by Blaze Ward
“Arott Whughy eventually admitted to that,” Torsten said. “The man’s a competent engineer for a line officer.”
“Right,” Uly nodded. “So the Type-3 can be modified for short or long range. Moirrey’s trick on Kali-ma. Except that now you don’t ever need them short. Not sure which design I like better, but by the time you two want to go circumnavigate the galaxy as a honeymoon, you’ll likely be doing it in a Survey Dreadnaught. Type-1-Pulse for missiles. Type-2-Pulse for fighters, and seven or eight Type-4’s in turrets for anybody that wants to get frisky. Plus a flight wing.”
“How the hell do we afford all that?” Torsten asked, nearly losing the pace in his shock.
“Dunno,” Uly laughed. “But I figure them two trying to outdo each other between now and then means that the other designs get better. David and I are already looking at one about the size of an old Aquitaine destroyer with a StarFlower forward and a mixed battery of the Pulse turrets. Great as an escort against a MotherShip or Lincolnshire’s new catamarans they’re building. Pretty good as a wolfpack hunting 3- and 4-ring MotherShips around here, too.”
“Is the era of the personal StarFighter over?” Torsten asked sharply, letting the ramifications of the Type-2-Pulse beam settle in his brain.
Uly shrugged as he jogged.
Carrier operations and missiles had been relatively central to the major powers, Aquitaine and Fribourg, for centuries. In the fringes Lincolnshire and Corynthe, plus others for example, they were an economic necessity, since you could mount a gun on a cheap hull and throw them into combat.
Before Buran. Before the need for heavier beams and the uselessness of missiles. Moirrey, Yan, and Pops had done more than anyone to change the very nature of warfare over the last decade. Maybe the last century.
What would that mean to the economies of other places? Piracy practically required StarFighters to run a freighter down and corral it.
What would Corynthe be if it turned into a real star nation?
There was one person he could ask. Someone with the long-enough perspective to judge things like that.
Torsten would have to go talk to the Lord of Tiki. That was, if Ainsley allowed it.
OVERTURE: JESSICA
IN THE TWELFTH YEAR OF JESSICA KELLER, QUEEN OF THE PIRATES: JANUARY THE ELEVENTH AT PETRON
Jessica held both blades loosely and let her muscles flow. Her hair was tied back today with a piece of forest green silk that reminded her of the old uniform she no longer wore. From distant legend when she was merely a Command Centurion.
In her left hand, she held the long, straight, single-edged sword, what the combatants called a saber. Instead of something more exotic, it was made of simple steel. Tradition. In her right hand was the much shorter blade, also steel, but heavier, and with a reinforced cross-guard instead of the saber’s basket protecting her fingers, the main-gauche.
Valse d’Glaive.
The Sword Dance.
The robot across the mat from her fought as her mirror today. As was normal, it was right-handed, since most people were as well. Being left-handed gave her an advantage. But she had learned not to be predictable, a lesson hammered home too many times over the decades when she forgot.
This new machine had been specifically imported from Aquitaine, manufactured to her specifications by a company that had gotten rich and famous for supplying her earlier models, once a whole new generation of kids decided to emulate the famous Jessica Keller and study the double-bladed arts.
She shrugged and dropped into a fast squat once, bouncing back up to make sure everything was still flexible. In the old days, five minutes of stretching had been sufficient warm up, but that was twenty-seven years ago, when a grizzled veteran marine had walked into the class where she was studying unarmed martial arts styles like Aikido and Kung Fu, and challenged a young punk named Keller to learn something dangerous.
Jessica still called every machine she owned Tolga in his memory, the man having passed away nine years ago after training two generations of Republic Officers how to think outside any dojo floor.
Forty-six-year-old Jessica still had to stretch extensively before she danced, and practice every other day. It kept her supple and lean. But today, she was not going to push things. The last thing she needed was to pull something or break a bone just before her own wedding.
She was taking it easy. For her.
“Fighting Robot activate,” she called across the space. “Challenge Rating Four.”
Five was a hard workout. Six was for experts. Seven for masters. She had, at one time when Kali-ma had seemed to touch her soul, danced with an earlier machine at Nine a few times. Eight required a secondary override, just to activate the machine.
Challenge Rating Four was enough today.
The bipedal machine came to life. Its swords were the same lengths as hers, but made of a blunt plastic that would leave welts and bruises. And did.
“Combat Mode initiated,” a soothing woman’s voice replied. “Challenge Rating Four confirmed.”
Jessica’s bodysuit was already beginning to wick sweat from her skin. The old deck boots she wore would maintain traction, even if she did sweat too much, although her graying hair was back and out of her eyes.
She shifted to her left quickly. Humans were mostly right-handed, so to track her was to pivot against the grain of their own body, especially when one was trained to block with the left and strike with the right. Today, it brought her closer to the saber.
The robot’s long blade flickered out, almost a kiss as the smaller blade came at her low.
Jessica let thought drain out of her.
Thinking slowed you down when blade dancing.
She blocked unconsciously with the saber in a crossover and struck with the main-gauche instead. At Four, the machine would not anticipate it, and she scored a cheap shot.
