Chương 77: Karabela

Fleet Station Chel, Vidako System Imperium Stellarum February 15, 2848 Fletcher Radecki allowed himself to drift about ten meters off the floor of Hangar 2, within arm's reach of the wall. The six lunar fusion reactors provided a lot of power, and while Fleet Station Chel couldn't afford to waste any on non-essential systems, storing Kestrels lay firmly in the essential column. The mechs had never been meant to stand on their own two feet in the first place.

The hangars had been equipped to maintain zero-g conditions from the door—even though, from what he understood, the installation of generators for the habitation modules had been held up for years in the senate's budget negotiations. Thankfully, that had all been settled before his arrival. No awkward spinning rooms would be necessary to keep his muscles from deteriorating.

The FS-3 Kestrel K Karabela stretched above and beneath him, eighty tons of ceramic armor, artificial graphene muscle, missile racks, and thrusters. At Fletcher's command, a crew of techs swarmed around the machine, using air-brushes to paint the entire mech in a camo scheme meant to help it blend into a background of gray rock.

Three tones—one meant to represent shadowed crevices, one the light of the system's binary stars splashing across stone, and the third a shade halfway between the two—alternated in rough, irregular shapes. Here and there, patches of the machine which retained the earlier solid black paint scheme waited for the attention of the crew.

Kitree, hanging upside down with her head floating near his shoulder, wrinkled her nose at the scent of the paint, despite the industrial air filters and fans sucking aerosols up and out of the chamber.

"You really think optical camouflage is all that important?" she harped on. She hadn't let the point go for days, and he was getting sick of hearing her natter on about it.

"You're going to paste this guy with about a billion missiles in the first thirty-seconds of the duel, anyway."

"That depends entirely on where he chooses to fight," Fletcher told her, again. For all that Kitree was a good pilot to have on his wing, and perfectly adequate to help relieve his tension in bed, she really did talk too much.

"If Naku's sources are right, he's going to try to put us in close quarters, probably in one of the mines."

"Uh-huh." Kitree stretched out, arms and legs akimbo, and twisted about so that her face nestled right up against his ear.

"You still want me to set up those little surprises?"

"Once Naku has confirmed the location. And don't talk about it out loud," he grumbled.

"It's not like I can send you a message," she reminded him, tracing a finger along the back of his neck.

"All that shit could be pulled for a court martial."

"There aren't going to be any court martials," Fletcher told her.

"My father has enough influence to protect us, and once the kid's dead no one's going to have much motivation to go asking questions." The hiss of the airlock opening sounded below and behind them. With a beat of her arms, Kitree turned about and swooped down, her feathers catching the air just as easily as they would on whatever long-dead world the Toreans had once called home. By the time Fletcher had caught the wall with one hand, she'd already landed on the hangar floor.

His own descent was somewhat more awkward, but a month on Chel had given him a lot of practice. Naku, on the other hand, kept a hold of the wall with one hand at all times, and didn't leave the ground except for when he couldn't possibly avoid it.

"I've got the transmission," the Alu'kan pilot declared.

"Duel site confirmed and approved by the commandant. It's The Deeps."

"Not one of the mines?" Kitree scowled, and shot Fletcher a look.

"That's going to make my job harder. No one's got a good map of that place, not past the entrance. I don't know how I'm going to -""I said, not out loud," Fletcher snapped at her. He nodded toward the techs, who seemed completely unaware of the conversation, in their oxygen masks.

"Not until we're alone, at least."

"It's probably the worst option for us," Naku went on.

"If it was the canyon, at least you could shoot down at him from above."

"There's a reason the Karabela's loaded with short range missiles," Fletcher reminded them.

"From the moment Sandhurst picked Chel, it was clear he wasn't just going to sit still and let me kill him—and he's had months to plan, because Marlowe's clearly taken his side." A choice, he reminded himself, that she'll regret the next time she's up for a promotion. Revenant Wolf or not, she can only trade on her reputation for so long, and she's getting old. Old and out of allies.

"There's a second message, as well," Naku added.

"From your father. I can't open that one. Came in on the latest ship from the core." Fletcher nodded.

"Good. Back to our quarters, then." He slapped the control to open the airlock, waited while Praetorian, his AI, exchanged security clearances with the base systems, and then led his companions out of the hangar. Fleet Station Chel was, by necessity, highly segmented. Every distinct area, whether a hab module, hangar bay, or weapons depot was blocked off by airlocks, each of which checked the credentials of everyone who passed.

Even in the event that someone who wasn't supposed to be there somehow snuck past nearly two-hundred marines, without fleet clearance they'd simply be trapped in the first module they infiltrated. And should the lunar base come under attack, those same airlocks would preserve the oxygen in each discrete location long enough for rescue parties to come, or for repair crews to restore pressure.

