The Terran Gambit (Episode #1: The Pax Humana Saga) (17 page)

“Not at all sir. Most fascinating.” Titus lied, trying to sound genuinely interested. Apparently, Trajan noticed his lack of interest, or at least his preoccupation with the Panreh pipe, and changed the subject.

“Did you inform Chief Engineer Lombardi of my desire to thank him?”

“Yes, sir. He is on his way now.”

“Good.” The Admiral closed his eyes again, letting the words of the tenor voice sound the Ingemisco movement throughout the cabin, and he held the Panreh pipe up to his lips. A warm, yet strangely exotic and primal sound joined the tenor’s voice, and the Admiral played counterpoint against it, dueling with the voice as if with an old friend. For a moment, Titus almost felt relaxed in the Admiral’s presence.

“Do you have any inkling of why I am listening to this now?”

Titus opened his eyes with a start. He’d been hardly aware that he’d closed them, not out of fatigue, but with concentration on the music. “No, sir. I’d supposed because you like it?” He instantly felt foolish—he’d known the Admiral for long enough to have caught his mistake—the Admiral never did things on whim. Everything was strategically planned out. Every move, every word. Every subject he studied was a means to understanding his enemy, and conquering them.

“That, yes—I genuinely do. But I find the story of its composition a remarkable parallel for our own day, don’t you? A man, making his contribution to an effort greater than himself, only to be met with nay-sayers and hand-wringers and bureaucrats, until finally he tosses his hands in the air and says, ‘no more,’ and proceeds to take the entire task on himself. Do you realize, Captain, how much the Truth and Reconciliation Commission has cost the empire? Not just in treasure, but in lost time, lost prestige?”

The change of subject left Titus’s head spinning. “I agree, sir. The requirements they placed on all our dealings with Old Earth are quite a nuisance. We won the war fair and square—we should have been able to do as we pleased.”

“Quite right, Captain. And so, like Verdi, we have a task set before us, his by his god and ours by our Emperor, but both by our love of country. We will circumvent the hand-wringers, Captain. We will set their regime at folly, and show them what a true patriot is capable of. And soon, Captain, we will finally, at long last, defeat our enemy.” He glanced at Titus. “The Havoc freighter found its way to the Geneseo Shipyards at Earth, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. Their ship has even shifted back to Havoc—we just received word this mor—”

The door sounded the presence of a visitor, and Trajan waved it open with a motion of his hand. A nervous, giant of a man stood waiting, and, seeing the Admiral beckon, he stepped tentatively into the ready room.

“Welcome, sir, welcome. Please, shut the door. Come sit down.”

Lombardi complied, and stepped forward to a waiting chair on the other side of the ready room desk from the Admiral, who faced him, his eye-crater gaping out of his face, seeming to leer at the man. He lowered the pipe down into his lap, as if to hide it, but the bell peered up over the edge, looking for all the world like an eye, and for a moment, Titus considered that there were now two of Admiral Trajan’s eyes staring at the squirming man seated before him.

“Chief Engineer Lombardi. I want to thank you, on behalf of Captain Titus and myself, the
NPQR Caligula
, and the Emperor himself. Truly, you will never know the role you have played today. What you have done marks the beginning of the end of the rebellion. Rather, what you have done is the nail we will drive through the lid on its coffin.” The Admiral smiled and opened the drawer of his desk.

He reached a hand inside.

“Here, Mr. Lombardi. On behalf of a grateful empire.” Admiral Trajan produced a framed certificate from the desk drawer, and handed it to the man, whose trembling had ceased, replaced with a tight, genuine smile, and a furrowed brow.

“Thank you, sir. It was hard work, but I think we did it just how you ordered.” He stared down at the frame, beaming. “Wow. The wife will like this, for sure.”

“Wonderful. Thank you again. You should be proud of the sacrifice you have made.” He smiled again at the man. Then, pointing up to the music, he asked, “And what do you think of the music, Mr. Lombardi? As I was just explaining to the Captain here, the task I gave you seems to have put me in the mood for some Verdi.”

Lombardi glanced up, gazing at the wall as if looking off into the distance. “I like it, sir. Not really my style, but … nice. Intense.” The orchestra had just underlined the bass’s declaration with a dramatic descent of notes.

