The Glory of the Empress Read online

  “I don’t even have words for this,” she snarled, checking the time on her holo. “They want us to launch right here, right now. We have ten minutes, and we’re taking the long way, because it would be undignified if the DVs saw us running. Whoever picked this dock needs to go play in an airlock. I hope you’re all good on your cardio.”

  Then she was off down the corridor at a dead sprint.

  Bjorn’s eyes widened.

  “Are you serious? Is she serious?” the girl with the combs asked, staring after her, but the others were already running to follow. Major Lucas was laughing uproariously, and he wasn’t the only one.

  Bjorn was not laughing.

  2

  THEY ran. Down corridors, down stairs. At one point they had to slide down a ladder because it was faster than a lift. Commander Mao’s route took them down a lodging corridor, through a fitness center, and across the station’s main lobby.

  “Cloud the viewers,” Mao snapped into her holo as they approached the docks. She wanted to deny the onlookers the sight of the crew sprinting headlong across the bay.

  They burst into the open, and Mao only poured on more speed.

  The Lydia Bennet stood ready, a passenger ramp lowered. Techs were streaming out of the ship, several of them carrying maintenance robots and bags of tools.

  The commander was ahead of Bjorn and the others, and she shot up the ramp like lightning.

  “Did you sign me off?” she called to the tech officer in the hatchway.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you coming with us?”

  “What? Oh.” The tech officer hurried down the ramp and off the ship.

  Commander Mao paused in the hatchway and waved frantically. “I swear to the Empress, if anyone asks for permission I’ll strangle them. Let’s go.”

  Ten seconds later they were all in the airlock, gasping for breath. Bjorn had never seen twelve more bedraggled imperials. They were sweaty, their whites were a mess, and he was pretty sure a couple of his crewmates had lost medals and ribbons along the way.

  “Lydia,” the commander snapped, “do your check.”

  “Your crew is verified, Commander.”

  Bjorn blinked and looked up. Those words had come from the ship’s AI. The one he’d trained with had a male voice; this one was female, with a haughty Marragardian accent.

  “Seal it,” Mao said, looking up from her holo as the hatch closed. “Okay,” she said finally, leaning against the bulkhead. “We’re good. We’re all right. We got three whole minutes. Bridge. Go.”

  Bjorn gamely followed the group. He knew the ship well from simulations, though the layout could hardly have been simpler. The Lydia Bennet was long and slender, with every section accessible from the main spinal corridor, which was lined with hatches.

  Making everything bright, smooth, and white wasn’t enough to offset how cramped the vessel was. The spine was barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, provided those two were Commander Mao’s size. The facilities were all just as stifling, and the sleeping quarters were the worst of all. Bjorn knew the launch bays were the only places he’d be able to breathe. There were two of them, one on either side of the ship, halfway between the bridge at the bow and the maintenance control room at the stern.

  Single file, they made their way all the way up the spine to climb the three shallow steps leading up to the armored hatch at the end.

  The bridge was smaller than Bjorn’s office had been before his aptitudes sentenced him to this assignment. There were five consoles, and the command chair. The viewports gave excellent visibility.

  He eyed the other four seats. These were the tactical Everwing operations consoles. That was where he belonged. Four operators for four pilots. He wondered whom he would be supporting. He also wondered why he didn’t already know. And why this launch was such a disaster. Bjorn was familiar with the difference between how things were supposed to be and how things actually were, but this was too much. It didn’t feel real.

  “Lydia, get ready.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Anyone know how to fly this thing?” Mao asked, dropping into the command chair. “How are we for time?”

  “Thirty seconds, Commander,” the AI replied.

  “You know what to do. If we’re late, the Empress is late.”

  “Yes, Commander,” the AI said.

  Bjorn felt his heart rate rise. The change was subtle, but he could feel a shift in the deck. It wasn’t a dream; they really were rushing out of the assumption-of-command ceremony straight onto the ship, and then launching. Even if it was just for show, this wasn’t just unorthodox; it was unheard of. If only his shuttle had been on time, he might not have felt so lost. No—that wasn’t true. An extra hour of preparation couldn’t fix this.

