A Conflict of Orders (An Age of Discord Novel Book 2) (31 page)

Mementos and photographs. Echoes of a life in pictures. Her life. There were no photographs of her childhood in this volume. In fact, there were none aboard. Parents take pictures of their children and treasure them; children do not capture their own image for posterity.

The first page, the first photograph: a bar in Groot, capital of Podboi; Princess Flavia umar Shutan, blonde hair loose about her face, philosophically pondering a glass of beer. From the posters visible on the wall behind her younger self, the Admiral recognised the bar as one she had frequented with the members of the Society of Gold. Part of a shoulder to her left was likely the Society’s charismatic leader, a man she had loved at the time but now despised. She had met him once, many years later, at Imperial Court. For all his student-days anti-establishment rhetoric, he had graduated with high honours, became the dutiful son and now occupied a seat in the Electorate, where he consistently voted along conservative lines. The meeting had exorcised whatever ghosts had haunted the Admiral from her time at Swava College Annex.

She kept the photograph as a reminder. On the day she had been arrested by the proctors, she had lost her innocence. He had told her he had charmed her only to protect himself from reprisal; and her antics had led directly to her expulsion a week later.

Ignoring the other photos, she turned the page. Here she was in a midshipman’s uniform, having just joined the Imperial Navy. Her blonde hair was now dyed black. She had done that because of the Society of Gold. And kept her hair dark until turning renegade. Then she had shaved her head.

For half an hour, the Admiral leafed through her photo album. The pictures of herself and Ahasz she found herself regarding with fondness, as if she were confusing her memories of the duke with the young prince.

At last, putting the book away, she rose to her feet and crossed to the nearest ship’s pipe. She asked a footman to bring her a coffee. Once she had her drink, she settled in one of the armchairs facing the day cabin’s arched windows, her mind lost somewhere in the past. Six years ago, she had mutinied, had taken her battlecruiser
Imperial Respite
and renamed her
Vengeful
. Her motives at the time had been mixed: anger at her superior officers, a recognition that Ahasz planned to move against the Imperial Throne and yet no one seemed willing to prevent him, a need for revenge against the duke…

She had fought him twice now. No longer was she coming out from her hiding-places, striking some small blow and then running away. Two battles. Battles! Admittedly, the one about Piorun had been nothing. Marinarkë was a fool, unfit to command a boat. But this last battle, the First Battle of Geneza as the history books would doubtless call it… that had been much more the thing. Her tactics had won the day, as she had known they would. Ormuz’s intelligence had been invaluable. How else would she have known where to focus her attack? From him she knew the ships which would face her. And knowing their captains…

That
Baalscourge
would break first had been no lucky guess. Her captain, Taksil, was a coward. His retreat had led directly to
Pride of Slaskib
’s destruction. In her mind’s eye, the sight of that battleship falling to earth, sinking, burning, throwing up great sheets of flame, was superimposed over the view from the windows.

They would remember this battle for a long time. They would remember
her
for a long time. She smiled grimly and toasted Ahasz silently with her cup of coffee:

Thank you, my duke; thank you for giving me this, thank you for giving me what may come.

Since
Tempest
’s bow was pointed towards Geneza, the view from the bridge was limited. Rinharte could see the planet, clouds floating serenely across the oceans—but not the battle raging about her. She crossed to the bridge’s rear bulkhead and stepped onto the ladder leading up to the station-keeping blister. At the ladder’s top was a small platform, with enough room for a viewfinder. Rinharte settled onto the stool. Now she had an excellent view, both fore and aft, over the top of the fo’c’sle. Using the hand-rail beneath the cupola’s rim, she pulled herself through three hundred and sixty degrees. She could see…

Ships killing and ships dying.

As she watched, a frigate trailing flames fell past, slowing as she hit Geneza’s upper atmosphere. Her plummet arrested, she seemed to sit there, burning, appearing to shrink as she was consumed by the flames. Flaming debris suddenly scattered in all directions trailing smoke. Rinharte did not know if she had been one of their ships, or an enemy.

Over there, the hull of a destroyer slowly spun about her long axis. A great tear down one side of the hull had opened her interior to space. Parts of her superstructure were blackened, damaged by flash-fires.