 “Verdi’s Requiem, my man. Confutatis movement.” The Admiral paused, then continued, as if chanting. His tone sent a shiver up Captain Titus’s spine that he couldn’t quite explain. “Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis, voca me cum benedictis …”

Lombardi cocked his head. “Sorry sir, I don’t know Latin. My parents weren’t exactly in the upper class on Corsica.”

Trajan’s face was inscrutable, his solitary eye drilling into Lombardi’s. A knot formed in Captain Titus’s stomach. “Neither were mine, Mr. Lombardi. But that is not important. When the wicked are cursed, sent to the fiery, acrid flames, call thou me with the blessed.” He raised the Panreh pipe up to his lips and took a breath. Titus noticed the bell aimed squarely at the poor man’s head.

Trajan blew, and the warm tone greeted the bass’s boisterous solo, though now sounding a bit out of place in the swelling pace of the music. He played for about twenty seconds as the chief engineer looked on with a face that Titus interpreted as wonder.

Admiral Trajan lowered the pipe from his lips and placed it on the desk. Titus let out a sigh of relief, straining not to be heard. He’d wondered if the Admiral were truly going to use the pipe for its other purpose, though the thought seemed silly to him now. What had the man done?

Admiral Trajan stood up straight and smiled. “Truly, Chief Engineer, you are with the blessed. The Empire will remember you.”

Trajan’s hand reached into his desk again, this time extracting his sidearm. He aimed at Lombardi’s forehead and fired without hesitation.

Blood, bone, and pieces of light gray flesh splattered the floor and wall behind the man, who now slumped sideways out of his chair, spilling onto the floor. Blood gushed from the hole in the back of his head, staining the steel deckplate with a spreading pool of red and gore.

Titus stood against the wall, fixed, unmoving, not daring to speak, or even to breathe. Trajan calmly placed the sidearm back in the drawer and shut it, wiping a speck of blood that had recoiled and splashed onto his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Captain, I did not mean to startle you. Please sit. You look like you are about to pass out.”

He tried to speak, but no words passed his lips. Somehow, a chair appeared next to him and he sat. “There you are, Captain, that’s right, sit down for awhile.”

“But sir …” he stammered, gulping several times. The cold, unmoving eyes of the dead man seemed to be locked onto Captain Titus, and Titus couldn’t look away. “Why?”

“Because absolutely none must know. Absolutely none. Only then will the plan work. If the Truth and Reconciliation Commission were to find out, the plan would fail. If the senate were to get word, then even worse—the Empire would be shaken to its core. Lombardi made his sacrifice, and it will be remembered with reverence. And I made mine, for his blood is on my hands. It is a heavy burden, Captain, one I do not take on lightly.”

Titus tried to breathe, but couldn’t take his eyes from the crumpled corpse on the deck, and the red pool that now stretched from its broken head. He’d seen death before—too much of it. No Corsican fleet captain goes through a life of military service without seeing it everywhere. But it was always from a distance, and it was usually the enemy’s, or his own men whom he had ordered, always reluctantly, into battle for a greater cause.

Never like this.

This was senseless.

“Better, Captain?” The Admiral still stood next to him, arms at his side. Slowly, reluctantly, Titus nodded, and got to his feet, breathing deep, silent breaths. “Good. I will clean up here a bit while you go compose yourself. You look horrible.” He walked back to his desk and opened a drawer, making Titus startle, his heart nearly jumping into his throat. The Admiral extracted several rags, and closed the drawer. He began wiping the desk.

Titus needed to leave, and marched towards the door before he became sick.

“Oh, and Captain?”

“Yes, sir?”

Trajan picked up the framed certificate he had given Lombardi and tucked it back into the drawer. “When you get a chance, send in the two technicians. Rossi and Chang. I need to thank them as well.”

He’s a madman.

Dear lord. What have we done?

6

L
IEUTENANT
C
OMMANDER
J
ACOB
M
ERCER’S
bridge rotation began rather uneventfully: he was assigned to merely check over the crew rotations Ben Jemez had scheduled and figure out how to insert the names of another few dozen people who arrived on the last passenger carrier that morning. The old, cranky XO would occasionally come peer over his shoulder to check on his progress before grumbling something about careless officers who couldn’t pay attention to detail and wandered off to prowl around some of the other stations, to the chagrin of the bridge officers.

