Boabdil
Copyright© 2026 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 13
“I’ve been expecting this,” Edita said a few days later. She studied the passive scan. At her orders, every ship and station operated with their powerplants at the lowest settings, and all electronic emissions held to the absolute minimum. Only the gravity-wave communicators were in use. Any approaching ship would see just Boabdil Upper and only hear the navigational information the station broadcast.
“There are five of them, Ma’am,” the gal running the scan said. “From the drives, I would say they are standard Idenux cruisers. Estimated time of arrival at Boabdil Upper is 237 minutes.”
Edita stood behind the gal running the scan, tapping her finger against the back of the seat. She’d done some thinking about this very situation, and even laid out a few plans. Well, now to see how good those plans actually were.
“What was the last known count of Idenux ships?” she asked.
“Intelligence says between 50 and 60, Ma’am. They also say they think the actual number is closer to 50 than 60.”
“Enough to give us a real fight if they all came here at the same time,” Edita murmured. “Fortunately, they only showed up with five, and they did it before anyone left for Home. Very well, we’ll initiate Plan Door Slam when they are 15 minutes from the station at their current deceleration.”
She walked over to her station and pressed the button connecting her to the Communications Section. “Sharon? Message to all units to go out via gravity wave: everyone is to hold their position. Remain in stand-by. We’re going to slam the door on them when the Idenux are 15 minutes from Boabdil Upper at their current deceleration. I am estimating that will be in 230 minutes. I want acknowledgment from everyone via gravity wave communicator.”
“Aye, Ma’am.” The Tech read back the message for confirmation, and then sent it. Within 10 minutes, everyone had responded.
The next 200 minutes dragged by. Edita sent everyone to eat, then went back to her quarters and changed into her best uniform. This whole plan depended upon two things: that ships in a powered-down mode were almost impossible to detect, and that the Idenux would acknowledge overwhelming force when confronted with it. If this went according to plan, there would be no fighting. If not, well, if not, the battle would be brief and one-sided. She wouldn’t mourn the loss of five Idenux ships, but it would make her job on the planet just a little harder.
“Status?” she asked when she returned to the Control Room. She knew everyone was closed up and ready as these last few seconds slipped away. She just wanted confirmation.
“All ships ready,” her Coordination Officer reported.
“Approach Control?”
“Everything is nominal,” Lieutenant Travitt Blaior replied. He’d spent the last few weeks reviewing all of the recordings of every approach logged by Kelima Lasker as she sat in her pod next to the antennas that sprouted out of the top of Boabdil Station. Now he put that information to good use. He had every procedure down cold, every speech nuance the Impies used, and answers to every question they asked. To the best of his considerable ability, he was the Imperial Approach Control Officer, and he would be the Approach Control Officer for another 30 seconds.
Lieutenant Travitt Blaior looked at his counterpart, Fifth Officer Irene Ulriksdotter. There was a phrase he’d learned from the Ladies, one he’d grown to love. Now he looked at her, grinning. “It’s showtime!”
“We have the best seat in the house and nothing to do,” Irene replied. “What a pity.” She settled back in her seat. “Brew?”
Travitt shuddered at the offer of the bitter drink. He had no idea how the Ladies could stand that stuff. “No, thank you,” he said politely. He contented himself with a sip of tea. This was going to be like seeing a holopic drama.
“All ships,” Edita said softly over the command circuit. “All ships stand by. Light them up on my mark.” She watched the Idenux ships, waiting until they were 15 minutes from the station. “All ships, light them up in 3--2--1--Mark!”
Ship Lord Thorarin listened to the cheerful babble from Boabdil Upper while monitoring the approach. It was good to be back home. The Great Fairs were coming up, and by being the first one back, he would get his pick of the youngsters who wanted to take service in space. The other clans were only sending individual ships back. He’d brought back all five of the ships his clan owned. He thought it was better to let the individual ship lords pick their crew, rather than selecting them all himself and allotting them to his subordinates. Others would think he was inviting each ship lord to establish their own loyalties. He thought of it as letting each ship lord pick his own men because each one knew his own needs.
“It’s odd there are no Imperial ships about,” his advisor Moirron said. “Still, that’s a relief. They would want half our booty, or more.”
