Philip James Hilton the third was a hard man, however privileged his upbringing in the upper decks of the New York Archology. Wild and drunken after his sister’s murder by that feral prol whore, his father had arranged for him to enter the Rumsfeld War College and serve at least a term in the FDF Navy as an officer. Perhaps that would straiten the boy out, was the thinking and in a sense, it was most successful. PJ Hilton was the hard-nosed line officer the media loved to plaster everywhere and he made a substantial income from endorsements. He shot through the ranks to hold the title of Fleet Captain, having turned down promotion to Commodore three times to stay in space. He was touted a great military hero for his work fighting rebels in the Fringe systems. There, he was known for brand of butchery that had been developed into something of a fine if twisted art. Nerve gasses were a special favorite. Efficient and of minimal drain on manpower and ammunition. He was keenly aware that cost-cutting and efficiency were as important to success as military victory. He would be offered the promotion again very soon in any case, and this time he would reluctantly acquiesce. He thought of a story he once heard of a great warlord named Lieu Bei who traveled to meet the great thinker Zhang Zhou only to be rebuffed three times before meeting with him and winning his service.
Image is everything, he reminded himself, adjusting his uniform in the mirror. He then began to take off his jacket and sat down upon his couch after hanging it neatly. He petted the Doberman that approached and sat by him with its nose and tail pointed decidedly downward.
“At last I’ll have what’s mine,” PJ told the creature, “I wasn’t quick enough to kill the whore herself but I’ll dispatch her vulgar offspring with a happy heart.” He pushed the animal away then and wondered about possibilities he didn’t like. His military training and experience had forced him to accept such things as inevitable but he never acquired a taste for it.
That Reese is a treacherous pig of a man but his grudge against McAllister seems genuine enough, Fleet Captain Hilton poured himself a tall glass of scotch and let the venom flow through him. He had agreed to pay Reese for McAllister’s hide, and handsomely. Reese would however, remain aboard at all times and under close guard. The pirate turned pirate hunter knew he couldn’t have him on his own, so he reached out to a man he thought might have an old score with him as well. He was quite correct. He would cut Reese’s heart out if he crossed him in the least measure of course, but so far things were encouraging. Their stop over at Lockhard City provided a special wealth of information, though the powers-that-be in residence needed a little arm-twisting to offer it up. In a few cases a bit more then that.
He was certain this “Iceni Queen” and her attendants would be hiding at Isabella IX. It was too perfect a place not to use, and so brazenly close to Hades Rising in the bargain. If this low-breed is any son of mine, that’s where I’ll find him, he thought, finishing his drink. He picked-up the portable on the stand beside him and examined the reports that had come-in from informants in various rebel groups of the fringe, several mentioning McAllister and his ship doing a great deal of trade with the larger factions, dealing in their considerable plunder from the shipping routes close to Lockhard City. Local black-markets and smuggling operations, many powerful players in their own right, were reputed to be paying a tribute to this rabble who called themselves “The Bastards” out of some sort of twisted, gutter-born pride.
The press rewards for this will be fantastic, he smiled. In ten years I’ll be on the FDF Board of Directors, five more and the Trade Council. Now that the old sonofabitch is finally nearing the grave at least. The thought of his father took the smile away as quickly as it had come. He studied the image of Julian “The Bastard” McAllister provided by Reese on the small screen of his portable, starting work on a second tall scotch. This pasty creature certainly doesn’t carry any family resemblance of mine. He looks remarkably like her in fact. He’ll have to be killed outright, the Fleet Captain decided. If there is a blood connection all trace of it must be eliminated. That simply wouldn’t do.
He had begun work on a contingency plan in case it was true and did come to light, forged letters to indicate they had been romantically involved and that he wanted to marry her. She was confronted by his sister who knew her to be untrue. She then panicked, killed Lizzy and cousin Paris to keep them from exposing her then fled to the Rift to take up the trade of whoring. Yes, he thought, played deftly it could even work to benefit. Much like the breakdown after Lizzy’s death, even then he exaggerated his state, went on benders to create an image of the tortured, rebellious youth which only helped to mythologize the transformation into pillar of society and hero of the Federation. The tactic had helped him eclipse two older brothers who would come to beg at his table went all was settled. Philip James Hilton the third was a hard man.
