Finest Hour (The Exiled Fleet Book 3), Page 3

  “Cut air speed,” Wyman said. “Just enough velocity to keep us airborne.”

  “If they wanted an aerial display team,” Ivor said, “they should’ve sent the White Cats team from Exeter. Marksman want us to do a barrel roll for the peasants?”

  “Bit harsh, Rosy,” Wyman said. “We’ll be wheels down in a couple minutes.”

  “What’s that to our nine o’clock?” Sparks asked.

  At the center of the city was a golden building in the middle of a river running through Theni.

  “It’s smack-dab in the no-fly zone,” Wyman said. “Guess it’s a temple or something. Indus religion can be very different from planet to planet, if I remember my grade school history lessons right. They don’t want us to fly near it, we don’t fly near it.”

  He glanced over the side of his cockpit and saw poles bearing yellow triangle flags scattered through the city. There were people in the streets, mostly standing still and watching them pass.

  “Think we’ll get some actual shore leave?” Ivor asked.

  “Are you always thinking about booze or partying?” Wyman asked.

  “Hey, you got to go paint the town red on Sicani. That must have been a hell of a shore excursion. Even the Commodore got stabbed,” she said.

  “And I got shot at, almost blown up, then chased off that horseshit of a planet with Tolan. That creep,” Wyman said. “Next time a ‘hey you’ task like that comes up, it’ll be your turn, Rosy.”

  “You got to go on shore leave?” Sparks asked. “Assuming the Daegon don’t show up in the next couple hours…are these the kind of Indus that drink or the kind that don’t drink?”

  “Let’s finish this circuit before you start the clock on liver damage, OK?” Wyman shook his head.

  A few minutes later, the three fighters set down at the spaceport and Wyman popped the seal on his cockpit. A rush of cold, dry air assaulted him, catching his breath and freezing the snot in his nose. He considered putting his helmet back on, but opted to cover his mouth with his glove to warm up the air ever so slightly before he had to breathe it.

  A ladder snapped into place next to him and he stood up. Two Indus, both men with beards and turbans, held the bottom of the ladder firm. A third man—taller, with a long black beard and wearing a padded flight suit—waited near the bottom, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Wyman touched the frost-grimed handle of the ladder and made his way down, his eyes locking on an impressive-looking curved knife at the taller man’s waist. His turban was more compact, and made of blight blue cloth.

  He pressed his hands together and said, “Sat sri akal,” slightly bowing his head.

  Wyman extended a hand and the other man shook it. “I’ll just mess that up if I try it,” he said. “I’m Freak Show. Wyman.”

  “No problem, sir. I am Captain Ranbir Singh, New Madras Air Defense Force. Welcome to Theni City. I am your liaison while you are our guests here.” He smiled, and his frost-stiffened beard rustled.

  “If you’re my liaison,” Wyman said, waving Ivor and Sparks over to him, “then let’s get started on repairs.” He ducked under his Typhoon where a black gash cut a diagonal line, just missing the landing-gear housings.

  Ranbir sank to his knees next to Wyman. “We will remold the armor plating,” Ranbir said. “Recharge your capacitors and outfit you with our own version of your Shrikes. The software isn’t too different and Lieutenant Commander Marksman has already opened your data cores to us. We’ll have your ship ready to fly in less than an hour.” He snapped his finger gently next to his face.

  “That’s…very kind of you.” Wyman reached the back of his hand to the trail left by the Daegon energy blast and felt residual heat through his glove. A few more inches the other way and…

  “Come, I doubt you are used to this cold.” Ranbir waved him out from under the fighter.

  As the Indus man stood, Wyman reached for his turban. “Careful. Don’t want to—”

  Ranbir grabbed Wyman by the wrist, a metal bracelet jangling on the Indus’ arm. The other two ground crewmen had their hands on the handles of knives at their waists, and Ivor and Sparks had frozen, unsure what was happening.

  Ranbir let go of Wyman’s wrist. “I am very sorry.” Ranbir backed out from under the fighter. “You are so new to Theni and New Madras. You do not know our ways and I overreacted. But please, in the future, do not touch the turban of any baptized Sikh. It is an affront to God.”

