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Johnson stepped onto the terrace overlooking the tea plantation. The Indescribable Joy of Destruction was on final approach to Robespierre and she needed to discuss her ideas with the others to see if she was being silly. With a few casual steps, she joined Levarsson, Issawi and Indie around the table.
“I read the report on your action at Scragend,” said Issawi warmly. “I’m glad you made it through OK.”
Johnson nodded her thanks. Issawi waved it away. “I take it the overall mission was not a great success?”
“I managed to get in contact with four of the people on our list, in three different systems,” said Johnson. “None of them were prepared to help. I think they were too afraid of the authorities noticing them.”
“Figures,” said Levarsson. “So we keep trying?”
“Those were the best shots we had,” said Issawi. “They were longshots, admittedly, but better than anyone else.”
“Is that it? We just hide?” said Levarsson.
“I was thinking about it on the way back,” said Johnson. “And I couldn’t come up with anything we hadn’t tried short of direct action.”
“You do remember that we only have two ships. We already dismissed having any chance to stand against them.” Indie banged his hand on the table, making a lizard on the terrace scurry back into its hole. “Sorry, was that a bit melodramatic? I’m trying to act more emotive, but it doesn’t always come out right.”
Johnson smiled at him then returned her attention to Issawi. “It’s quite alright. We all get carried away at times. And I hadn’t forgotten. I wasn’t planning a grand fleet action. History is littered with examples of great fleets crippled by small-scale attacks on their bases.”
Levarsson clicked her fingers. “Taranto... Craven Gulf...” She closed her eyes and rapped her knuckles on her head. “Procul-6.”
“Exactly,” said Johnson. “We could sneak people into the space stations, sabotage some of the facilities. Our ships could sweep in and bombard the Red Fleet vessels before they even cast off.”
“A commando raid. My men have trained for that kind of action,” said Issawi in measured tones. “But we are too few to be fully effective. We would be throwing ourselves away just the same as if we tried to stand toe to toe with the fleet.”
He isn’t completely against the idea, at least. If he throws it out, it’s dead.
“We don’t know where their base is,” pointed out Indie.
“True enough,” replied Johnson. “But if it is as large a fleet as the message claimed, they will have to have diverted significant resources to it. We should be able to follow the supplies. And there aren’t too many places that a sizeable fleet of enemy ships can hide within Congressional space. If we have to, we search each system, expanding out from Concorde.”
“With only two ships, searching would take too long,” said Levarsson. Issawi looked upwards with a snort and extended his arm towards her, fingers outstretched.
Johnson waited for him to start listening again. “I know we can’t do it on our own. I was thinking that we could get some help. We could recruit people. Maybe we could even convince a few ships to come across to us, I know some captains who might be convinced it was the right thing to do to satisfy their vows to the people.”
“That is unlikely. But we stand a chance of gaining support amongst the disaffected.” Issawi stroked his beard. “It will be hard rallying people without a name. Something they can latch on to.”
Johnson nodded.
“It has to speak to an ideal,” said Levarsson. “And it needs to sound solid, like it has a long history.”
Everyone looked to Johnson.
Oh great. I’m useless at that kind of thing.
“Have any of you got a suggestion?”
Indie cleared his throat, and Johnson involuntarily raised an eyebrow at the obvious affectation. “Millennia ago, the Romans had different classes of people. One of those classes was freedmen, people who had once been slaves but had won their manumission. They were called liberti. We are talking about forming an army of freedmen; a Legio Libertorum.”
“It’s a good start, fighting for liberty will strike a chord with everyone. How about using the modern ‘legion’ instead of ‘legio’?” asked Levarsson.
“Legion Libertorum. It doesn’t quite trip off the tongue,” said Issawi. “How about Legion Libertus?”
Indie shrugged. “It wouldn’t be correct Latin, but I guess few people would know that.”
“Is it a big difference?” asked Johnson.