“They’ve had too many losses lately,” Thorarin said. “They can’t afford to keep ships in places like Boabdil.”
“I don’t even see any civilian ships on the scan,” Moirron added. “Especially one in particular.”
“Good. It means we won’t have to put up with that arrogant Imperial Lordling.”
“Sir Livan?” Moirron managed to make it sound like a curse.
“The same,” Thorarin grunted. “By the Gods, I hate his slimy little face. But since Kiril of Doomfarer set us free of him, we have no need to put up with his airs.” He paused, remembering his feelings as Kiril recounted his meeting in that bar in Blue Water Station. That day, he’d felt as if he’d just won a major battle. And from the faces of the other Ship Lords, they all felt the same. No Ship Lord was supreme over any other, not after The Disaster, but Ship Lord Kiril was as close to being the Lord of all the Ships as anyone would ever get.
Thorarin looked at his chief adviser. “I don’t feel Sir Livan would appreciate what we are carrying in our holds this trip. I would tell him just to watch his fury.”
“For all of that, he still has some bite,” Moirron said. “We do have to be a little careful.”
“We just have to stay away from the ships of the Families,” Thorarin said. “Fortunately, that is fairly easy. Take that last set we raided. We--”
Whatever he’d been about to say was lost as warning horns went off all around the Bridge. “We have numerous power plants coming online,” the Scanning Officer reported, his voice rising with his urgency. “Lord, they weren’t there a moment ago.”
“Type? Who are they?”
“Families,” the officer said at once. “Over 30 of them, Lord, of all sizes.”
“We are being tracked by active fire control,” the Weapons Officer added, his voice cracking in panic. Everyone looked stunned. This couldn’t be happening, nowhere. There was a Truce, wasn’t there?
Thorarin took in the picture at a glance and knew it was hopeless. Appearing behind the station were close to a hundred Families fighters. Accelerating toward his five ships were another dozen ships, Families cruisers from the acceleration tracks on the scan. And the station itself, which had never been armed, was showing active weapons clusters. The analytical part of his brain processed the information presented and concluded that his ships were dead; they just hadn’t gone through the formality of dying.
“They ... they’re not firing,” Moirron said in wonder. He, too, could read the situation. He saw the readiness lights on the Weapons Officer’s panel belatedly turning from red to green, and he knew how long they would last if they fought.
“Hold fire!” Thorarin snapped, seeing the readiness lights. “Weapons. Master Override--on. Hold fire! All ships! Master Override--on. Hold fire!”
“Why aren’t they firing?” Moirron asked quietly.
“Lord,” the Communications Officer said. “Lord, I am receiving a visual signal from the station.”
“Lord,” the Weapons Officer reported in a calmer voice, “Master Override is on. All ships report Master Override is on.”
Thorarin closed his eyes. Defeated without firing a shot. There was no way to even inflict more than a scratch on the enemy. He braced himself to give the order to attack. A warrior did not surrender, not so long as he had weapons to hand. Then he remembered something dimly heard through the babble of alarms.
“Communications--what did you say?”
“Lord.” The man gulped noticeably. “Lord, I have a visual signal from the station.”
“Why would they be trying to communicate with us?” Moirron asked faintly. “Do you ... do you think the truce Kiril negotiated is holding?”
“It might be,” Thorarin said, his voice tight with tension. His nerves were ready to jump. He clutched the arms of his seat, trying to think. “That must be it. Well, there’s only one way to find out. Communications--route the signal to the main screen.”
The screen split, the active scan still showing to the left, the signal from the station to the right. After a few seconds of synchronizing, the static faded to reveal one of the Ladies, a high-ranking officer from the rank badge on her collar. She was thin, with close-cropped hair and the red skin from a burn covered half her face. One of her hands was visible, one with two fingers missing. Her eyes caught his attention. Her eyes were hard, the eyes of a leader of warriors.
“I am Admiral Edita Macquarrie,” she said in a clipped voice. “I am Admiral Commanding all Families forces in the Boabdil System.” Her smile was a mere stretching of her face, more a required smile than one sharing any warmth. “Who is the Ship Lord of the approaching ships?”
