by Blaze Ward
“The wars are over, on all sides of us,” Gerig continued, turning right and left as he spoke, but pointedly ignoring the gallery above where Cameron watched. “Buran has been broken. Salonnia remains one of our closest allies. Aquitaine was there in our time of greatest need, and now asks to be our friend as well.”
He paused there, and did look up at Cameron with a sly smile on his face, visible even at this distance. Cameron was not fooled. He had read details about the man’s meetings with Governor Chavarría that even Gerig’s wife probably wasn’t privy to.
Always dancing on the edge of treason, without ever once getting his feet wet. Truly a master politician.
“As a reward for aiding us, they ask for nothing more than trade. And, more importantly, trust,” Gerig continued. “We should take this as our chance to review all that the Empire stands for, as there is a new beginning possible before us. A new, young Emperor who would guide us away from war. New friends with which we can trade. New vistas we could explore, across once-hostile lines. Old friends we could rescue from the darkness.”
Ah. That’s what he’s up to. It is not the trade with Horvat that excites his passion, so much as Karl VIII’s decision to ignore all the worlds fallen to Buran over the last generation, while she gets her own house in order. In the time that Horvat would be busy trying to sway old Republic worlds away from Imperial domination, Gerig wants to go after the worlds of the Protectorate of Man.
What an interesting swap.
Cameron knew that Samara was largely abandoned as a military outpost today, with all the warships there having fled across the M’Hanii Gulf into the depths of The Holding, chased at every step by Imperial fleets happy to destroy Sentient warships and ignore civilian traffic, as Keller had suggested.
It made sense now, and Cameron could see the way the gravity wells of politics would realign over this. One faction would call for more trade and less taxes to support unnecessary warfleets, if Buran was broken and Aquitaine friendly. Gerig was representing them with his left hand today as he continued to talk about the possibilities.
Cameron listened with half an ear and let the concepts work their way into the back of his mind where he could grind them up like peppercorns and then use them to spice future meals.
Another faction, call it Gerig’s right hand, would push to maintain military spending, for the purpose of hunting Buran’s fleets down, and possibly occupying the skies above Buran’s colonies. Trade at the end of a sword.
GunShip Diplomacy, the ancients had called it.
Gerig kept pounding away at his fellows at how important it would be for them to guide their new Emperor, a woman untested in the ways of peace, having been born twice into war. It made a lovely turn of phrase that would no doubt begin to turn up in the broadsheets tomorrow.
Gerig returned to that concept, striking the iron from several directions as Cameron listened. The daughter of Karl VII. The woman Emperor. Even Centurion Wiegand. All phrases calculated to arouse these sexist dukes without ever actually saying something untoward.
Truly, Gerig had a gift for such politics. He and Chavarría would have been a dangerous pair, had they been anything less than common travelers for a brief time.
Cameron considered what it would eventually take to seat Avelina Indovina in this chamber. No woman had ever been welcomed here. Even Karl VIII had not taken her prerogative to Chair so much as a single session of the House of Dukes, something her illustrious father had only done a handful of times.
Indovina’s paperwork had been filed with all the correct signatures and legalisms. Usually, a new colonial effort started with someone well-connected and rich enough to fund a founding colony. The Duke was then appointed, to provide proper legal authority before the first vessel ever touched down.
Here, a young woman of the Republic had taken it upon herself to claim the world for the Empire. Better, an enlisted woman of no particular wealth or breeding. A cowgirl, to use the rude vernacular. And unwed, so nobody here could even change the conversation to recognizing a husband as Duke and politely ignoring the wife who had started it all.
And Lighthouse Station was, according to all the reports Cameron had read, thriving quite well. Nearly fifteen thousand colonists in place. A major city on the coast with a road network cut by the 189th Legion. Several forward military bases. A small naval dock in orbit.
