by Blaze Ward
The hatch to the chamber opened suddenly and voices and footsteps intruded. Probably a sign. Casey broke the kiss and looked up to greet the doctor treating Vo, Street, and Ames.
“Well, we know he’s feeling better,” Street announced to the room with a chuckle.
Casey did blush at that. Iakov Street was willing to treat her like a Centurion, and not a fragile, glass sculpture. Anna-Katherine was flushed. As was Victoria Ames and a security officer from the ship’s marine detachment. The doctor had gone white.
Casey stood to her full height and stared at the intruders. Her left hand still held Vo’s.
“It’s time?” she asked.
“Affirmative, sir,” Street said. “Courier is alongside and we’ve got a soft-skin airlock in place. You’ll wear a breather and a sweater, but you won’t need a full suit to make the transition.”
And then she would be gone, simple as that. Vo would stay behind, unable to travel with her as she raced home to save her Empire from whatever evil it was that Tadej Horvat had planned. Everything that man thought might undo all of her father’s work. And hers.
Casey felt the scowl form on her face.
“I cannot be in two places at once,” she said, turning her attention to Victoria Ames. “Ames, you will brevet to Cohort Centurion and take command of all marine and army forces across this fleet until Vo is cleared to return to duty, after which he will be in charge and you will be promoted to the permanent rank of Patrol Centurion. Do you understand me?”
It was educational, watching the woman’s face turn white, and then red, and then finally settle into something almost normal as she processed the commands of her sovereign. This woman who had wanted nothing more than to serve.
Like so many others who would come along later. As well as the ones for whom that dream had either been cut short, or never been an option in the first place.
Finally, Ames nodded. Interestingly, she turned to the Lieutenant Commander of Marines that had been standing behind her and fixed that man with a hard look.
“Questions?” Ames asked him, while Street grinned behind her like a proud father.
“No, sir, Cohort Centurion,” the man nodded so hard he almost lost his balance. “I will convey the orders to all ships immediately.”
It helped that they were aboard IFV Valiant. The people around her were still generally Tom Provst’s hand-picked crew, even if Provst had been forced to remain behind, in command of naval forces guarding her throne. But it still included many veterans that had been aboard IFV Firehawk and remembered Casey’s brother from before he had been killed in action.
Casey turned back to Vo now, laying there and smiling at her. She leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“Jessica and Torsten still write gushy love letters to one another,” she said quietly. “I would greatly appreciate you bringing me a stack of them when I see you at St. Legier.”
“Done,” he murmured back to her. “I’ll trade you. Perhaps some music, as well?”
“I will see what I can do,” Casey smiled.
She supposed that this would make the basis of yet another symphony. Hopefully, it would bookend with weddings and she could write a happily-ever-after closure to this one, rather than the pain and tears of the previous effort, the symphony known by the public today simply as Karl VII.
Casey kissed Vo on the forehead and stood.
“Doctor, I will leave him in your care,” she announced. “Street, sit on him when he gets to working too hard, trying to get back into shape. Understood?”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” Iakov smiled back at her.
He would make a perfect taskmaster, because Vo would need someone to stop him, rather than to motivate him up and out of bed.
Casey nodded to Anna-Katherine, standing suddenly close by as they stepped out of the chamber following Street, with Ames behind them. In the hallway, the red lights blinked monotonously, reminding everyone that the ship was at red alert still, expecting to give battle at any moment, even as they sat at the edge of the gravity well in the midst of a major war fleet, also prepared to shoot first and perhaps ask questions later.
Perhaps.
Street led her to a corridor midship, where she found the rest of Cutlass Ten and several other teams waiting. Hans Danville handed her a green sweater that she pulled on, only realizing after she did that it must be one of Vo’s since the sleeves came down well past her fingertips and the waist was nearly to her knees.
Danville grinned at her silently as she realized that truth. He handed her a breath mask which she donned. Nearby, one of the others was doing the same with Anna-Katherine, and quickly enough they were through an airlock and floating across a short hallway that had been inflated to link two locks when a ship didn’t have a shuttle, but was still too big to dock with Valiant.
As the last time she had done something like this, Casey carried her own duffle, without having to snarl at any marines this time. But the 189th understood. When everyone else in the Empire had wavered, they stood.
Jessica greeted her on the other side’s lock with a huge hug that seemed to lift a massive weight off her shoulders. Torsten. Em. And the man who would have become Casey’s own Squadron Commander, in another future from the one that had emerged.
Casey stepped up and hugged Tomas Kigali as tightly as the others. Em had explained his offer, and Denis’s to get her home faster than anybody in the galaxy probably believed possible.
“Permission to come aboard, Kigali?” she asked as she stepped back.
He was grinning like yet another one of the uncles she had adopted over the years.
“Oh, it’s worse than that, Centurion,” Kigali replied with a sly smile. “After you raise the Imperial Standard, you and Aki are going to fly this ship. I’m planning to spend a lot of my time in the kitchen or something.”
Yes, he would have worked her like a taskmaster, but as Jessica had said, Casey would have had no better teacher in the art of small warship command.
