He hadn’t been officially promoted yet, so Vo still wore the Colonel’s rank tabs on the collar of the gray, semi-dress fatigues he had been instructed to wear to this meeting.
The Category Two uniform, for those times he wasn’t expected to be ready for High Tea. Vo did have the patch over his heart that was a gray rectangle with a red sword pointed inward towards his heart.
Ritter of the Imperial Household.
Originally, a thank you from the Emperor for not annihilating the men of the 189th during the invasion of Thuringwell. Now, a reward for saving the empire itself.
As Navin had pounded home time and again, there is always an easy thing to do, in any situation, and then there is the right thing. The two were rarely synonymous.
Vo had long since memorized the layout of this wing of the palace. The working wing, he thought of it, since this was where offices and conference rooms for active officers were located, with all the personal quarters and glittery stuff across the big quad. He had rescued an Emperor not too far from here.
And killed another one.
Today, his steps brought him to a different door. Vo found it amusing that the Grand Admiral had asked to meet him here, rather than at the office Wachturm retained over at their training school for fleet officers.
Guarding the door were two men in field gear, without the field-grade armor they would wear for a heavy assault, but still armed and armoured for a sudden drop into a hostile zone. Even inside, they had their mirrored face shields down, so you couldn’t see their eyes move, but Vo had made enough noise approaching, boots on a marble floor, that they knew where he was. And who.
By size, he recognized both, but neither had been particularly friendly on the flight here from Auberon. Professionals on duty. And the additional rivalry, since he was army now, and they were fleet marines.
But they hadn’t been hostile, either. Men doing a job. He respected that.
“Colonel zu Arlo, to see the Grand Admiral,” he said to the one on the left, just because.
Hint of a grin under the shield, possibly because the other guy was the one closest to the door switch. And all of them knew it.
“You’re expected, sir,” the man replied.
The other marine pressed the button to open the door.
Inside, Vo got his first big surprise. He had been prepared to find the Grand Admiral alone, seated at the long conference table. As indeed he was seated.
But there was, unexpectedly, another.
Vo knew the face. Had memorized a great deal of detail about the man’s history. Had never expected to meet him in the flesh in anything less than a formal occasion, one where Vo was a peon standing quietly off to one side.
Grand Marshal Anthohn Jenker. Supreme Commander, Imperial Land Forces. The top man in the army. Answering only to the Grand Admiral and the Imperial Command Staff.
Seated next to Emmerich Wachturm, Jenker looked small, but that was to be expected, when Jenker himself was exactly at the shortest height the army would allow for any soldier to enlist, and Wachturm was tall, only about a hand shorter than Vo.
Hands? Seriously, Arlo? You spent too much time with Fourth Saxon if you’re measuring people and horses the same way.
Vo had developed something of a relaxed relationship with the Grand Admiral on the flight back from Auberon. He would have normally come in and taken a seat without much performance. Two men, getting to business.
Grand Marshal Jenker had a reputation as a hard man, and a perfectionist. The kind that routinely strapped on full gear and went on thirty kilometer hikes with training units, just to keep himself in shape and his soldiers on their toes.
Vo took two steps into the room and snapped to attention.
“Colonel zu Arlo, reporting for duty, sirs,” he called out rather than spoke.
Navin would have been proud of him. He could still nail that aspect of drill, even in his sleep.
Vo let his eyes find a spot on the far wall and relaxed just enough to track everything with peripheral vision.
Wachturm turned his head silently to look at Jenker. The Grand Marshal pushed his chair back and rose.
The man was about as tall as the Fleet Centurion, which was small for a man who didn’t have some genetic condition related to dwarfism. His skin was almost as dark as Jessica’s as well, that swarthy red-brown universally called Hispanic. Vo felt like a snow drift, comparatively.
The buzzed, dark hair had gone salt and pepper, which appeared to be the only concession to the river of time about the man, as the soldier himself was broad and heavily muscled. Jenker reminded Vo of Command Centurion d’Maine that way, that same solid build that came from a focus on heavy weights on a regular basis.
