by Blaze Ward
“CS-405, this is IFV Valiant, Tom Provst commanding,” a dark, heavy voice came over the line and Phil’s personal screen lit up with a stranger in red.
Phil had never met Provst, but the man was famous, even in the Republic. Captain of the original battleship Blackbird at the famous battle known as Third Iger. One of Wachturm’s top students, the man had been left in overall command of the entire fleet, functionally the entire Empire, when Wachturm went to retrieve Centurion Wiegand and turn her into an Emperor.
And Phil knew what Valiant was. Hell, he had spent a year escorting the class ship, this vessel’s older sister, with Jessica aboard and Denis in command.
RAN Vanguard.
From the Jump signatures, there were four cruisers around him as well. None of them quite the size of VI Victrix, but the CEE design was still a powerful, monstrous beast capable of taking apart any battlecruiser of the previous generation.
Seven corvettes were there as well, in a shell outside the cruisers, protecting them in case this was a trap and someone was about land on their backs. Persephone might be willing to try, but Phil doubted that even Veitengruber’s heart was enough to take on a modern corvette, let alone a squadron of them.
Not that the man wouldn’t have tried, if Phil had called on him to do so.
Granville Veitengruber might be one of theirs by original commission, but Phil was going to ask First Lord to move heaven and earth to keep him in green and black.
“Valiant, this is Kosnett,” he said. “We got separated from Vanguard after the raid on Severnaya Zemlya when both JumpSails were lost. In the process of limping home, we decided to turn ourselves into pirates and have a variety of adventures across Altai sector. Might have made it here two days ago, but this was too good of an anniversary to miss.”
“That would explain a few things that Imperial Intelligence shrugged at,” Provst said. “Their whole frontier got soft, all of a sudden. Were they chasing you?”
“Most likely,” Phil said. “We attacked Barnaul, Laptev, Abakn, Kyzyl, and Mansi on our way home.”
“You’re just a scout corvette, Kosnett,” Provst’s voice turned questioning. “How did you attack planets?”
Phil figured there were enough beams centered on his ship right now to carve it into rabbit-sized pieces, because nobody could explain something like that. They would be presuming he had been captured and turned, and was trying to open the gates for barbarians to flood in.
Hell, he would, in their shoes.
“That’s why I came in alone first, Vanguard,” Phil felt the smile take hold of his face. “The rest of my task force is parked out in deep space, waiting for you to come and escort them safely home.”
“Task force?”
Now the confusion had set in.
After all, the least of Jessica Keller’s warships was hardly a threat to anything, especially not a bigger Hammerhead, to say nothing of a Mako.
Or any of the vessels currently surrounding him with big guns.
“Told you we stopped and raided several places along the way, Valiant,” Phil said. “My crew also captured four enemy vessels and pressed them into service.”
“You did what?” Provst asked, his face on the tiny screen utterly shocked now. “How?”
“We’re the Republic of Aquitaine Navy, Provst,” Phil smiled proudly. “That’s what we do.”
Yeah, play that back at my Court Martial. I bloody well dare you.
“So what proof do you have that I should believe you, CS-405?” Provst growled.
As if a full task force of Bedrov-designed warships was at risk. Add First Expeditionary to the mix, and they might be able to sweep Samara’s skies clean of Buran’s fleet for the first time in two generations.
“The best one imaginable, Vanguard,” Phil said with a smile.
He clicked a button and the image of Tom Provst appeared on the big screen at the far end of the room. At the same time, the camera image over on that Heavy Dreadnaught would shift from just showing Phil Kosnett to letting Provst see the entire bridge of CS-405.
“Admiral?” Phil said quietly.
He smiled when the older man unbuckled from his seat and rose. Provst’s eyes suddenly shifted down from Phil’s face and locked on the man.
“My God,” Provst gasped in surprise. “Carlyle?”
“Hello, Tom,” Admiral Gustavsson said in a surprisingly strong voice. “We have a fantastic story to tell you, but first, I need you to help me bring home the rest of my men, and then make sure everyone else has a chance to make it home as well.”
“How…?” Provst asked.
“We located and liberated a prison planet in Altai sector, Vanguard,” Phil said. “We brought them all home, but my mission is not yet complete.”
Revolutionary (April 10, 403)
He would miss this, but Andre Gave, Brevet Command Centurion in command of RAN Forgotten Mercy, would never let the folks back home know the truth. He would miss this bridge, and these people.
Not the half-dozen Imperial Marines in partial armor and their attitude problems, surrounding everyone on his bridge, but the other folks. Kav, the mousy woman in charge of security. Po, his comms officer. Gan, handling Sciences. Ross, Flight Deck Boss.
But mostly Wil. The man had come a long ways from addressing him relentlessly as “Your Grace” at the beginning to where they were today, parked at a major Imperial Starbase, getting ready to offload the last of the RAN folks.
In a few minutes, only the original crew and a team from the Imperial Navy would be aboard her, as the ship sailed slowly and majestically out to the edge of the gravity well, waved once, and started the long run home.