Cameron knew that the Emperor had hoped to leave off the political battles over Lighthouse Station until after her own wedding. That decision had made a perfect sense, a year ago. One more possible problem to cast into the already-too-hot fire.
Cameron listened to Gerig sway his fellows with dreams of avarice on the floor below. Trade was the carrot. Trade with Aquitaine for those planets on the inner border. Trade with newly-liberated Holding worlds for Dukes that had just spent a generation waiting for an invading fleet to conquer them.
And all we have to do is withdraw the fleet from Aquitaine’s border and possibly use it to expand back over worlds lost. So easy. So logical.
Cameron listened until the Dukes called for a lunch recess, and then departed the chamber for his office.
It would not be a simple task, thwarting those men without resorting to the old Imperial Security apparatus, now enshrined in the Hall of Justice under Lorenz. Dukes had a natural advantage, rousing their own population when they wanted to. If enough of them roused enough people, even an Emperor had to give way.
In the past, the Dukes had been a reliable force NOT to agitate for change. Not to allow anything to threaten their way of life.
As Cameron made his way back to his office, he considered the tools he had at hand. Without the Emperor present, much of what the Dukes wanted to do could be thrashed out and agreed to ahead of time. Budgets would have to be made. Orders sent. Populations roused to demand change.
The business of Her Majesty’s government did not stop just because she was not present to sign those bills into law. She had left Cameron Lara with exactly that authority, on the understanding that nothing critical would happen until she returned.
Someone had been counting the days until she could, and planning his mischief.
Cameron just had to figure out how to stop them.
CHAPTER XXIII
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC APRIL 26, 405 CA CYRUS, EDGE OF THE STABIEL SYSTEM
DAYS LIKE THIS, Phil missed commanding a scout corvette. Or having RAN Ballard out there in the darkness, listening to enemy communications. He had grown spoiled, being with Keller’s Expeditionary Fleet. However, nothing about the Stabiel system suggested any sort of ambush in waiting.
For one, this was Salonnia. Technically an Imperial ally, but they had indeed crossed Lincolnshire’s border and captured at least two freighters, in direct contravention to treaties and agreements. Neither of those ships were here today, though, so Phil didn’t have to worry about trying to steal them back.
No, his orders were a simple demonstration raid. Drop out of JumpSpace, blow a few things up, threaten the locals with grander reprisals if they didn’t behave, and then return to Lincolnshire space.
Measured. In contrast to the things Jessica had done, where she purposefully went in and blew up everything that didn’t run away fast enough, before pounding every orbital station into junk. That wasn’t the mission here.
Today, Phil was on the bridge of Cyrus, with Križ within easy speaking distance and all of the other ship commanders and tactical officers visible on his display, just waiting for orders. Everyone was just waiting for Phil, at this point.
Mentally, he reviewed the information that had accompanied his orders, just to make sure. Technically, this was an act of war against an Imperial ally. In retaliation for an act of war against one of the Republic’s allies.
Salonnia was a nation of criminal syndicates. There were more polite ways to express it, but none nearly as accurate. Corrupt officials owned by plutocrats who used the power of the state to enrich themselves with laws that only applied to little p
eople.
Idly, Phil wondered if the raid had been a business affair, rather than a political statement. Someone looking to make a quick Lev with stolen goods and ships, on the hope or presumption that nobody would react aggressively, since everyone was supposed to be friends now.
They certainly picked the right time to do it, timing the raid so that the news might get lost in the Keller/Wald wedding celebrations.
Too bad. We’re still the law around here, gentlemen.
“All vessels, this is Kosnett, aboard RAN Cyrus,” Phil let the words flow naturally. “I have the flag. All vessels to battle stations and conform to the flagship. Tactical Officers, you will take command and prepare for Jump in thirty seconds from mark.”
Around him, Phil heard the chuckles. All the ships had been at red alert for a few hours now, since they dropped into RealSpace clear out here where they could watch and listen.