Charles “Chuck” Day was an up and comer in The Black Banner. Fanatical in purpose, adroit and casual in matters of bloodletting. He would make an impression at the next war council with the material and political capital this would bring his way.
The Bastards were getting spooked, and with good reason from what his network of eyes and ears in the Fringe Worlds told him. They were packing-up shop and wanted to have what amounted to a massive yard sale of every imaginable commodity, the exception being a large cache of arms and medical supplies they intended to bring back with them to the Rift. Those, of course, were the real prizes and Day intended to have them, along with everything else.
He had arrived at Isabella VI, the systems most sunward and smallest gas giant, two days in advance of the scheduled exchange with the corsairs. With him was an old FDF cruiser stolen from a salvage yard. It had seen better days, a ram-shield design that had not been used on a major war vessel for over two-hundred years, but she was massive and heavily armed. A makeshift carrier built from four freighter hulls straddling an ancient luxury liner was ready to launch a dozen Cheetahs, twice that many Darts, and three Lynx Clippers refitted as gunships. Twelve more light attack craft, crewed by ten to thirty or so men apice, rounded-out an impressive force.
It was a grueling session in council to get authorization for the plan and the necessary craft but he reminded them that these pirates were wild animals, leaching off those of them who struggled against their Federation oppressors. They were not brothers and sisters of “The Revolution” but enemies as dangerous and vial as the FTF itself. Of course The Black Banner was one of the major beneficiaries of this leaching but this was unimportant enough to not come up during the discussion. It was decided in the end they would authorize People’s Commander Day’s audacious plan.
Things had taken a turn for the unexpected, however. After taking position behind Isabella VI, an FDF liner and her escorts arrived and took up station near the ninth planet. They must be here to ambush The Bastards themselves but they were making no effort to conceal their presence. It seemed they were counting on the corsairs being unwilling to abandon their plunder. They were no doubt correct on that score but having them destroy the pirates would gain him nothing. An alternate plan would have to be improvised.
The ship was starting to buzz with activity as the corsair fleet prepared to drop to sublight outside Isabella. The Iceni Queen was flanked by two large frigates. The War Hammer and Spartacus were each recent prize ships, fast new powerhouses the hastily trained Federation crews that manned them proved unworthy of.
Vulture followed close behind, one of the best scores of a very successful five month rampage. She was a modified tug that was used for clearing and fast salvaging wrecks they acquired from a smuggler who failed to meet his obligations. It allowed them to literary tare cargo craft to pieces, removing and storing their hold containers which were very conveniently standardized by FTF regulation. Four armored freighters were in a line behind and below her, they were ready to burst with luxury goods and consumer electronics that would bring in a hefty price here in the Fringe Worlds.
Bringing up the rear was the Thunder Child, formerly the War Hammer, newly renamed and under the able command of Danger Debbie Love, Mad Jack’s newly minted former first mate and wanton hell-raiser. Once the first of the frigates was captured, it was agreed to end the initial three to two ratio on plunder which had been arranged in return for possession of the new ship. Julian and Mad Jack had privately set terms for the elder captain to formally join the wing as Julian’s second. Debbie was the best navigator in the fleet and a seasoned fighter, it was decided that she take command of the old War Hammer since it would make the idea for her crew an easier sell by keeping it in the family. They also made plans for adding a second higher-end warship with Billy in mind.
The second was captured not a month later and Captain Billy DeVells was rewarded his good humor and patience with the return of Spartacus to the wing, and all agreed it wasn’t like home without her. Angus went to the Spartacus with Billy after he and Julian decided that Guy was up to the task of filling the role as the Queen’s Drive Master. The former office monkey was transforming into quite the spacer, especially for one who came to it so late in life. He still had bouts of motion sickness which amused his staff but he had earned everyone’s respect for his extreme cool under pressure. It had garnered him the rare honor of an approving remark from Angus after his first action.
