Petron

by Blaze Ward

  “That is correct, Admiral Jež,” Pitchford replied carefully, looking like a man aware he was poking a sleeping bear with a short stick.

  “Because I have been in command here for fifty-five hours, I’m not going to immediately jump down somebody’s throat,” Denis growled. “But I also do not know the Captain over there, or his crew. I have, however, had a brief conversation with the Grand Admiral on a number of topics, as he was packing to depart with the Emperor.”

  “Lucky you,” Reif smiled conspiratorially. “All I got was a quick set of orders from Em: The man wears red. Treat him like he wears black until I personally tell you otherwise.”

  Denis nodded. Kingston even got the tone right.

  As his Imperial commission had been reactivated, Denis had also been promoted by Casey to Admiral of the Red, second in seniority to only Admirals of the Blue, none of which had accompanied this force. That left him in charge by design.

  Only the Grand Admiral, in charge of the entire fleet, Emmerich zu Wachturm, wore black.

  “Em gave me a list of men that might cause me grief,” Denis said starkly. “He wasn’t specific about how, simply that he had been required to bring certain officers with him, rather than leave them at home.”

  Yasuko Pitchford, Captain of Valiant, let his face go flat and emotionless. Admiral Reif Kingston’s grin grew angry and feral.

  “How soon until the rest of the fleet could begin to maneuver?” Denis asked simply, scowling at both men, and the rest of his inherited flag staff.

  He could almost hear the shoulders coming up and the men flinching from his rage.

  “The original plan had been two hours, Admiral,” the Flag Commander said. “All ships are loaded and ready now, but two of the freighters are still packing things away.”

  “Very good,” Denis said. “I don’t feel like calling Dorchester personally, because that would probably make me even angrier than I am at this moment. Order the entire fleet to break orbit now and fall into line astern on Valiant. Pitchford, all ahead cruising speed. Kingston, detach one corvette you trust to stay behind as an escort for IFV Dorchester and the freighters and transmit to all of them a reminder of the flight plan that the rest of the fleet will be following. If Dorchester arrives at Tadasuni, in Salonnian space, before we are ready to depart that planet, the Captain may remain in command. If they cannot achieve even that schedule, considering the much slower pace the rest of us must sail to maintain cohesiveness, he is to report aboard Valiant under arrest at the earliest opportunity, while his First Officer will take command in his stead.”

  Denis drew a heavy, angry breath as the men around him gasped in shock. Em might not have been so cold and vicious, but then again, he might have.

  “Pitchford, tell your pilots to push,” Denis ordered. “And we will only remain at each of our waypoints for three hours, rather than the customary twelve. Anybody that gets lost along the way can consider themselves under the same orders as Dorchester. If that means that my fleet arrives home with one Heavy Dreadnaught and twenty-nine former captains in the brig, then I will let them explain their idea of proper ship-handling to the Emperor themselves. Having trained the woman personally, she’s rather good at it, if I may be so bold. Questions?”

  Yes, Em had warned him about three of the captains and one White Admiral that might not be as ferociously loyal to the Emperor as they could be. Not all of the disloyal officers in the corps had been drummed out after the coup attempt, those that might have supported it had it gone on longer. Others were just naturally conservative, or ornery men, unwilling to admit that any woman might be just as good as any man, if not better.

  Even Jessica Keller hadn’t broken all of the Imperial Fleet of their stubborn ways, but most of them considered her a demon from hell, rather than a woman in command. Denis knew the truth, that she was both, but this was not the time to discuss theology with these fools.

  “No questions, Admiral Jež,” Pitchford and his Flag Officer, Commander Zhelaniya, said in perfect unison.

  Denis rose as the ship began to signal maneuvering. He nodded to Kingston.

  “Reif, let’s go talk in your office,” Denis said in a voice that only sounded conversational. “It’s going to be a long sail home, and Em left me with other instructions.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC MARCH 19, 405 CITY OF CORYNTHE, PETRON

  SHE UNNERSTOODS THE NECESSITIES, but that dinna makes it acceptables. Moirrey’d been all sets to have the young’un on Petron, parts of a long vacation with Digger as they shopped fer a place they could buy, with a house bigs enough fer a future mob of little ones runnin’ ’rounds and with a big nuffs yard Digger could have earth moving toys around, in case he felts the need to commit major civil engineerin’ tasks.

