Princess Valerie's War

by Terry Mancour

  “Get a visual, now!” Lucas ordered, suddenly concerned. A Beowulf vessel would have identified themselves by now. Unfortunately, the suite of detection gear on the pinnace was far inferior to that on the Nemesis, and it took a lot of searching before a signature could be found – a mere thousand miles away!

  “Great Ghu!” bellowed Lucas, “they must have been waiting here for us! Do we have a visual, yet?”

  “On screen, Sire!” Roupe said, his voice nearly cracking. The viewscreen displayed a highly-magnified image of the usual spherical shaped space ship – but this one was clearly not a Sword World built craft. The ships built on the Sword Worlds had a distinctive style, being the descendants of old System States Alliance craft. A number of clues – the way the equatorial gunports were built, the landing legs, and the detection grid on the exterior hull – all were descended from Old Federation designs.

  “Any insignia yet?” Lucas asked, anxiously. “How big is she?”

  “A cruiser, Sire, a thousand footer,” Roupe said, tensely, as he tried to access the other directional sensors. “I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess I’d say it was Atonian.”

  “Hayes wasn’t kidding about them wanting me, was he?” Lucas sighed. “How close? Can we fire on them?”

  “We can try, sir, but . . . if they launched missiles now . . .”

  “I see,” nodded Lucas. “Any sign of help from Beowulf?”

  “There’s a patrol ship at the outer planet,” the normal-space pilot said, “but its sixteen hours away, without hyperspace!”

  “What’s the soonest they could get here? If they got our hail?” Lucas asked.

  “About an hour, if they plot a microjump,” the answer came, a few moments later. “But Sire, it doesn’t look –wait! Hail coming through, Sire, the old Federation merchant code, with a screen combination and an order to surrender or be destroyed. Their gunports are open,” he added.

  Lucas waited a few moments, thinking urgently of how he could possibly escape this time. His ship wasn’t nearly as fast as the cruiser, and help was still too far away. And his armament was depleted.

  “Send out a Sword World impulse coded transmission to Beowulf,” he said, at last, as every eye on the bridge was on him. “Mark our position and compliment, and tell them that we’ve been captured by the Atonian Navy – and that there are Atonian patrol ships all over the place out here. Have them pass on word to Tanith for us.”

  “Sire, that message won’t get there—”

  “I know, Son,” Lucas said, tiredly. “At the speed of light, they won’t get it for almost an hour. That ship will be on us in moments. They’re going to board us, we’re going to surrender, if they don’t shoot us out of hand, and we will be prisoners. We’ll be long gone and they won’t be able to do anything about it. They won’t be able to rescue us. They need to know that their defenses are being probed, and this will tell them. And this way we all live to fight another day, perhaps. But if you’ve got a better idea, I’d like to hear it.”

  “No, Sire!” the young man swallowed.

  “Then open a screen to the cruiser,” he sighed. “Let’s go ahead and get the surrender over with, shall we?”

  Chapter Two:

  Winter in Rivington

  Winter had finally come to Rivington, but in Valerie’s heart it had been winter for three weeks already.

  She sat on the high balcony of Trask House, wrapped in a luxurious Imhotep fur, watching the light snowfall dust the statues and shrubs and flagstones of the courtyard below in the afternoon sun. She should have been here holding her daughter, Elaine, with her husband by her side, laughing as the little girl tried to understand the subtleties of snowflakes.

  But that wasn’t happening. A vengeful madman had kidnapped her baby – and tried to kidnap Valerie, herself – in an effort to force her husband, the Prince, to essentially hand the planet over to a king who had never even been to the planet. Now her two-month old baby – three months, now! – was lost somewhere amongst the stars.

  And here she sat. Waiting.

  She tried to be philosophical about it. Every resource of the Realm was busy hunting down that vile little imp, Garvan Spasso, wherever he might try to shelter across the galaxy. At least the parts close enough for her to reach. It was possible that Spasso had returned to the far Sword Worlds, over 3000 light-years away, but it wasn’t thought likely. Spasso had enemies in the Sword Worlds, now, since he had disgraced himself on a mission for his master, Omfray I, the King of Gram, by not capturing Tanith the first time he’d tried it.