Natasha was tapped to fill the First Mate slot in addition to her duties as EW officer and Deacon’s already crowded plate now held the responsibilities of Fleet Paymaster. There were other corsair and merc units with more ships, The Pit Vipers were flying a Curacao dozen last word of them, but none had anything approaching the firepower that The Bastards now commanded. Word of the chaos they were causing was spreading throughout colonized space, along with the story of the Lockhard sale of the captured Charlemagne’s support craft to the very pirates who commandeered her.
Deacon had broached the subject recently that the venture was proving maybe too successful and that perhaps it should be called short, returning to the Rift until things died down and do some much needed dockyard work. Julian and Debbie wanted to stick things out for the final month but Mad Jack and Billy strongly agreed with Deacon so a big final sale was arranged to take place with the leading rebel group in the region. The Black Banner was an anarchist group that had put together a decent little fleet of ships and an extensive intelligence gathering operation. They were invited to meet them the following day at their Isabella IX base-camp which would allow them to be off the following day. They would have spent almost twice as much time in transit as hunting on this venture but it would easily be the most profitable in the centuries old history of the Rift Corsairs. Things were looking good.
Julian was sitting back in his chair, trying to rub the fatigue from his eyes, as the wing dropped to sublight. He felt the odd wave pass through him as the inertial grid adjusted and just as he opened his eyes to have a look around, the bridge turned red. The alarm klaxon sounded in short bursts of three and everyone went about gathering their helmets while the five minute countdown to hull decompression began.
“Guy,” Julian called over the intercom, “start cooking the batteries and begin charging the spinal mount as soon as they reach one-twenty.”
“Yarr,” came the affirmation.
“Natasha?” Julian asked with some concern.
“Hard to get ship count, ECM interference iz thick, dey must have jammer wit dem,” Her voice was level but Julian detected a subtle note of concern in her tone. “A ship of dee line . . . Two frigates . . . I tink, eight smaller craft, probably mixture of corvettes an’ support wessels.”
“Ops, status.”
“Repulser and dissipater fields powering-up, hull rated at ninety-two point seven, ETA to weapons range in twenty-three minutes.” Deacon responded from Julian’s left-front.
“Gunnery, status.”
“Point defense online, all turrets show charging, rail guns show green, missile bay ready with a twelve volley of Talons,” Nefratiti Jones was a new addition to the crew since arriving in the Fringe Worlds, a smuggler who had taken up with the Queen less then two months ago she was already First Gunner’s Mate and standing-in for Floyd who would be on his way to the Gae Bolga to take command of the launched corvette.
“Attention Wing,” Julian announced to his fleet, “Launch all fighters to form a claw twenty kilometers off center bow. Primaries form an inverted chevron, Thunder Child assume a high tail slot. Pack Mules go X-ray Two, two . . . ” Julian looked at his monitor and felt something he didn’t like, uncertainty. “He’s just sitting there,” he said flatly.
“Gae Bolga, ready to drop,” came Floyd over the com.
“Launch and fall back on the Vulture,” Julian instructed. “Lead her in, I have an idea how to deal with the big dog.”
Ursula’s four Rapiers and the dozen Cheetahs from the other ships raced ahead, setting formation as they moved. Spartacus and War Hammer pulled closely aside and ahead of the Queen then reported themselves on station. Floyd and Lieutenant Kashi in command of the Vulture followed at the wrecker’s best sublight acceleration but they quickly fell behind the warships that had raced to a bone-crunching forty G’s.
“Julian, I’m getting a tight beam transmission bouncing-off one of number six’s ice moons,” Deacon said with subdued wonder in his voice.
“Put it through,” Julian said, himself a little astonished.
