Firestar
Copyright© 2009 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 6
The Right Honorable Sir Livan Molophar-Dreiforse, Knight Commandant of the Loyal Order of the Golden Nebula, Operating Director of the Idenux Corporation, Protector of the Privy Council of the Heir Presumptive, Councilor Nominee to His Imperial Majesty, By the Grace of the Good God Arnold XXIII, King and Emperor of Space and All Surrounding Regions, Lord Protector of the Frontiers, etc., was unhappy. For the sake of the Empire, for the goals and aspirations the Emperor represented, and for his own personal gain, he had flattered and fawned on as strange a collection of half-breed wild men as had ever lifted gravities, men whose only reaction to good breeding and polite society was to loot and destroy it.
Over the last 150 years, the rulers of the Empire had found the Clans of Boabdil to be useful adjuncts to Imperial policy. They were the ‘stick’ that the Empire would secretly wield to encourage neighboring systems to accept Imperial protection. Direct control of the Clans had been under the direct control of the Imperial Heir, but over the last generation, it had become necessary to isolate the Imperial Family from any direct connection with the Clans. The Operations Directorate of Imperial Intelligence had run the Clans, for a while, but eventually, even this connection to the Imperial Government was deemed too much.
In one of those peculiarities of the Imperial bureaucracy, control of the Clans had been put out to bid. Members of the Imperial Traders Association had passed control around from one company to another, but the financial burden was soon deemed too much to ask of any one company. A Consortium was formed to do the operational management of the Clans.
Sir Livan, as a Director of that Consortium, had the unfortunate task of dealing directly with the Clans. He took the opportunity to earn a little on the side to compensate himself for the trouble.
Now he made a show of scrolling through the latest financial report, though he’d already memorized the key points. Expenses were up and income was down. With any other operation that could be fatal; here it was merely a curiosity, though these creatures didn’t have to know that. They were mere tools, and as such couldn’t be expected to understand the finer nuances of Imperial Policy, or the cash flow Sir Livan found so useful.
“The operational life of a combat ship in the active quadrant is six months,” he said in his nasal tones. He moved his hand in a languid wave. “This is tolerable.”
“Tolerable?” A man at the far end of the table raised his voice. “Every ship destroyed costs us the lives of 80 brave men, 40 of them from the Clans. In the last six months we have lost 40 ships. That is 1600 of our men killed or missing. And you find this acceptable?”
“I find the loss of ships tolerable.” Sir Livan raised his voice, putting an edge to it. At least these half-washed barbarians spoke Standard; that was one of the few worthwhile things the Empire had done on this planet ... scant reward or thanks they got for it, though. “I did not say I found it acceptable,” he went on. “The Empire will continue to build your ships and fighters under our long-standing agreement, but I must caution you.” He studied the Clan Leader coldly. “There must be a positive return on our investment. Let us once again review the details.”
He touched a button, and the relevant budget details appeared on the display screen above and behind him. “The six million Imperials it costs to build and outfit a ship are trivial. The RNA training to produce a crew costs one million Imperials. That, too, is trivial. These are minor line items in the Imperial Budget. These last six months cost the Empire 280 million Imperials. And yet the fruit of your efforts has added only 200 million Imperials to the Exchequer. Your own resources added another 70 million Imperials. All of this has produced a shortfall of 10 million Imperials.
“You are undertaking the expansion of your fleet by the addition of a new class of ships, the battlecruiser. You have assured me that this ship, costing 14 million Imperials and requiring a crew of 140, will enable you to end the war gloriously, smiting all of the Empire’s enemies. We will not go forward with mass production until it has proven its worth.
“You have lost one of our bases. We have poured 150 thousand million Imperials into that system. That amount of money is not an insignificant line item in the Imperial Budget. Nearly as bad is the loss of over 2,000 trained and experienced personnel in that system. These are losses not easily replaced.” He didn’t add that almost all of those men had been killed when Imperial Internal Security had detonated a sanitation device planted under the base. That was a hidden largesse. If the Families had taken any of those men as prisoners, they would have learned that the Empire was behind the Idenux.
He folded his hands over his lap. “I am afraid that if this trend continues, there might be problems. Do not consider my words a threat. I am merely observing a logical outcome. I have supported you to His Majesty. I have spoken for you in His councils, and I have carried forward the arguments you have given me.” He watched their faces as they realized the direction he was going.
“He has favored you with His support and His treasure. But if this trend continues, I might find His face turned in another direction when I approach Him. The Empire is not a bottomless well of money.”
“You cannot equate the lives of brave warriors to filthy cash,” one Clan Lord said heatedly.