“Legion Libertorum translates as ‘Legion of Freedmen’. Legion Libertus is ‘Legion Freedman’.” Indie’s face lit up. “Though I suppose you could interpret as ‘The Freedman Legion’ if you were being a bit free with the text.”
“That works,” said Johnson, rubbing her ear. “Is everyone agreed on Legion Libertus?”
Everyone nodded.
“You know something that bothers me every time I log into a new system?" asked Johnson. "We still have the Republic Fleet crest set as default. We need our own. An image that represents what we stand for. Not just for our displays, but for people to identify with, just like the name.”
“The Roman legions marched under an eagle,” said Indie.
“How about that sweatshirt you always wear when you are off-duty?” asked Levarsson. “I like that design.”
Johnson’s pride burned. “I don’t always wear it... but yes, we could use the eagle from it as a starting point.”
“What do we want?” asked Issawi, sitting back and slowly waving his open hand around the group.
“We want to stop the attack on Concorde,” offered Levarsson.
“No,” said Issawi. “I mean fundamentally, want do we stand for?”
“Freedom,” said Levarsson.
“Justice,” said Johnson.
Issawi nodded slowly. “So, we must represent those in our image.”
“Justice is easy,” said Johnson. “Both Republic and Congress use scales in the crests of their courts.”
A circular window appeared in the air, showing the gold stylised eagle from the sweatshirt she had adopted. A pair of scales coalesced in its talons.
“Thank you, Indie,” she said.
“How about broken chains for liberty?” asked Levarsson.
A steel grey chain appeared as a border around the crest, and several links broke. The background went opaque and flooded with inky blue.
“Just add the name, and it’s good,” said Johnson.
Gold letters surfaced in the image, rising out of the background. They spelt out LEGION LIBERTVS. The eagle and chains took on a more three-dimensional appearance, swelling out of the crest and leaving shadows as if illuminated from the top left.
“Perfect. Can you set that as the default display for all our systems?”
Indie blinked. “Done.”
^Though I left the external camera feed on your wall,^ he added directly to Johnson.
The crest disappeared. Indie got up and left, returning with a tea trolley. He wore a contented smile as he went through the ritual of the leaves.
“So, where do we go looking for these new recruits?” asked Levarsson.
“I have contacts in dissident groups on both sides,” said Issawi. “Informants, that kind of thing. I’m sure a few of your crew know someone who knows someone.”
Johnson tapped one finger on the armrest, counting off the thoughts fighting for priority in her head.
“OK,” she said, putting both palms down on the arms of her chair, fingers lifted off the surface. “We finish getting the base up and running, then we go recruiting. See if we can dig up anything else about the plot at the same time.”
“I can travel pretty much anywhere in Republic space without anyone challenging the Limpopo,” said Issawi. “I suggest that Indie heads into Congressional space. If he’s spotted, they’ll just think it’s a standard Republic recce.”
Indie poured the tea and handed out cups before sitting down.
“What about uniforms?” asked Levarsson. “If we start getting all these new people, we’ll need some way to identify them.”
“It will need to be something readily available. We can't be trying to manufacture hundreds of sets of something,” said Issawi.
“And it needs to be clearly authoritative, whilst not looking too much like the Republic or Congressional uniforms,” said Johnson.
“Perhaps a mixture?” suggested Indie, offering round slices of lemon.
“We can’t replace our skinsuits,” pointed out Levarsson. “They’d be the hardest thing to get hold of in the right sizes, so the ones we have should be the basis. Anyone who knew would recognise them as Congressional Navy issue, but they’d mostly be covered up. I’m sure you’ve got something similar in your stores, Master Sergeant.”
“We do,” he replied. “There was always the possibility of getting an infiltration mission, so we have quite a range of Congressional clothing.”
“Oooh, can I dress up?” asked Indie. He pushed his chair back and stood up, his pale linen suit darkening, then flowing into a black skin-tight one-piece. The fine mesh that provided heating, cooling and even a measure of ballistic protection was just visible as a surface texture.