PJ Hilton stood with his feet wide, back strait, hands clasped behind him. He wore his best dress blues and cover, black boots polished like volcanic glass. Once sufficiently dashing he pivoted on his heal and began sending his escorts into a wide fanning line, forward speed set to one-quarter. His chin high, his nostrils flared, a wave of warm smug washed over the Fleet Captain.
“Hail Mister ‘The Bastard’ for me if you would,” he politely asked his operations officer.
“Oh, fucking now what?” Julian asked as the com signal started with its beeping again.
“It’s from the flag,” Deacon informed him, “A private visual message for your bad self in fact.”
“Put him on,” Julian resigned with a shrug and leaned back in his chair for a good view of his screen. His blood went cold when he saw who it was. He was well familiar with the career of his estranged sperm-donor, but then who wasn’t. Fleet Captain Hilton was a Rebel fighter so Julian never had occasion to encounter him before, though now that it came to it, he was suddenly very pleased he had.
The image was a touch fuzzy but it was clearly him and he gave a little bow/nod. “Mr. McAllister, my name is Philip James Hilton the third, Fleet Captain of The FDF twenty-seventh Tactical Anti-Insurgency Wing, and I’m here to kill you. But before that I just wanted to say hello, I knew your mother, you see. She was quite a tight piece of ass when I knew her of course, before she moved onto the profession circuit,” the Fleet Captain looked over his watch. “Well, see you in a few minutes,” another nod and the screen went blank.
Julian replayed the broadcast over the fleet channel before commenting to the wing. “If he thinks such profanities laid against my dear mother are enough to bait me into some wild bloody rage,” Julian told them, “He’s quite correct, but he’ll wish he never thought of it.”
“Hazza! Hazza! Hazza!” came the shouts over every wire.
“Deak,” Julian said, “Call Day and tell him he has his bloody fucking deal.” The words were like ash in his mouth and his lips contorted in disgust. The Black Banner had done very well through their association with him and he did not care for this side of blackmail. That they were even here indicated they were already planning some treachery, Julian didn’t believe that story about their having discovered the fleet en route and tracking them here. Two things Julian could never abide were a double-cross and being taken for a fool. Chuck Day was ill-advised to have tried them both.
“I’m gonna cut your heart out, Chuckles,” he promised under his breath.
“Thunder Child, I want you to find and capture that jamming craft, I want it.” Julian leaned forward again as the two fleets began to converge, “Amazon, divert two teams to assist Gae Bolga.”
“Yarr,” Confirmed first Debbie then Ursula as the tail vessel shot forward and four cheetahs broke formation to join her.
PJ Hilton the third sat with all the dignity that his bound hands and feet allowed, which was something of an accomplishment for a man still in deep shock. Reese was allowed to roam the small brig freely, pacing back and forth like a caged animal and getting on Hilton’s very last nerve.
The armored door slid into the wall and the pirate rabble began entering. The hulking one they called ‘Kruger’, the one that took Reese and himself on his bridge was the first. His head still reeled from the speed and ferocity of the attack. The Iceni Queen had charged her at fifty G’s and would have collided with the Agamemnon had he not ordered the emergency maneuvers that left him helpless for only a split instant. How in the hell did he do it? He asked himself, and not for the first time. The pirate cruiser just flipped end over end in the blink of an eye and cut into her with a pair of rail guns within a few hundred meters. As she passed, plunging tail first away from him, it let loose with the spinal mounted particle accelerator directly into his main thruster exhaust at a suicidally close range, the Queen’s staggering momentum enough to keep her barely clear of the shockwave. The cascading failures aboard the Agamemnon were staggering. Then the converted salvage ship that followed latched onto his hull directly above his bridge and cut its way through in under two minutes, tight packs of boarders began flooding-in from everywhere, flying along the wide corridors of his flag ship using back-mounted thrusters. He had not seen or heard of anything like it.