  “I didn’t know,” Wyman said.

  “And that is why no offense was taken.” Ranbir put a hand on Wyman’s shoulder. “Come, we have a short walk to the embassy where you’ll be staying. Mr. Marksman is there waiting for you.”

  “Give me a minute,” Sparks said, wiping a hand across his eyes and turning to the three Albion fighters. He looked to an empty space, where Flame Out would have landed, and went to one knee. With the knuckles of one hand pressed to the ground, he bent his head in prayer.

  “Sorry,” Wyman said quietly to Ranbir. “He’s of the Order of Saint George…so was his wingman.” Wyman looked to the sky and kissed the back of his fingers then raised his hand up for a moment. “Lost a pilot in orbit.”

  “My condolences,” Ranbir said. “What Albion has been through…”

  “We won’t give up,” Wyman said. “No matter what happens. Albion’s light burns. Never give up.” He looked away to the mountains and the gray skies as snow began to fall.

  Sparks got up, his head hung low, and Ivor put an arm over his shoulder.

  Ranbir led them toward an open gate, he and Wyman a few steps ahead of the other two.

  “You don’t have…” Wyman flapped his arms against his flight suit as he began shivering, “a ground car or something?”

  “All nonessential automation has been taken off-line for the duration,” Ranbir said. “It’s not a far walk. The circulation will warm you up. It’s actually rather tepid for this time of year.”

  “Says the guy in the padded flight suit,” Wyman muttered. “Old Earth geography wasn’t my strongest subject, but Madras on the Indian subcontinent was a coastal city south of…south of someplace the Sikhs are from.”

  “Ah ha.” Ranbir smiled, white teeth flashing within his bushy beard. “You’re quite knowledgeable. My people are from Punjab, which is now under the Himalayan ice sheet. We tried to fight back the glaciers from the sacred Golden Temple, but in the end, God willed us to remove the place and use its bricks as the foundation for new temples across the stars. As for this planet’s name of New Madras, there were not a lot of Sikhs in that city before the diaspora—there is a funny story to that. You know how the Second Reach War ended?”

  “With the Reich conquering Francia and their navy on the ropes after Albion and the Indus crushed them at the Battle of Gamma Dargis. Peace talks broke down after some bombing killed most of the diplomats. I think we’re still technically at war with the Reich…That’s all we need. Those tin spurs and the Daegon against us.”

  The two stepped onto a sidewalk, passing boarded-up shops with signs in an alphabet Wyman couldn’t read.

  “The borders of several star nations were redrawn,” Ranbir said, nodding, “and the Indus High Congress decided that New Madras would be their fortress world along the fringe of wild space. And Albion. Which we never considered like the pirate worlds. But New Madras was originally…farther from the Indus borders. The Reich managed to seize a number of our worlds as well during the war. When the High Congress wishes to settle a world that will not fall to invaders, they send my people, the Neo Sikh, to settle it first. We have a more martial tradition than most of the Indus.”

  “You’re being polite,” Wyman said. “The Reich steamrolled over the Indus with a less ‘martial tradition’ at the beginning of the war.”

  Ranbir sniffed. “And then my ancestors had to hold the line. But there is no bitterness or resentment here on New Madras, I assure you.”

  “I can tell.” Wyman put his hands to his ears, the outer edg
es stinging with pain from the cold.

  “The Daegon made a mistake if they think New Madras will surrender as easily as Bengal or the Cathay worlds,” Ranbir said. “We will fight.”

  Wyman’s mind went back to Albion and the first few hours of the Daegon’s surprise attack on the planet. Ships burning in space. Cities alight from orbital bombardment. The armada the Daegon arrived with that seemed to fill the entire sky…

  “You’ll get one,” Wyman said. “My pilots and I have tangled with the Daegon fighters. What do you fly? Chakrams?”

  “That’s correct.” He tapped a badge sewn onto his flight suit.

  “Then let us share what works against them with you all,” Wyman said as they turned a corner.