  Of course that mission had been a rude and ham-handed attempt at extorting the entire Princely Realm of Tanith to pay off Omfray’s considerable debts. But Lucas had split from his homeworld before Omfray had even come to power, and he was not about to capitulate to a foreign king when he had worked so hard to build civilization here.

  Tanith had endured at least four or five centuries of neobarbarism after it lost touch with the rest of the Old Federation. leaving the distant colony to fend for itself. Local troubles, plague, war, invasion, or mere steady decline, no one really knew why or how Tanith had gone from a contragravity-using, starfaring people to the brutal reality of Iron Age living, but they had. Until the Space Vikings came here, it had been much like ancient Europe or China or India on Terra during the Middle-ages.

  First Otto Harkaman had come. A tall, burly giant of a man, Harkaman had come to Tanith fifteen years ago in his ship, the Corisande, from Durendal in the Sword Worlds. He’d loved the place: low population, beautiful, lush landscape, as much like ancient Terra as a human being could ask for. Best, the ruins of the Old Federation cities were intact, if largely abandoned. When he was hired to establish an Old Federation raiding base for the Sword World, Gram, he had immediately thought of the fertile jewel of Tanith.

  Harkaman had come here with her husband, less than a year after Lucas had been critically wounded – and his bride of less than an hour slain – by an insane jilted suitor, the infamous Andray Dunnan. Dunnan hadn’t restricted his madness to shooting up weddings – after that piece of infamy, he and his thugs stole a spaceship and fled into the wilderness of the Old Federation to become Space Vikings, themselves. Since Lucas was hunting Dunnan, at the time, he had traded his family’s hereditary lands on Gram for a brand-new warship. Only you could chase a man for six lifetimes through Old Federation space and never meet him. Lucas needed a good place to intercept him, instead. Under Harkaman’s guidance, Tanith seemed ideal.

  When they arrived, however, there were two other Space Viking raiders from the Sword Worlds here, albeit weak and petty examples: Boake Valkanhayn and Garvan Spasso. They had attempted to use Lucas’ interest in the world to gain position. Lucas obliged them, taking them into service and halting their brutal exploitation of the natives.

  Valkanhayn became a loyal warrior and a valued councilor, as Lucas transformed the ruined city of Rivington into a habitable base. And not just a base – instead of rudely exploiting the planet, which was standard operating procedure for most Space Viking raiding bases, Lucas had made a conscious effort to grow his holdings by developing them, improving the lot of his new subjects and encouraging them to prosper.

  And not just his own subjects: Lucas had introduced key pieces of technology to the worlds he raided, until they had begun to return to standards of living and a level of civilization not enjoyed since the fall of the Old Federation. Better, he had influenced hundreds of Space Vikings under his command to take a similar, more enlightened approach.

  But not Garvan Spasso. Spasso had no allegiance to civilization or any other ideal than his own fortune and power. Spasso had jumped at the chance to leave his ship behind, leave Tanith, and return to the Sword Worlds, where his ambitions and his willingness to do the dirty work of his betters – not to mention his natural treachery – gave him greater and greater position as time marched on.

  Blast it, Lucas, Valerie thought in despair. Why didn’t you shoot him down like the r
abid animal he was?

  Spasso’s adaptability and obsequiousness allowed him the ear of the King of Gram, Angus, who had made Lucas the ruling Prince of Tanith.

  But under the influence of Spasso and other wicked counselors (plus, it was whispered, a healthy dose of congenital madness) Angus ran his new planetary kingdom into the ground. His enemies gathered strength from off-world and plotted against him. His friends and councilors – Spasso included – betrayed him when the political winds shifted. Disgusted at the king’s behavior after he’d divorced his wife of thirty years and married a barely-noble trollop a third his age, Lucas had finally declared independence from Gram, pronouncing that Gram and Tanith had separate destinies.

  And there it should have ended.