With the hulking German, Kruger, stood a tall, broad-shouldered black man with a shaved head and a thin goatee. He was still in his vacc suit, as they all were scions helmets, but had put on a pair of mirrored glasses, from behind which he seemed to stare strait through the Fleet Captain. Kruger had nodded to him as one does with a respected superior when the man entered and now stood silent with his hands behind his back. At least half of the crew he had seen were ethnics of one sort or another and PJ Hilton was not accustomed to being at the receiving side of orders with such types. He found the situation as much distasteful as anything else. To be brought to knee by savages, the neosapian lamented in silence.
Others were outside the cubical but did not enter. After a few moments they all looked in one direction as a pair of figures entered the cell. McAllister was in his black vacc suit which bristled with weapons of every sort. He’d have made a fine boy scout with a proper upbringing, Hilton thought and laughed to himself, not wanting to show weakness to this pig-spawn whatever come. McAllister clapped the large black man on the shoulder saying, “Thanks, Deak. Take the bridge for me.” The woman beside him had long red hair tied in pigtails. She was muscular, almost manly looking in build but not unattractive. She spoke a few quiet words with this “Deak” person in a thick Russian accent then took his place next the door and did not speak again. Save for the goatee, Julian McAllister looked remarkably like his mother. Oval face, pale skin, wide-set big green eyes that shone with subtle rage under thick brows and a crop of unruly black hair.
Julian noted the smile on dear-old dad’s face and returned it. “A moment,” he asked of him, turning his attention on Reese who had frozen in place once the first two men entered. He reached across to his left side and produced a huge antique revolver which he held casually, gesturing with it as he spoke. “You disappoint me, Kyle,” he said. “I loath disappointment.”
Hilton saw that something was engraved in gold along its absurdly long barrel and squinted to read it. Julian noted his interest and held it closer: “Instant Karma” Hilton read aloud and raised an eyebrow.
“I’d like you to meet a dear old friend of mine,” Julian said with enthusiasm, “The Rugar Blackhawk .41 magnum double-action swing-load revolver. Now, I know what you’re going to say; bulky, inaccurate, grossly limited firing capacity, long to reload, and will give away your position in a thunderstorm. All true, but, it makes a wonderful damn noise and oh, the wounds.” Julian seemed as though in heaven just thinking of it. He then shot Reese in the right kneecap, who promptly fell to the floor in a heap yelling bloody murder. Julian watched and clearly had a glow about him. After a moment he then shot him again twice, once in the stomach and one in the face. He wiped a splash of Reese’s blood off his own face where it had landed and tasted it, a pleased expression on his face. “AB positive,” he said approvingly.
“Call me old-fashioned, call me a romantic,” Julian explained, “but for my money there’s nothin’ quite like a good dose of kinetic energy for puttin’ the hurtin’ on a fella.” He then walked close to Hilton, leaned over and said, “Well, maybe one thing.” He then pulled Vendetta from the sheath on his chest and showed the fine kitchen cleaver to his sire. “I’ve kept it,” he said, “just for you.”
* * *
The boys filed into the common room after having cleaned-up from their ordeal with the stones. As soon as they began coming down stairs, they could smell food and they were more then hungry after their little workout. They were expecting bread and water but Boadicea seemed to take pity on them, laying out quite a feast. At the center of the table was placed a cake, on it read: “Nice Going Assholes.” They all burst out when they saw it and set to task.
She joined them shortly and they all had a fine diner, they recounted the details of the night’s activities and though she attempted to remain stern and rebuke them their travesties she couldn’t help but cackle out loud when they described Sister Angelina’s reaction to the girls and their bizarre, and probably drug-fueled behavior. After they had eaten, she gave them the news. She had agreed to let her brother Jack taken them all on as apprentices. They were, as she expected and feared, ecstatic. They quickly became immersed in making plans and laughing. She got up and gathered a few things for the kitchen and headed that way. Julian caught up with her at the door and spoke.
“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I know you had other choices you’d have made but this is what I need to do.”