  The whole week had been a mess. If the rumors were true, a lot of things about this program were a mess.

  Bjorn watched his shipmates. The older ones looked almost bemused. The younger ones looked more like Bjorn felt. Still waiting to wake up. Especially the lieutenant with the combs.

  They were launching.

  On the station there would be music and applause right now, and someone making every detail of the launch out to be an imperial triumph for the ages.

  On the bridge there was nothing to see but the stars and a holographic representation of the ship leaving dock. And there was nothing to hear but twelve people breathing in a space meant for six at most. Someone was wearing fantastic aftershave.

  “Cozy,” Lucas muttered to the major beside him, who snorted.

  The ship glided into the open without a sound, with barely any indication to the crew that it was even in motion. To the people at the viewports, the Lydia Bennet must have looked very sleek and dignified, if not terribly large, as it left the station.

  Those techs must have been working like mad to get her cleared so far ahead of schedule, but the ship was designed for simplicity of operation. It had to be, with such a small crew.

  They were clear of the dock and gathering speed.

  “Okay,” Mao said, letting her breath out. She turned the command chair around to face them all. They were packed in, arranged in a sort of crescent around the commander.

  She frowned, then wiggled a little in the chair. “This is good gravity,” she noted, sounding impressed. “For such a little ship. Take five and form up in Red Bay.”

  Nothing was more than a few steps away aboard the Lydia, but with everyone being polite, it seemed to take an eternity for Bjorn to get off the bridge and make his way twelve meters to his berth.

  His bunkmate was a massive block of a man, well over two meters tall, and heavily muscled. He wasn’t as old as the woman with the white hair, but he had to be pushing sixty. He was another major, and he had enough medals that Bjorn wasn’t even sure what all of them were for.

  He didn’t say a word to Bjorn as they stripped and donned their environment suits. The skintight pressure suit was the last thing Bjorn wanted to wear aboard a ship that already felt like a coffin, but they were at war. Everyone had to be ready at all times for a sudden depressurization. There was no getting around it. Bjorn deployed his helmet and checked the EV’s functions, then switched it off. The helmet collapsed into his collar, and the suit’s temperature control responded to his stress level, starting to cool him down.

  Bjorn shoved his whites into his locker, and was relieved to see that his shipboard possessions were all there. He’d been half-afraid their luggage was left behind in their hurry.

  The giant had his EV on now as well. That only made his muscles that much more noticeable, and also made Bjorn feel that much more inadequate.

  “Oen Bjorn,” Bjorn said, putting out his hand. “Immigration analyst.”

  “You’re a pilot now.” The big man sighed and rubbed at his face, as though just making eye contact with
Bjorn was a chore. Maybe that was his disposition, or maybe he found this bizarre afternoon just as offensive as Bjorn did. “Ahmed Morel.”

  “Sir.”

  They shook, and Morel gestured toward the door. Their timing was terrible; they emerged into the spine just as everyone else did.

  Red Bay was on the port side of the vessel, and everyone was keen to get there. Bjorn and Morel were the last ones in.

  Finally, room to spare. Bjorn closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  Two Everwing fighters were in place, ready to deploy. Behind them, where the bay’s launch doors would have been, was only a force shield, which offered a view of space just as clearly as a viewport would. Burton Station was still visible, but it was shrinking quickly. Instead of forming up as ordered, the others drifted toward the shield to admire the view. Bjorn joined them.

  Beyond the station was the planet Orsgard, pale and shining. A cruiser emerged from another of Burton Station’s bays, its white hull gleaming.

  Bjorn turned to look at the Everwing fighters. The spherical cockpits were surrounded by a halo of machinery. When the fighters were powered up and the kinetic shields were active, that machinery would fan out, creating a sort of nimbus around the inner sphere.

  They weren’t the largest or the most imposing spacecraft, but Bjorn knew what they could do. Though he had hundreds of hours in simulation, he’d never seen one up close.