While a lucky strike might slip past the station's dedicated anti-missile batteries to knock out power from a single one of the six reactors, the other five, all buried two-hundred meters beneath the surface and dispersed to the edges of the installation, would keep supplying power in the event of any assault below the level of a full-scale orbital bombardment. If that happened, fleet had already lost the system.

What made the facility difficult to destroy also meant, however, that it took forever to get anywhere, because you had to make it through half a dozen airlocks and security checkpoints on your way. By the time Fletcher, Kitree and Naku had made it back to their quarters, he was practically vibrating from impatience. It was all he could do to restrain himself until after Kitree had gone over the rooms once again with her scanner.

"Britta's out," Naku declared, after checking the bedroom off the right side of the common area.

"Good." Fletcher didn't know where the fourth member of their wing was, and so long as Britta Lange showed up on time for their patrols, he didn't care. She was the only pilot stationed on Chel who wasn't one of his people, and that meant she couldn't be trusted. Worse, she came from Terra itself, which meant there was the outside possibility that she was one of the imperial family's spies.

If it wouldn't have drawn questions, he would have used his command overrides as head of the squadron to seal the door; instead, he and his three companions all crammed into the bedroom he shared with Naku. Once the door was shut, and all of them had crammed up against each other on the mattress of the lower bunk, Fletcher used his biometrics to open the message file on his tablet. A moment later, his father's face filled the screen.

"My son," Senator Tarquin Radecki began, without preamble.

"This message will delete itself after being viewed once, so pay attention. As expected, initial negotiations with the imperial family have encountered resistance. Altair believes, no doubt, that his daughter's chosen champion has some chance of winning. I need you to take every necessary precaution to be absolutely certain that this is not the case. Given how much money, and how many favors, I've already sunk into getting you a mech that you can modify however you wish, I expect that won't be a problem."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Naku gave a huff from Fletcher's right side, and the motion shook the entire bed frame.

"You could still borrow my Leviathan, if you really want to be certain," he offered.

"Too big and not maneuverable enough," Fletcher repeated, for the dozenth time.

"Shh."

"—want you to make one more offer to Her Imperial Highness prior to the duel," Fletcher's father continued.

"One could hope that the prospect of her lover's imminent death or dismemberment might render her more open to reason. The price, of course, will have gone up. In addition to our previous demands, you should now also tell her that she will be required to record a commitment of support to a candidate of our choice, in advance of the next imperial election. This recording will be kept by our people, to be released at a time of our choosing."

"There's no way she agrees to that," Kitree grumbled.

"She's way too proud. She'll get all righteously indignant."

"Doesn't matter," Fletcher said.

"Whether Cascada accepts or not is immaterial," his father said, from the tablet screen.

"If the duel proceeds, we have a scandal we can trot out at our convenience in the future, whenever we need to undermine her credibility or cause trouble for her parents. If she accepts, our position only grows stronger." Tarquin paused.

"This is the moment to prove ourselves to our next empress. And if you accomplish everything that has been put before you, I do not exaggerate when I say that even the highest echelons of the imperium are not outside of our reach. Cressida Xingxi Xiao-Solaris remains unwed, Fletcher. It is one of her greatest bargaining chips, but if we not only prove our own loyalty, but also build on the powerbase we already have, she may be induced to reward our service with a match."

Fletcher could feel Kitree's body tense beside him, as she always did whenever Cressida's name came up, and he knew that he would have work to do once the message was done to smooth her ruffled feathers—so to speak.

"In the end, so long as Altair's image is stained by the actions of his daughter, your task will be a success," Tarquin said.

"Every supporter we can turn away from his children is one step closer to Cressida taking the throne. Continue using your contact in the media. Do everything you can to make Princess Cascada look like a spoiled, impetuous child. She had her chance to align with us, and refused you, so we will destroy her reputation utterly."

"I doubt there will be another message from me before the duel," Senator Tarquin went on.

"You carry the hopes of our family on your shoulders, my son. Do not fail us." The video stopped on the frozen face of Fletcher's father, and then a notification that the file was deleting itself appeared on the screen. Fletcher tossed the tablet aside.

"I can reach out to Rebecca," Naku offered.

"Set up another interview for just before the duel. Get her up here a day or two early to film it."

"Do it," Fletcher said.

"And give us a moment."

"Right." Naku stood up, setting the mattress to shaking, and made his way over to the door. Fletcher waited until the Alu'kan had left them alone in the bedroom before he spoke.

"You knew this was a possibility," he reminded Kitree.

"If a marriage happened, it would be very good for us." Kitree stood up abruptly, putting her back to him.

"Don't ask me to be happy with the idea of you marrying another woman," she said, her voice hard. Fletcher closed his eyes, counted three breaths, and then rose. He walked up just behind the Torean woman, and placed one hand on her hip. Then, he leaned in to kiss her neck.