“I know it,” she sighed. “I guess after the life I gave you expecting you to settle down and become a school teacher wasn’t really in the cards.”
“I wouldn’t trade it for any I’ve seen,” Julian assured her about the life.
“Good for you,” she said. “If we’re to be a family of thieves and whores then let us be a dynasty of thieves and whores.” They laughed and she went into the kitchen. Julian returned to the table and exhorted his adopted brothers to help him gather the wreckage and clean up. He heard his mother shouting at someone from the kitchen, something regarding “sin.” Julian shook his head, Those fucking people never . . . Glass shattered and a weight formed on Julian’s shoulders that became heavier as he approached the door to the joining room. He pushed it open and saw that a window had been broken. His gaze then fell like lead to the floor. His mother lay there on her back, a widening pool of blood opening beneath her head, her leg still twitching.
Julian and his adopted brothers marched in silence across the field of tall grass. It was just after dawn on the morning following the shooting and it was cold yet. The day would likely be as hot as any other once the summer sun had crept a little higher, the fog that rolled-in each morning had already melted away. Each shouldered a large bag and was dressed in black from head to toe, Julian had painted his face blue in the manor of the portrait his mother had painted of her ancient namesake.
The church that the crossers had built here was always busy on sundays but today it was packed, picnic tables had been set outside for a great celebration to be held at the end of the service, no doubt in honor of their triumph over the forces of sin, the murder of his mother in her home. People were inside and the young men who drew upon them could hear their voices raised in song from more then a hundred meters away. They listened as they approached, their blood slowly coming to boil.
“Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus going on before.
Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe;
Forward into battle see His banners go!
At the sign of triumph Satan’s host doth flee;
On then, Christian soldiers, on to victory!
Hell’s foundations quiver at the shout of praise;
Brothers lift your voices, loud your anthems raise.
Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus going on before.
Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe;
Forward into battle see His banners go!
Like a mighty army moves the church of God;
Brothers, we are treading where the saints have trod.
We are not divided, all one body we,
One in hope and doctrine, one in charity.
Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus going on before.
Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe;
Forward into battle see His banners go!”
The building had but a single entrance so Deacon and Billy set to chaining it as soon as they arrived, Julian removed the fuel cans from the bags they had set down and began walking the perimeter, splashing their contents liberally along the church’s walls. It would almost certainly mean exile for a decade or more. The Christians were hated by and large and Boadicea was a well-respected community leader, ethnic issues aside. Julian had no intentions of setting foot on New Antigua again any time soon and couldn’t care less. Uncle Jack would be here in a few days and he could leave this place far behind. Emptying the last of the fuel cans he took his place beside his brothers and produced a flare from the pocket of his long duster.
“It’s good to see people still building with wood in this day and age,” he said and lit the place ablaze. It wasn’t long before the heavily chained doors began to rock and the glee heard in the disembodied voices had turned to panic. Screaming was soon heard, cries for their god to come and save them, which he did not.
The cries abated briefly as the doomed occupants of the building heard the bellowing chant of those outside, hoping for a brief instant that help had come but at once disabused: “Boadicea! Boadicea! Boadicea! Boadicea!”
“Thirty-five point zero, two, two, eight by sixty-six point five, nine, zero, one,” Julian said over the com in a flat tone. “You’ll find everything there, to include the medical supplies and arms.”
A pause followed. People’s Commander Day then responded, “And the cargo you are carrying?”
“We’re all empty holds out here, Commander,” Julian said, trying to keep his voice at a nice level. He was gripping the armrest of his chair with white knuckles, awash inside with fury.
“I’ll send a team to inspect the freighters,” Day suggested.
Julian’s eyes narrowed a moment and then he addressed the fleet over an open channel the rebels would hear, “Iceni Queen to fleet, prepare for hostile action.”
“Calm, yourself, Captain,” Day said quickly. He attempted to sound sarcastic, as if Julian were a man to make empty threats, but even over the speaker’s distortion all could make-out the crack in his voice. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You mean to take a great deal today,” Julian said, then ordered the fleet to exit the system and make ready to hyper-shunt.