“But I must,” Sir Livan said. He yawned politely, a studied insult that was not lost on those present. “To the Empire, this is an investment, nothing more.”
“What about the technology we were promised?” another Clan Lord asked. “We have seen none of it. You use our youth for landing teams; you don’t train them in how to operate the ships.”
“But we do,” Sir Livan said. “A majority of the Ship Lords come from Boabdil. True, the educated part of the crew are Imperial citizens, not men from your Clans, but that is advantageous to you. When you lose 40 untrained men out of a crew of 80, it is a trivial loss compared to ours.”
“But what of the Glory and the promise of--”
Sir Livan cleared his throat, cutting off the other man. He scrolled through the figures one more time. “I do not see a budgetary item for ‘Glory.’ Pray tell, where is it in here?”
“But...” The Clan Lords sitting at the table erupted in protest. Sir Livan did not react, save only to turn his cold blue eyes upon them one at a time. Slowly they lapsed into silence, pressed back into their seats by his stare. They knew that if the Emperor turned away from them, they would be trapped on Boabdil forever.
“What do you want of us?” one of the Clan Lords finally asked.
“I think you know.” Sir Livan favored them with his cold smile. “You have been, in effect, sitting on your hands while supping at the milk of the Empire. This must not continue. The only way His Majesty will continue to fund a losing investment is if something favorable is done to show that the past few months were just an aberration.” He stood and looked at each Clan Lord in turn. “I trust you will do what needs to be done.”
He walked from the banner-draped hall without another word; a studied insult that he knew would get under the skin of these barbarians. He heard the attendants snapping to attention around him. He ignored them just like he ignored all of the idiotic posturing these barbarians went through. He kept his expression neutral until he was safely aboard his own ship.
The ship lifted with the crew on full combat alert; these barbarians had ships in orbit, after all, and those ships could attack him. Only when they were beyond the reach of those ships did Sir Livan retire to his quarters.
Next to his desk was a holotank with a depiction of this part of the local arm of the galaxy. The Empire’s stars showed in blue, while those of the PSK were in red. The Families were a trio of green stars to one side. Other stars, minor planets that the Empire temporarily found useful for trade or diplomatic cover, were in yellow. Every year the blue expanded. The red stubbornly remained stable. That would change. The green ... the green looked like it was going to expand to another planet. That required attention. The barbarians should get the hint and raid one of the new Families’ planets.
They had conducted similar raids twice in the last 30 years, each time reaping huge rewards in skilled technicians and valuable terraforming equipment. The Families stubbornly kept trying to develop marginal worlds, and that absorbed a great deal of attention that they could otherwise pour into their Navy. Another successful raid would likely cripple the Families, and maybe even make them withdraw back into their Nebula.
He had doubled the number of ships the Clans operated. Their losses had been commensurate with that increase, outpacing it lately, and they were only now beginning to catch on. At the same time, he had ended the useless dumping of captives on Boabdil, selling them instead on the Bond Servant Markets in the Empire. That had greatly increased the revenues flowing into the Imperial accounts, and not coincidentally, increasing his personal fortune severalfold.
That policy had to continue. He had people on Boabdil trying to pry away more of the captives, the ones these barbarians called ‘star women.’ His people were meeting a great deal of resistance. Apparently, these ‘star women’ were more valuable to the local economy than he had first realized. The only option was to increase the flow of captives that the raiders took, which was another reason to goad them into greater efforts.
A good source might be the new planet the Families were just opening up to colonization. These barbarians should be able to capture the planet and the terraformers working on it. That would net him several hundred specialists who would be worth far more than any ordinary captives. He knew just who to sell them to, also. There were several Imperial corporations that had tried to colonize marginal planets. They were on the verge of failure because their mines and other facilities had been built incompetently. They would pay handsomely for this new stock and the equipment they operated.
Sir Livan removed his jacket and poured himself a drink. This had been a stressful day, and he felt the need for some relaxation. He pressed one of the buttons on his desk.
“Sir?” his Chief Steward asked.
“Send in the short one.”
He was sitting behind his desk when she entered. She was a small, slender girl with lightly tanned skin and dark hair. Her dark eyes showed the comforting vacancy of the mind-wiped. It had taken him two expensive RNA treatments before she was suitable to his needs.
She was so much better than the last one. Carla had been too fragile. This one was Livia, named after his older sister. Livia was trim and athletic, a product of growing to maturity on a wild planet where only the fittest survived. She trembled as she knelt beside him. He caressed her hair, soothing her. Her trembling gradually stopped, and she rubbed her face against his leg.
He contemplated the holotank. For the sake of the Empire, the war against the Families had to be stepped up.