None.
Casey had only heard about Kigali’s Pilot, but anyone who served with the man this long had to be able to meet his standards of excellence.
And Casey never knew when she might want to take command of her own warship, especially if Aquitaine wanted a war. Every King and Emperor of Fribourg had commanded naval forces at some point during their career. Including the current one.
But there was always more to learn.
CHAPTER XV
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 183/03/18. HALL OF GOVERNMENT, STRASBOURG, ST. LEGIER
CAMERON LARA KNEW he was a whole different experience for the spies that had to brief him. At least from the calm, academic, intellectualism of the former Chief of Deputies. Torsten had mentioned to him, specifically, that the men liked to arrange their own side of the table in such a way that it hinted at battlements, with various books stacked to different heights, as if they might need to fire arrows at him to defend it.
Cameron smiled as he took his seat on this side, unarmed save for his wit and his sense of humor. All electronics remained outside this room. All guards as well, with the four men across the way probably armed enough to handle one fat, old man who preferred exquisite sauces over pasta to morning runs around the city.
He suppressed the shudder at the thought of the sorts of exercise that Wald did to remain in shape.
“What news, gentlemen?” Cameron asked the oldest one over there.
Wald had always referred to the man simply as Six, representing his nameless seniority below five appointed officials not covered by the civil service regulations that kept the government running.
“You had asked us to follow up on two cases, Chief of Deputies,” Six replied in a low tone better suited to a funeral than an espionage briefing.
Assuming you could slip a piece of paper between the two, these days.
“Indeed, I remember it,” Cameron said. “And to find me counterweights.”
“Duke Gerig of Bergelmir has begun to maneuver,”
Six announced simply. “Per your instructions, and the relevant warrants and Imperial findings, we have tapped all of his communications, as well as suborned a few individuals in a position to relay useful information.”
“Without naming names, who?” Cameron asked.
“A driver for one of the men that Gerig meets with regularly,” Six noted, looking down at a binder on his side of the wall. “Servers at some of the clubs our target belongs to, who are willing to confirm meetings, even as they are at great pains never to report what might be discussed.”
“Really?” Cameron was surprised. “Loyalty to their employer over Imperial security?”
He was rather astonished, all things considered.
“At no point have we introduced that level of leverage to any of the relationships, sir,” Six said. “Our methods work better if we do not require someone to make that sort of decision, as most such citizens might subsequently be unable to find work, for fear from employers that they might leak secrets to the authorities, were the news to ever come out.”
“Are we all so corrupt in our business that any amount of sunlight proves anathema?” Cameron asked rhetorically.
Six shrugged. He might have had the ghost of a grin on his face for the briefest moment.
“From where we sit, Chief of Deputies, all men have something to hide.”
“Indeed,” Cameron leaned his weight back and adjusted his pants. They were getting slack again, in spite of one trip to the tailor to take them in.
Had he realized what this job entailed, he might have reconsidered. Or demanded that he could hire his chef on-staff. But then he’d probably have to share the man with others. That would never do.
“However,” Cameron continued after a moment, “most of those secrets will never rise to a level where you need to get involved, except as we might need to lean on someone.”
“Just so.”
“Two other questions, and then I will no longer bother you,” Cameron smiled. “One, is there any credible threat emanating from the realm of the fleets overhead protecting us? Two, who among the House of the People can we trust to uphold the Emperor’s need for stability, even in spite of the pending storm?”
Interestingly, Six turned to the man on his farthest right, a younger man who had never, to the best of his recollection, spoken in Cameron’s presence.
“The fleet remains secure, Chief of Deputies,” the newcomer said simply. “Our efforts there have been better rewarded, as the results of one of the Grand Admiral’s top agents, a man now retired, but who did significant damage to several cells of potential rebellion before he did.”
“Tifft?” Cameron guessed.
“Captain Tifft, yes,” the man nodded. “Both the Grand Admiral and his Chief of Staff felt that their efforts to rebuild Home Fleet were thus adequate, and four men identified as possibly wavering were removed from the scene to accompany the fleet to Petron.”
“If something happened at Petron, would there be a risk?” Cameron’s mind suddenly shifted to a new threat.
“Admiral Provst no longer commands from the deck of Valiant, but Reif Kingston has replaced him as a White Admiral, and Yasuko Pitchford is still the Captain, two men Provst personally selected,” the spy’s face grew serious.
“Meaning, even if someone did something stupid, zu Wachturm has the firepower to defend himself?”
“And then some,” the man’s smile grew glacial. “zu Wachturm was briefed from our files before he left.”
“Good enough,” Cameron decided. “Even if something happens, it will remain at the far edge of the galaxy and take eight months for us to even know what happened. We will focus our efforts on the home front. Tell me about the House of the People.”
Again, Six deferred. Now, to the man on his left.
“Understanding that approximately half of the representatives are elected from party lists, and the other half appointed by the throne, the body is still fluid, Chief of Deputies.” This new spy had a baritone voice that should have been on the radio, or recording books for people to listen to. Smooth and calm. “Many of the representatives with greater tenure serve as experts in a given field, so they are not truly politicians, although they fulfill that role as well.”