“Sir? Are you sure?” one of the marines spoke up from his spot. “My orders allow some leeway here if you wanted it.”
Andre fixed the man with a harsh glare. Even the marine was smart enough to shut up at that point and fall into parade rest, eyes fixed on some distant horizon, rather than press his luck any further.
Not that Andre would have ripped him apart verbally in front of this crew, but he might have decided to ask Phil to pick a fight on the topic with Grand Poobah Provst next week. And Phil owed him at least a few.
Andre rose from the Director’s chair with something approximating dignity. At least as much as he could muster, given who he was most days.
He had worn his dress uniform today, broken out specifically for the task. Nothing less would do. A clock on the wall marked the apocalypse.
“Wil,” Andre said in a heavy, sad voice. “It’s time.”
Wil rose from the pilot’s station as though he was in pain. The man was small in stature normally, but today he seemed almost shrunken in on himself.
Fear of the future, perhaps. Of how his overlords would interpret the entire charade in the light of hindsight.
Provst had flatly refused to accept any claims of asylum, right up front. Not that Andre could blame the man. Provst was an old school, biblical patriarch these days, to look at him.
Fire and death and brimstone cast as flesh.
But he had also made it easy enough to save all this crew the agony of deciding whether they should attempt to flee to a better world, or return to Buran.
Wil stepped away from his station and approached Andre with a slow, measured tread, as though he was walking to his own hanging. It was a feeling Andre understood quite well, having felt the same way himself, once upon a time.
Andre rose as Wil got close. Took the man’s measure from the precise two steps away. Watched Wil draw a breath in, that seemed to inflate him into a human again, and perhaps a shade larger.
That, my friend, is what command will do to you. You fight it as much and as long as you can, but at some point, you must face up to your fears and overcome them.
And yet, Andre looked forward to this crew returning home. After so long with him in command, the next person would be in for a raft of comic insubordination if they tried to crack the whip on a crew that had served under And
re Gave, Ethical Philosopher and Revolutionary.
“Brevet Command Centurion Andre Gave, I relieve you,” Wil said, raising his right fist to cover his heart.
It helped that Wil was crying, so Andre didn’t feel so bad about his own tears. Glancing around, so was everyone else.
“Director Ko Namas Allon Wil, I stand relieved,” Andre returned the salute. “You will take command of this vessel, subject to the normal rules and regulations, where you will exercise excellence and demand the same of your crew, that the whole reflect the greatest acclaim in serving the needs of the entire ethical peoples of this galaxy.”
Not quite the oath by which a Republic Centurion was charged with command, but close enough. They weren’t serving the Republic and the Senate, but by all that was holy they would certainly infect the rest of The Holding with a different understanding of ethical behavior.
Assuming that stupid God of theirs didn’t order the entire crew executed or put on a prison planet for not having resisted crazed, violent pirates more forcefully. Or something equally ludicrous.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, they needed his help getting home.
Andre stepped to one side as Wil moved to the Director’s chair and sat. Andre nodded to him, and to everyone else, and moved to the hatch, trailed by his two Imperial bodyguards he had been afraid would shower with him at one point, so close did they stick to him.
At the hatch, Wil called out one last time.
“Andre,” he said quietly. “I’ll do you proud.”
“You already have, my friend,” Andre grinned back at him as the hatch opened and he stepped into eternity. “You already have.”
Chaperone (April 10, 403)
They had known it was coming. Nothing but the most drastic actions on their parts could have prevented it, and neither of them were ready to leap off of a cliff.
Not yet.
Trinidad watched through a giant picture window as the soon-to-be-former RAN Forgotten Mercy was readied for her departure in two hours. The vessel had gone through a rapid dry-dock with every engineer available to help clean, tune, and fix things. It wasn’t as good as new, but it was probably as close as it was ever going to get again.
For a moment, his old self surfaced, and he began placing cameras and Directors of Photography in his mind. Anything not to have to face this future.
But this was going to be a different kind of movie. Gone were the gonzo stunts and helmet cameras recording gunfights at odd angles and single takes. This would probably start with a tight focus, just to set the scene with our lovebirds, before slowly pulling back to an infinite horizon.
Endings.
A hand found his, took hold, squeezed it. Trinidad looked down at the sad smile on Sam’s face. Very shortly, she would be boarding that ship in front of him, and the chances of him ever seeing her again they both knew were close enough to zero as to not matter counting. Roll the credits and understand that there wasn’t a sequel coming.
She didn’t speak now, just held his hand. Until the last month, even that much had been more than they had allowed themselves, surrounded constantly by two crews of watchful eyes.
Trinidad had gotten the distinct impression, from her people as well as his, that doing more than just holding hands would have been acceptable, at least in their eyes, but both of them would be returning home and facing some level of judicial inquiry into their actions over the last year. Best not to have to add crimes of the heart to the list.
A hand poked him on the back of the shoulder. His chaperone, the ghost who had been following them everywhere, just so Nakisha could report that nothing had ever crossed a line.
“Kiss her, damn it,” Nakisha insisted. “I won’t tell anyone, and you will live the rest of your life regretting it if you don’t.”