Cheating, but she was always a little superstitious when breaking in a new robot or a new dojo the first time.
Her blade thumped loudly off the machine’s shin.
“Contact: Keller. Score 1 to 0,” the woman’s voice announced.
Jessica watched the robot step back and reset.
Yes. This was what she needed. To beat the living hell out of the fighting robot for a while.
It would be a good warm-up for all the politics she would not be able to avoid.
OVERTURE: TADEJ
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC FEBRUARY 11, 405 PENMERTH, LADAUX
The Premier of the Aquitaine Senate did not have many ceremonial duties that he needed to attend to, as he was not the ceremonial Head of State. Not that Tadej Horvat was the type that normally enjoyed glad-handing irrelevant strangers. That task fell to the President of the Republic, Calina Szabolcsi, a descendent of Henri Baudin and his wife Katayoun.
Additionally, while he might end up being classified as one of Jessica Keller’s Guardian Angels by historians, they did not have all that close of a personal relationship. It had always been a formal, professional thing, unlike Nils Kasum, whom many saw as a second father to the woman, or Judit Chavarría, who had been the Premier who authorized the Thuringwell mission that functionally ended the Great War between Aquitaine and Fribourg.
So he was not part of the cast of characters and rogues traveling to Corynthe for the official wedding ceremonies between Keller and Torsten Wald, a former Imperial naval officer who had withstood the trials necessary to touch that woman’s soul. Judit and Calina would handle that part brilliantly from an official standpoint, while Nils Kasum was taking his entire family as part of an extended vacation.
The Senate could not recess for the four months or more necessary for Tad to travel thus, and Tad had little trust for those he would leave behind in power had he decided to go. Some of them were merely too junior varsity to handle the task. Others might get the wrong ideas and make wrong choices when they had a taste of such potential.
That would never do. Especially not with all the wheels he had in motion right now.
All the key Imperials would be well away from home for a greatly extended tour of the Galactic Rims, leaving time for weasels to get into the hen house and wreak all manner of havoc, back home. Young Kasimira would be isolated from her government, leaving men who must face all that unrest alone. In other places, liberal bribes had loosened up natural reticence and laziness to allow Tad to call in favors as well as issue secret orders to make Kasimira’s return slow and problematic.
At no point could any of it be traced back to him or Aquitaine, regardless of everyone’s suspicions in the matter. None of the activities in and of themselves were all that grand, once you got past the grandeur of some of the statements involved.
No, just little things. You had to be standing off to one side as the avalanche began to truly appreciate what it would all add up to, when it finally reached the bottom.
OVERTURE: CASEY
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 183/01/15 IFV INDIANAPOLIS, JUMPSPACE
Casey considered the minimal amount of paperwork that she normally had to do on any given day as she sat and shared tea with Em. That had been the bane of her existence at one point, those piles of documents that needed to be reviewed and approved on a regular basis.
It had gotten better over time, as Torsten had been able to build up his own staff to the point that most things did not need her fingerprints on them. But without the House of Dukes, the House of the People had been slow to step into the breach. Even today, the two Houses were only slowly coming into some sense of balance with one another.
Or rather, the House of the People was showing a remarkable obstinacy in dealing with the so-called Senior House. The Dukes, in turn, occasionally struggled with the fact that their word was not fiat law any more.
“Florin for your thoughts?” Em was smiling at her as Casey realized she had been gathering wool instead of talking to her favorite uncle.
She blushed swiftly and smiled at the man. Vo would join them soon, but Casey had always maintained time for just her and Em to sit and talk. Vo would join this group at some very-near future, but she and the Grand Admiral did represent the entirety of Fribourg right now.
At least until they could expand the inner circle wide enough to provide a more stable footing. Em’s son Tiede would be senior enough in another few years, as would his sons-in-law: Jeltje’s husband Carsten and Heike’s husband Bernard.
Both men were exceptional matches for the daughters of the feared Red Admiral, as Em had been. Once upon a time, they would not have been admitted into the inner councils, those reserved for Princes of the Blood, but so many of those men had proven to be unreliable at best and traitors at worst.
“Contemplating the sorts of troubles that people might get up to back home, with so many of us so far removed,” Casey said. “Just one of those introspective moments where I fear that not having you and Hendrik at the reins, nor Torsten, leaves too much in untried hands.”
“Cameron Lara will brook no nonsense from the Dukes, nor from the People,” Em pronounced firmly. “And Ralf Frankenheimer will handle Chief of Staff duties while I’ve taken Hendrik away.”
“And Tom Provst?” Casey echoed.
“And Tom,” Em agreed. “Any fool starting troubles with that man will have Kiril Hahl’s example in the back of his mind. Him I left behind specifically, even though he truly deserved to be here. I will make it up to Tom later, when it is your turn.”
“Oh?” Casey asked slyly.
“Ralf’s getting long in the tooth and will be ready to retire one of these days,” Em replied. “I’d like you to consider putting Tom in Blue and making him Chief of Naval Operations when Ralf goes. And moving him into the Fleet Council that used to only be the Cousins.”
“Should we also make him a Duke?” Casey considered, her mind turning serious at the machinations.