Something dark and vast moved into view above Rinharte, occluding a segment of Geneza. She looked up and saw the hull of a ship—not close, just huge—slide slowly and massively overhead.

A battleship.

She switched on the caster beside the viewfinder. “Romi,” she said. “Who is that?”

“
Victory of Oliva
, ma’am.”

Rinharte frowned. “No, I mean the battleship.
Victory of Oliva
is a cruiser. And one of ours.”

Puzzled, she swung herself through three hundred and sixty degrees. She could see no cruiser. Frigates—
Szhen
, of course—and destroyers. A few corvettes. But the Admiral’s capital ships were all to the planetary north of
Tempest
, stopping a second enemy attack.

Or so Rinharte had thought.

“Ma’am,” came Maganda’s voice from the caster, “it’s
Tukki Fire
. One of the enemy’s!”

Dear Lords. How had she broken through the Admiral’s line?

She saw the enemy battleship ponderously pitch through ninety degrees, until she appeared vertical in relation to
Tempest
. Rinharte now spotted the cruiser
Victory of Oliva
, approaching quickly on the attack. The cruiser, however, was out-gunned, and given her velocity it was unlikely she had sufficient power for her own main-gun.

A line of eye-searing brightness shot from
Tukki Fire
’s prow. It hit
Victory of Oliva
to the rear of her superstructure. Rinharte saw twisted hull-plates spin silently off into space. The cruiser continued to close. The next shot to hit her would surely cause greater damage.

“Mr Yul,” said Rinharte, “helm to one hundred degrees yellow. Romi, find Mahzan and tell her to take her post in the fire-control turret. I want a solution on
Tukki’s Fire
.”

It was ten minutes before Rated Mahzan reported over the caster that she was in position. Rinharte pulled herself around to face aft, and saw the fire-control turret extended from Tempest’s hull. She shook her head in wonder. A troop-transport with a main gun.

Tukki Fire
and
Victory of Oliva
were now directly forward. The battleship had fired a second shot and it too had hit. The cruiser was venting atmosphere and one drive-tube ended fifteen feet from the hull. She would not survive another shot.

“Mahzan, have you got a firing solution yet?” Rinharte asked urgently.

“Nearly, ma’am. Another few seconds.”

“I want a shot that counts.”

“Middle of the superstructure, ma’am?” replied the rated. “Do the most damage.”

“Good. Carry on.”

Less than a minute later, Mahzan sang out, “Firing!”

Tempest
seemed to buck. Her hull groaned as it flexed. Lights flickered and dimmed. A line of incandescence hurtled from her prow… to strike
Tukki Fire
’s superstructure amidships, just aft of the conning-tower.

Rinharte could not help herself. She laughed. She put a hand to her mouth in surprise but another laugh escaped. Her troop-transport had just inflicted damage on a battleship!

Unbelievable.

Damage, yes. But not enough. Some compartments had blown out. There was a hole in the superstructure, the hull-plates surrounding it bent out like the petals of some carnivorous flower. But the battleship was not badly hurt.

“Romi!” Rinharte said. “Get us out of here!”

Tukki Fire
was rolling, swinging her bow round as she did. The pressure was off
Victory of Oliva
, but
Tempest
could not survive a hit from the battleship’s gun.

Rinharte left the station-keeping blister, dropped down the ladder onto the bridge and ran forwards to the windows. She watched as
Tukki Fire
seemed to pitch away, while still changing her aspect towards the troop-transport. Faster, she willed her vessel. It had been minutes since the battleship had last fired her main-gun; she would have power for a shot as soon as she brought it to bear.

“Ma’am,” called out Romi, “
Victory of Oliva
has moved into a higher orbit and is dropping astern.”

Good. The cruiser had escaped.

Rinharte stared down the barrel of
Tukki Fire
’s main-gun. The battleship was some thirty miles away but the aperture of that barrel loomed large in her mind’s eye.

Tukki Fire
would not miss.

