by Evan Currie
Imperial Palace
“Your Highness, the Eighth and Third Fleets have departed orbit.”
Emilia tilted her head regally. “Thank you, Geral. You may go.”
The man bowed slightly and departed, leaving her alone with her thoughts as she looked up at the night sky.
There was too much illumination from the local city for her to see the dim, reflected light of even a pair of significant fleets as they left orbit, but she imagined that she could see them all the same. When she was younger, Emilia had wanted to captain one of those vessels and see the majesty of the Imperial Domain from the point of view of one of her guardians.
Those were the thoughts of someone with fewer responsibilities, however, and they had died when . . . well, they were not thoughts she had kept long for herself.
Shepherding the Empire was not a job for dreamers.
Too many evils existed in the universe, evils that would tear apart everything built by the Empire at the slightest provocation. Xeno came in many forms. Some, she had discovered early, were a far cry from the monstrosity of the Drasin.
The truly insidious evils were masked in the appearance of humanity.
Emilia’s eyes lit with an inner fire as she turned from the balcony and made her way back into the royal chambers, ignoring the baths and attendants to instead cross to the copy of the local Imperial command and control center; it was smaller than the actual center but equally powerful.
The holographic image of the galaxy floated placidly at the center of the room, deceptive in its peaceful appearance. She reached out her hands and casually caused the image to move, to focus in on the arm of the galaxy that held Imperial space. As she did, the white light of the galactic stellar furnaces changed to the strategic map of the Empire and its neighbors.
Imperial purple, Her Majesty’s color, covered hundreds of stars, thousands truly, but only a fraction of those counted, of course. The pocket empires she had set Jesan Mich after glowed a sickly yellow in dotted spaces around the periphery of Imperial space. Just worlds that the Empire had not bothered to take firmly under its control.
Emilia hated those pocket empires. The very word itself was insulting to the power and majesty of the true Empire, but they were too useful to do away with. Her father had known this, and his father before him, as did all her line back to very nearly the beginning. The existence of humanity that was nonaffiliated with Imperial control gave the Starsbane Empire a useful lever with which to control people.
It was amazing how easily convinced the people were that some minor star system a thousand light-years away was the true source of their problems. It would make her sad for the state of human intelligence but for the fact that such beliefs were so very useful.
Useful fools, she thought. Waving flags and chanting Imperial propaganda.
Emilia took a breath.
The pocket empires were not her concern at the moment.
Instead she cast her gaze to the green and red lights that sparsely dotted a section of space she’d come to know better than she had ever wished.
Oather space.
The Oather green disgusted her in a different way than the nonaffiliated yellow. The pocket empires were a useful tool, but really they were Imperial in all ways that truly mattered. Born of Imperial colonies unfortunately cut off during early periods, they’d grown somewhat independently, but at their cores they were still as much Imperial as they had been when their ships were dispatched by the young and growing politic of the day.
The Oathers, the traitors, were another matter.
“Show me the Oather space,” she said softly, her expression darkening as the stars shifted abruptly, now centered around the world the Oathers called Ranquil.
Treason.
“Calmly now, Daughter.”
Emilia twisted, surprised by the voice despite all the years and experience she had dealing with the source. She settled quickly and smiled. “Father.”
The large, broad-shouldered man smiled down at her with a paternal air as he stepped up from behind, looking over her head to the floating map.
“You must be calm,” he said again, repeating an old remonstration. “Anger must serve you. You must never serve anger.”
“I know, Father,” she said softly, feeling small in the shadow of the former emperor. “It is hard, though. I wish you had not left all of this in my hands.”
“I gifted the Empire to you precisely because I knew you could handle the responsibilities that it would require,” he told her warmly.
His eyes drifted to the green lights that connoted the positions of known Oather worlds and the red that indicated the areas where their patrols had spotted Drasin activity.
“Great though those responsibilities may be . . .”
Emilia’s eyes followed his to the red lights, and she shivered. “We should have left them buried in their graves.”
“Possibly,” he conceded. “However, they are generation limited, and that makes them a minor threat. I am more concerned with them.”
Emilia didn’t need to follow his eyes to know that he was staring at the single orange dot that showed the home star of the species her commanders had labeled the “anomalous” group. The Empire had little information on them, and what did exist made almost no sense. She was experienced enough in matters of military policy and tactics to know that much.
That they existed so close to Oather space was originally thought to mean that they were some splinter colony from the original traitors. Distasteful, but vaguely understandable.
That remained a possibility, but Helena’s words refused to leave Emilia. Deep in her heart, Emilia knew that they were not Oathers.
“Xeno,” she whispered, lips curling in disgust while a tremor passed through her.
“Perhaps,” her father intoned deeply. “Perhaps. And if so, they will be cleansed from the galaxy. That is holy writ.”
Emilia nodded in agreement.
It would not be the first time the Empire had encountered Xenoform in human skin, but it had been a long time ago. Long enough that, though she had been brought up on the stories of such days, Emilia had believed them to be just that: stories.
