Karl Johannes Arend Wiegand, By Grace of God Almighty His Sovereign Imperial Majesty of Fribourg, Karl VII, known as Joh by his family and close friends, sat at the far end of the big conference room table, facing the closed door, alone with the requisite, dozen bodyguards, and his thoughts.
As much as the Imperial Palace and Fleet Headquarters represented his authority, this room was probably the actual seat of his power. The massive table, cut and polished out of a single piece of blue granite, resting atop heavy wooden legs, dark with age. The walls were austere, sheathed over in a dark jade covered with a few tapestries that represented many of his ancestors in the founding and history of the Empire.
This was the place where the Inner Staff met. Flag Officers only, and only members of the Imperial Blood. They were the men who truly made Imperial policy, but they did it by keeping the important decisions under their personal control. His cousins, since he had no brothers and had become emperor sooner than expected, after the terrible accident that killed both of his parents.
This room, right here, was the Fribourg Empire.
Hopefully, it would survive what he was about to do today.
All protocol had been cast to the winds for this…moment. Now was not a time for conservatism, or halfway measures. The avalanche had already started, and he could only hope to successfully ride it to the bottom of the mountain while trying to steer it to a safer place.
Joh knew he was probably destined to fail, but he was looking with eyes measuring centuries, and not the mere decades of his remaining lifetime.
He took a moment to check his uniform, it having been hours since he got up and worked out this morning. Tailored navy blue slacks. The same dark fabric in the jacket, over a lighter blue shirt. The single, gold spiral galaxy embroidered on each epaulette, symbol of rank as supreme commander, Emperor of Fribourg.
He was prepared.
Beside the door, a light changed from green to red.
Joh knew he could remain seated. It was his prerogative to do almost anything that suited his fancy. Today called for more.
He rose from his seat and nodded to the bodyguard closest to the door.
“Open it,” he ordered in a deep, firm voice.
The man made no acknowledgement but to reach out with one hand and palm the sensor. Joh’s men, his Imperial guards, took themselves much more seriously today, having failed him six months ago, when his cousin, Sigmund Dittmar, sought to overthrow the Empire.
They would never make that mistake again.
Joh drew a deep breath to settle himself as the door opened and the group assembled outside began to enter.
The term motley had a negative connotation, historically, but it also communicated the amazing diversity of humanity represented before him.
Come to his Court.
Emmerich Wachturm stood in front, The Grand Admiral of the Fleet. Joh’s strong right arm, his Best Man, his best friend for more than fifty years. Dressed in the black day uniform of his rank, rather than the more formal affair he was occasionally forced into by circumstances or company.
Jessica Keller walked behind him. The Fleet Centurion who had been the bane of his Empire, as well as its savior. Recently, she had taken to wearing the day uniform of a Fribourg Fleet Admiral of the Red, but today she had reverted to her Fleet Centurion’s attire. Joh preferred women like his beloved Kati, long and willowy, but there was something to the compact, athletic curves shown off by Keller’s uniform.
Perhaps it was just the being who inhabited the flesh. One of the most dangerous people in the galaxy. And slowly, awkwardly even, becoming something of a friend.
Behind Jessica, one of the most daring minds out there, contained in a tiny body under a thatch of black hair. Lady Moirrey zu Kermode. Ritter of the Imperial Household. Advanced Research Weapons Technician, Republic of Aquitaine Navy. According to his spies, a goofball of the first order, capable of quoting amazingly-obscure literature and modern pop songs in the same sentence.
And a woman who had killed two Imperial assassins in single combats. Never forget that part.
zu Kermode wore what Joh assumed was a homemade outfit today, based on the intelligence files he had read about her. Tight, slate-gray slacks under a top that split the gap between a tabard and sundress, front and back panels hanging to her boot tops and slashed to her thigh, with a black, leather belt containing it. Interestingly, the dress had been done in dark maroon, edged and embroidered in white. Over her heart, also hand-embroidered, the Imperial Crest: Golden Eagle Elevated and Displayed.