The middle of a space battle, reflected Lexander Lotsman, was probably not the best time to steal a launch and escape. The volume about
Vengeful
roiled with the energies of torpedoes imploding, with warships falling prey to the incandescent beams of main-guns. Seething vacuum threw the launch about and Lotsman was glad for the belt holding him into the pilot’s seat. This was much worse than the
Divine Providence
’s crash-landing on Bato.

Lotsman, Tovar and Dai had not thought much beyond escaping from
Vengeful
. There had been no guarantee they would even find a boat to steal on the battlecruiser’s boat-deck. Happily, there had been; and the rateds present had been no obstacle.

A boat, however, was only good for in-system travel. None of the three wished to be stranded on Geneza. Ormuz had offered to maroon them on the world weeks before and they had refused. So they needed a ship, a ship with a topologic drive.

Now they had picked one.

It was an enemy sloop. For whatever reason, her captain had kept her far to the rear of the Serpent’s fleet. Perhaps he had been tasked with taking word of the outcome to Ahasz on Shuto. Lotsman did not care. The sloop was hundreds of miles away from the nearest enemy corvette or frigate. She was perfectly placed for their needs.

Lotsman brought the launch up from Geneza. There had been no way through the battle—it was too dangerous. Instead, they had flown under it, entering Geneza’s atmosphere and then flying around the planet like an aerocraft. As flames roared past the flight-deck’s scuttles, Dai had complained at the rough insertion. It had all been part of Lotsman’s plan: the launch would be taken for just another piece of debris falling to earth.

Abruptly the blue sky visible through the scuttles drained away to black, like ink colouring water. The stars, what few could be seen, ceased their twinkling and shone hard and bright and serene. A glow rose from beneath them and they travelled across the gleaming edge of the sky towards their target.

“Got her yet?” Lotman asked Tovar.

The cargo-master twisted a pair of knobs on the console before him. “I think so. Sixty-eight miles. Bearing twenty-eight degrees to port.”

“Not bad for dead reckoning,” the pilot replied.

Dai sent a signal to the sloop. They had discussed its contents as they traversed Geneza. No sane captain would allow an enemy boat to dock without good reason; and so they needed good reason. A traitor, they decided. Someone who wished to carry a message in person to the Serpent back on Shuto. But who? Not the Admiral—she was too well-known, and no one would believe that she had turned.

Casimir Ormuz, however…

It was likely the Serpent’s captains knew of him, were aware that the Admiral followed him. Perhaps they even knew of his background. If so, that might make his abrupt betrayal all the more plausible.

The signal claimed Ormuz was aboard the launch and had important information he wished to reveal personally to the Duke of Ahasz. The sloop should allow him to dock and then prepare for topologic travel to the Imperial capital.

“Will they believe it?” asked Lotsman.

“They can’t afford to ignore it,” Dai replied. “Doesn’t mean they’re going to be stupid about it, though.”

According to the data discovered by Tovar on his console, the ship they were approaching,
Desert Runner
, was a Zokeveni class sloop, with a crew of three officers and nine rateds.

Lotsman brought the launch in close to the sloop, nudging it nearer with gentle tweaks of the gas-rockets. Once he had it lined up with a hatch on the flank of
Desert Runner
, the sloop extended an accordion tube. A thump rang through the boat as it engaged.

“This is it,” Lotsman said. He interlaced his fingers and pushed his hands way from him until his knuckles cracked. He was enjoying this and he wondered how he’d managed to survive all those dull years as a pilot aboard
Divine Providence
.

They made their way aft to the boat’s airlock. Dai cracked the hatch and stepped inside. She opened the outer hatch and swung it wide. She stood there, framed in the doorway. Beyond her, Lotsman could see a short undulating tunnel and at the far end another hatch. Standing in that hatch were a pair of rateds wielding billy-clubs.

A face appeared at the rateds’ shoulders. “Where, I say,” it called, “is this chap Ormuz?” The officer blinked in surprise. “Er, miss,” he added.

Dai ignored him. “Coming across,” she said.

She launched herself out of the boat and hurtled along the tube towards
Desert Runner
. Tovar followed immediately after. Lotsman watched them fly away from him like flung objects and waited for the impact. Sure enough, after spinning about in mid-air, they hit the rateds feet-first. All four dropped to the deck in a tangle of limbs and yells.