  ’cepts now she were ’lone. Well, not alone alone. Digger were happy to waits on her hand and foot when she dinna wanna waddle back and forth from the living room to the kitchen. And Desianna and Marcelle were both arounds, neither o’them havin’ runned off to save the galaxy agains.

  But it weren’t right. She’d been in the middled of Jess’s craziness for a decade er more, from the early days of the Art Department on Auberon with Nina, all the ways up to Casey.

  Moirrey grumbled under her breath and tried to convince the wee one to go back to sleeps and stop kicking her so hard. She were in her comfy chair in the salon, feets up and a fresh mug of hot tea at hand. Had a slab computer balanced on her belly and Digger were in the next room, one o’her heavy sighs away from stanin’ right next to her to do whatevers she needed doin’.

  Still weren’t no cure for mopey.

  Well, there were, but that usually involved glitter and a welding laser, and the doc had warned her nots to get crafty-silly and instead takes it kinda easy, at least until the wee one were borned and not at risk of glitter-infections.

  Glitter were forever.

  Someone rung the front bell. T’weren’t a house, where she might see outs the front window at who were comin’. Jess and Torsten and David had puts her and Digger up in the main palace itself, in a back wing away from the normal folk, where IMPORTANT GUESTS got to stay. Er somethin’. Hospital happened to be just across the way, when it were needed.

  Digger’s chair made a sound as he rose. Moirrey heard the door open in the next room. Low murmurs of conversation. Digger’s footsteps approaching the doorway. Head poked around the sill.

  First timed she’d met then-Senior Centurion Anton Digger Wolanski had been on the way to Thuringwell, where Jess had assigned her to supervise the ground forces and help them builds a new railroad network, a second starport, and enough metals-processing factories to make the economy of the planet go BOOM.

  He were then, as now, a man of what some might call average looks. Average height. Average build. Hair’d been brown then, mostly gray now. Them blue eyes ain’t lost nothin’, though. Man were a three-Dee problem box solver and civil engineer of the first water.

  Drop-dead-sexy brains. And willing to makes an honest woman out of her. And tolerate her crazy, redneck relatives on Ramsey, as well as dress up pretty spiffy for Imperial Events where she got to wear her sword.

  How many people owned official swords as part of their regalia?

  Moirrey fixed her beau with an expectant eye.

  “Lady Moirrey of Ramsey has guests,” he announced in that silly, official voice he did when he were a goof. A bigger goof than normal. Almost as big a goof as her.

  “Not gettin’ up,” she announced in voice loud enough that whoever in the front room hearded her. “All comfy here.”

  Digger’s face registered shock as someone put a hand in his back and politely shoved him rests o’the way into the room and outs the way. Bedrov followed him into the room. Pops were a step behind.

  “Okay,” Bedrov announced back. “But your salon is going to look awful silly and cramped, by the time we cover the walls with design printouts.”

  Digger had a smile on his face said
that butter wouldna melt right now. Like he’d maybe goned and called the goobers to come rescue her from entropy er somethin’.

  He mights. Man were smarter’n he ever lets on.

  “Whats evil you two doing now?” Moirrey asked.

  Digger, the big goof, bowed at the waist and everything and then scampered backs into the kitchen afore she could stop him. Left her alone with these two. Even fight, maybe, what with her eight months preggers, but still. Principle o’the matter, ya knows?

  Bedrov took the couch and Pops flopped into the other chair like a big, wet dog. Were gonna be one of those days, weren’t it?

  “So Pops refuses to retire quietly,” Bedrov began in a serious tone.

  He couldna get farthers, on counts of both her and Pops giggling madly. Maybe Digger from the other room, toos.

  Pops never done nothin’ quietly. ’Cepts kill things.