Powerful man, used to overcoming people’s expectation that he was too short, too middle class, too something to succeed.
Biographers had delighted in listing all the people that had been wrong about the soldier, Anthohn Jenker. No other non-noble-born had ever made it to even the rank of Flag General, let alone the lofty status of Grand Marshal.
The times, they are a’changing.
Jenker stepped close. Vo kept his head up and focused on the far wall, even as he felt the man’s eyes study him.
“You are not wearing any ribbons on this uniform, zu Arlo,” the Grand Marshal observed in a neutral-enough voice. “Beyond the red sword.”
“Sir. Yes, sir,” Vo agreed, letting a decade and a half of militariness drive him now.
“Why is that, soldier?” Jenker asked in a voice getting somewhere between inquisitive and accusatory.
Vo had noted that the man was also wearing his own Category Two uniform today. Baggy pants tucked into tall hiking boots in black leather. Jacket buttoned all the way up the front to the neck, unlike the dress uniforms where the lapel was designed to fold back to show off color.
“Imperial regulations concerning a Category Two uniform leave the decision to the officer, Grand Marshal,” Vo replied carefully. This might be a man who knew those regs as well as Vo did. “And all my ribbons are Aquitaine-issued, sir, so I would need special dispensation to wear them on anything less-formal than Dress Uniforms, and then only where the commanding officer had specified foreign awards to be acceptable or required.”
They did that, occasionally. Mostly because smaller nations tended towards gaudier awards on a scale that appeared to be inverse to their actual political and military power.
“What ribbons could you add to a Dress uniform, Arlo?”
Vo could tell the man was digging now. Not hostile, but not friendly either. Another one like Alber’ d’Maine in all the ways that counted.
“Order of Baudin, sir,” Vo replied in a calm, carrying voice. “Republic Cross. With Star. EVA Heavy Assault badge. Planetary Assault badge. Gold Spurs.”
Vo left it at that. All the schooling Navin had driven him to master would take five minutes to cover, and this man had most of them himself.
“Spurs, Arlo?” Jenker asked, his voice lighter, less accusatory.
“Field Command, Fourth Saxon Legion, Grand Army of the Republic, Grand Marshal,” Vo answered.
He had never considered actually wearing the damned things in public, until now. That might just be a complete novelty. Then again, everyone would want to come over and ask him about them personally.
Maybe not.
“And the red sword?” the Grand Marshal asked, reaching out one heavy mitt to tap Vo on the chest, over his heart.
“Regulations specify that award on all uniforms, Grand Marshal,” Vo said. “Up to and including EVA assault armor, if I have a suit issued.”
The man studied Vo for a few more seconds.
“At ease, Colonel,” Jenker finally said.
Vo dropped into a more relaxed pose, his feet shoulder width and his hands crossed behind him.
Jenker looked down.
“The boots are not regulation,” he observed in a neutral tone far more relaxed than the one he had been using.
“They are custom made to specifications, sir,” Vo replied. “Nobody makes footwear that fits me, and I haven’t had an opportunity to locate a boot-maker on St. Legier and engage his services to make me new, Imperial pairs to replace with my Aquitaine versions.”
The man ruminated. Vo let his face turn enough to study the man back. It was only the three of them in this room, until something changed.
After a moment, the smaller man nodded.
“Be seated, zu Arlo,” he said. “Let’s get down to business.”
Vo followed him to the table, noting that the Grand Admiral had sat silently through the whole performance with just a ghost of a grin on his face. About what Vo had expected, given the ambush they had obviously planned together.
Vo took the seat across from the Marshal, leaving Wachturm to Vo’s left across the table.
There were no notebooks or computers on the table top.
So, going to be a dissertation defense, is it? Has that look.
He almost smiled. Neither of these men had anything on Navin and his notorious final exams. That man was the terror of the fleet.
“Tell the advantages and weaknesses of equestrian cavalry forces, Colonel Arlo,” Jenker commanded.
Vo ruminated on his time on Thuringwell. He missed those lunatics.