Moirrey had taken the style of her formal cloak as a Ritter and gone fashionable with it. As one of only two women alive with the zu designation, there were no official guidelines for how a female Ritter should dress.
Still, he approved. It was demure but still flattering on a woman that barely came up to his collarbone. And it conveyed her importance and place to anyone who wasn’t immediately familiar with her face.
As if such a person actually still existed on this planet.
Joh smiled a secret smile with Moirrey as she came in, rather like the one they had shared when she had shot Geoffrey Grundman, who had happened to be standing just behind Joh, the shot passing beside his ear close enough that he still remembered the heat.
She blushed and glanced down, obviously fighting to control a bout of giggles that threatened to erupt. Moirrey was like that.
Behind Moirrey, Joh’s greatest surprise. Not that she was here, but how she presented herself.
The Imperial Princess, Kasimira Helena. Casey zu Wiegand. His youngest child, and only surviving daughter, since her sister Steffi had been killed during the coup, while saving his own life.
Casey wore an identical outfit to Moirrey’s, scaled up, obviously hand-made by Moirrey in secret, probably for exactly this occasion. Joh could sense a new fashion trend breaking out, although Imperial woman would be careful not to match the exact color, nor the Imperial crest.
Perhaps he should suggest the simple logo of the Imperial fleet in gold and white, on the dark blue fabric the navy used.
Patriotic, but demure.
Another aspect of the avalanche that threatened to bury him.
The last person to enter was a man Joh had never formally met. Oh, he had read any number of hastily-compiled dossiers on the fellow, but there was little actually known about him, except what his spies had learned, mostly from Jessica Keller or her Prime Minister, Desianna Indah-Rodriguez. And even that was sparse. The man was something of a cypher, and quietly went about his business with the care of a blacksmith making horseshoes.
Yan Bedrov, pirate.
Mid-forties. Tall and skinny, with dark hair buzzed tight against his skull, both receding and graying. He wore a charcoal-gray outfit that conveyed formality, but retained hints of the barbaric underneath, mostly in the patterns sewn into what might otherwise be a simple jumpsuit. Fitting for a man who had been a pirate most of his adult life, and now served the Queen of the Pirates herself, Jessica Keller.
Joh had heard enough from Em to make up his mind. Em and Jessica had put the entire thing together in strict secrecy, since what they had proposed was technically treason of the highest order. At least until Joh gave his personal assent.
Being Emperor of Fribourg meant that some things required official sanction. It had to happen here, in this room, with all the symbolism and history contained therein.
“Please,” Joh said warmly, gesturing to his visitors. “Be seated.”
Jessica ended up across from Em, on Joh’s left, with Moirrey and Casey on that side, and Bedrov next to the Grand Admiral. An interesting balance, female to his left, and male to his right. Hopefully not a psychological separation, but just luck of the draw.
Joh rested his right hand on the small, leather satchel he had brought with him. There were easier ways to have done this thing, but someone, somewhere, would get the wrong impression.
Treason was contagious. It did not exist in this room, but he had to inoculate an entire interstellar empire against it.
Joh studied each of the seated faces, starting with Em and working his way around the table.
Calm. Poised. Excited. Grinning. Serious. Thus he would always remember them.
“Will the Peace hold, Fleet Centurion?” he asked Jessica in a formal, canted tone. History would record this conversation, and replay it for centuries.
Jessica fixed him with eyes like emeralds on fire.
“On my oath,” she replied simply. Nothing more.
Joh felt the immense power of those words.
Empires could be built on them.
If Fribourg was to survive, he would have to do exactly that.
Joh nodded slowly and turned to Em next.
“Is this the best way forward?” he asked his oldest friend.
Em nodded slowly.
“It is perhaps the greatest gamble any of us will ever take, Your Majesty,” Em replied. “I do not believe anything less will succeed.”
Joh nodded again. So much of this was playing for the galleries, but it had to be done.