  “Anyway,” Yan continued when the other two finally settled down. “As I was say, Pops refuses to sit down and shut up, even when he’s no longer the Crown Naval Designer.”

  “Dowager, punk,” Pops fired back between giggles. “And don’t you forget it.”

  More giggles. Absolutely including Digger, listening in from the kitchen.

  Jessica was going to be the Dowager Queen one of these days. Promise. Stop saving the galaxy and retire to teach little ones the true art of the sword, and not the silly knife-fighting the punks around here still occasionally couldn’t get outs their system.

  “Jessica has decided to commission a new ship,” Yan said loud enough to maybe drown out the lafter. “Pops and I have settled on a basic design for what Torsten calls a Survey Dreadnaught.”

  “Heards ’bout that,” Moirrey chirped. “Why’s you needin’ me?”

  “Well, one of the best systems engineers in the galaxy is going to be around for a while, and probably bored out of her mind,” Pops jumped into the conversation. “And we’ve got the Bartender on tap, if we need his help.”

  “Ya ain’t asked a question,” Moirrey grumbled at him. “Nor answered mine.”

  Bedrov got serious, all suddens. Back to the bad days serious, afore Pops comed along at St. Legier, and he and her were building the Butterfly.

  “I talked to Torsten a few times, including right before he left,” Bedrov’s voice suddenly turned to molten lead. “He’s got a theory that Aquitaine is wanting to restart the old war, trying to catch the Empire off-guard, and push them back from the Treaty Borders, maybe as far as the old treaty line under Karl IV. That’s about forty systems that Aquitaine has lost over the last century and a half. Casey’s popular, but polarizing, so maybe the old farts will resist her. Maybe some of the Dukes on that frontier will get stupid or go neutral, in the face of First Expeditionary’s old commanders suddenly threatening them. Alber’ and Robbie and their ships are available, mostly with the original crews. Big chunks of Vanguard are still intact, really lacking only Denis and Jessica. And nobody gives Kigali the credit he deserves, for training escort teams how to maximize their designs.”

  Moirrey felt the room grow chill. Kiddo did, too, and stopped thumping her middle section. She reached for the tea to break the hold of the cold air that seemed to infiltrate her tunic top.

  “You were talking about a Survey Dreadnaught, Yan,” Moirrey pointed out, feeling herself grow too damned serious.

  “I was,” he nodded solemnly. “The final design was supposed to be able to go to sea nearly as long as Kigali’s long-runner-yacht. Expeditionary Cruiser logic, where you won’t necessarily have access to a logistics train capable of supporting you, twenty thousand light-years from home.”

  She could see where the man was going. Taste it in the air, like he had released a new perfume into the air ducts.

  Moirrey felt her chin come up and her eyes narrow into cold slits.

  “But?” she asked.

  “But maybe it needs to be a more-dedicated warship,” Yan completed the thought in her head. “That suggests the need for more power than we had originally expected. Or maybe better systems. Pops and I can handle that part. The Bartender taught us enough to make improved auxiliary power reactors that nobody else in the galaxy can probably top right now.”

  “She’s not going sailing if there’s a war going on, Yan,” Moirrey countered.

  “Which is where the conversation with me and Pops went,” he acknowledged. “What if the war comes here?”

  There. That was the thing lurking in her soul, a cold pit of dread she hadn’t been able to name before.

  War.

  “Aquitaine corvettes would slaughter a mMotherShip,” Moirrey said coldly. “II Augusta or one of her sister ships would go through David’s current fleet like a welding laser through a stick of warm butter. Maybe not Tamara herself, but that would be what I’d send to this border, if I wanted to do something about Jessica wearing an Imperial uniform. Something mean.”

  “Yes,” Pops had also grown withdrawn and serious.

  The three of them were back aboard the Butterfly, planning how to kill a god. Only this time without Gunter or Summer along. She figured she could always blackmail Ainsley into helping, if the three of them needed someone sane in the conversation.

  Saner than them, anyway.

  “I’ve seen your plans, Pops,” Moirrey said. “You and Yan could build some of them instead of MotherShips.”