“You are not serious about letting these cock-suckers get away with this?” Nefratiti asked, now on the bridge and manning the Ops council. Everyone else burst out laughing.
“I made a deal and I intend to honor it,” Julian explained. “And then I mean to track them down like wild beasts and slay them all, but good.” Everyone got a chuckle out of that but Julian, unsatisfied by the image, chose to elaborate. “I will bone some, quarter others. I’ve never impaled a man and I’ve always wanted to try. Fire’s a classic, and you can do lots of stuff with it. Nero, he made human–or rather christian torches by having them painted with pitch and used them as street lights for a carnival or some shit.”
“Is Nero really the role model you’re looking for?” Deacon asked with laughter in his voice.
“In matters of murder and mayhem I defer to the master,” Julian said. “The man was an artist. I can forgive an artist anything. I heard a dude once killed himself to get out of one of the emperor’s day long poetry readings. A magnificent Bastard that one.”
Nefratit was appalled by what she was hearing from the Captain’s mouth, “Boy, what in the hell is wrong with you?” Julian seemed terribly amused by her indignation which got on her. “The freak was a psychopath, what can you possibly admire in someone like that?”
“I didn’t say I liked the little weasel,” Julian told her, “All I am saying is that he’s my patron saint.”
“Very few saints were nice people,” Deacon confirmed. “Cyril had a bitch flayed alive with sea shells.”
“Did they buy them down by the sea shore?” Floyd asked, emerging from the control deck gangway. “I understand Sally has a stall selling sea shells down by the sea shore . . . ”
Nefratit smacked him in the head and received Julian’s thanks graciously. “Y’all mother-fuckers need to stop smokin’ that shit,” she said and went to find more rational company.
“‘Tash,” Julian said leaning into the intercom.
“Da,”
“We have a track?” he asked.
“Vee have perfect track, Derigia,” she assured him.
The salvaged jamming craft was renamed “Norwegian Blue” and painted a variety of atrocious colors for reasons Natasha didn’t understand but she was thrilled when she was given to her with full captain status. Though support ships were traditional commanded by lieutenants in corsair wings, the dedicated electronic warfare ship would serve a much more active and dangerous role in piracy operations, chief among which was as an advanced scout working alone in hostile space. No corsair fleet had such an extravagance and it even managed to put Julian back in a good mood despite his recent screwing by Chuck Day. Not that he wasn’t going to kill him.
Tesla was a remote system even by the standards of the Fringward Expanse. Tesla V seemed to be the hub of Black Banner activity, Natasha had counted more than twenty ships in the day she had spent there, including three major warships. No sign of Chuck Day though. The planet was a small dust ball with less then a half-Earth gravity and a few extinct volcanos to its name. Inside an especially large one was the headquarters of the Black Banner, two slightly smaller ones close-buy appeared to be docking ports with false bottoms that lowered to a great chamber below.
Julian was very impressed and had an idea. Best keep it to myself ‘till after though, he thought. The fleet swept through Tesla to the inner planets. The Queen, Spartacus, and War Hammer in a tight line with the Norwegian Blue closely above and behind, the Thunder Child behind her and facing backwards. Under the EW ship’s veil they would close to a few thousand kilometers of the desert planet before detection. The Vulture and the four freighters that completed the fleet remained on station in Tesla X’s orbit, taking care to stay out of sight.
They closed on the planet and brushed aside the two brigs and handful of fighters that launched as they were still exiting the planet’s thin atmosphere, their wreckage falling back down on the surface like a rain of fire. The Bastards then spread out slightly, placing themselves in a geosynchronous orbit above the installation. They pointed their bows, and main armaments, groundward and released a volley of missiles which impacted across the three volcanos sheltering the base. A few missiles from the rebels below passed ineffectually by the raiders, unable to find a target through the powerful ECM field the “Blue” was emitting.