  But the internecine dynastic squabbles of the Sword Worlds never ended. Angus lost the faith and support of his subjects, and was invaded by an exiled political opponent, Omfray of Glaspyth. Omfray had gone into debt with the King of Haulteclere, which was another Sword World, and the Prince of Xochitl, which was a Space Viking raiding base, to secure a fleet and overthrow bad king Angus. Then bad king Omfray decided that leaning on Gram’s former colony would be the most expedient way to get Viktor of Xochitl’s ships and armies off of Gram. And he had sent his trusted councilor, Garvan Spasso, who had been instrumental in the invasion of Gram, in a brand-new ship to try to enforce that desire.

  Spasso. Any man of honor would have completed his duty, accepted his failure, and been willing to go home and face the consequences of failure. But not Spasso. He was too ambitious to fail. If Lucas would not bend his knee to the likes of Omfray with a polite request, then Spasso had other means to accomplish his task. He arranged an assassination attempt on Lucas and Valerie and the Lord Marshal – the old space dog Harkaman – by arranging to have a servant throw an anti-armor grenade at them at a party. Had not a young man, a soldier of the Royal Army named Sam Gatworth, thrown himself on the grenade and sacrificed his life for them, Spasso might have actually succeeded.

  But he didn’t. The Trasks were spared – and seriously angry. They captured Spasso, his men, and the ship he came in and was tried for attempted regicide. He cagily invoked an old Sword World legal code that allowed him trial by combat, figuring that he had a better shot with the uncertainty of a pistol barrage than he did with a firing squad. Instead Lucas chose swords as weapons for the judicial duel, and selected a champion – a local neobarbarian lord whose wife Spasso had molested many years before – and who had grown up with a sword in his hand.

  Spasso had fought desperately, but he was no match for Lord Noam, Baron of Bentfork. Bentfork cleaved Spasso’s right arm off and claimed it as a trophy. Lucas confiscated Spasso’s shiny new ship and sent Spasso back to Gram in one of its pinnaces, in disgrace.

  And there it should have ended.

  But while Lucas had moved on to better things, such as securing the Realm and improving the lot of its people, Spasso was stripped of his titles and imprisoned. Not even a rat like Spasso is without friends – or at least allies. He secured his release and the use of a ship, and had returned to the Old Federation, vowing revenge on the man who had dashed his ambitions.

  Lucas Trask. Her husband.

  Lucas had been called away by war, a surprise attack on an important ally, the planet Amateratsu. A brand new fleet from Gram had attacked the world, and while the newly-recivilized world was able to mount a valiant defense on her own, only the arrival of the fleet from Tanith kept Amateratsu from being far more seriously injured. As it was, a shipment of the supremely rare and precious mineral, gadolinium, was stolen. Amateratsu was one of the few planets where the mineral was found, and it was essential for the construction of Dillingham hyperdrive engines, the machines that allowed space ships to move faster than the speed of light. That made it a strategically valuable asset to the small League of Civilized worlds, one worthy of a vigorous defense. It would have been a serious blow to the new alliance to lose it.

  Lucas fought ferociously on behalf of his friends – he always did. Just as he had fought to rescue her own homeworld, Marduk, when it teetered on the edge of collapse. But while Lucas and a good portion of the fleet were away from Tanith, Garvan Spasso had hired mercenaries and planned an operation of his own. The target was the Royal Family – her, and her baby daughter, Elaine. Spasso had only barely missed capturing Valerie, thanks to her insistence on returning to battle instead of fleeing to safety.

  But he’d gotten Elaine. Only two months since she was brought into the universe, and now she was in the hands of rough strangers. Only a supreme amount of control had kept Valerie from going mad over that fact. Elaine was lost.

  Now Lucas was missing, too, six days overdue and no word. His ship, the Nemesis, had been recovered and towed back home, but the pinnace he had escaped in had been found, empty, in the outer limits of Beowulf’s system. Lucas had been captured – by someone. Likely it was a stray Gram ship or one of Xochitl’s enterprising raiders who took advantage of Lucas’ predicament to cash in on a ransom. Just as they were awaiting the promised contact from Spasso, via the Space Viking base planet, Hoth. Concerning Elaine’s ransom.