Tom Provst was happily married to Karoline, so a political marriage into one of the ducal families would not work. But there were other ways to raise a man up. Or a woman, considering Avelina Indovina, Duke Presumptive of Lighthouse Station, located in the hidden depths of the former Protectorate of Man.
“Where?” Em asked simply, obviously considering the same line of logic.
“If Buran the God is destroyed, and I expect you to keep at it, every time you even suspect that they are trying to rebuild him, then the M’Hanii Gulf may end up being a permanent border, depending,” Casey said. “That leaves several colonies on my side of the line that could become Imperial, either with or without the current inhabitants, depending on their decision to bend to me or flee.”
“Samara might be a good choice, then,” Em mused. “Already a major-enough economy and significant naval facilities, even with all of Buran’s fleets largely withdrawn. Their navy eventually abandoned the world, but the general populace is still holding out. Lan and Kiel have made a successful series of runs between Samara and Osynth B’Udan. They sent Provst personal letters that read like naval reports every time they cross into our space, and no doubt do the same for their masters over there.”
“I would like to meet those two someday,” Casey nodded. “If possible. So much of the things we were able to do to end that war came about from their efforts, even if everything is utterly secret, even today.”
Em shrugged. There was no answer to that for either of them.
A knock at the hatch and Anna-Katherine opened it.
“General zu Arlo, ma’am,” she said brightly, stepping to one side at Casey’s nod.
She had lost track of time wool-gathering, that much was obvious. Or Vo was early, but that man was always on time.
Reliable.
He was dressed today in the nicer uniform that fell short of the full dress ensemble he so hated. But still better than the field utilities the man preferred.
Given his head, Casey suspected he would either fall all the way back to his Aquitaine Centurion uniform, or perhaps Fourth Saxon Legion, Grand Army of the Republic.
She set down her tea and rose for a hug and quick kiss. Soon enough, they would also be married and could spend time together without a chaperone such as Anna-Katherine or Em. But the old maids of the nobility must be mollified. All must be above reproach.
Seated, she served him herself. She could do that.
Em just watched with a grin on his face, but he would.
Casey always wondered how much of Vo’s personal arc had been somehow maneuvered by the Grand Admiral, though she never asked. Vo had been the one man Em could absolutely rely on when he needed someone on the scene. During the Coup. After the Bombardment. Even Thuringwell, before anybody else even understood who the man really was. Anybody but Jessica, that is.
Time and again, the resolute Vo zu Arlo.
She smiled at him and let his smile warm her.
Jessica had told her the older stories, of a much younger Vo. Ramsey. Ballard. Alexandria Station. Quinta.
Yes.
“We were talking about Tom Provst,” Em began. “How to reward the man for his service. You spent a great deal of time around him over the last few years. More than either of us. Your thoughts?”
“When it became my job to save St. Legier, his was the sword I called upon,” Vo replied poetically, storyteller that he was. “Since then, he has always seen himself as the guarantor of the Throne itself. “For Tom, service is enough. On the other hand, Jacob or Mallory might be amenable to a political marriage that moved them closer to the center.”
“His children?” Casey asked. “How old are they?”
“Jacob is a naval lieutenant, but I’m not sure where he’s assigned right now,” Vo said, reaching back deep. “Mallory is…If I remember, she should be about twenty-three right now and considering what she wants to do with her life. Others might be courting her as the daughter of Tom Provst. You’d have to investigate.”
“Your task, Em,” Casey nodded to the Grand Admiral.
There wasn’t much they could do, this far from St. Legier, except plan. Three frigates were on a circular run that would intersect with Casey’s fleet regularly, and then return home, hauling news and orders both ways, but everything was at a significant and growing lag.
It would be worse, once Jessica was permanently either home on Petron, or touring the galaxy, as she had threatened to do so many times, to allow David to reign unimpeded. She would miss her friends.
But that was the future. In between, one last splendid event now, and then another back home at St. Legier. And then the grand adventures could begin.
PART TWO
WEDDING
CHAPTER I
IN THE TWELFTH YEAR OF JESSICA KELLER, QUEEN OF THE PIRATES: JANUARY THE TWENTIETH AT PETRON
JESSICA SMILED at David’s discomfort as they all sat in the primary meeting room: her, David, Uly, Desianna, Torsten, and Wiley.
“I feel like I’m a kid asking for his allowance early,” David groused, though with a smile on his face. “It’s good having you home, but it still takes some getting used to, especially with everything else going on.”
“I’m just here to plan for the wedding side of things,” Jessica grinned back at his discomfort. “You three are still in charge of the rest.”
“Yes, but…” he laughed. “Vishnu that sounds corny, even from me. And I’ve had over a year to prepare for this. We all have. Ever since we first heard the news. Are we prepared for what’s about to land on us? The Imperial Party will be a hundred times what we were expecting.”
“Not all of them will be invited to the ceremony.” Torsten leaned in and caught the younger man’s eye. “I doubt that the list will grow all that much. By a few dozen at most. The rest are either here to be seen, or because Emmerich zu Wachturm won’t allow Casey to travel without a significant, military retinue. She is the Throne of Fribourg right now.”