When Corey walked into Mess #1, she stopped, surprised. She’d been invited to eat with Voss’s officers. As a Squadron Lead, she was considered an officer and had expected she’d dine here at least once. She hadn’t thought it would be her first meal aboard. In the Families Navy, as a guest, she could make her own dining arrangements, and she’d expected to have dinner with Marna and her section. Captain Valentine’s invitation had changed all that, and she’d spent a frantic hour washing and pressing her best uniform.
There were three men from the Spatha in their immaculate white uniforms standing next to the table in the middle of the room. That was probably the reason for her invitation.
Corey hesitated for a second, thinking how shabby she looked. She forced that worry away, marched up to Captain Valentine, and saluted. “Thank you for your invitation, Captain.”
“You’re welcome, Squadron Lead,” Captain Valentine said. She was a short woman with dark blonde hair that showed just a touch of silver. Her face was lined from years of service, and her dark blue uniform looked severe on her spare frame. “I was just comparing notes with Commander Young,” she went on, “but I confess I have one disadvantage: I only have the vids of his ship in action against the Idenux. I didn’t witness it in person as you did.”
“I think,” Corey said slowly, “that if the Spatha had been fully operational, she would have made short work of both Idenux ships. He wouldn’t have needed our help at all.”
“I think you overestimate Spatha’s capabilities,” Alan said, smiling. “Your fighters did a lot of damage to both of those ships.”
“Now it’s your turn to overestimate our fighters,” Corey said. She chose her words carefully. Commander Young was speaking Standard, but his accent took some getting used to. “I would say Spatha is as powerful as some of our cruisers.”
“Perhaps,” Alan said. “I cannot judge something like that based on only one combat.”
Captain Valentine started to say something, and then looked across the compartment at someone signaling to her. “If you will excuse me, I have something I must attend to.”
Corey cast around for something to say. “How long have you been in your Navy?” she finally asked.
“Twelve T-years,” Alan said, referring to the Terran Year that was commonly used in Space. “I spent four years at the Academy, and the rest on active duty. How long have you been in your Navy?”
“Just over six years,” Corey said. “That’s about eight T-years. Did you volunteer? Or did your Family send you into the Navy?”
“I’d always wanted to serve in the Navy,” Alan said. “How about you?”
“My sib-sisters did not want me to go,” Corey said, “and neither did my aunts, but it was something I had to do.” She paused, wracking her brain for something to say to him.
She looks so young, Alan thought, studying her out of the corner of his eye. It was hard to believe she’d been in their Navy for as long as she said.
“Did you choose to go into fighters?” he finally asked.
Corey laughed. “No, you don’t really choose what you will do. I had the aptitude to fly fighters, and so that’s where I was put.”
Alan nodded, hoping the recorder in his pocket was getting all of this. “We have some choice of careers in our Navy,” he said. “But it depends on what courses you take at the Academy, and that depends upon your marks on the placement exams. I must have done well on something; I was put on the Tactics and Command track.”
“So you were selected for Command,” Corey said, “but it was not done openly.” She didn’t want to ask him more about his Academy, or what it was like; he might consider the questions too intrusive. Fortunately, several ratings entered, each pushing a cart loaded with food and drink.
People seated themselves around the table. “What are we having for dinner?” Alan asked when they were served.
“Soup,” Corey said as the plates and bowls were put in front of them. She took a sip. “It’s awfully bland,” she said quietly to the woman seated next to her.
“It needs seasoning,” the woman replied. She handed Corey a small shaker. “Here, this should help.”
Corey seasoned a spoonful and took a careful taste. “Much better.” She looked at the shaker. “What’s in this?” She applied the shaker vigorously to her soup.
“Various minerals we need, but they don’t,” the woman said.
“Is the rest of your family a Navy family?” Alan asked.
“A Navy Family?” Corey wondered what that meant. Ah, maybe he meant a Family devoted to the Navy. “Not really. There aren’t that many people from my Family in the Navy. In a way, I think the Navy is my Family ... except for my sib-sisters, of course. Is yours?”
“Not as much as some others,” Alan said. He decided the soup was too rich and put his spoon down. “I had an uncle who was a naval officer, and I have a cousin in the Marines. My parents didn’t want me to join up, but I wouldn’t accept anything else.”
“I chose to go,” Corey said simply.
The main course was brought in. The primary dish looked like undercooked white fish. Alan poked at it dubiously before cutting off a small piece.
“What is this?” he asked after taking a bite. It was juicy and tangy, but it definitely wasn’t fish.
“You’ll have to ask the ponics people,” Captain Valentine said from the end of the table. “I’m not sure they wanted to tell me.” She smiled apologetically. “Sometimes, with ponics techs, it’s better if you don’t know.”
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