"You were relieved when Cascada turned me down," he said. She hadn't ever said it out loud, but it was obvious.

"Of course I was," Kitree snapped.

"She didn't deserve you."

"You know that I wouldn't have put you aside," Fletcher assured her.

"Whether it is Cascada or Cressida, in the end, you'll still be my mistress." So long as you are useful to me, or at the very least entertaining, he added silently.

"That's exactly what every woman wants to hear," Kitree grumbled.

"'You'll always be my mistress.' I'd rather be your wife, Fletcher."

"And if it was entirely my choice, you would be," he lied.

"But my father is positioning our family to be a power in the Imperium for generations to come. I need to fulfill my part in that. But what I can promise you is that you will always be at my side, whether it is as a wife, or a concubine. You will be a part of what we are building."

"Will I?" Kitree turned in his arms.

"I don't want to be set aside and forgotten as soon as you've attached yourself to someone better." The feathered crest atop her head trembled.

"That will never happen." Fletcher met her eyes without wavering, and did his best to project the utter certainty that she needed to hear.

"And whatever politics demands, you know that it will always be you that I love." At that, he finally felt her body begin to relax in his arms.

"You do?" she asked. Fletcher didn't think he was so very good a liar, but she wanted to believe it, and he needed her to.

"I do," he confirmed.

"Who else could I possibly trust to do what needs to be done in The Deeps? Only you. Because I need you more than anyone else, Kitree." Before she could say anything else, he leaned in to kiss her. Over the past two years, he'd learned well enough how to please her, and he ran his hands up her back. By the time they broke apart, her eyes were wide, her lips open.

"Naku will be out for a while," Kitree whispered.

"We're all alone." Fletcher considered his options. In truth, sleeping with her had gotten a bit stale; he would have preferred sneaking off to a hotel room with Rebecca Cuevas again, but Chel was so isolated that beggars couldn't be choosers. It would have the additional benefit of reassuring Kitree of her place at his side, of course, and he couldn't afford to ignore that. The decision made, he took her by the hand and drew her over to the bed.

Afterward, when Kitree was curled up against his chest, Fletcher took the opportunity to make certain she knew what was required of her.

"The Deeps," he said, tracing his fingers idly across her bare back.

"Mmm-hmmm. I'll take care of it," Kitree promised.

"The mines have been shipped up by Naru's contacts at Astra Resources Corporation," Fletcher reminded her.

"Two dozen mobile dual-activation mines. Proximity triggers, and an ignition code that can be sent over a short range transmission. I need every one of them spread out inside. Do it in pairs—I don't trust a single explosion to cripple a Tyro."

"I told you, you can count on me," Kitree said. She lifted her head, folded her hands over his chest, and looked down at him.

"I'll wait until a few weeks before the duel to set it up, so there's less chance of anyone finding anything."

"Not that anyone goes in that place anyway," Fletcher grumbled.

"Still. I'll do it when Naru and I are out on patrol. He can cover for me while I get it done," Kitree explained.

"It's going to have to be in the first couple of chambers, though—the ones that are mapped. That's the only way to get in, plant the mines, and get out without risking that I get lost or something. If you go any deeper, you'll be on your own."

"If I can damage his mech enough right at the beginning, it won't matter where he runs to," Fletcher assured her.

"I'm still afraid for you," Kitree admitted.

"This guy's supposed to be some kind of tactical genius. That's how he got in, after all. And if your father can get you a custom mech, you know that princess has got to be able to do the same thing."

"Winning a game doesn't mean he can fight," Fletcher reminded her.

"I'm not sitting down at a holoprojector with him, I'm shooting him in the cockpit. He'll probably panic when he realizes he might actually die. Anyway, there isn't a chance the emperor ships in some special mech for his daughter's boyfriend. They're probably still trying to figure out how to stop this from happening at all. You don't need to worry about me."

"But I do." Kitree reached a hand to his face, and caressed his cheek.

"I know you're going to win. But if it starts to go badly -""It won't."

"If it does," she insisted.

"If one of the mines sets off a collapse, and your mech gets damaged or something—promise me that you'll get out. This isn't worth dying over, Fletcher. The most important thing is that you come back to me. Everything else, we can figure out how to deal with afterward."

"Of course." But even as he said the words, Fletcher considered the prospect of marrying Cressida Xingxi Xiao-Solaris. She was three years older than him, but what did that matter? If his father could pull the match off, that kind of alliance would place them at the center of power for the entire Imperium Stellarum. Compared to that kind of power, love was irrelevant. And would it be worth risking death, to sit beside Empress Cressida on her throne, in the years to come? The question wasn't even worth considering.

It was worth risking his life, worth dying a dozen times over, so that one day his own children would rule. All Fletcher Radecki had to do was kill one single cadet, and that was such a small thing.