Auberon (The Jessica Keller Chronicles Book 1) (13 page)

Emmerich finally found the brief bio on the woman at the back of the report. Imperial Intelligence had very little information. Just a picture.

She looked remarkably like his youngest daughter.

Chapter XXII

Date of the Republic November 28, 392 Jumpspace outbound from 2218 Svati Prime

The coffee was almost cool. But the immense stack of paperwork was almost gone, so it was a fair trade.

Jessica’s door chimed once, announcing a visitor. She looked at the clock, rubbed her eyes, and finished her coffee.

“Enter,” she called.

Marcelle stood at the door with a serious face. “Are we intruding?”

We?

“No,” Jessica replied. “I needed a break.”

Marcelle entered, followed by Moirrey Kermode and Nina Vanek, both carrying engineering notebooks.
When had paper gotten back into vogue, rather than electronic storage?

The four looked at each other awkwardly for a few seconds.

“They were not sure,” Marcelle began, “if they should interrupt you with their doodlings, so they came to me, instead.”

Jessica looked at each woman closely. “I see. And?”

“And I brought them here, boss,” Marcelle smiled. “Don’t know the first thing about engineering specifications, ma’am, but I do understand mischief.”

She and Jessica smiled at a shared secret. Mischief of that sort was exactly why certain young officers fresh out of the Academy were generally assigned a more–experienced yeoman. It kept them out of trouble. For the most part. Assuming the yeoman wanted to. Sometimes they even did.

Sometimes, they stayed with you for your whole career, creating all sorts of opportunities for more mischief.

Jessica smiled and nodded. “I see. Thank you, Marcelle,” Jessica pointed to the two women and the two chairs as her Yeoman exited the room quietly. “Sit.”

She studied the two women closely in the silence.

Nina Vanek had a fire in her eyes, and a sureness, a calmness, that had not been there before. She carried herself more and more like Tamara Strnad every day. That alone would be a wonderful outcome of her time here.

Beside her, the little engineering pixie fairly bounced with energy.
No, not a pixie. Perhaps a sneaky, little gnome. Yes. The evil, engineering gnome. They were up to something. And it must be good.

“So,” Jessica said, “it was impressive enough to get Marcelle’s attention. What do you have?”

She watched the byplay as the two women glanced at each other.

An entire conversation passed without a word being spoken. Just shrugs, nods, and eyebrows.

“Emperor Napoleon,” Nina began, “was able to do much of what he did because he was willing to live off the land, rather than be limited by the efficiency and length of his own logistics train.”

Jessica leaned back and considered what she had said.

It was a bold opening gambit. Apparently, today was to be Socratic lessons.

Well enough.

“And he failed,” Jessica said. “He destroyed his army, his empire, and his legacy, first in Russia, and later against a man who did understand logistics, Arthur, Duke of Wellington.”

“Aye, ma’am,” Moirrey interjected. “The Iron Duke were a terrible great man, willing to learn new ways of warfare and use patience like water wearing down rock. But he ne’er stepped beyond his supply capabilities. This be the future.”

“Go on,” Jessica nodded.

“We have cut our own supply chain,” Nina continued, “and thrust deep into enemy territory like a saber in the
Valse d’Glaive
. Wellington would have us retreat back to safe territory and plunge in again, somewhere else. Napoleon would call us cowards and demand that we strip the very land to feed ourselves as we march.”

“And why, Centurion, would Wellington be wrong about that choice?”

Jessica felt the energy radiating from the two. It was infectious.

“Because, ma’am,” Moirrey replied with a smile, “t’would be the classical response. The book answer. An’ we’re no about the book.”

“No?” Jessica asked.

“No, commander,” Nina continued. “We have already proven that we can capture raw materials like metals and food stuffs as we go, and sustain ourselves in the field for a very long time.
CR–264
was designed for amazingly long sails, although
Rajput
will be a cramped pain in the arse after a few months.”

“Go on,” Jessica said. These two were up to something. She would sell them rope for a while. They had earned her patience. Especially after
2218 Svati Prime
.