“Extreme flexibility of formation on a par with infantry,” Vo began. “Comparable firepower as well, once you balance the smaller number of heavier weapons that horse units travel with, against what a Rifles Legion can bring to the table. Not as quick at maneuvering as a Rapid Assault Legion or Heavy Scouts. They optimize for wild, rough terrain with air defenses you need to penetrate quickly. I would send mechanized infantry or cataphracti if crossing open terrain, such as plains. On Thuringwell, we were facing irregular and light infantry in trees, striking and fading. Horses gave us a maneuvering edge.”
“Weaknesses?” the Grand Marshal asked.
“Ammunition resupply for slug-throwers instead of beam weapons, but we were only using two calibers: small arms and auto-cannon,” Vo said. “Food drops for the troops. Less necessary for the horses, since they could get by on local forage in a pinch.”
“Slug-throwers,” Jenker said with obvious disdain.
“Proven to be extremely effective in all-weather conditions, sir,” Vo countered. “Plus, the team can share ammunition. One charged power pack and three dead ones means only one trooper shooting while the others watch. Louder than hell in battle, but that also works to your advantage if you’re prepared for it and the other side isn’t.”
Vo stopped there and observed the effect of his words on both men. Wachturm appeared to be suppressing a grin. Jenker scowled.
“You were occupying a hostile planet, zu Arlo,” the man said. “Why would horses be a better option?”
“Surprise, primarily, Grand Marshal,” Vo said honestly. “Nobody was expecting it and it threw all their careful studies and plans right out the window on day one. They never really recovered from that initial shock. Plus we pushed hard, backed with a heavy armor cohort that could overwhelm anything that tried to stand fast and slug it out. And total air superiority. Very specific strategic implications selected by the Fleet Centurion, but anything we did on the ground was irrelevant until they held space above us.”
A smile actually appeared on the rugged, angry face now.
“What would you do with the 189th?” the old soldier said serenely.
“First Regiment is a training cadre of veterans with a heavy emphasis on alpine operations,” Vo said. “Useful for taking fortresses in the middle of nowhere, but valuable targets are likely to be coastal or situated on plains, on most planets. Are you looking for a strike force, or a gendarme? Fourth Saxon was actually a good mix for that, but I’m not aware of anything you have remotely like that.”
Vo paused to study the Marshal. Jenker nodded.
“You would be correct,” he agreed. “And I doubt it would be possible to train that sort of expertise in less than a generation.”
“That would be my assessment, based on those folks,” Vo said. “Might be worth starting now, anyway. What does Buran have for land forces? The materials I’ve received access to contain a significant gap there.”
Vo turned to Wachturm and smiled serenely.
“Presumably, the spies were more focused on naval affairs.”
Give the man credit, the Grand Admiral had the courtesy to look chagrined.
“As you said earlier, Vo,” Wachturm said. “Battles on the ground are nice, but wars are won in near space, regardless. Plus, we don’t really know that much. Their worlds here are fortified in orbit and the tiny amount of trade they have allowed with neutrals stays there. But it can’t be that exotic, can it?”
Vo and Jenker smiled the same smile at the Grand Admiral.
Navy man.
“Actually, you’d be amazed, Grand Admiral,” Vo finally allowed. “I asked Moirrey to dream up the craziest things she could, given a Sentience to design and build them, and then how to fight them. Bedrov got involved as well. A lot of wine and beer disappeared in the process.”
Vo was rewarded with a shudder that went through both men. Nice to see that the evil engineering gnome had cast her glittery spell so wide.
Wachturm finally broke the spell.
“Considering what those two did with the fleet I just visited, what did zu Kermode and Sri Bedrov envision?”
Vo leaned back and let his imagination roam over the images they had generated. Two stuck in his mind.
“My favorite? First, a thing Bedrov called a mega-tank,” Vo said. “Imagine a land vehicle so big that it rides on four separate set of tracks on the corners. Each of those about the size of a normal battle tank. Tall enough that a person could walk underneath the space down the center. Something where the turret itself is about the size of a Solenopsis tank, with a comparably huge gun.”
“Interesting,” Jenker observed with a twinkle in his eyes. “Did they send plans with you?”
