by Blaze Ward
“And all the civilians?” Uly countered. “What should we do with them?”
“We can deputize Imperial marines if we need to,” Jessica said. “Attach them under local gendarmes. My suggestion would be to set aside a few palaces and a couple of halls or warehouses and let the Imperials throw their own parties on their own florins. God help anybody in that crowd who turns into an official embarrassment when the Emperor is on planet. That woman has a long memory.”
That got rude snickers around the table.
“What?” Jessica asked the group.
“Not that that would describe anybody else we know,” Torsten smiled at her to take the sting out his words.
“Well, yes, but…”
Jessica let the rest of her sentence trail off amidst the laughter.
“Fine,” she rolled her eyes at these people, some of her closest friends in the galaxy. “When is the Aquitaine contingent expected to arrive?”
“A great many of them are already here,” Desianna spoke up. “Your parents, Slava and Sasha, and their kids are staying at the main palace. Other cousins are close by and being put up by the crown. It’s a good thing you’re rich, by the way.”
Jessica laughed. Desianna had no real idea how much wealth Jessica had accumulated personally over her career, both in the Aquitaine Navy and in Imperial Service. Some of her investments with Moirrey on Thuringwell were generating enough cash flow for a normal person to retire wealthy, to say nothing of the rest.
“I’m not worried,” Jessica replied.
“So Aquitaine is sending a smaller fleet than Fribourg, but we presume that’s a failure of their spies, rather than anything else,” Desianna continued. “Plus so many of your old comrades have also retired over the last two years, when you did. They are arriving with the fleet, but as semi-civilians. Several others have been granted extended leave to join us. We expect them about a week after Casey arrives. And yes, I vote we keep them as separated from the Imperials as we do the locals, only because not all of them will be as well behaved as your old friends.”
Something in her voice caught Jessica’s ear. She felt her face get serious. Uly and Torsten both caught it as well, because they sobered almost in tandem. Wiley scowled.
“What else?” Jessica said.
Desianna shrugged.
“As civilian head of yours and David’s government, I am also your top spymaster,” Desianna began in a careful voice. “I also have certain Imperial sources of information. Information that does not leave this room.”
Everyone glanced at Torsten, and he nodded. None of them would be here but for Jessica’s trust.
“The Head of the Republic party is Judit Chavarría and her immediate suite,” Desianna explained. “She was most recently Palatine Governor to Fribourg for the government of Tadej Horvat. As such, we suspect that she was also working diligently while she was on St. Legier to materially damage Imperial society, even as you were saving everyone’s asses out on the border.”
“Not surprising,” Jessica said. “Judit is a close friend of Horvat’s. And a cut-throat politician. One of the few people in the galaxy that he trusts, besides Nils Kasum.”
“So it is to be expected that she would be the official representative of Aquitaine’s government for the wedding,” Desianna nodded. “Nils Kasum, who is much friendlier, is retired now and apparently accepting no official duties.”
“None?” Jessica asked sharply.
That didn’t sound at all like Nils. He had been making noises at one point about getting himself appointed to the Senate as a non-party-man. Many former First Lords of the Fleet did that. The Senate benefited from their expertise, and such folk were usually outside the normal party organizations.
“None,” Desianna confirmed. “Based on what you have told me about the man, that’s odd but no more suspicious than Chavarría being sent.”
“But?” Jessica asked.
“Lincolnshire has just filed a formal complaint with both Aquitaine and Corynthe over the passage of the Imperial Fleet,” Desianna said. “In spite of no size being specified in the original transit agreement, they are apparently upset that so many warships traveled here, and refuse the fleet permission to transit their space or call on their worlds on the return trip.”
“What do they gain?” Wiley got into the conversation now.
As David’s duties were almost completely focused on the Crown today, his role as Vice Admiral had become more and more ceremonial. As a result, Wiley had become functionally the only Rear Admiral of the Fleet, just as David was the only Vice Admiral and Jessica the only Admiral. That made her operational Chief of Staff of the fleet.
Jessica planned to retain her title when she gave up the others, just to remind these pirates who they would have to answer to, if they did make trouble.
“I’m not really sure,” Desianna replied, turning to the woman. “It’s not like they can’t just shift their flight path and return home via Salonnian space instead. Those merchant-thieves are already a treaty partner of Fribourg going back generations.”
“Time,” Torsten spoke up. “They gain time. Something is going on at St. Legier and forcing Casey to spend an extra month or two in transit home gives them a larger window for mischief. And it will be mischief.”
“How so?” Jessica demanded.
Torsten might be here because he was her unindicted co-conspirator in most things, but he had also proven himself her partner on the basis of his genius for econometrics. Understanding numbers and the stories that they really told, in spite of the way one might spin them. Seeing deeper than anybody else at what lay hidden beneath.
“Judit was trying to destabilize the Empire.” Torsten put his elbows forward on the conference table, like the lecturing professor she frequently accused him of being. “Moirrey caught her short by destroying the God and ending all need for you and First Expeditionary Fleet. You withdrew your forces and everybody sauntered back to their own sides of the border. Judit’s services were no longer needed at that point, and Casey politely thanked her and sent her home as well. But this event, this massive circus of craziness, would be a known quantity of time that Casey, Em, and people like Tom Provst would be away from the Capital. They could strike with impunity, and no messages would reach either direction for months.”