Thorarin wanted to gape in surprise. Of all the possibilities that had flashed through his mind in the last few seconds, this was the one he had not expected.
Reflexively, he hit the proper button. “Ship Lord Thorarin of the Strothin Clan,” he said.
Admiral Macquarrie nodded her head at this. “Ship Lord Thorarin, I invite you and any officers you select to visit me here on Boabdil Upper to discuss how things have changed here.” She made a gesture with her partial hand. “I want to apologize for your reception, Ship Lord. We are honoring the truce recently negotiated, but since we took over protection of the Boabdil System, we have had to be careful.”
“Protection?” He tried not to look surprised. “Protection?”
“I’ll explain it all in person, Ship Lord,” she said. “Say, 30 T-minutes in the main Reception Hall on the Station?”
Thorarin tried to order his scattered thoughts. “Thirty minutes,” he managed to get out. As the view on the main screen faded, he grabbed the other switch, the one connecting him to his ship commanders. “Get over here now,” he ordered.
Ten minutes later, he looked at the other four ship commanders. “Ideas?” he asked. “Suggestions?”
Hassil spoke first, as was only right and proper. “While you were talking with her, I spent the time reviewing what we could detect. They have 27 ships of cruiser class, 16 of their escort class, and three carriers, one very large, the other two their light carriers. In immediate terms, say within the first minute, we are faced with 12 cruisers, six escorts, and well over 200 fighters. Those are the odds against us. The numbers for the ships double in the next minute.”
Zoewal nodded. “Stiff odds, and that does not count the station, which appears to be heavily armed, too.” His smile was bleak. “Smart on their part; they show us an overwhelming force and invite us to fight, if we want to. But, Lord, they did not call for our surrender.”
“I noticed that,” Thorarin said. “She just said she wanted to talk.”
“We all know how long we would last if it came to a fight,” Hassil said. “We might be able to take a few with us, but not many.”
“She said they were protecting Boabdil,” Moirron offered thoughtfully. “I would think protecting Boabdil against the Families would be the first priority.” He shook his head. “If the Empire was doing that, clearly they have failed.”
“As they have in so many other things,” Vandrever replied. He was usually the last to speak, and almost always the wisest. “We have a standing truce at Blue Water, Lord. We don’t hunt their ships, and they have not prosecuted their hunt against us with any vigor for some time.”
“That’s because they are after the Empire,” Moirron said. “And the Empire is losing that war badly. The Empire just doesn’t know it.”
“Why would the Families offer us friendship?” Vandrever asked. “What would be the point? Aside from any of their people who are here?”
The men looked at each other in silence. Nobody had an answer for that one, beyond the obvious one Vandrever mentioned. Thorarin looked around the circle, studying each face in turn. Finally, reluctantly, he made a decision.
“Return to your ships. Make no visible preparation for combat, but be ready for anything. I will attend this meeting. There may or may not be a truce between us. This may all be a trap, but to what purpose I cannot see.” Thorarin looked at their troubled faces. “If anything happens...” He swallowed. “If anything happens, do as you think best. Remember who you are and acquit yourselves well.”
“We will,” Vandrever said. He gave a crooked smile. “When have we let you down? We won’t this time.”
With a troubled heart, Thorarin boarded his shuttle. He sat behind the pilot, his eyes never leaving the scan. But none of the Families’ ships moved any closer. Even the fighters stayed behind the station, just hovering there. This was all puzzling enough that it made his head hurt.
He had docked at Boabdil Station enough times that he knew the drill. The main port opened slowly, just like always. The harsh light of the lock cast shadows into his own lock. His palms were sweating. He felt like a target for the armored Marines he knew just had to be waiting for him. Courage, he thought as he stepped forward. You are a warrior of the Strothin Clan. Do not show fear.
A naval officer, a First Officer from her rank tabs, advanced to greet him. “Ship Lord Thorarin?” she said with a slight bow of her head. “I am First Officer Savabadru, Chief of Staff for Admiral Macquarrie. I am to accompany you to the Admiral.”
Thorarin looked at the Marines standing on either side. They were in armor and carried their weapons openly. He half-expected them to take him prisoner. They didn’t budge, and he forced a smile. “Very well,” he said. “I would like to meet your Admiral.”
