Persephone

by Blaze Ward

  “Thank you,” Veitengruber said, turning the rest of the way and walking back to the main house.

  Andre considered the breeze that was starting to turn chilly. They all lived with fear of failure. Veitengruber was just perhaps closer to it, having been trapped for so long. But he was also a good example of walking forward each day until he escaped.

  Fake it until you make it.

  That was something Andre figured he could do, too.

  Planning the Raid (November 4, 402)

  “Okay, what evil have you two come up with?” a voice intruded.

  Siobhan looked up and grinned at Heather. Felt Trinidad do the same.

  The bridge of Queen Anne’s Revenge was cozy with three people, but Siobhan had wanted to have this conversation away from everyone else. Especially with all the noise outside. And all the racket starting up downstairs.

  She closed the hatch once Heather was clear of the tracks and spun sideways in the captain’s seat. She gestured Ground Control to sit as well, in one of the two jumpseats on the side walls especially for passengers.

  “So we don’t know if they’ll start escorting hospital ships around,” Siobhan began with a small laugh. “They haven’t in the past, but there are all these dangerous pirates running around right now, and Buran’s had enough time to maybe shift some extra Hammerheads into the sector. Anything with guns chases us off at this point.”

  “And Phil and Evan will scout this one pretty hard before committing,” Heather completed the thought. “So either we scrub and run home at that point, or catch them with their pants down.”

  “Yup, so I figure they’ve got one of two options when Persephone suddenly drops out of Jump and orders them to heave to,” Siobhan said.

  “Why Granville?” Heather probed.

  “Option One: the Director over there suddenly has a gunship on his flank and rolls over politely rather than fleeing or fighting,” Siobhan continued. “We’re been hitting various places, but just robbing people, and not committing mass casualties. Maybe they figure they can negotiate with us, or they’re buying time to jailbreak later.”

  “Gotcha,” Ground Control said. “Option Two?”

  “The Director panics and triggers a blind jump, figuring he can get away from a single Imperial cutter trapped inside the gravity well,” Siobhan answered. “Goes random, but not that far.”

  “Except they don’t do random,” Heather said. “They’ll have a Jump planned and programmed into the system, specifically to escape pirates.”

  “Yup, and that’s where I come in,” Stunt Dude entered the fray. “Buran’s predictable. Where’s the first place he’d jump in a hurry?”

  “Straight up, about 20 AU,” Heather smiled suddenly. “Like an armadillo.”

  “Si, Jefe,” Trinidad grinned. “So what happens when he does that and Phil’s sitting right there with 405 and a whole bunch of guns?”

  “You board him, either invited in or just like we did to take Packmule,” Heather grinned back.

  “Yup,” Stunt Dude said.

  “So what if he doesn’t?” Heather turned to Siobhan.

  Lady Blackbeard nodded. That was where it got tricky.

  “Maybe he escapes us,” she replied. “Maybe he flees the system and goes to get help. We’ll be long gone before they get back, but the locals will be all wound up anyway.”

  “Okay,” Heather’s face turned serious. “In the RAN, hospital ships are military. In Buran, that would mean Sentient, even with a human crew. What do we do then?”

  “As far as I know, the Hammerhead is the smallest Sentient ship’s hull,” Siobhan said. “If he’s not one of those, then my guess is a largely civilian vessel. But that is exactly the risk we take doing this. Everybody’s keen to make one last big splash, because every bit of wildfire we can set makes it that much easier for Jessica and the Grand Admiral, when they start the next campaign. The old fart’s got to be considering pulling some of his warships off the border to handle internal security duties, which just makes it that much harder to hold anyplace except Samara. We’re punching way above our weight here.”

  “So you find a hospital ship,” Heather said to Trinidad. “Then what? Or rather, how?”

  “Everyone who can hold a stunner and fit in a suit goes over,” he said in a much more serious tone. “Packmule had almost no crew, and we hit them blind in deep space. This ship’s likely to have hundreds of crew, maybe thousands, but most of them are just going to be medical techs, and not sailors or marines. Hell, I’d have had most of my marines down on the surface protecting any teams I had on the ground. So maybe we can control those we have left.”