  “We could,” Pops agreed. “But building enough of them to hold the border will take years. Training a new generation of men, and women, to use them effectively might take a decade. We might not have that time, if Aquitaine decides to strike hard and fast at Jessica’s base while she’s gone.”

  “First Expeditionary would kill anything you threw against it right now,” Yan spoke up. “MotherShips would be helpless, especially if Alber’ or Robbie or Tamara were here. Worse, all three as a team again.”

  “Suggestions?” she asked bluntly. As in: why are you bothering a pregnant woman?

  “The three of us, and Ainsley and the Bartender,” Yan said. “Most of us drinking, like we do when we want to get silly, except you and the Bartender will be sober. Bring Digger and anybody else with a good engineering background. Video the whole thing so we can go back later and watch when we can’t remember. Cover every wall with paper. Several layers of paper on the tables. Get crazy.”

  “Top the Bubble Gun?” Moirrey grinned.

  “Save Corynthe from destruction, when the Lords of the Galaxy decide to have it out again and damned are the innocents,” Pops replied in a cold, angry voice getting close to her own. “Maybe we’ll need to take over the damned galaxy instead. The Concord managed to keep the peace for millennia, once upon a time.”

  Moirrey considered it.

  She’d birthed the Bubble Gun on an unsuspecting Buran. Killed the bastard with a Type-6.5 beam. Been planning to retire with Jess and Marcelle, away from the wars.

  But Project Mischief had entire chapters she had never shown no one, once Moirrey was convinced that her need to kill things on industrial scales was in the past. Ships and weapons like flights of evil fancy, hidden away from sane people so that the future could be a calm and tranquil place.

  Maybe the past weren’t done with her yet.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  DATE OF THE REPUBLIC APRIL 1, 405 PENMERTH, LADAUX

  HE WOULDN’T HAVE official confirmation for a few weeks, but Tadej had no doubts in his head that things were proceeding as planned as he reclined in his office and reviewed the latest round of reports from the galactic fringe. The fools at Lincolnshire had never been especially fond of their outermost neighbors, Corynthe, but until the last ten years, hadn’t really faced a great threat from that border either. Just annoyances and criminals.

  Fortunately for them, nobody had been stupid enough to suggest that putting Keller on the throne, or leaving her there, had been a bad idea. Trade had risen for a decade, and interstellar piracy had fallen remarkably, all along that zone.

  Still, Lincolnshire saw the
mselves as the border guards. Roman legionnaires atop Hadrian’s Wall, striving to keep unruly Picts at bay. They did not need much pressure to act rude to their neighbors, once Tad let them know that he would send them a small war fleet to help patrol their space in return.

  Not that he expected David to do anything to provoke the situation, once things started to get out of hand. It really didn’t matter if Arlo was dead or not, other than it gave some of Tadej’s other allies the opportunity to maneuver their own candidate in front of the woman. That would come right at the time when she might need to make a decision on stabilizing her throne, when a purely-political wedding might solidify her flanks.

  Anything to introduce a snake and an apple into the Imperial household.

  And if Arlo survived, then all the blame had been arranged to fall on disloyal elements of the Empire. Tadej’s hands were clean.

  Best of all, Judit would have rounded up Jessica and all of her Merry Men. Reactivated their commissions, and had weeks to get them acclimated to the new reality, away from Casey and David.

  Even Nils would get his comeuppance, the man having flat refused to accept any official role in Tad’s government, or even the Senate. Tad had his doubts about the story that Nils was just waiting for Jessica’s wedding to be done before he figured out what he wanted to do next. They had been friends too long, and Tadej remembered a breakfast where he had been concerned that Nils would punch him in the face.

  The latest report, the one in his hands, was five weeks out of date, the fastest his Pony Express of couriers could make the run from Petron. It had been an unwelcome surprise, when Kasimira Wiegand traveled to the wedding with an entire battle fleet, commanded by Wachturm himself. There had been contingency plans in place that might have created a provocation for Aquitaine to ambush the Emperor of Fribourg and kill the woman, had she traveled in the sort of Flag Cruiser she previously had.