Jake glanced around at them all—the blonde haired, blue eyed young navigator, Ensign Tate, and his short, even younger pilot, Ensign Roshenko—a woman who didn’t look to be over twenty. Was the academy lowering the age requirements? He took it as a sign of the gamble the Resistance High Council was taking on this incredibly risky operation. Nine Freedom-class heavy cruisers, all to be launched at once, with some of the most important officers in the Imperial High Command looking on from their ship. The hope was the Resistance could not only take the Nine, but also wipe out a generous helping of the Imperial warships in attendance at the ship launch. Far more economical that way.

His gaze continued around the bridge. At tactical stood another woman, older and more experienced-looking than Ensign Roshenko. Lieutenant Pierce, he believed. She had an entire section of tactical staff under her, huddled around an octagonal workstation, which made for easy coordination with each other. Staffed almost entirely by men, with one noteworthy exception, the octagon handled everything from weapons targeting to tactical sensors to coordinating communications and tactics between different departments on the ship, including the railgun turrets, the ion beam cannons, the defensive screen gunners, and the fighter squadron.

The exception to the all-male tactics department, in addition to their commander Lieutenant Pierce, was a woman unlike any he’d ever seen. Bleached-white short hair, colorful tattoos covering her arms, neck, and part of her face, about fifteen piercings per ear, several more spanning her eyebrows, and if he had to guess, the tongue as well. A single medallion on a rough string dangled around her neck.

And then Jake placed her. He’d only seen one or two others like her during his time in the Resistance fleet, and had never had the chance to talk to them. He walked over to the tactical station and stood over her.

“Hi. Lieutenant Commander Mercer. I’m afraid we haven’t met.”

She glanced up, a distant smile blooming over her face. Jake could see the tattoos more clearly now, confirming his suspicion. Not just any old tattoos, these depicted a verdant forest setting, the tops of trees flowing up onto her cheeks, the trunks splayed out on her neck and disappearing beneath her uniform, only to continue on as leafy branches onto her arms. “Ensign Ayala, sir. A blessing to meet you.” She took his hand and shook it.

“You’re not from Earth, I presume?”

“Does it show?” Her distant, almost mystical smile deepened, revealing her ivory-white teeth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s just that I’ve never met someone from Belen before. I mean,” he stuttered, trying to choose his words more carefully. “I mean, you’re not from Belen, not in technical terms, of course.”

A pained look shadowed her face. “Commander, the Imperial propaganda machine would have you believe that one can not be from a world that does not exist. But the survivors of Belen, my people, we are Belen. You see it in our faces. You see it in our skin. The forests and the soul of Belen lives on in us.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I mean, my planet came this close to suffering Belen’s fate, so, I feel … honored to have you on board. Did you come far to be here?”

She nodded. “Yes. As you know, when the Empire destroyed our world, we fled to the stars, living a nomadic life in the heavens where the Empire could neither hurt nor make afraid. My home ship is the
Greenwood
, currently in orbit around … well, I’d rather not say. I hope you understand, Commander.”

He shook his head and briefly touched her shoulder, in a sign of camaraderie. “Say no more. I understand.” He supposed the survivors of Belen had learned to always hold information as close to the chest as possible. Even though the senate had chastised the over-zealous emperor who had given the fatal order, when one’s homeworld is destroyed, trust does not just come overnight, even though the Empire had pledged to find them a suitable replacement world and promised huge sums of money to build it up to the Belenites’ liking. They refused, of course, not willing to betray those who sacrificed themselves defending their world making time for the others to escape.

She flashed the same mystical smile at him before glancing back down to her console. Something there made her smile disappear, replaced by a furrowed brow, which made the eyebrow rings bunch up and protrude slightly from her forehead. “Sir, I’m getting an anomalous sensor reading from the sun. It’s …” she studied the board, flicking her fingers lightly across the surface.

“What is it? A solar flare? A ship?”

“I don’t know. It’s gone. It was like something was there, something large, but … hmm,” she pushed a few more sensor adjustment buttons on the screen, then shook her head. “Sorry, sir, probably just a ghost reading. I’ve been getting them off and on throughout the day. In fact, I think navigation has been having problems with their controls too.”