“Apart from a few bits of Marine kit left on Indie, and what Issawi has stashed away, the majority of our tactical gear is Republican,” Johnson said. “It would need cosmetic modification to hide its origin.
Indie raised his arms out to the sides, and he was clad in a black firmsuit. The Republican logos faded away.
Where does his need to show off come from? Is it insecurity?
“Still too obviously Republican,” observed Issawi. “We’ll just keep getting into mix-ups like when we met. How about picking out the armour plates in grey? There must be some paint around here somewhere.”
Sections of Indie’s armour turned grey; knees, elbows, chest, back, shoulders and helmet.
“On second thoughts,” said Issawi, scratching his cheek, “that makes the weak points far too obvious as targets. Try breaking the pattern up a bit more.”
The grey areas on the suit crept over the surface, reminding Johnson of the view of The Indescribable Joy of Destruction’s hull repairing itself. They settled in a crazed effect covering much of the armour.
“But will the paint stick to the flexible bits?” asked Levarsson.
“Probably not,” admitted Indie, “but I was thinking of building it into future designs.”
“It would be fine on the hardsuits,” said Johnson. “We could start with those.”
“What about working dress?” asked Issawi.
Indie was back in a skinsuit.
“For now, whatever we can lay our hands on,” said Johnson. “Though it looks like we are going with a black and grey colour scheme.”
“We ought to have something more uniform eventually,” she continued.
Indie added a plain grey tunic and black trousers. Detailing grew in swirling patterns, black over the tunic and grey over the trousers. As the last bit flourished around the collar, he brushed at some imaginary dust on his shoulder. The others tried to cover their amusement, with varying degrees of success.
Johnson spoke for them all. “Perhaps something a little less... Erm... A little ... less.”
The detailed design blurred, ending up as a simple blending from black through to grey down one side while the other side retained a clear line between the two.
“The bulk will have to be picked up from an independent source,” Johnson pointed out.
“I have several traders in the database who wouldn’t ask questions,” said Indie. “We could barter with raw materials.”
“And I have a couple of contacts,” offered Issawi.
“We also have the combat units,” said Johnson. “We will need to work out how best to use them. In fact, that should be one of your first tasks, Master Sergeant.”
“That will be a very interesting job,” he replied.
“Is there anything else we need to think about?” asked Johnson.
“We might need to consider ranks,” said Issawi. “I gather that most of your officers were lost. We also can’t have a mere commander, no offence intended Ma’am, in overall charge.”
Johnson stiffened. He sounded just like the admiral had before bumping her up to commander. This time, though, the thrill of promise didn’t run along her spine.
“I’m not comfortable promoting myself. It would feel ... wrong,” replied Johnson. “Besides, I have fewer people to command now than before losing my ship. Why can’t we keep our ranks?”
“There are differences in the Republican and Congressional rank structure,” reminded Indie. He indicated Issawi with a flick of his hand. “Congress doesn’t have Master Sergeants, for instance. If we are hoping to gain recruits from both sides, it could lead to confusion over who has seniority.”
“So which set do we go with, or do we mix and match?” asked Johnson.
“How about ‘none of the above’?” said Levarsson, sitting forward. “If we want to avoid any chance of confusion with what people are used to, we should go for something completely different.”
Johnson studied the young lieutenant. She had been a steady bridge officer; calm under pressure, but not one to innovate without consulting a superior. On the other hand, she had acted rapidly and innovatively when she’d maimed Indie.
No, not Indie, The Indescribable Joy Of Destruction; Indie hadn’t surfaced at that point.
“Building a structure like that is not easy,” said Issawi. “We could be here for days deciding on levels and names.”
“Then borrow them,” suggested Indie. “Use a system from history. Something that worked, something with titles that would be familiar to people.”
“How about Rome, seeing as we’re already calling it a legion?” suggested Issawi. “We studied their tactics and structure, I assume you did too.”