The shock of Helena’s postulation had left her stunned for a time, like a blow from a hammer that caused all the pieces of a puzzle to fall into place. Emilia would make certain of her suspicions before she acted precipitously, but she knew that if it were true, then there would be no choice.
“Holy war.”
“Burn them from the galaxy,” her father agreed.
Chapter 5
Hauraki Gulf, Auckland, New Zealand
Skimming the waves of the gulf at just under the speed of sound, a rooster tail of water sucked up into the air by its passing, the small craft flew just a dozen feet off the deck as it threaded the needle between Waiheke and Ponui Islands, pursued by a dozen other similar craft. Coming out of the bank, the vehicle stabilized quickly in ground effect and increased speed.
The crack of a sonic boom echoed across the water as the craft and pursuers headed straight for Browns Island at Mach 1 and climbing. Skimming along the south coast, they turned north and settled into a course for Islington Bay, between the two islands of Motutapu and Rangitoto.
In the second craft back from the lead, hands were gripping the throttle and stick with white-knuckle force as the pilot glared at the tail of the lead.
“They’re getting away from us!”
“Shut up. I’ve got this!”
The group of skimmers blasted into the narrow bay at reckless speeds, the water rapidly vanishing from either side as the bay narrowed and the two islands loomed closer on either side.
“Tee! Tee! Goddamn it, Tyke, what the hell are you doing? We’re going to be off the water in seconds!”
“I know where we are,” the pilot snapped back. “Get ready to give me everything we’ve got!”
“You already have everything we’ve got!”
The pilot scoffed. “I know yo
u’re holding something back, Jack! I need it!”
“If we blow this engine, it’s the last one we’ve got!”
“Three seconds!”
“Tee!”
“Two!”
The craft passed over the floodplain of a small river, sand and dirt flashing past a few feet under them as the looming terrain rushed in on either side. Ahead there was the curve leading into the causeway between the two islands.
The lead craft blasted through the eye of the needle, the boom of its passing shaking dirt and stones from the shoreline as the craft slowed and cut into a hard bank.
“One!”
“Damn you! Fine!”
The engines howled as more power poured into them, the craft screaming ahead faster than ever as it left the rest of the pack.
“Tee . . . Turn! Turn! Trees! Trees!”
The pilot ignored the frantic screams, focusing on the pitch of the land rising out of the sea and the trees directly in front of them as they cut off the corner and barreled straight into the peninsula that jutted out between the two islands. The nose of the craft tipped back and they clawed for the sky.
“This is a ground effect racer, you lunatic! We can’t actually fly!”
“Fly, jump, it’s a fine line.”
The sky wobbled terrifyingly in front of them as the racer arced over the trees, gaining several hundred feet of altitude off the initial boost before it topped out and began a downward trajectory off the parabola they’d begun. The horizon rushed up alarmingly, bringing the water of the gulf with it and then the ground and trees of the Rangitoto Island Preserve.
Nose down, engine screaming, the racer then added gravity to its acceleration and began increasing speed precariously as the trees rushed up to meet them. At the last second, the pilot yanked the nose back, skimming the trees close enough to hear them scrape the craft’s sides on the way by. They exploded out over the gulf at Mach 1.3 and still accelerating as the reinforced bottom of the racer contacted the water and bounced.
The entire craft slammed and shook as their downward velocity was forcibly but efficiently redirected forward over the gulf and the throttle was thrown full power for the last stretch.
“I think we shook something loose,” the pilot said calmly, fighting to control the wobbling craft.
“You think?! You THINK?!”
The engineer swore, continuously repeating epithets while furiously trying to find and repair the problem before it got them killed.
Twin rooster tails of white water exploded from behind as the racer gained on the lead with a steady pace, the finish line in the straits between Shakespear Regional Park and Tiritiri Matangi Island looming ahead.
The craft shook wildly around them, the pilot struggling to hold it together while the engineer worked from the confines of the compartment in the rear to keep the whole thing from flying apart.
“You bent the stabilizer on the port side!”
“Can you fix it?”
“I don’t know! I can’t get to it from here, and there’s no way in hell I can climb out there at Mach!”
“Just hang on! We’re almost there!”
The shuddering racer pulled up alongside the former lead as the finish line appeared ahead of them.
“You need to get a new partner!”
The pilot cackled. “You say that every time!”
“I mean that every time!”
A horn blew in the distance, flares climbing into the air as the pair of racers crossed the line, both throttling back and dropping speed.
“Did we win?”
The pilot didn’t look away from his task, his voice barely audible over the roar of the machine they were within. “I have no idea. Can we put this thing down safely?”
“With a bent stabilizer? Not a chance in hell. Ease us down below Mach, then get us to minimum ground effect speed and I’ll see if I can fix it.”
“Alright, easing down . . . We’re going to drop below in . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .”
The racer shuddered again as it crossed their sonic shockwave and slipped below the speed of sound at sea level, the pilot fighting to keep the vehicle stable as it did. Air pressure shifted as the rear hatch was pushed open and the engineer checked the stabilizer, causing their ears to pop and sending a howling scream through the cockpit.