The spinal mount was unable to fire through the planet’s atmosphere, thin though it was, so the orbiting ships fired the rest of their weaponry on the structure Natasha had chosen as the most likely to be the command center. The Queen then dropped like a meteor through the planet’s wispy dry air in a great fireball. Inside, the window shutters had been closed and a dull rumble was all that could be discerned of the hell-storm that lit-up the night sky over Tesla V, like a comet come with word of doom.
The Queen set down inside the main crater about a kilometer away from the rebel base which was made-up of about fifty moderate-sized buildings connected by protected access ways and sharing a large underground level beneath them. She was an incredibly large ship to be built for landing, the largest yet constructed according to the Lockhard literature, weighing-in at a quarter-million metric tons. She was intended to conform to the FDF council’s call for a lighter and more versatile fleet of the future, allowing them to start phasing-out the gargantuan line ships that were so expensive to build and maintain. The great cargo holding pods that had been built on New Antigua, in place of the troop carrier the designers had in mind, were now full of troops after all. The combined boarding crews of all four warships had been assembled into a single unit that would be augmented by nonessential ship personnel from the Queen. In total, eleven-hundred armored troops would storm the base under the command of newly minted Wing Marshal Victor Kruger, overall commander of the fleet’s raiders.
It had been brought-up in council that the hulk of the Agamemnon still contained several hundred canisters of nerve-agent that could be used to take the hideout with minimal casualties to themselves. Julian dismissed the idea angrily though, saying that he was a bastard but no fucking bastard. They would go in and fight them toe to toe, fighting dirty was one thing but this was quite another. Deacon then pointed-out that the cleanup necessary before they could move-in was beyond their means in any case so the subject was dropped. Julian had given the order, it would be the “Tampico hot foot” for Agamemnon. The hulk, still holding more then a thousand live crew sealed helpless in the wreck, under tow and cast into the Isabella sun. As they watched the giant ship plunge into the star’s corona he asked, “Does anyone else smell bacon?”
The use of such tactics proved to be unnecessary in any case. The rebel fighters were left headless by the sudden loss of their entire command council, slain when the headquarters building exploded in a ground-shaking ball of white light. The entire operation was over in less then an hour without a serious injury reported among the raiders.
It was one year, four months and three days since the four-ship wing calling themselves The Bastards had left New Antigua when they finally made course for home. The mission, originally to be of five months duration, had been cut back to four but the matter of The Black Banner had created unforseen complications, some of which proved to be opportunities. The Bastards managed to wiped-out the Black Banner in a little over two months by occupying their base and intercepting their ships as they reported-in, never arriving in numbers to help conceal the base’s location.
They decided to take over and permanently man the planet which was renamed Havana Town. They began to make lasting arrangements with the local smugglers and began absorbing them into the family proper. By the time the wing was underway home the entire fleet consisted of twenty-six craft, including fifteen warships. The core wing, which included the Queen, Spartacus, War Hammer, Thunder Child, and the Norwegian Blue would make the trip back to the Rift with eight freighters, heavy-laden with small arms, medicines, high-grade computers, and specialized ship electronics. Deacon would stay behind and take charge of their interests here and the fleet would return within the next year. That would give them time to refit the Blue to Natasha’s specifications and allow Julian and Billy to recruit some new officers. On the way back they would make arrangements to pick up their new ships.
Guy had been very busy in his spare time, designing a light frigate with a detachable, and independently maneuverable, cargo section like the Queen’s that should allow it to fill two important roles very nicely. They easily purchased four of them with the plunder they made and enough was left over to fill the coffers and handsomely reward all the crews. A sizable discount was even offered by Lockhard in return for the rights to produce a version of the new ship commercially, which they happily agreed to. The order was made as yet another fictitious but licenced mercenary company, this one coming into their possession along with a five ship arms-smuggling ring. They were in the early stages of construction at Lockhard City even now. Some people never learn. |
Submission Name: Iceni Queen 7--A Dynasty Of Thieves