“They did, but nobody has done a rigorous, engineering workup for them,” Vo admitted. “Nor hammered out the necessary command-and-control hardware.”
“You said first, Vo,” Wachturm noted. “That suggests at least a second.”
“Aye, sir,” Vo said. “The second one was utterly silly, but psychologically probably the most effective. Imagine a tank, but in the rough shape of a human, with legs instead of treads and cannons instead of arms. Pilot sits in the chest. Sensors where the head is. Overall height between five and twelve meters, depending on preferred mass and weaponry.”
“Is that possible?” Jenker was aghast.
Vo shrugged, very carefully. He had his suspicions about how Moirrey had been able to draw such a detailed diagram from memory, but he would rather go to his grave ignorant. He could only think of one place, one way, that Pint-sized could have gotten that expertise.
He hadn’t been there for the good parts, in the process of being evac’ed by Doc Crncevic before Moirrey went after the assassin herself.
“zu Kermode drew me up plans, but assures me that Fribourg could never build such a thing,” Vo said. “The computer processing necessary to make it work would bring the machine right up to the edge of Sentience itself. Even Aquitaine would be leery. But she wanted to think so far outside any box that she was outside the warehouse.”
“How do you kill something like that?” Wachturm asked.
“Put a really big gun on a tank,” Vo said. “Bedrov’s mega-tank, or mount a big enough centerline weapon on a tracked chassis as an assault gun. The only question then is if the damned humanoid thing could fly, in which case you would need the ability to elevate your guns tremendously.”
“You’ve worked with heavy armor,” Jenker said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir,” Vo nodded. “LVIII Heavy was attached to Fourth Saxon as their fourth cohort for Thuringwell. Aquitaine Legions are usually three cohorts of one type: infantry, cavalry, mechanized, or armor; plus an attached cohort seconded from a different legion for special missions and cross-training. Tanks with a mechanized assault force. Mechanized with an infantry deployment. Horses with heavy armor. Puts a lot of flexibility in the hands of the Legate, and bonds the entire army together in communications and tactics.”
“Good,” Jenker agreed. “That’s why you’re here. Imperial Land Forces have gotten a little too predictable, Colonel. Perhaps too inbred. I need you to shake them up. As an outsider, you won’t be bound by tradition or sacred cows. And you’ll have my backing, the Grand Admiral’s, and the Emperor himself.”
Vo took a deep breath.
He had been expecting those words, dreading them, since the Grand Admiral pulled him away from Auberon on what might have been a fool’s mission.
He would ask them why him, but he knew that answer. Navin had pounded it home, time and again. When push came to shove, Vo always tried to do the right thing, regardless of personal cost. Lead from the front. Inspire the troops.
Do good.
The Fleet Centurion had said that she had originally expected Navin to send JT, Yeoman Jackson Tawfeek, with Moirrey at Ballard, once she had explained her needs and the mission. Navin had sent Vo instead.
At Quinta, he could have handled it all with a single phone call at any of several points. Instead, he had risked life and limb to prove a point to himself.
Thuringwell. What was there to say? Go learn to ride a horse with crazy cowboys. Help lead a planetary invasion from a saddle. Save the men of the 189th from certain doom, because it was the right thing to do.
And St. Legier. He had killed an Emperor. Shot the man in the face, not all that far from here. Saved the Empire itself, considering all the spies and fools that had been rounded up and exiled or executed afterwards.
Grand Admiral had said it. A man he could trust.
A man the entire Empire was willing to trust.
Vojciech zu Arlo. Apparently, the craziest son of a bitch that ever lived.
Vo let the breath go slowly. Not deflating. Pushing the air out in a controlled manner, like you did just before pulling the trigger on an impossibly-long, utterly-perfect shot.
“How far do you want to take this, Grand Marshal?” Vo asked, deadly seriousness pushing his voice down to the bottom of the octave.
Jenker’s eyes got cagey. Sharp. Violent, but not a violence directed at Vo.
Maybe at the universe itself.
“What did you have in mind, Colonel?” Jenker said. “Pardon me. General zu Arlo. There will be a black sword on your collar, instead of that white star, as soon as the paperwork can be processed.”