  “Do we dump most of the crew on the planet?” Heather asked both of them. “Load them onto a lander and be done with them?”

  “Dunno,” Siobhan felt her shoulders crawl up into a shrug. “Too many maybes and what-abouts to plan concretely. I want the hull and the facilities. Maybe we ask for volunteers and watch them like hawks?”

  “And we won’t know anything until we’re already in control of Mansi and needing the ship itself,” Heather continued the thought. “I’m still teetering on scrubbing the whole operation and bringing in Jessica.”

  “Let’s at least see what they’ve got, Heather,” Siobhan turned serious. “Panic over there is almost as good as us pulling a jailbreak, going back to Phil’s original plans. And those guys on Mansi aren’t going anywhere if it takes us another year.”

  “Okay,” Heather replied nervously. “How’s the build-out downstairs coming?”

  “Slowly, but Markus has confidence they can pull it off, after they fix Persephone,” Siobhan perked up. “Turns out the entire mechanism is smaller than the truck we normally carry, but not by much, so we are going to remove the front ramp for now and build a solid bow with a slot where the beam emitter itself will stick through.”

  “Can we undo it later?” Heather asked. “Phil’s planning on giving this ship up.”

  “Have you asked Kiel if she wants an armed freighter?” Trinidad laughed.

  That was good for a couple of giggles. Commercial, private freighters weren’t armed in Buran. Ever. The only ships with guns also had Sentient Systems controlling them, so that the God in charge of The Holding had complete authority.

  “Seriously, though,” Trinidad continued. “I figure we’ll end up buying them a new one. This hull is going to be too well known and eventually someone throws them in prison as accessories, just for having it, regardless of the truth.”

  “Makes sense,” Heather said. She stood. “Let me know what you need when we have the cutter finished. Figure that’s going to take about a week, with the crew we’ve got grinding and polishing over there.”

  “Will do, boss,” Siobhan said, triggering the hatch and watching the woman depart.

  Heather had the heaviest load. Phil was in command, but he had to stay aboard CS-405 as much as possible, so Heather was in charge out in the field.

  Ground Control.

  And it was only going to get worse.

  More New Recruits (November 4, 402)

  They were all up on the bridge of Persephone, sitting or standing as they could in the cramped space that was designed for three to be working and only a couple of others standing in corners.

  Granville was standing in the space immediately behind the captain’s chair. His captain’s chair. Except he would be flying the vessel himself, rather than supervising a bridge crew of two.

  The five in front of him were the absolute minimum a vessel like this required in order to be in combat, and even that was stretching the definition. He had lost Galin, back to his regular duty aboard Packmule, although the man was aft right now, working on the engines.

  Isiah had remained, the farm boy from the outskirts of Penmerth on Ladaux, where his parents were apparently vaguely distant neighbors of the famous Jessica Keller he had heard bits and pieces about from the rest of the team. Isiah was a quiet kid. Skinny, with an auburn cowlick that went craz
y if he didn’t keep his hair buzzed tight on top. He was still in charge of life support and control systems, basically anything that wasn’t one of the engines or generators. He was probably in over his head, but they all were. And he was busting his ass every day.

  First-Rate-Spacer Arla Bardeen had taken over for Galin back in the engine room, expected to do the job of five people, like the rest of them. She was as opposite as possible from Isiah: a Chinese Diaspora city girl from Anameleck Prime, one of the most industrial planets in the galaxy, as he understood it.

  As close to a First Officer as Granville was going to get was Vicente Leomiti, one of CS-405’s Gunner’s Mates who had just been promoted to Yeoman and Gunner for this duty. At twenty-six years standard, the short, swarthy man was the second oldest crewman, behind Granville. He was, according to what others had said, trying to fill the role the former Boatswain, Bok Battenhouse the cowboy, had been doing on CS-405, by being the grand old veteran.