Nobody appeared to follow them, nobody led them, and nobody lurked down the side passages. Nevertheless, he could feel them watching him. He could feel them just out of sight. He kept waiting for something to happen. His skin crawled with the thought of the weapons that had to be pointed at him. All it would take would be one word, one simple word, and he would never even have time to know he was dying. He kept waiting for the word, kept waiting as they walked down corridor after corridor.
“This place has changed since the last time I visited it,” he said in an effort to break the tension. The walls of the corridors were no longer the functional gray the Imperials favored; now they were a riot of color depicting a variety of scenes; even to his eye, these were done by different people. From the smell of paint, some of them were brand new.
First Officer Savabadru smiled back at him as he stopped to look at one of them. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve been busy since taking over the station.”
“How long has that been?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual voice.
“Long enough to repaint about half the corridors,” she said.
That was the perfect answer, he reflected glumly. She answered his question, and yet said absolutely nothing. Troubled by her cleverness, he resumed following her.
The Reception Hall had changed for the better since the last time he’d seen it. Gone were the oversized chairs and the long table that was slightly raised at one end. In its place were several smaller tables set to one side, and a counter filled with food and drink. There were several people in the room already--naval officers, Marines, and--he focused on one standing next to a Marine who was almost her mirror image. This woman, definitely a woman, had longer hair and was wearing the traditional vest and skirt of the Clans. With a start, he recognized her as one of the star women.
So they’ve made the connection, he thought bleakly. That is unfortunate.
The woman who had spoken to him on the comm advanced to greet him. She offered no hand, only a slight nodding of the head. “Ship Lord Thorarin,” she said in a throaty voice. “I am Admiral Edita Macquarrie.”
“Admiral Macquarrie,” he acknowledged with his own small bow. “The circumstances are unusual.”
“You mean we are not shooting at each other?” Humor twisted at her scarred lips. “Ship Lord, I find we are both here for the same reason.”
“The same reason?” he asked. He knew her answer even before she gave it.
“We are both here to protect Boabdil,” she said. “The Empire has been putting my people on Boabdil. We are here to protect my people.” She paused just long enough to let the questions start forming in his mind. “We are also here to take them home.”
He had not become a Ship Lord by being slow of wit. From the number of warships he had seen, he knew the Families were in the Boabdil system to stay. He glanced at the star woman out of the corner of his eye, and he knew what her presence signified: the Families were already recovering their kin from Boabdil. He wondered what that meant for the future.
“You said you are here to protect Boabdil?” he asked. “From who? We are an out-of-the-way system of no consequence to anyone. Why would anyone see us as a threat?”
“Aside from the Families?” Admiral Macquarrie asked in an acid tone. She sighed slightly, and her tone changed. “Ship Lord, what is your relation with the Empire? No,” she said, holding up her maimed hand, “I do not mean you, personally. No, what is the relation between the Clans and the Empire? Specifically, how does the Empire view you?”
“I’ll tell you how the Empire views you,” she went on before he could answer. “You have been useful to the Emperor. You have fought his enemies, both declared and undeclared. You have been a tool in his hand.” She measured his eyes. “Tell me, Ship Lord, what happens to a tool when it is broken or no longer needed?”
Discarded, he thought, but did not voice. “Our service to the Empire is one of mutual convenience,” he said. “The Empire has given us modern technology in return for our service.”
“Can you repair that technology when it breaks, Ship Lord? Or must you rely upon the Empire even for that?” She gestured towards the planet. “A lot of your people are still in the horse and bow stage, and yet you have modern weapons. It takes people skilled in the ways of technology to repair the machines when they break, Ship Lord. I see none on Boabdil. My belief is that the Emperor has never encouraged the Clans to develop that knowledge. Instead, he provides you surrogates from his own people.” She shook her head sadly. “The Emperor holds you in thrall even with his gifts.”
That was too painfully true to admit. He knew, and now he knew she knew, that the Ships were dependent upon Imperial subjects who had been given partial doses of the mind-wipe drug. Despair settled over him like a cloak. The Ships were the only hope of the Clans. They traded the goods they stole for the precious knowledge the Clans needed. It was the only way off of resource-poor Boabdil.