  They didn’t look like much. And they were even smaller than he’d expected.

  Mao entered the bay, now wearing her own EV suit. Everyone went to attention.

  “There aren’t even any chairs,” she said, striding across the clean, open floor. “Lydia, you got the helm?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “How do you do a commander’s call with no chairs? At ease, everybody. Private Rebecca DiJeur. That’s you, right?” She pointed at the youngest person in the bay. The girl didn’t even look old enough to be in the Service. Rebecca wasn’t the only one showing nerves, but she was the one showing them most obviously.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Not anymore. You’re promoted to yeoman, effective now.” Mao clapped a few times, giving the rest of them a look. Everyone applauded. Rebecca’s eyes widened, and Bjorn saw her swallow.

  Mao cleared her throat. “Apparently there are some rules about this, and you can’t serve on this ship as a private. Your promotion to first class got frozen because you were in special training, and all that.” Mao waved a hand. “But it’s only fair, and it’s a way to get you your clearance without breaking any rules. Admiral Hassan wants to call it a wartime promotion. You can call it whatever you want.” There was a pause. “You get back pay,” Mao added.

  Bjorn saw the girl with the combs looking vaguely derisive. He hoped it didn’t bother her that Rebecca was wearing a rank she hadn’t earned, because Bjorn was wearing one too. And he had a feeling Mao was as well.

  “Flight teams,” Mao was saying, and that got Bjorn’s full attention. An Everwing crew was divided into three-man cells, a pilot and two support staff who could step in and fly if they had to. This was the information that was most valuable to Bjorn; he wanted to know whom he’d be working with, and why they were a man short. He hadn’t forgotten the empty chair at the assumption-of-command ceremony, and he knew how to count. There should have been thirteen of them in the bay: four flight teams and the commander.

  There were only twelve.

  “Compton, Lucas,” Mao said, pointing. Major Lucas stepped forward, and so did the man beside him, another major. Major Compton was trim, about twice Bjorn’s age, and smiling.

  “You’re with DiJeur,” Mao told them, and they joined the newly minted yeoman, who now looked rather pleased.

  “Woodhouse,” Mao went on, pointing out a captain only a little older than Bjorn. He was young for a captain, but the decorations Bjorn had seen on his whites probably explained that. The war with the Ganraen Commonwealth was certainly churning out plenty of new heroes. Bjorn was glad to be out of his whites; he didn’t like having that medal on his chest.

  “And Morel.” Mao glanced at Bjorn’s towering bunkmate. “You two are with General Dayal.” The commander cleared her throat and looked apologetically at the woman Bjorn had marched behind back on the station. She looked ancient, and Bjorn wasn’t the only one who’d been politely making a point not to stare at her. “Ma’am, I can’t just let them wonder. I have to talk about you. At the very least I have to explain why there’s a Ground Forces general aboard a navy ship.”

  “Of course, Commander,” the old woman replied placidly, crossing the bay to join Woodhouse and Morel.

  “You all know the Service just found you wherever and brought you into the program. It’s the same with me; I’m not a ship commander. General Dayal is past the age of service. She’s a war hero, pretty much a Ground Forces legend, and now a high lady. She was one of my personal heroes when I was a kid. There have been at least half a dozen dramas based on her actual service to the Empress; you’ve probably seen some of them. Incidentally, on the list of reflex tests and combat flight aptitude, she’s fourth from the top in this room. So if her advanced age concerns you, it shouldn’t. She’s more qualified to be here than any of us. Moving on. First Lieutenant Oen Bjorn.”

  “Ma’am,” Bjorn said, stepping forward.

  “Third Lieutenant Diana Kladinova.”

  “Ma’am,” said the girl with the combs.

  “You’re with him. You’re a man short. We’ll talk about that later. And you guys,” Mao said, waving her hand at the remaining three people. “Sergeant Golding, Ensign Grigori, Lieutenant Ibuki. Do the math.” Bjorn watched Kladinova approach warily. She didn’t look openly hostile, but she was not happy. That made two of them.

