She had survived.
Jessica had not been sure of that outcome, when Steadfast at Dawn came out of jump in a perfect kill position.
She had been aboard IFV Amsel, Wachturm’s Blackbird, when a Mako had raked it with a single Mauler beam before escaping. Auberon had taken four hits, based on data from the after action report.
Casualties had been bad among the crew who had been closest to the outer hull when the storm broke. But even the Flag Bridge had not been immune.
As she sat on the side couch in her personal office, Jessica looked down at her left arm, currently encased in a soft cast from where she had somehow slammed it into the console hard enough to put a hairline fracture along her ulna and to bruise her radius. Plus her entire forearm was one massive purple-and-yellow blotch, but she could generally ignore the pain, if she focused on it.
While she had always tended toward ambidexterity, she was still left-handed enough that she reached for things that way, which hurt enough to stop her.
It was the frustration, more than anything. That and all the other bruises and bangs she had suffered when Auberon’s entire hull seemed to flex.
Enej had been fine. Casey had a slight limp. Five or six others were moving tenderly, but she had suffered the worst. Denis and his bridge crew hadn’t even noticed the immense whiplash that had snapped the Flag Bridge like a groundquake.
The random joys of starship combat. She had managed to cripple the battleship, the Energiya Module, and two of the cruisers, but Auberon was probably due for the wrecker, depending on what Oz and Moirrey reported about buckled frames.
And this ship had no business on the front lines with Buran. She could see that now. The others had all been designed for exactly this sort of combat, but she had been too headstrong to suggest traveling in anything less than her chariot. And this would be the third time she’d had a ship shot out from under her.
Brightoak had been rebuilt and then given to Robbie when she got Auberon. The Strike Carrier was still in orbit around Ballard, a monument to the defense of learning. The Star Controller was limping slowly back to Forward Base Delta, but that was to patch the big issues enough to get her into an Imperial Drydock somewhere.
Or a breaker’s yard.
A chime at the outer hatch. Which was odd, since Marcelle and Willow should have been on duty, and either turning people away, or coming in to ask if she was taking visitors.
She found the cabin remote and unlocked the hatch, too tired to get up and walk over to see what was going on. And too depressed, if she was willing to be honest with herself.
This was a good night to brood.
The hatch opened and Captain Wald stepped into her cabin, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two empty flutes in the other.
She fixed him with a curious look, but remained silent.
“Marcelle thought you could use some company,” he said simply, one step inside the hatch but no further.
Marcelle thought?
“It is highly irregular for an Imperial officer to be visiting the quarters of a female in the dead of night,” she observed, as if probing a worthy foe across the dojo floor.
“My reputation will be in tatters among the Grand Dames of St. Legier,” he replied. “But it would be worse to leave you alone. And there is nobody you can talk to.”
“Good point,” she agreed.
Stoicism was one of the underlying pillars of the Republic of Aquitaine. A lesson she had learned early and well.
“So I thought perhaps some Malbec and light conversation might help you relax,” Torsten said.
“Wine so you can seduce me?” she teased. At least as much as she could work herself up to it. It seemed important, but more work than reward.
“If I thought that would work, I would have tried it much earlier,” he smiled. “Now, serious business, Jessica. I will leave if you desire.”
“I would have thrown you out already if I wanted you gone,” Jessica replied, as much to herself as to him.
It had been enough years, hadn’t it? Wasn’t she entitled to some level of personal happiness that didn’t involve killing people as a profession?
“Emmerich Wachturm said something similar, once,” Torsten said with a hint of a grin.
She watched him move closer with great deliberation. He no longer limped at all, even on tiring days, although his prosthetic was nothing but a titanium rod, so his pant legs always looked mismatched. And there were lines etched into his forehead that had not been there a week ago.
Worry for her, she supposed. It was an odd thought, someone worrying about her person.
He turned the flutes over and put them carefully on her desk. The bottle was sealed with a flip-top held in place by wires under tension, and it took two hands to open.
He poured a deep burgundy and handed it to her before filling his own glass and pulling one of the chairs close enough to sit with her. He seemed hesitant to encroach, violate her personal space, by joining her on the couch.
Perhaps she wanted her space violated?
Jessica couldn’t make up her mind. She hid behind her glass and sipped.
It was a good vintage, and seemed possessed of magical powers capable of unraveling the knots across her shoulders and back. She had needed something, because the fighting robot was going to be off-limits for a month or more, to give all the muscles and tendons time to come back into alignment.
The best cure was still time, modern medicine’s grumbling notwithstanding.
Torsten held up his glass in a toast. She stared blankly.
“You have done something no man in Imperial Service has ever done, you know,” he said.
“What?” she replied, lost.
“Driven Buran out of a system,” he noted. “We’ve only ever fought them off defensively, or broken our teeth trying to wear down Ural and Samara. This was the first offensive victory for us in a generation.”
“And a woman did it,” she retorted, returning the toast.
Imperial society still hadn’t fully accepted her, even if much of the rest of the Empire had.
“Worse,” he smiled, sipping. “Two women. Jessica Keller, the new Red Admiral, and the Lady Casey. The Queen of the Pirates and Emperor Karl VIII. Imagine the consternation back home when that that news arrives.”
That did bring a smile to her face. Casey would never hold the throne, but she had captured the imagination of the people.
As Jessica had hoped.
The Fribourg Empire would survive, but it would never be what it had planned for itself a generation ago. Now she just had to protect them from an implacable Sentience, intent on recapturing the entire galaxy and yoking all humanity under its rule.
Jessica had known another Immortal, but Summer had explained over greasy burgers and thin beer on that last night, why that past should never be allowed to return.
“And what about you, Torsten Wald?” Jessica asked. “What part do you see for yourself in all this?”
“Whatever part you will let me play, Jessica Keller,” he said with such seriousness that her breath caught.
“You understand what that means?” she probed.
“I probably will never return to the Imperial Staff,” he said. “The rest of my career, the rest of my life, will be spent in other duties, other devotions, mostly involving following you around the galaxy and hoping for whatever scraps and leftovers I can get. The Beast will not be done with you for a very long time.”
“Scraps?” she challenged, unsure how to take his words.
“It would be better than nothing at all, Jessica,” he replied simply. “You cannot give up all this. I know that. The galaxy would not survive. But I can and will give up everything else, in order to be near you. Is that clear enough?”
She started to reach out her hand to him, the one not holding the glass. The left one.
That brought a stab of pain, so she put the wine glass down instead. He leaned forward and took her good hand carefully.
“You’re crazy,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But that’s beside the point. I will be whatever you need me to be.”
She was breathless. Wordless.
Numb.
But not lost.
Found, perhaps.
It had been more than six years since she lost Warlock. In that time, she had conquered a world and defeated an Empire.
Now she would find time for herself, as well.