  He was doing an acceptable job for now, growing into being responsible for everyone. And he would be too busy, much of the time, since he was responsible for laying and supervising the Type-3 beam in the bow. And doing it without four aides.

  First-Rate-Spacer Minh Morgan, the starboard Type-1 gunner, was quiet, shy, and competent. His ancestry looked mostly Anglo, with some Chinese Diaspora thrown in, but after ten thousand years, were there any left with a single culture for ancestors? He didn’t talk much, but got the job done. Granville was fine with that. Eventually, he would either come out of his shell or they would be home and this crew probably broken up and returned to their old duties.

  The last crew member was the most interesting, at least to Granville’s sensibilities. Able-Spacer Sharri Spier had been a Landsman until this week, the Aquitaine equivalent of a simple Trooper in the Imperial Fleet, and not even a Petty Officer of some sort, like the others. Just a child, even though she was nineteen standard. The others had somewhere between three and, in his case, twelve years’ experience on her.

  This had been her first duty assignment out of advanced training. CS-405 was the first ship she had ever served on, and she had joined not long before the great raid that caused CS-405 to become forlorn. And for her second duty, she was his port Type-1 Gunner.

  Physically, it was still a shock to see her, even though he had one other female in his new crew. Spier was of a softer version of the African Diaspora she referred to as Carrib, so her distant ancestors had come to the so-called New Worlds of America as slaves, and then bred with their masters and the local inhabitants to produce a new ethnotype.

  Her skin was darker than his, but not as dark as traditional African Diaspora. Weathered oak rather than charcoal or chocolate, perhaps mixed with a hint of gold underneath to give it luster and value.

  Granville wasn’t particularly interested in girls, but she was a striking woman, even as young as she was. Nervous as hell right now, but holding her shoulders back and eyeing him levelly as if she would fight him for her right to stand on his deck.

  Yes, she would do.

  Granville took a deep breath and let it go. This would be easier to face if he had Deni here with him, but he had no doubt of the man’s love, and that would carry him over almost any obstacle.

  “I’ve never been one for speeches,” he said simply. “And I’ve spent the last seven years being a slave on a cattle ranch, so I’m out of the habit of command. You will need to remind me occasionally that I’m in charge, because I might forget.”

  That broke the ice with them for an embarrassed chuckle.

  He was a stranger, while they had all at least served together aboard CS-405, part of a crew of just over two hundred that had relied on one another in the worst circumstances.

  “But we are a warship in Her Majesty’s service,” he continued. “I understand that some of your officers have actually met Karl VIII, back when she was Centurion Wiegand. I look forward to taking you all to her Court, as I was once an Imperial officer, and this, an Imperial vessel. Persephone represented the Seventeenth Imperial Police Protectorate at one time, so we have their proud standards to live up to, as well as the Republic of Aquitaine Navy’s. And we will.”

  He paused long enough to scan their faces again, to make sure they understood the seriousness of his purpose.

  “Admiral Kosnett will have us at the sharpest point of conflict,” Granville intoned. “Packmule and Queen Anne’s Revenge are not armed, and cannot fight, even after the spare turret is mounted in the freighter. CS-405 is too valuable to risk. That leaves us to go where the risk is greatest and the guns the hottest. I was once a fighter pilot, in the era before, and that was our task then, as well. Normally, this vessel would have a crew of nearly forty. The six of us are all that Admiral Kosnett and Ground Control can spare. Questions?”

  “Can we do it, sir?” Spier asked after raising her hand and him nodding.

  “Or die trying, Spier,” Granville replied.

  “Can we really pull off a jailbreak?” Isiah raised his voice.

  “If it comes to that point, I expect there is a reasonable chance that this ship is destroyed in the attempt,” Granville let the seriousness of the situation fill his voice.

  The others flinched, but only a little. They were sailors, and volunteers for this duty.