  Now Valerie’s brave men were scouring every habitable planet within close range, and publicizing the impressive reward that Tanith had offered for the princesses’ safe return, the head of Garvan Spasso, or preferably both. And all she could do was sit here, sipping coffee – liberally laced with Lyran spirits – and watching snowflakes.

  Alone.

  “Highness?” her middle-aged native maid, Lishia, called from the doorway. “Highness? Screen call from the War Office. Admiral Harkaman, Highness.”

  “I’ll take it in my study,” Valerie said, anxiously. She had a dozen or so of these calls a day, from various departments. Each time she hoped and prayed it would be news about Elaine, or Lucas, but each time it was yet another meaningless update or minor decision that only an acting head-of-state could make. It was insanely frustrating to deal with such mundanities while her whole heart ached, but she persevered, for the good of the Realm she’d sworn to protect. It was all she could do. She shed her furs as she entered the pleasantly warm room, and brought up the call on the screen in the study. The weary bearded face and distraught eyes of Duke Otto, Admiral Harkaman, Warlord of the Realm stared back at her.

  “Admiral? News?”

  “Yes, Highness,” the old man said, apologetically. The strain of the job – particularly Princess Elaine’s abduction – had streaked his red-brown beard with gray noticeably, especially in the last few weeks. “Although not the kind we want, perhaps. A Gilgamesher freighter just emerged from hyperspace, fifty-five hours out of Harnham Freeport on Vitharr. There are two Space Viking ships there, but not two of ours.” While most Space Viking ships were independent operators, often a ship would “look to” a particular adopted port to call home. There were a dozen or so who had loosely aligned themselves with Tanith and enjoyed the amenities available here.

  Harkaman looked pained, which was a troubling thing on one of the strongest men she knew. “They’re sporting blazons associated with Viktor of Xochitl. The Cariocole and the Arkady’s Revenge.”

  “They’re Viktor’s men?” she asked, her heart sinking. Viktor of Xochitl was another Space Viking prince, like Lucas, who had established a base at the decivilized world of Xochitl. He was a kinsman of King Konrad of Haulteclere, one of the most powerful of the distant Sword Worlds, who had used Viktor to back Omfray’s invasion of Gram – Lucas’ homeworld in the Sword Worlds. Viktor was allied with Omfray, and King Konrad was master to them both.

  It could get confusing, these Sword World allegiances. They were nothing at all like the staid, institutionalized nobility and constitutional monarchy of her native Marduk. The great houses of the Sword Worlds feuded constantly, and the alliances and allegiances and obligations and secret agreements between a house like Konrad’s of Haulteclere and his vassals was the sort of thing about the Sword Worlds that would give even N
icolo Machiavelli headaches. Tanith’s present civilization was based on the neo-feudal system that was the standard government among the great houses of the Sword Worlds. It was also practiced, in a much less formal manner, among the Sword World base planets in the Old Federation, the known Space Viking base worlds.

  And none of them were particularly well-disposed to Tanith right now.

  “They’re independents,” Harkaman conceded, “but they favor Viktor in most things, and if he asked them to go forth and attack Tanith ships or trade worlds, they’d do it. They’re loyal. And good. Arkady Vindoss is one of the best raiders running. Good man. Just . . . on the wrong side. And they weren’t raiding, either. Not that they’d get much from Vitharr, but they’re just parked in high orbit . . . waiting.”

  “This doesn’t bode well, Admiral,” Valerie said, shaking her head. “Was there any word of Spasso?”

  “No other ships came in while they were there, Highness, from what the Gilgamesher said.” He said the word with a trace of sneer. Most Space Vikings looked down on the pacifistic sect of radical monotheists who plied the spacelanes, trading. Yet Lucas had tended to cultivate a relationship with the strange folk, and it had paid off repeatedly. He had even extended to them a request for an ambassador, something almost unheard of. Only big, stable, civilized worlds like Marduk or Isis or Baldur would usually deign to magnanimously recognize the Gilgameshers. Other worlds barely tolerated them, even while the greedily bought and grudgingly sold to the sharp-dealing traders.