“So, eventually,” Nina said, “we run out of interesting stuff. Missiles, electronics, reloads for the Primaries. At that point we have no choice but to head home. During that time, the Imperials will gain space to fortify and rebuild everything. When we come back, it will be that much harder to do anything to crack that nut. And we run the risk of running into a force we can’t thrash.”

“That is essentially correct,” Jessica replied. “We do not have the resources to capture one of these worlds, unless you think fifty–eight marines could do the trick?”

“No, ma’am,” Moirrey leapt into the fray, “but we could make it right bloody expensive fer them to do anything while we’re gone. Like you said, this is a war on their pocketbooks and their minds, not just their navy.”

“And how would you two go about doing that?” Jessica finally asked after studying each woman in turn.

“Minefields,” Nina said quietly.

“Minefields?” Jessica blinked in surprise. She had expected something else. Something bigger. Stranger.

But as she thought about it, she realized it worked. She had tasked these two women with mischief. This was mischief in spades.

“Aye, ma’am,” Moirrey smiled broadly. “We can capture missiles from the Impi’s, but we can’t really use them. Too much effort to try to reprogram them, wrong diameter, wrong launch rails. That sort of thing. But we can take the boom–stuff out and make more bombs out of them. Real booms this time, an’ not just gravel we’ve irradiated in the landing bay to make a Geiger counter chirp and a bunch of ice to make a nice messy splatter on the scanners.”

Jessica pointed to the sketch books. “I see you’ve given this a lot of thought. Convince me.”

Nina smiled and flipped hers open to the first page.

“This,” she said, “looks like a standard Imperial communications satellite, because we build it to look just like one, and stuff it with a small engine to make terminal maneuvers, and enough explosives to kick a cruiser’s shields in…”

Chapter XXIII

Imperial Founding: 171/01/06. 2218 Svati Prime

This was one of the downsides of command.

Admiral of the Red Emmerich Wachturm, resplendent in full dress uniform, sat at the far end of the conference table and listened to the local Governor continue his profanity–laced tirade, all the while attempting to keep a neutral face himself.

It was getting difficult as the man worked his way to a full head of steam.

Still, better to let him vent it all out now. He would be less likely to take it out on someone else, someone who had no choice but to listen.

“And just where was the Fleet when we needed you to protect us?” the man peaked, slamming a perfectly manicured fist down on the table with just the right amount of theatrical flourish. It was astoundingly–well done for a provincial governor in a fringe province.

Emmerich waited for him to settle into a scowl and picked up a piece of paper from the stack in front of him. He quietly read the eleven names on the piece of paper aloud, slowly, solemnly.

When he was done, Emmerich replaced the piece of paper on the stack and smiled a tired, hard smile back at the man.

“Who were those men?” the Governor sneered.

Emmerich paused for a beat. Several aides had the courtesy to suddenly look pained.

“Those were the eleven Imperial Fleet pilots who died defending your world. One man managed to escape by diving into the atmosphere ahead of the raiders.”

“That coward should have fought to the death as well,” the Governor snarled.

“Really?” Emmerich asked.

He considered his day, his mood, his companion.

Yes, perhaps he had had enough of this little shit. Perhaps he should make an example of him.

“Given that logic, Governor, so should you.”

“What? Do you know who I am?” the Governor snarled, obviously forgetting where he was, and who.

“No,” Emmerich smiled sadly at the little man. “But I shall be sure to ask my cousin, the Emperor, next time I see him. Perhaps he should know who you are.”

Emmerich’s smile turned as cold as liquid nitrogen.

He watched the two aides on either side of the Governor turn white as sheets and shudder involuntarily. The Governor himself recoiled as though he had been slapped, although, given what Emmerich knew about the man, he was most likely to be slapped by extremely young women vainly attempting to resist his sexual advances.