  “Commander, who’s flying?” Major Compton asked. It was a blunt question, but coming from him it sounded friendly and polite. “Or will we rotate?”

  It was what they all wanted to know.

  Mao gave Compton a look. “We would rotate if we were actually doing the training mission we’re supposed to be doing. But since we’re not,” she said, and Bjorn knew his weren’t the only eyes to grow wide, “it’s going to be Ibuki, Kladinova, General Dayal, and Lucas in the pilot seats.”

  Bjorn was relieved not to hear his name on that list; that was perhaps the first thing to happen today that actually made sense. That would have been lovely if not for what the commander had just said about their mission. “Yeah. The mission.” Mao faced them and put her hands on her hips. “You’re wondering why we’re out here on no notice, running to catch our own ship, and suddenly teamed up with people we’ve never met before. Except for these two.” She pointed at Lucas and Compton. “Fair warning, Yeoman DiJeur—your teammates are married to a girl who’s even younger than you are. The same girl. But don’t let that make it weird.”

  Major Compton pinched the bridge of his nose, and Major Lucas cocked his head.

  “Why would you tell her that?” he asked the commander.

  “What?” Mao spread her hands. “Is that not funny? I think it’s funny. Right?” she asked, seeing DiJeur’s face. “They don’t have that trophy-husband look, do they?”

  “What,” Major Compton cut in, “is the trophy-husband look, Commander?”

  “I don’t know. Not ugly?”

  Bjorn could actually hear Lieutenant Kladinova’s teeth grinding.

  “You’re all heart, Commander,” Major Compton said, still smiling.

  “And this is why I’ll die alone. You all know we were supposed to have four weeks of exercises together before launch, right? Right. Here’s where it gets bad. You notice we’re short a man? That was Lieutenant Colonel Benton Cophony. You might not have heard of him—I think a few of you trained with him.” She glanced at Kladinova, who stiffened. “But some things just came out, things the fleet didn’t know about. Cophony wa
s engaged to a Ganraen immigrant. That woman was killed at Baltic Landing. She was a noncombatant. Cophony didn’t disclose that when he was getting his clearance to come into the program.”

  No one in the bay was smiling now. Bjorn’s sense of numb disbelief had turned into familiar queasiness.

  “Here’s what we know. One week ago Cophony went missing from Burton Station. One week ago Imperial Security on Burton Station had an incident that they won’t talk about. One week ago eight of the twelve people that were supposed to be standing in front of me right here were poisoned. There were no fatalities. But you can see what this looks like. It looks like we had a sympathizer who is now a defector at the heart of the most important, not to mention secret, weapons project the fleet has ever undertaken. It gets better. A big part of our potency comes from the element of surprise and unconventional tactics. Cophony didn’t just slip away; someone extracted him. It’s safe to assume he’s talking. So that element of surprise we were all so excited about—well, we can forget about that.”

  Mao paused for breath. Bjorn’s suit was trying to keep him cool, but it wasn’t enough. He was sweating.

  “So that’s why you’re here instead of the A-list. We didn’t ask to be put in, but the coach doesn’t care. It wouldn’t be so bad if we could’ve had a few days to get to know each other first.” Mao rubbed at her face. “Pretty bad, right?”

  “Not ideal,” Ibuki said. Like Compton, he was smiling. It wasn’t a real smile, but it was a good effort.

  “Did they want to get us out the door before the news broke?” a woman with dark skin asked. Bjorn had to check her ID in his holo: Master Sergeant Cal Golding. She was half General Dayal’s age, and had a full head of spectacular dreadlocks. That meant she was an aristocrat like Lieutenant Diana Kladinova. Only women from good bloodlines could ignore Service regulations for hair.

  “They wanted us gone in case the news broke,” Mao said, smirking. “I’m sure the fleet and IS will do everything they can to make sure it doesn’t break. Defectors are hardly what the Imperium wants people thinking about right now.”