But he needed everybody ready to go, right now. Nobody should have left their stations, save for fast potty breaks. This was a raid, not a battle.
Rather than speak to her image on his screen, Phil turned to Cyrus’s First Officer and waited for her to look back over a shoulder at him. Senior Centurion Piloqutinnguaq Katarin. Little Leaf, from the ancient Greenlandic tongue, was what everyone called her, usually unable to wrap their tongue around her formal name. If she even answered to it in uniform anymore.
“I have Tactical,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. “Pilot, you have your orders. Gunnery officers, confirm your status.”
Phil watched on a secondary screen as the weapon officers everywhere on the ship checked in. Cyrus was a Founder-class heavy cruiser. Four Primary mounts, all forward. Six Type-3 beams reconfigured to Type-3-Extended, and set for range today. Four Type-1 beams for close support. Four missile tubes in the waist.
It felt like a step backwards in time, taking a ship like this into battle. Eventually, the Lords of the Fleet would replace all the Founders with a new design, most likely a cut-down version of the Expeditionary Cruisers he had escorted with Keller.
For today, however, he was fine. RAN Cyrus and the three corvettes could probably handle this mission by themselves. Three light cruisers flying close by just meant that nothing any of the orbital stations could throw at them was a significant risk, as long as his force stayed out of heavy beam range.
Which he fully planned.
Cyrus dropped into JumpSpace with a blink. Assumedly, the other six ships did as well. Phil had only trained with them, to date. Never taken this force into an actual battle.
Given his druthers, Phil Kosnett would have been fine never going into battle again, because that would mean the wars had ended and everyone was being nice. Oh, sure, pirates never got that memo, but if the major nations were behaving, the minor ones would have to as well. And eventually the pirates would run out of places to hide.
The entire government and culture of Salonnia might have to be overthrown first, but that would be doing the galaxy a favor, anyway. He would perhaps consider today to be the first payment on their installment plan.
Phil watched the emergence clock count down to zero. Cyrus dropped into the universe again, and the gunners lined up an orbital station sitting high in the gravity well. Six other dots appeared on his screen.
From over there, it would look like Cyrus sailed in the middle of a hexagon, with corvettes and light cruisers interspersed.
Right on cue, dots began emerging from the station. One defensive squadron of second-line, ex-Imperial StarFighters. More than enough to chase off a pirate frigate that had wandered too close.
“All vessels, stand by to salvo missiles,” Phil called over the line.
He was back to the old days of throwing seeking weapons at each other. The station began to launch. The fighters would hold until they got closer, hoping to distract Phil’s gunners with so many targets and electronic counter-measures everywhere. CS-405’s sensors would have blinded everybody over there, especially in Evan’s hands.
Around the planet, cutters and light frigates began to maneuver, coming up from a cold start to respond to this incursion, desperately out of position and out-classed.
You would think someone planning to start a war would have prepared their systems better for retributions. Certainly, tomorrow they would be more awake.
“All vessels, fire your first salvo,” Phil ordered into the line.
It was almost a shame, right now, that he had three modern corvettes, and not the old destroyers Aquitaine had built for so long. These ships didn’t have any missiles, but could kill anything the local Salonnian navy launched at him. And his four cruisers had twenty-two tubes between them, such was the joy of a missile cruiser.
Xerxes, offering to let the Spartans fight in the shade. Everyone kind of romantically skipped the part where the Spartans were eventually annihilated in that battle.
Phil waited just long enough to confirm that all the missiles were flying true. There was always risk in battle. A missile might fail to lock. It might explode when it ignited. Any number of bad things could happen.
Worse, the second salvo might be ragged or delayed, if a loading tray kinked or a simple bracket broke. That usually happened in the middle of the battle, when the ship was taking damage or maneuvering madly to avoid it, but Phil was a professor of battle, as well as a Fleet Centurion.
All lights green.
“Second salvo away,” he called methodically.