“Then someone may have screwed up,” Uly’s smile might have been one of those sharks Jessica had fought so desperately. “Tom Provst’s still Supreme Commander, Home Fleet, back on St. Legier, according to my own spies. Wachturm chose not to bring him along.”
“What can he do?” David asked.
Jessica smiled. Of all of them, David probably had the least understanding of Tom Provst. Uly would have gotten Galen’s stories and reports. The rest had actually met the man at some point.
“Anybody challenging the Throne will have to climb over Tom Provst’s bloody corpse to get there,” Jessica said simply. “And they’ll need to bring a lot of friends with them to even try.”
CHAPTER II
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 183/01/18 FLEET HEADQUARTERS, ABOVE ST. LEGIER
SUPREME COMMANDER, Home Fleet was supposed to be a desk job. It said so in all the manuals.
Tom Provst figured he had already proven that he could handle any job from the deck of a battleship, so would have stayed aboard Valiant. Em, Hendrik, and the Emperor had all put their feet down and stuck him in an office anyway. And then had the added gall to take his ship with them to the wedding.
At least they had promoted Charlie d’Noir to Captain so Tom could keep his Chief of Staff with him when he moved. Charlie did most of the paperwork, anyway.
And being an Admiral of the Red meant that he was supposed to wait hand and foot on an Admiral of the Blue like Ralf Frankenheimer, Commander of Fleet Headquarters. Ten years ago, he would have. Before The Coup Attempt. Before The Bombardment.
Ralf was looking forward to retirement. And Em had already made it clear that Tom would be taking the man’s spot. Or somet
hing. Grand Admiral had been a little vague about possibly reorganizing things. Maybe he had actually read some of Tom’s suggestions. Once somebody else had edited out all the profanities.
But Em was gone, and he and Ralf were in charge. Sitting in Tom’s office, with Charlie leaned back in his chair half asleep though probably still listening, while Ralf had brought a small footstool with him and stretched his legs out.
“There have to be some fools left,” Tom griped at the two men across from him. “I cannot believe that Em managed to get rid of every bad apple in the Admirals Corps.”
Ralf shrugged his bony shoulders up and down. Charlie snorted with his eyes closed.
“Maybe your reputation precedes you, Tom?” Charlie asked. “You and Grand Admiral might have put the fear of God himself into the right souls.”
“The day that actually happens I’ll take religious vows and become a mendicant monk, Charlie,” Tom snapped back.
That just engendered another snort.
“Emmerich took some of the potential troublemakers with him,” Ralf finally said.
“The men he left here in St. Legier in the various commands were all ones he or I knew personally enough to vouch for, Tom.”
“After the last decade, you’ll forgive me if I doubt the angelic nature of my fellow officers has suddenly become ascendant,” Tom grimaced. “If you were going to cause trouble, where would you start?”
“Both times St. Legier was attacked, it was by Buran,” Charlie pointed out. “First and Second St. Legier, to hear Jessica’s people refer to them. We’ve been hunting the monster’s fleet pretty hard over the last four years. Killing anything with a Sentience aboard, on the presumption that maybe they can’t make any more of them. So I doubt they’ve got the bandwidth to try a third time.”
“And we’ve desperately over-reinforced Home Fleet, just in case,” Ralf pointed out. “You command nearly five percent of all warships in commission right now, Tom.”
“So orbital space is safe?” Tom asked, still feeling unsettled.
“Yeah,” Charlie replied in an offhand manner. “If anything, the next fuckup is likely to originate on the ground.”
Which was how Tom found himself on the surface of St. Legier, in Strasbourg, at the new, imposing Hall of Government building, meeting with Cameron Lara, the man who had replaced Torsten Wald as Chief of Deputies when the Emperor finally let Jessica go home. Tom had dragged Charlie along, since he figured he could always blame the man for putting the idea in his head in the first place.
The Chief Deputy’s office was spacious. Much larger than Wald had maintained, but Wald always went elsewhere for meetings. Lara had taken over a major conference room for his office and installed a smaller table at one end and a huge, oak desk at the other. Decorations in here appeared to be centered on cuisine, with pictures of food, chefs, and what looked like magazine restaurant reviews framed on the various walls.
It beat watercolors.
The three of them were at the high end of the room, separated by that desk and several stacks of files on both sides. Out of the way but at immediate need.
The younger brother of the Duke of Pherile was of medium height and rather rotund, although the new job had slimmed him appreciably over the last year. Too much of each day spent in meetings and not enough time enjoying the efforts of a man reported to be the best chef on the planet. Maybe stress played a part as well.
It was late in the planetary day. That had ended up being the only time Lara was free to meet.
“I nearly suggested a cozy, semi-private dinner, Admiral,” the Chief of Deputies began. “But your tone suggested that it needed to be more official and perhaps formal.”
“This is fine,” Tom said.
“He’s always like that, Cam,” Charlie chimed in.
Tom turned to gaze at his long-serving aide and long-time friend.