“Go on,” Cameron nodded.
“Unlike the Dukes, the People experience regular turnover, as even the appointees serve for ten years at a time,” he said. “We have, however, been able to identify a few names of men that we think should serve your expressed needs in that House.”
“And those needs are?” Cameron felt his voice grow sharp. Critical.
“A willingness to sustain the efforts of your government, and Wald before you,” the man answered. “To push to change the Empire, while not overturning it. More importantly, to resist the efforts of the Dukes to return to any sort of status quo ante under any of the previous Emperors.”
“Show me your list,” Cameron ordered the man.
Six handed him a single piece of paper. Five names. Nothing more. These men were prepared for him, apparently, to take this piece of paper with him from the room, which said quite a lot, but he would not need it.
At a glance, four of the names were the sorts of men that might be levered into the position that Cameron, and by extension, Kasimira Karl VIII Wiegand, needed, to put the brakes on the Dukes. The fifth one brought a smile to Cameron’s face.
“You are sure about individual number four on this list?” he confirmed, looking at each of the four men across from him.
For spies, their sudden smiles were unusually warm and receptive today. Normally, it was like facing a wall of gargoyles. But he supposed that these men had seen the seediest bits of the underbelly of Imperial life. They would be the ones that might most hope for Karl VIII to succeed in her task, holding the Empire together while turning it into a better place for everyone’s children, and not just those of the nobility.
“We are, Chief of Deputies,” Six said with more certainty than Cameron had heard from the man in months.
Cameron handed the piece of paper back. He had memorized the five names, but number four just might be all that he needed, if these spies considered the man loyal enough to the Crown to recommend him now.
Now Cameron would find out how Reinhard Hjördís felt about joining them in a conspiracy to support the throne he had so recently been agitating against.
CHAPTER XVI
IMPERIAL FOUNDING: 183/03/18. IFV VALIANT, PETRON SYSTEM
IT WAS A WEIRD FEELING, to be standing on the flag bridge of Valiant, so nearly identical to the room aboard Vanguard where Denis had ended his career, commanding First Squadron for Jessica. The only significant change, other than a different cast of rogues around him, and these all male, was that Reif Kingston sat in the chair Denis had held, and they had set up a space ninety degrees around the table for Emmerich zu Wachturm to observe, where Denis was now.
Still, everyone had settled in fairly quickly. The Emperor was two-days-gone aboard Kigali’s long-range cruiser. The Aquitaine embassy was gone as well, lifting off and departing about six hours ahead of Kigali, but running a commercial pace that would take them probably five weeks, best speed, to get to Ladaux, and whatever mischief they were up to.
That left Denis commanding a full battle fleet. Valiant and the Fleet Carrier Titania. Ten of the new, Bedrov-designed Imperial cruisers, including his old friends Indianapolis, Birmingham, Glasgow, and Dundee. Fourteen corvettes of various flavors, including Hans Bransch. A raft of support vessels, including a repair tender and a number of freighters carrying everything an Imperial fleet might need to be at sea for two years.
It was a solid force, more than capable of escorting Casey wherever she needed to go and overawing anybody she met there.
The note delivered to him now by the Flag Commander did not warm Denis’s heart, however. He turned to the man and scowled, aware that he had an audience of nearly a dozen other men around them today, all relative strangers to him. At least Tom Provst had
put every one of these men on this deck, so they could be relied upon.
“Get me Captain Pitchford on the line,” Denis said simply, letting his anger fill the room.
He tugged at his sleeves to get them to stay down. They had pulled a spare Red Admiral’s uniform out of stores, but it was only an approximate fit. Apparently, those men were shorter, and with larger waists than Denis. That did nothing to improve his humor, but he didn’t have Vibol here, and hadn’t taken the time yet to have an Imperial tailor fit it more properly.
Maybe tomorrow.
Yasuko appeared on a screen with an apprehensive look on his face.
“Admiral?” he asked, saying nothing more.
They had worked together some during the war, but always at some remove, where Denis usually talked to Tom, except at various fleet mixers and dinners for commanders.
Denis nodded at Pitchford and then made sure Kingston was paying attention.
“I have a note here from the Captain of IFV Dorchester,” Denis began, amazed at how angry his voice sounded, even in his own ears.
But Em had warned him today might happen.
“Acknowledged, sir,” Kingston said, looking like he was expecting to be yelled at.
“On a crash priority, we have spent three days loading the ships with as much food as we could lay our hands on,” Denis said. “I expected that we would be able to depart tomorrow at the latest for the long run home. And now Dorchester claims that they will be unable to sail, as a result of having taken their JumpSails off line for maintenance and having forgotten to mention that to fleet signals.”
Denis left the sentence dangling. The Republic of Aquitaine Navy would call a Court Martial right now, especially with this many flag officers at hand. The Lords of the Fleet liked to use them as teaching and reinforcement tools, to let younger officers learn what might happen in the field, and what the best possible choice among bad ones might be.