“Oh shit.”
“What? What’s wrong?” the pilot demanded, risking a glance backward.
“Well, good news is you didn’t bend the stabilizer!”
“What’s the bad news?!”
“There is no port stabilizer!”
For a long moment the only sound was the howling wind through the open hatch.
“Alright, get back up here and buckle in,” the pilot ordered, flipping open the radio call switch. “Coast Guard, Coast Guard, this is race entry Zero Niner declaring an emergency. We’ve lost a hull stabilizer and we’re going to be coming down hard.”
“Roger, Zero Niner, we’re moving into position. Can you hold it long enough to come around to safer waters?”
“Yeah, I think I can . . .”
A radio signal broke in, cutting the pilot off.
“Zero Niner, Tyke,” a voice said. “I might have a better option for you.”
“I know that voice,” Tyke, the pilot, said. “Crown, is that you?”
“No one else would be dumb enough to do what I’m about to,” the voice came back. “Look up.”
Tyke did, eyes widening as a big NACOM shuttlecraft eased into position over the racer, the bottom opening up as it began to drop.
“Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?”
“Just like in the war, Tyke. Keep the throttle steady.”
“Roger that, Stephanos.”
Steph looked far too relaxed behind the controls of the big shuttle, given the loose nature of the guidance system Milla was familiar with, but there was little she could do as they began to settle down over the small craft below and the commander adjusted his navigation by instruments alone.
“Go check and see if Alex got the cables ready,” he said, not looking up from the readings.
Milla nodded nervously, unbuckling her restraints and pushing out of the seat.
She ducked back to the cargo and passenger area, eyes wide as saucers when she saw Commander Black hanging over the edge of the open hole, wind blowing her hair around wildly.
Alex glanced back at her. “We’re all good here!”
Milla nodded, hands shaking as she turned around and grabbed at the fuselage frame and stuck her head back into the cockpit. “She says she’s ready!”
“Then here we go!”
Steph pushed the stick forward, feathering the throttle controls as he did, and the shuttle dropped abruptly as Milla hung on to the doorframe.
This is insanity.
The shuttle’s rudimentary space-time manipulation should have kept her from feeling the drop, Milla knew, so the sensation in the pit of her stomach was either due to her imagination, or Steph was dropping far faster than she would have deemed safe.
Milla had zero intention of confirming which option, if only because she suspected she would not appreciate the knowledge.
“Ease up, Stephanos!” Alex called over the wind. “Almost there!”
Milla risked a glance back into the hold, eyes still wide as she saw the smooth top of the small craft they were pacing appear in the center.
The racer seemed to rise into place, though she knew it was the shuttle dropping, until Alex was able to swing over the hole and hang by her harness as she started snapping tie-downs into place. A few moments later, still hanging over the hole, she threw a thumbs-up back toward Milla and hit the winch to pull the craft into the hold.
“Commander Black is finished,” Milla reported, breathing a sigh of relief as the shuttle began to ease up from the water and fly out over the island that had been looming ahead of them.
She slumped against the door, eyes closed.
Steph chuckled, catching Milla’s attention as he swiveled around to look at her.
“Great fun, isn’t it?”
“When we first met, I assumed all Terrans were crazy,” Milla groaned as she glared at Steph. “I do not know whether to be thankful or not that it’s mostly just you.”
“What the hell was that?”
Tyke chuckled, pushing the canopy up and away as he unbuckled his helmet and pushed it off. “Just an old friend, Jack.”
He nodded to a dark-haired woman in military fatigues as he tossed his helmet back in the seat behind him and climbed out.
“Much obliged for the save, Commander.” He grinned. “Touching down was going to be . . . interesting.”
Jack snorted, casting her own helmet aside with casual disregard. “‘Interesting’ he says. We were going to hit the water at a hundred and fifty klicks and spend the next fifteen hundred meters scattering my baby all over the gulf.”
“Tyke always did understate things.”
They turned to see Steph leaning casually on the bulkhead to the cockpit, smirking in Tyke’s direction.
“Like you should talk, Crown,” Tyke said, hopping over the gap between his racer and the shuttle proper, then walking over to hug Steph.
Steph returned the embrace. “Good to see you, old man.”
“Oh screw you, pipsqueak,” Tyke said, pushing off and clapping Steph on the shoulder.
Alex cleared her throat. “Not to interrupt the touching reunion, but please tell me Chans is qualified to be flying the shuttle?”
Steph brushed off the question with amusement. “She can fly this heap between planets, I’m not worried about her finding her way to Auckland.”
“Who’s Chans?” Tyke asked curiously, not recognizing the name.
“She’s an ithan, a lieutenant, with the Priminae naval fleet,” Steph answered. “Well, a Lieutenant Commander now, with us at least.”
Steph frowned, puzzled. “I never did find out if that promotion carried over to her position with the Priminae. Oh well . . .”
“And she’s qualified on this hunk of junk?” Tyke asked incredulously. “Isn’t this thing a few thousand years obsolete by their standards?”