“You are, Tom, just admit it.”
Tom Provst shrugged and considered. He probably was, and Charlie was probably right. Tom was the wrong person to judge himself externally. He had spent too much of the last five years in a bad place.
“So, Charlie, Admiral Provst, what can I do to assist you?” the rotund man asked.
“Call me Tom,” he replied, glancing once over at Charlie. “I’m not sure this is going to be that formal of a conversation.”
“Very good, Tom.”
“It might just be my paranoia speaking,” Tom continued. “But Em left me in charge of protecting the planet, the people, and the government, so I’m not sure I can be paranoid enough.”
“That is a feeling I understand all too well, gentlemen.” Cameron leaned back finally and smiled. He held an old-fashioned ink pen in one hand to twirl as he thought. “You suspect the scene of being too quiet, yes?”
“Exactly,” Tom said. “The last half-decade has taught me otherwise, but Em left me enough firepower in near-orbit to obliterate most planets, if I had enough patience. And the men in charge of my fleets are trustworthy. When does the other shoe drop?”
“Interesting choice of terms,” Cameron said.
He reached for a file and opened it just long enough to confirm something before closing it again.
“If the travel schedules hold true, then Grand Fleet should be arriving at Petron any day now,” Cameron’s voice had turned quieter, more speculative. “The timing of certain other things would otherwise probably look like mere coincidence to an outsider.”
“But?” Tom asked, suddenly leaning forward. Anticipating.
His hands hurt for lack of a gun to grasp. Or a throat.
“Certain elements of the House of the Dukes are starting to make themselves rather annoying,” Cameron replied.
“How so?” Charlie spoke up.
That was good. Charlie’s voice sounded far friendlier than Tom suspected his own would.
“The Conclave is finally getting their feet under them,” Cameron said. “Many of them were off-planet on that day, and thus safe. Others are newly-ennobled younger brothers, sons, or distaff relatives suddenly thrust into great power and wealth unexpectedly by the calamity.”
“And the annoyance parts?” Tom asked.
“They remember a rosy, nonexistent past where the House of Dukes acted as a check on the Imperial power,” Cameron said dismissively, waving one hand like he was swatting away a fly. “Karl VI on a nice day might have let them maintain that level of folly, but VII and now VIII present a different face of power.”
“Some of those men will remember Karl VI,” Tom noted dryly.
It had only been three decades since the tragic accident that killed that Emperor. But for that, he might still be around, as the Wiegands were normally long-lived folk.
Tom wondered what Karl VI might have thought, to see his granddaughter on the throne. Karl V would have thrown a hissy fit, but that old man had hated anybody below the rank of Duke to begin with, and very few of even those worthies made the grade. Women barely rated any mention by the old fart except as mistresses.
“They do remember him,” Cameron nodded. “And long for some never-existed, halcyon days when they were important. As a historian, I can tell you it was just a relative thing, after the terrible purges and mass incarcerations under V. But fools will lead themselves astray often enough. Especially when they develop their own paranoias.”
“Who do they fear?” Tom asked.
Emperor Karl VIII was a revolution, in and of herself, but the woman was working very hard to maintain as much equilibrium and continuity as she could. Rebinding the ties of Empire, she had called it more than once in his presence.
“The People,” Cameron laughed outright. “Suddenly, there is this whole other legislative body who has had a taste of the apple and isn’t willing to simply go back to being a salon filled with intellectuals.”
“They won’t surrender to the Dukes?” Charlie asked with a grin in his voice.
“They will not,” Cameron smiled back. “You would be amazed at some of
the pique and anguish I have had to deal with, from men who feel wronged when mere commoners challenge their right to lead.”
“The woman once known as Centurion zu Wiegand to some friends of mine might not have done that accidentally,” Tom noted. “Who are the ringleaders?”
“Bergelmir and Andhrimohr,” Cameron replied, naming the planets the men were Dukes of. “Although I wouldn’t go so far as to call them ringleaders, as they have committed no crimes I am aware of. And I have people who would find out quickly enough.”
“Magan Gerig and Gerhold Warner?” Tom confirmed to the man’s nod.
The first, Gerig, was an older Duke who had held his seat for decades. Tom remembered him as tall and lean, with a leonine mane of white hair. An eminently respectable, if old school gentleman.
That might represent a problem in the new future that a young Emperor had envisioned. And tasked men like Tom Provst with securing it.
The other wasn’t a man Tom knew personally, but had had to deal with professionally, as the two Houses of Government did handle things like annual naval budgets and such. The sausage-making that resulted in laws. Warner sat on a committee of naval affairs, where he liked the sound of his own voice enough to inflict it on others.
Em had a rather low opinion of the man’s intellect, but not his cunning.
Tom sat back and let his backbrain process.
“Anything we can do?” he asked the Chief of Deputies.
Cameron shook his head.
“I do not yet have the shape of what they think they can accomplish,” Tom heard him say.
But that comforted Tom. Someone out there was maneuvering for his own, personal gain at the cost of others, and perhaps the Empire itself. That would give him a place to watch.
And maybe more fools to crush. The last thing Karl VIII needed was to come home to a civil war.
CHAPTER III