  “The plan I have seen calls for us to come out of Jump at the highest possible speed, aimed at one of the stations,” he continued. “We would fire as many missiles as the engineers can mount on the outside of the hull and hope that they eliminate the station as a threat before they can hit us with something like a Type-4 beam. Unlike cruisers, something that heavy would simply cut us in half, sending the flaming fragments into the atmosphere where our only hope would be to hit the lifepods and add ourselves to the list of prisoners and slaves on the planet below. It is a risk worth taking.”

  Nods. Volunteers. Warriors, even the babe in the woods with this crew, Spier, who would be responsible for keeping incoming missiles off their flank.

  “Anything else?” he asked after a long silence.

  It was much to absorb.

  “Then I will return you to your duties,” Granville said. “I expect us to take our first training flight in four days, running out to find something we can use to calibrate the guns on. Until then, you are responsible for overseeing the crews assigned to repair and tune your stations, regardless of the rank of the others involved.”

  He turned his attention to Spier, specifically.

  “That means you give Yeoman Galin Tuason orders when he’s working on your gun, Able-Spacer,” Granville made it plain. “Understood?”

  The nod he got back was a bit rabbity, but it would have to do.

  They were all going to have to grow into their jobs, even a breveted command centurion who hadn’t been in combat in seven years.

  The Posse (November 5, 402)

  The worst part of it all was how much fun Trinidad was having, walking forty-one candidates for marine firearms training through their paces on a gun range that had been cleared of cows and set up with targets. The morning was gloriously sunny, with only the slightest breeze out of the east. Four lines had been established, with targets, lanes, and tables; for people to practice gun safety, accuracy, and preparation. It was time to rock.

  Acting had been fun. Being a stuntman had been even better.

  But being a teacher had lit a small fire under his ass. Gave him an utter runner’s high when somebody finally got it and suddenly turned into Six-Gun Sally on his range.

  Phil, Heather, and Siobhan had no idea what they would be facing when they went for what he kept thinking of as Act Three of the Great Action Adventure Tentpole Summer Movie.

  Our heroes have escaped almost-certain death or capture, fleeing into the wilderness one step ahead of The Law. They’ve had little adventures in the swamp, building up their strength and willpower, but it was finally time to emerge and challenge the evil overlord for control of the galaxy.

  Or something like
that.

  Maybe he’d take up screenwriting when he retired from active duty. Add that to everything else and open his own school to train actors, stuntbabes, and writers how to make big and impressive movies with physical stunts, rather than doing it all on a green screen and a computer.

  Wind in your hair, and explosions behind you, while you’re flying through the air and one of your marines is getting it all on his helmet cam.

  ’Cause we can. And we have.

  And now, it was almost time. Nearly a quarter of the overall crew would be tasked with possibly boarding an enemy vessel and taking it under fire. Most of them were ready.

  Nakisha was having a brief and apparently rumbly discussion with someone down on the end. She turned to him with a silent plea for help, so Trinidad put on his Stunt Dude persona and stomped over.

  “Problems?” he asked, feeling like the sheriff strutting into the bar in a western.

  “Why do I have to do this?” Andre Gave almost snarled at him, willing to take his anger out on another officer, but not the sailor just trying to teach him. “I took the Hippocratic Oath to do no harm, damn it.”

  “It’s a stunner, Andre,” Trinidad pointed out in a dry voice. “The worst you can hurt someone is they fall over and bash their head on the ground accidentally. There will only be five of us with lethal weapons when we do this. And Nakisha here is the only one playing with high explosives.”

  “I’m a nurse, man,” Andre’s voice turned to pleading.

  “No, sir,” Nakisha’s humor finally snapped, apparently. “You are an officer who is expected to take command of the vessel when we capture it for you. Act like one, damn it.”

  For the briefest moment, Trinidad wondered if Andre was going to punch her. He might have, in that situation. And nobody would press charges.

  Back home, them qualified as fighting words.

  After a moment, Andre’s eyes grew shrouded and still. Finally, he blew out a heavy breath. Muttered something ugly under his breath that everyone pretended not to hear.