe orbit and wait once their commander had decided to flee. There was nothing else they could do once their ride left, except die gloriously in battle.

  Jessica wanted to make them understand the unnecessity of that task.

  Enej routed the image to her primary projector, making Alber’ d’Maine’s head appear nearly a meter tall. There was smoke in the background of his bridge, presumably from an electrical fire somewhere close.

  At some point in the just–ended battle, something burning had either dropped onto the shoulder of his emergency suit, or something else had thrown a hot roostertail of sparks at the man from short range. His face was covered with soot, as well.

  He had a very somber and serious look on his face now.

  “What is your status, Shivaji?” she asked.

  His bridge crew was moving calmly around in the background, and seemed to be in relatively good spirits.

  Kicking an Imperial battleship nearly to death would do that. Especially with people like this.

  “We can fly, Fleet Centurion,” he said proudly, but quietly. “By tomorrow, the JumpSails should be operational enough to get us home.”

  “And the rest?” she asked.

  There was something off in his voice.

  “My Chief Engineer suggests that we would be better served to cut the hull at frames forty–three and eighty–nine in dry–dock, and replace everything between them with new construction,” Alber’ replied phlegmatically. “Both ends are in remarkably good shape, but I melted much of the middle of the warship. The coolant system design could use some rethinking.”

  Jessica knew what the specifications were for the experimental beam installation. She also knew that you were never supposed to fire it six times in that short of time, even if needs must and the devil was driving.

  He had hit Varga square four blows and glanced a fifth off her ass before the big ship had managed to escape.

  Battleships could take a tremendous amount of damage in battle and keep flying. Varga had just proven that. Alber’ d’Maine had just held a master class in how much damage a determined foe could do to a battleship if he didn’t necessarily plan on surviving the battle.

  “Casualties?” Jessica continued.

  Shivaji had been the single point of fire for two battle lines. Even at speed and fog and evasive maneuvering, she had been hammered as she went.

  Alber’ grew deadly serious suddenly.

  “Forty–eight confirmed,” he replied. “Eighteen more likely. One hundred eighty–three on medical report. My First Officer, Senior Centurion Cruz Jo Bösch, was among those killed.”

  Jessica grimaced.

  Bridge hit. That explained the burns on his shoulder and arm. And his solemnity.

  “I’m sorry, Alber’,” she said.

  “Being a Goddess of War does not grant immortality, Fleet Centurion,” the man intoned, sounding like a Dorian priest of a sudden. “Only legend. Cruz’s legend will live on as long as this crew does.”

  Jessica nodded.

  A galling price, but it could have been much, much worse.

  And Auberon still held the field.

  “Stand down and begin repairs in orbit,” she ordered. “We’ll route you home first with the message packet, unless someone else arrives first.”

  “Roger that, Fleet Centurion.”

  And Alber’ d’Maine was gone.

  If he had functionally melted the middle of Shivaji after just one battle, it was likely that the Fleet would not modify any more Founder–class Heavy Cruisers into Super–Heavies. But trust that man to push a weapon up to and beyond the point of breaking.

  At least they knew now. That was money saved over the long term.

  In his own way, Command Centurion d’Maine was just another one like Moirrey. Not comfortable with what was. Always pushing for what could be.

  “Enej,” Jessica said after taking a deep breath. “Put me on the primary Imperial channel in the clear.”

  “Go, Fleet Centurion,” Enej replied.

  He must have already expected the command. But that was his job.

  “Imperial flight squadrons, this is Fleet Centurion Keller,” she said.

  They knew what was coming, but best to remind them. Hammer it home.

  “The battle is over and your carriers have fled,” she continued. “You will land at the starport at Yonin on the planet below and surrender on standard terms for internment and transportation. Any vessels still in orbit in ninety minutes will be considered hostile and destroyed without warning.”

  She cut the signal and twisted her shoulders to the right ninety degrees to pop everything loose. Hopefully, the shock had worn off by now, and the squadron commanders and veteran pilots would nip any p
atriotic stupidity in the bud.

  “Enej,” she said in a quiet voice. “Loop that and follow up with any threats and promises necessary to put it into effect. If they have medical issues, send marines, medics, and a DropShip over and route them eventually down to planet–side hospitals so everyone stays close together.”

  “Roger that,” her Flag Centurion replied.

  Jessica keyed through messages, but there was nothing that she needed to do right now. She keyed a call to the planet.

  Wakely was there instantly.

  “Your Flag Centurion is already making arrangements to take over a local hotel,” her partner in crime said immediately. “What do we do with all the fighter craft themselves?”

  Clearly, Wakely had not spent the last hour worrying about potholes and such.

  Jessica leaned back and thought for a moment. In a regular battle, captured gear was taken home and stripped for parts, nobody wanting to return it to the rightful owner, His Majesty’s Government at St. Legier.

  But that was a military solution.

  Thuringwell had a civilian governor now, appointed Palsgrave by the Senate.

  “Once the pilots land and surrender they are my problem,” Jessica considered out loud. “At that point, one could make a case that the fighters and bombers abandoned on the field could be declared a nuisance and be impounded by the local government.”

  “Sell them to a breaker for parts?” Wakely asked. That was the normal step.

  “Perhaps,” Jessica agreed. “I suspect I know a buyer who might pay well to get them back intact. That would be cash that belonged to Thuringwell’s government.”

  “Back, Keller?” Wakely asked slyly.

  “Anything else we do costs us time and money, Governor,” Jessica replied. “A great deal of both.”

  “That’s insane, Margrave,” Wakely opined. With a very impish smile on her face.

  “Any more insane than invading a hostile planet and expecting to hold it, Palsgrave?”

  “So how do we contact them with such an offer?” Wakely asked after a few moments of intense silence.

  “Seventh Son?” Jessica asked.

  “No,” Wakely said. “Merryn Teke is already across the border into Aquitaine, and is never going back to Fribourg.”