Levarsson nodded. Johnson shifted in her seat at the memory of the tedious lectures from the white-moustached retired officer. At the time, it hadn’t seemed like a worthwhile activity; she’d have preferred to spend longer on the track or in the bridge simulator. She downloaded a summary of the rank structures used at different times.
“We did. Yes, that would be a good basis. They wouldn’t be quite the same, no political appointments for instance, but we can use them,” she said.
A jangle made everyone turn to Indie, who stood in a red tunic and lorica segmentata, crested helmet tucked under one arm. A red cloth tied around his neck highlighted his black stubble. Issawi coughed into his fist, his eyes watering. Johnson rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Some of the legion ethos would go down well. Lead from the front, reward strength and initiative, employ true combined arms,” said Issawi, once he had recovered his voice.
“Only without the navy and marines being second class to the legionaries,” added Levarsson. “It always upset me that a ship’s captain was overruled by a centurion when in battle.”
“So, how do we choose what we are?” asked Johnson. “As I said, I don’t like the idea of setting myself up with a new rank. It wouldn’t feel legitimate. The nearest equivalent would be trierarch, the captain of a ship.”
I really could do with a latté right about now.
“Actually, navarch is closer,” pointed out Issawi.
Johnson could smell the roasted beans. A quick glance around, however, showed nothing but the usual tea and cakes. She suppressed the urge to rub her temples.
“But a navarch commanded a squadron of ships,” she protested. “I have only one.”
“Two,” corrected Issawi. “You have the Limpopo now, remember. But I think navarch still isn’t right. I know we don’t want political appointments, but you are at some point going to have to deal with politicians. Our leader needs a title they can latch on to; navarch is a little too obscure a rank. Prefect, however, is something that they’d have a feel for. It still exists as a governmental posting in enough worlds for them to have come across it.”
“A prefect was a fleet commander. And technically, two ships are still a fleet,” agreed Levarsson.
“So, you’re bumping me right through post-captain, over commodore and into admiral?” asked Johnson, rather amused now as it seemed so ridiculous.
“The point is not to draw those kinds of comparisons,” said Issawi. “But I guess others will try to. So, yes. Now you need to get a move on, and recruit enough ships to fill out that position.”
“Well, what about you, Issawi?” asked Johnson. “What rank do we bestow upon you? I get the impression you are rather proud of being a non-commissioned officer. But I need a senior foot commander.”
“You are correct,” he said, straightening his back. “I would not want to be a commissioned officer. Luckily, the Roman army didn’t have quite the same thing. There were the tribunes and legates, but they were far higher than I’d need to be. A centurion was pretty much the same as a warrant-officer is now. I’d be happy with that.”
“Glad to hear it,” mused Johnson. “By the same argument that you laid on me, however, a simple centurion won’t cut it. Especially if you are running our training programme. I think primus would fit the bill perfectly.”
“Thank you. I was worried you’d make me camp prefect. I’m not old enough for that!” he replied with a smile. “I want my second to be a centurion and the rest of my team made optios. They’ll be running whatever programme we put together, so they’ll need rank.”
Johnson nodded, and turned to face Levarsson squarely.
“Don’t think you’ve got out of this little round of promotions,” she said to the worried-looking young blonde woman. “Now I seem to have collected a fleet, I need captains for my ships. Indie is more than capable of captaining himself...”
Indie’s jacket changed to dark blue, the back growing to form coattails. His trousers became white and tightened into breeches. He brushed his cuff with the back of his hand, revealing gold braid, then reached up to his head, a tricorn hat appearing in time for him to doff it in a grand bow.
“... but, with Issawi’s team being pulled from the Limpopo, she is going to need a crew. So, you are hereby appointed to the rank of trierarch, and assigned to the Limpopo. Pick your crew, and make what appointments you need.”
Levarsson’s jaw dropped open.
“Here,” said Issawi, picking a plate up from the table and offering it to her. “Have some cake.”