  The Albion embassy was surrounded by armored vehicles and Indus troops in light body armor. The metal coverings over their turbans almost struck Wyman as comical, but the brown stones of the embassy tugged at Wyman’s heart strings; it almost looked like home.

  “Yes, excellent.” Ranbir handed him a plastic box the thickness of a finger. “A phone. Call me when you’re free. And perhaps find some warmer clothes first. The run to the spaceport is fast during an alert, but if you wish to take your time getting to and from…”

  “I’m going to be dressed like a damn polar bear next time you see me,” Wyman said, his teeth chattering. “Pleasure meeting you. Now how the hell do I…”

  An Albion Marine in combat armor and with a half mask over his mouth and nose waved at him at a turnstile gate.

  “Warmth,” Ivor said, pushing past Wyman and breaking into a run, “sweet heat, save me!”

  Wyman and Sparks jogged after her.

  CHAPTER 4

  A man with deep blue skin and a wide, almost atavistic face glowered at a holo of New Madras as a cape clasped to his shoulders with golden chains grazed the deck of his ship, the Medusa. Lord Eubulus, a massive man even without his imposing armor—the glossy black of its polish trimmed with small punch spikes—ground his jaw, the teeth snapping as they passed each other.

  In the holo, Albion ships arrived over the Indus planet and demolished the Daegon landing craft. He re-watched the destruction several more times, the sequence of events speeding up.

  “This…is your fault, brother.” Eubulus turned to another Daegon, one with a more athletic build and black hair tied back with platinum thread.

  “The themata are chaff,” Tiberian said. “They’re meant to be fed into the grinder to preserve better lives—Daegon lives.”

  “They should have landed five entire divisions on New Madras,” Eubulus said, thrusting a hand at the holo. “Instead they barely managed six brigades in the initial landing zone. The ferals will beat them in short order and then they will have an asset on their side, Tiberian, an asset you were charged with destroying. Hope. They will see this battle as a victory, an easy one, and then it will be that much harder for me,” his face flushed with anger, “and my men, to secure the planet. All because of you.”

  “I did not command the themata force you sent to Madras.” Tiberian lifted his chin slightly.

  “No. You were to kill the Albion royal family, which you did but with the exception of a single child. A child! This child slipped out of your grasp again and again and now the child is on Madras and with a fleet from Albion.” Eubulus flicked a small iron box hanging from Tiberian’s neck. “Your writ from the Baroness goes unfulfilled.” He touched a similar box, one made of gold, hanging around his own neck. “My task remains, and now my chance to accomplish it quickly and easily is in jeopardy. Because of your failure.”

  “My writ remains.” Tiberian grasped the box. “I will go to Madras and find Prince Aidan and capture him. Then I will bring him back to his world and parade him before his people so that they will lose the will to resist.”

  Eubulus shook his head and turned his attention back to the holo.

  “Do you understand why the Baroness gave you such a task? One so important that it warranted the gold when it was first given? And it’s not just because you are her favorite plaything in bed,” Eubulus said.

  “Albion is the template for our crusade,” Tiberian said. “A proud kingdom, one with a long history of defiance and glory. Once it is laid low and the entire population bends the knee to us, other ferals will follow suit.”

  “So you do know,” Eubulus said. “Then you must know why your failure up to this point is putting the entire crusade at risk.”

  “Quit being so dramatic.” Tiberian shook his head slightly. “Albion and its colonies are in compliance. Their young are being drafted into the themata. The cowards in their ‘nobility’ have pledged themselves to our cause. The Baroness has most of what she wanted…just not all of it. Not yet.”

  “Hope has spread.” Eubulus lifted his chin to the holo. “The Albion ships you let get away have fought you. Beaten you. They know how we fight, our capabilities. They will teach these Indus what they’ve learned. These ships should be stragglers, the last survivors begging for safety and carrying tales of total defeat from world to world. Instead…they bear good news. Hope.”

  “Then we must take it away from them,” Tiberian said.