Future historians would pore over this day, writing entire volumes of Imperial history that started now, Chapter One, with that door opening.
“Lady Moirrey?”
“I’ll makes ya proud, Sire,” she chirped in that thick, barbaric accent she always carried with her, a reminder of a home on distant Ramsey. Joh made a note to visit it, someday, circumstances allowing. Moirrey deserved that much.
He had no doubt about her words, or her calm confidence. No less than Emmerich Wachturm had been convinced that Lady Moirrey, zu Kermode of Ramsey, held the key to defeating Buran, The Eternal, the self-styled Lord of Winter.
“Lady Casey, will you speak with my voice?” he asked his youngest, no longer a child, but turned now into a fierce warrior by association with other such folks. Folks he trusted and respected.
“I will, Your Majesty.”
Avalanche. No woman had ever spoken for the throne.
Ever.
Before Casey did it.
His Imperial Majesty Karl VII turned to the last person at the table. He picked up the leather satchel, weighing it both physically and emotionally for a second, before reaching out and placing it into Yan Bedrov’s firm hands.
“The complete technical specifications of the Paladin-class battleships, including as-builts of the IFV Amsel, the Blackbird, as she has been repaired, following the raid by Buran. Also, everything we have been able to learn about the naval architecture of the star nation known as Buran,” Joh said formally. “Yan Bedrov, do you understand the task at hand?”
“Aye, sir,” the man replied, even now acknowledging no liege but Jessica, as was proper. His voice was a high baritone that conveyed an utter conviction that made even Jessica’s word seem doubtful by comparison. “I will forge you a sword.”
A sword? Yes, Joh supposed so. But not just any sword. No, this one would, by the everlasting Grace of God himself, be wielded by Jessica Keller.
Joh drew in another breath. Released it.
He studied his daughter, aware that no father wanted to push his children out of the nest, but that the survival of everything Joh and his predecessors had spent their lives building might possibly rest on her shoulders. It would be a test even greater than saving the Empire from Sigmund.
Her blue eyes stared calmly back. She reminded him of her mother, that same poise, that same strength.
It would be good.
“As my representative, you will be provided a staff of experts,” Joh said simply. “It is my understanding that Jessica’s flagship, Kali-ma, has space on the final ring to add another transport shuttle, similar in size to the vessel known as Baxter, and that she has agreed to transport it, and you, as a diplomatic mission to Ladaux. We will also send a courier vessel, as well as a fast freighter loaded with trade goods, the latter of which will accompany Kali-ma on to Petron.”
Casey nodded silently. This had all been worked out ahead of time. This was just the legal paperwork to absolve these people from guilt and responsibility, if something went wrong later.
By Imperial Command…
Joh glanced over at Em and received the slightest nod of assent.
“There will be one addition to your team, Lady Casey,” Joh continued. “An expert transferred from the Imperial Naval Staff who will advise you on economic issues, given the nature of your task.”
That broke through his daughter’s calm poise. Joh could see the slightest hint of confusion in the back of her eyes, morphing quickly into nothingness as she got control of her face an instant later. An Imperial Princess understood the power of projecting calm.
“Who, Your Majesty?” she asked, taking the obvious cue with grace.
Joh let his glance trail over to Jessica Keller. This was the greatest risk. Hints had been suggested, but nobody had been willing to simply walk up and ask the woman’s opinion.
Joh realized now that he had made a grave mistake, not asking Em to simply throw diplomacy to the winds on this one and ask her, but everything he had heard, from everyone with even tangential knowledge of the situation, suggested that this was the right course of action.
Avalanche. Only history would be able to say if he had judged correctly.
“A captain from the Fleet side,” Joh replied. “An expert economist with a solid naval grounding who can speak capably on obscure technical topics with Republic engineers.”
Jessica’s eyes flared, just the slightest bit. Nothing else. No change of breathing. No blush.
No palm slamming angrily down on the table top, either.
“Captain Torsten Wald will be joining your mission.”