“The Fleet is here now,” the Admiral continued, building to his own peak. An hour of listening to these pip–squeaks rant had honed his mood down to a fine, sharp edge. Perhaps it was blade–in–the–night time. “We will protect
2218 Svati Prime
until a new fighter squadron can be deployed.”

“It won’t be enough,” the man challenged.

Truly, the Governor had an overwhelming sense of his own importance.

Perhaps the Imperial Taxation Authority needed an anonymous tip. A man with that big of a chip on his shoulder was certain to be doing something that could get him arrested and gulaged, somewhere really interesting.

Perhaps a world farming ice worms would do.

“Then, Governor,” Emmerich continued, raising his voice a notch louder to speak over the man, “perhaps we should discuss raising the rate of Imperial Taxes you pay, to afford a better defensive array. I suppose we could always annex the world to the Imperial Estates. Then the costs would be borne by the Household itself. Of course, we wouldn’t need a local Governor. What do you think?”

Apparently, the Admiral’s tone had finally gotten the man’s attention, gotten him to listen to the words.

Emmerich watched him subside like a failed soufflé and sit quietly.

Finally.

“That won’t be necessary, Admiral,” he said meekly.

“Are we sure?” Emmerich asked, using the tone that he would normally use on an unruly teenage daughter. He had had enough practice.

“Quite sure, sir.”

Emmerich let the room stew for a few moments. The sudden musk of fear and flop sweat from the far end of the table, while gratifying, was sour, and threatened to take his mood with it.

“In that case, Governor,” he said, “that will be all. I will meet with the medical and scientific authorities next and determine the best course of action. My staff will be in touch.”

The aides popped out of their chairs like groundhogs hearing a predator. The Governor rose more slowly.

“I should be here,” the Governor said meekly. “This is my world.”

Emmerich looked harshly down his nose at the man. He invoked that particular voice of doom he had learned from his father. “This is my world, governor. Until I say otherwise. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cattle prods and a stampede of wild bulls couldn’t have cleared the room faster. And probably would have left him feeling cleaner. He wanted to wash manure off his boots.

Emmerich looked about at his own staff.

“Okay,” he sighed, “now bring in the experts.”

Ξ

Emmerich felt his heart sink again.

Every time he watched the video play, it was like a hot needle poking him.

The Aquitaine carrier,
Auberon
, moving into high orbit exactly over the northern pole of
2218 Svati Prime
. Hanging there, ominous.

Waiting.

A single, strange–looking missile launched down into the atmosphere.

On the side of the screen, all the telemetry data displayed in the clear. Someone had apparently forgotten to encrypt the signal on their weapon, which suggested it was an experimental device, rather than one that was ready for service. So much data made it a boon to decipher.

Why field test it on 2218 Svati Prime? What did this world have that made it a good test? What was going to happen next?

Two and a half tonnes of water, according to the calculations, frozen around the payload inside the warhead.

Some sort of mildly radioactive payload itself, although it had been fully dispersed by polar winds long before a scientist could get there to collect samples.

Friction heating the warhead as it dove, a meteor flashing across the sky. Ice almost subliming instantly to steam from the heat. Pressure building to immense levels before the warhead exploded.

A weather satellite had managed to pick up a grainy image of the explosion itself, a burst of water vapor and
something
, several hundred meters across, quickly torn apart by the high–altitude winds.

What the hell was it?
Aquitaine
had never done something like this before.

There were rules.

No matter how bad things were, both sides had always honored the Laws of War.

Emmerich made a note to have one of his legal experts research if this constituted a violation, and, if so, what they could do besides complaining to the Republic Representative through unofficial channels.

Even in a war, there were ways.

Did the ice serve to insulate the warhead? Or was it the steam and pressure that created some manner of secondary effect necessary on deployment.

The video faded to black.

Emmerich looked at the two men chosen to represent the medical profession and the local university science department.

They looked like hell.

Partly, he expected that the dread of meeting the Imperial Admiral, who was also the cousin of the Emperor, was wearing on them. It would wear on anybody.

Add to that the trauma of whatever
Aquitaine
had done with that bomb.