If he was feeling mean, the next twenty-two missiles could have followed the first batch. That would pretty much overwhelm the fighter squadron and kill or damage most of them. They’d be out of the battle, at the very least.
But Phil’s orders were to make a demonstration. Not to salt the earth of Stabiel with his rage. The station suddenly realized where those other missiles were headed.
They didn’t have twenty-two tubes to fire back at the incoming missiles, but the commander over there would be done shooting at Phil for a while, and the six missiles he had fired at Phil’s ships were not enough to overwhelm two escort corvettes with nothing better to do.
The fighters did pretty much the same thing, shifting all of their own missiles to target on the ones coming after them, rather than trying to shoot at the RAN squadron.
It was a wise move. If they did anything else, the twelve of them were probably overloaded and destroyed before they ever got close enough to fire their beams.
Phil highlighted a new target, clear at the edge of weapon’s range.
“All vessels, Target Alpha designated,” Phil said. “Engage with Primaries and Extended Range Beams.”
Four of Cyrus’s six were set to range, just because having two set for close-in damage was never a bad idea, when you had cutters and frigates running around armed. On Kamakura and Hualien, they had done the same, going two and two.
Eight Primary beams and eight Type-3-Extended shots rang out in a ragged volley, targeting an oversized freighter that was trying to climb out of orbit fast enough to escape. The range was right at the edge of where either primaries or Type-3’s could focus, but again, Phil wasn’t trying to destroy them. A ship like that would almost require he sit atop them, pounding away for ten minutes, just to shatter off enough hull and bulkheads to truly kill it.
He just wanted damage. Expensive to repair and loud enough to make a statement.
For the range, the task force did pretty good. Five solid hits connected at extreme range. The hull would be ringing like a bell, and probably nobody aboard would be all that injured, unless somehow one of those hits caught the ship just right and penetrated the crew spaces.
Fortunes of war. Should have thought of that before starting a fight with the Republic of Aquitaine Navy, my friend.
Closer in, the missiles had done their job. Three had actually gotten through the cataclysm at midfield, and two had scored kill hits on the fighters. The remainder of the fighters had pivoted, killed momentum, and were flying back towards their own station, firing their
beams and trying to kill Phil’s missiles before the station died.
Yes, it was a shame. He would never have an opportunity like this again, but Phil’s orders to his team were specific. Not to launch enough missiles now to kill all the fighters. Not to follow up with a salvo that shattered and deorbited the defensive station. Not to drop lower and start hunting frigates and cutters that stood about as much chance as kittens, as long as Phil kept his task force cohesive.
Phil waited for three missiles to finally slam into the station. Enough to blow down their shields and rake the near facing with claws made of plasma fire.
And to satisfy his honor.
“All vessels, this is Kosnett, aboard Cyrus. I have the flag,” he called with a bit of warmth to his voice. “Well done. Task Force begin maneuvering to Waypoint Seven for return to friendly space.”
Phil muted the line and looked over at Katarin, the Tactical Officer.
“I would greatly appreciate if we were the last ship into JumpSpace,” Phil said.
He could order it, but she was in charge for now, and needed to fight her battle. Little Leaf had done an exceptional job in her first foray under his command. But Phil was still haunted by Severnaya Zemlya and the fear that he would leave one of his corvettes behind.
But now, they could go home.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE TWELFTH YEAR OF JESSICA KELLER, QUEEN OF THE PIRATES: APRIL THE TWENTY-NINTH IN JUMPSPACE
JESSICA STUDIED Em’s face as he sipped his tea. They were alone in the kitchen for a stretch, as everyone had fallen into a regular pattern where they didn’t get into everyone else’s space as much as possible. Communal meals brought everyone out, but Casey or Aki had the bridge most of the time, and the other crew pretty much stayed aft, tending engines or fish.
“They’ll never forgive you, you know,” Em said, placing his mug precisely on the table in front of him and fixing her with serious eyes.