  “Hope that will spread to other systems. To the gathering of their leaders on Vishuddha. To the other star nations. Our House was ordered to break the ferals’ will, to disorganize and fracture them for the rest of the Daegon families to seize with ease once they cross the Veil. If they arrive and encounter a unified resistance…they will make the Baroness pay. Even she has a writ from the Order.”

  Tiberian walked around the holo globe of New Madras. He touched a projected screen and data flowed across the planet’s surface.

  “You’re…hesitating.” Tiberian raised an eyebrow at his older brother. “The ferals have a child’s grasp of slip-space travel. They thought destroying their nav buoys would slow our advance, but what they’ve done is back themselves into a corner. You see it the same as I do. The Albion ships are trapped in that star system. You can launch a full-scale assault from this system, Malout, right now…and be done with it. No false hope to spread. You’ll have New Madras, and Vishuddha, within the timetable the Order has for our House. Yet here you are…whining.”

  “Bah,” Eubulus huffed.

  “You complain that the Albians destroyed so many of your themata in orbit, but they were the screen for the infiltration teams. They were the first to make it to the planet. They will sabotage every critical system on the planet within days. What are you waiting for? Launch the assault. So what if we have to burn a few more cities to bring them into compliance? There are always more ferals for the yoke.”

  “New Madras is not my only target, Tiberian.” Eubulus swiped a palm across the holo and it dissolved and reformed into a local star cluster around the Indus world. “The Albians escaped from you, and their jaunt through ley lines unknown to us in wild space has changed the strategy. We can’t risk the ferals doubling back on us through pathways unknown to us. The Baroness wants our gains secured…not at risk.”

  Locations of Daegon forces popped up through the stars.

  “The spies we sent years ago gathered slip-space data for the major populated systems.” Tiberian crossed his arms. “Not to the fringe systems…”

  “Even our resources are limited…and time was not—and is not—on the Order’s side,” Eubulus said. “I’m forced to divide my fleets to secure these other systems and establish garrisons—lingchi, as House Tang likes to call it. Death by a thousand cuts. And I am bleeding.”

  “Hardly,” Tiberian sneered. “You have the ships to take New Madras now. Right now. And my Minotaur is with you.”

  “If we enter slip space to chase after your writ, I’ll conquer New Madras—I’m sure of that,” Eubulus said. “But at a significant loss of ships and Daegon lives. So significant that I will have to beg our cousins for help to push on to Vishuddha. They’re having difficulty with the Cathay worlds…don’t think they can spare ships and soldiers like I could do fo
r you.”

  “You wait here and it will only get harder,” Tiberian said. “They’ll reorganize. Learn from the Albians. Bring in more ships and—”

  “Nothing is getting into that system from Indus space.” Eubulus reached into the holo and snipped the ley lines connecting New Madras to other major systems. “Lady Assaria granted me a flotilla of battleships from the Albion garrison force. They are en route now. While we wait, our specters will sow chaos.”

  “I want command of the battleships,” Tiberian said. “I will use them to finish off the Albians and—”

  Eubulus laughed—a deep, unkind noise that seemed to emanate from his dark heart. “The beggar demands to be the chooser,” Eubulus said. “You and the Minotaur are under my command. The Albion ships are not my priority, only the boy prince as your writ is Assaria’s will. Don’t worry, brother. I’ll let you loose once the time is right. Tug at your chain too hard and I’ll see Gustavus take your ship.”

  “I could have left your son to die…” Tiberian said.

  “I know, that’s why I still tolerate you. The boy likes you, for some reason. He’ll stay with you for a time. Teach him how to win for once, yes?”

  “Thank our forefathers that the child looks like his mother,” Tiberian said, “though his new scars make him almost as ugly as you.”

  “Ha!” Eubulus put a meaty hand on the back of Tiberian’s neck and closed just tight enough to threaten. “Go repair your ship. A disorderly appearance is a sign of weakness.”

  Tiberian shoved the arm away, flicking the blades along the edge of his armor just enough to scratch the chain mail on Eubulus’ under arm.

  “Then I’ll await your order to enter slip space…and then I can end this business for us both.” Tiberian tapped the box hanging from his neck and bowed slightly.