He glanced back, but the young marine’s face was grim, almost insistent. Sam’s face was serious.
He considered his marine. She was probably good for her word on this one. They had been through too much together, not just in the last year, but in the last three.
Trinidad turned towards Sam and leaned forward, just a little.
Unsure.
Unwilling to cross a line uninvited, but Sam stepped slightly forward as well. Her hand found his side. Another went around his neck.
Perhaps an invitation.
He kissed her.
It was a first kiss, and a last kiss. At least as far as they knew. It might have lasted eternity, but he couldn’t tell. He just wanted to revel in it while he could, knowing that the music was going to start swelling up at some point, an orchestral movement designed to flood the theater in tears before the credits rolled.
Eventually they broke the kiss. The hug lasted longer, but he finally stepped back, just so he could fix her smile and face in his memory.
Stunt Dude turned to his marine and nodded.
“You should escort her to the ship now, Marine,” he ordered in a soft voice.
Sam nodded as well, understanding. She turned and bowed her head to the marine.
“Shall we, Nakisha?” Sam asked quietly.
Rather than wait and perhaps start crying, Sam walked towards the dock, looking back once to smile at him as she went down the hallway towards her ship.
Trinidad watched until the two women turned a corner and vanished from sight, then he turned and watched the final preparations as an Admiral of the Red aboard a refurbished police cutter prepared to escort the hospital ship to the first Jump.
He would wait here until it vanished from sight as well.
Only then could he return to his war.
Pirates (April 11, 403)
The former RAN Forgotten Mercy had made their first Jump away from Osynth B’Udan, presumably never to be seen again. Granville still had a mixed crew of extremely senior officers filling in junior slots, at least until Fleet sorted out what they wanted to do with this antique, recaptured hull.
And the man Phil Kosnett and Heather Lau had tapped to command her.
That would probably come up tomorrow, when he returned to station for what might be the last time, but Granville was RAN now. Oath and Hero, as several of his new comrades had reminded him.
His friends.
People willing to put their careers on the line to protect his, knowing that there were many ways someone like Admiral of the Red Tom Provst might handle this situation, some of which might get ugly.
Tomorrow’s chore.
Tonight, he was off duty.
Admiral Gustavsson had the bridge, commanding this one tiny vessel as she made her slow and deliberate way back to the station, knowing that it might be the last time any of them ever served in space again, after so long as prisoners. The Admiral could go out in style.
Granville had Deni. And that was all that really mattered.
Their cabin was tiny. Bigger than any of his other crew had, but barely enough for the two of them, naval architects never having guessed that a man might bring his husband into space with him. Deni sat on the bunk and grinned with that impossible good humor that never left the man, even foaling horses in the worst storms imaginable.
Granville sat on the chair and just stared at him.
“You don’t think he’ll do it?” Deni asked. “Kosnett won’t go toe to toe with that other admiral for you?”
“No, I think he will, my love,” Granville said.
“So why are you so nervous then, Granvie?”
“What do we do next?” Granville despaired. “What happens if they order me back to duty and then Court Martial me?”
“Do you honestly think that all those other admirals and captains will stand for you being mistreated, you big goof?” Deni laughed. “After everything you did?”
Granville fell silent, almost like he’d been punched in the stomach. Would they?
Most of those men had been there so long that they might not even know Karl VII, let alone his Empire-saving daughter Karl VIII. But would they speak up to defend a man gui
lty of some of the worst social crimes recognized?
They might. Kosnett would. As would Ground Control, Lady Blackbeard, and Stunt Dude.
Why was he so frightened of tomorrow?
And then he understood, watching the merry twinkle in Deni’s irrepressible eyes.
“So what do we do after the Navy is done with us?” Granville asked.
Deni’s grin became almost impossibly wide.
“I am never riding a horse again,” he stated categorically. “Never getting anywhere near a cow or ranch again, so help me God. I will divorce you if you make me.”
Granville laughed and felt something finally break loose in his chest.
How long had he been waiting for the other shoe to drop? Months? Years? A lifetime of secrets ago?
He laughed until tears came. Deni as well.
“Better?” Deni asked after Granville finally got it more or less back together.
“Yes,” Granville said. “I think I can do this.”
“So do you want to stay in uniform with Aquitaine?” Deni’s voice turned serious.
Granville shrugged.
“Short of getting transferred to some strange patrol vessel, I’m not sure I could go back to taking orders again,” he decided. “Having Persephone was enough.”
“Okay,” Deni nodded. “I doubt if enough of NovLao survived the Beast to matter, at least at this point, so going there for our honeymoon is right out, unless Kosnett can talk his mythical dragon Keller into cutting The Holding in two for us. And Aquitaine is no more your home than mine, but it might be a good place to start. Plus, all our new friends keep talking about Keller’s other people: Corynthe. Maybe you should go out there and get a job teaching those people how to be proper pirates. From what I’ve heard, they’re junior varsity compared to the RAN.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that,” Granville grinned. “They still duel with blades for that sort of insult.”
“You don’t think I could take them?” Deni puffed up with bravado.