“I have no experience with Imperial Land Forces in the field, save twenty-odd men of the 189th Division,” Vo noted. “The Color Guard, at that. If you really want to shake things up, let’s not settle for half measures, Grand Marshal.”
“Half-measures, Arlo?” Wachturm asked with a touch of trepidation in his voice.
Vo smiled, but kept his sight locked on the soldier. The sailor wouldn’t understand most of this, anyway.
“The 189th Division will need to be rebuilt and expanded, per your orders,” Vo focused his intent on the army man. “Your vision. And you expect me to do it.”
Jenker nodded carefully.
“Let’s do this the Aquitaine way, then,” Vo said. “My way. Let’s turn them into the 189th Legion.”
Wachturm recoiled in shock, but he was irrelevant to this conversation, except as he might attempt to veto things. If Grand Admiral did that, Vo might just resign his commission and go back to Auberon. The Fleet Centurion would always welcome him home, he was pretty sure.
Jenker studied Vo like a mongoose facing an angry cobra.
“Which structure?” Jenker finally asked.
“First Regiment is heavy on veterans, sir,” Vo said. “Very heavy, compared to other units I have studied, both current and historical. The 189th was a good place to transfer older soldiers whose expertise was valuable, and shouldn’t be wasted in garrison duty when they would make good trainers. And the full unit is understrength today, with around eight hundred men when it should have fifteen hundred on a standard Table of Organization and Equipment.”
Vo paused. Jenker nodded for him to continue.
“Turn them into a Rapid Assault Legion,” Vo said. “Three Ala of armored rifles, equivalent to three Cohorts of infantry or cavalry. Roughly what you call a battalion. Mechanized infantry don’t have to march as much, which is good for older troopers. Attach a heavy armor ala of tanks. Overbuild the artillery battery. Well-suited to a heavy raid, like most battles are fought. If and when we have to actually invade a planet against hostile forces, that force can deal with most things. Fast, mobile, sledgehammer.”
“You’ve put a lot of planning into this,” Jenker observed.
“No, sir,” Vo countered. “I invaded Thuringwell and had a lot of time to think about how we did it, and how we could have done it better. Any other planet probably would have actually had a competent defense force, but Thuringwell’s old Duke had worked really hard on alienating the population and exploiting them. Last I checked, the place was actually gaining population as former imperial citizens went there to try to make their fortune in the industrial boom Keller and Palsgrave Okafor had unleashed.”
Long pause, digesting.
“Food for thought, General,” Jenker said.
In his mind, apparently the paperwork had already been approved. Maybe it had, and he just had to write it up and sign it.
“You’re going to need regimental commanders you trust,” he continued. “Pardon, Cohort Centurions, if we do this, which I’m not promising today. Something this big needs feasibility studies and logistics planning, but I like what I hear.”
He pointed one blunt finger at Vo like a gun.
“You will need to learn the Imperial way, Arlo,” he growled. “So you know how to talk to these men. Command them.”
“Sir?” Vo asked.
Somehow, the topic didn’t intimidate him, like so many others had over the years.
Was this growing up?
“I’m sending you to Field School with the next class, General,” Jenker said. “That’s where we train commanders and colonels how to do their job, and what they need to know for the next step up to flag rank. Exposure, both ways. Questions?”
“I’m going to need an assistant, sir,” Vo said. “Especially if I’m going to be here for an extended period and back in school again.”
“Any preference among the men of the 189th that were here before?” Jenker asked.
“None, sir,” Vo said. “Those men already volunteered to go into hell with me leading them.”
Jenker nodded and pushed his seat back to rise. Wachturm and Vo did as well.
“General, your first homework assignment is spec’ing me out a Rapid Assault Legion’s TOE,” Jenker said. “I’ll turn that over to logistics and figure out how to implement it while you’re in class.”
“Yes, sir,” Vo nodded, bouncing back.
Last time he had gone back to school, he had accidentally earned the Order of Baudin.
Hopefully, this time he wouldn’t have to shoot any pretty girls.