His face must have shown his feelings. “There is an alternative,” she said quietly.
“An ... alternative?” He swallowed, tasting the word cautiously.
“For the first time in living memory, the Clans and the Families are not shooting at each other, Ship Lord. And we find ourselves here, in the Boabdil system, united by the same purpose, to protect the Clans of Boabdil. Believe me, Ship Lord, it is in our interest, the Families’ interest, to protect the Clans. It is our blood down there as well.”
“The star women.”
“The star women,” the Admiral confirmed, gesturing minutely to the one star woman he could see present. “The star women and their children.” She motioned him to walk with her, and they paced slowly over to a screen with the image of the planet.
“We know how many cities, towns, and holdings there are on Boabdil,” she said. “Do you really think we have the military might, even with our Marines, to go in and take back all of our kin?” She shook her head. “Not even the Imperial Army has that many soldiers, Ship Lord. There are too many warriors on Boabdil. The Clans have too many brave and skilled warriors who would fight to defend their Clans. And yet we will have our kin back. They are our blood, after all.” She smiled. “Any Clan Lord would feel the same way about the members of his Clan, wouldn’t he?”
The realization of where she was going flooded through him and threatened to buckle his knees. “You would ... you would trade technology for your ... for your kin?”
“Technology is useless without the training needed to go with it,” she said. “And you know, as do I, that there would be some of your people who would not want to trade. They live so much in the past that they could not see the benefits.”
“The other Clans would change their minds,” he said at once. “In time, such a Clan would have a Leader who would see the benefits.” His pulse hammered at his throat at the thought of achieving everything the Clan Lords had been after for all these generations.
“Perhaps,” she said. “But if they could see the benefit for themselves, there would be less strain on everyone. Promises are one thing, and the Emperor has been long on promises. I am talking of something more.”
“What are you getting at? Everyone can see the benefit of technology.” Even as he said it, he saw her shaking her head.
“I wish that were true, Ship Lord, but we both know that it isn’t. No, what we have done is to build a Holding of our own. We found a desert waste, and in it we have built a Holding. We are using our technology to grow food in the desert. We are using our technology to build a port on an inhospitable coast. We are using our knowledge to make a place on Boabdil that is everything it could be. The knowledge needed to do that, the tools that go with it; and the knowledge to maintain and improve those tools; those are what we are willing to trade for our kin.”
He stared at the image of the planet while her words sang in him. There was so much she seemed to know, he wondered if she knew all of the story.
Not that many years before, the Clan Lords had met in secret Conclave. This was done during the Truce of the Great Festival for two reasons: first, so those Clans who were at war with each other could attend without coming to blows; and second, so the spies the Empire employed would not mark on the meeting as anything special, since the Clan Lords always met during the Great Festival. The purpose of the meeting was to understand what was happening to the world and their place in it.
The Clans had long enjoyed a close personal relation with the Emperor; he often sent his brother or his son to treat with them in person as a sign of his favor. But a number of years ago that relation changed. A new Emperor had taken the throne, and he had appointed an Emperor’s Voice to represent him. And this man had clearly been in it for his own profit.
Where the Emperors of the past understood Glory, Sir Livan had only looked at money. Where the Emperors of the past had directly rewarded the Clans for their fighting in his name, his Voice had contemptuously dismissed their loss of blood and ships as “the cost of doing business”. His Voice had even spurred them to expand the trade in captives, claiming that by doing so he could pay for all of the other treasure the Clans had stolen.
The trade in captives had not caused any unease among the Clan Lord. That was part of life on Boabdil. But depositing those captives among the Clans had caused discontent among even the most forward-looking Clan Lords. The star women, as they were quickly dubbed, could work twice as hard as any native woman. But they were difficult to handle. The Emperor’s Voice had provided a drug that had ended some of the problems. But there had been others, warriors who died in mysterious circumstances, warriors who were killed by the star women, escapes, dissension among the regular women of the Clans, and other problems that were only spoken of in hushed voices behind closed doors.
The Clan Lords had produced the Rules. These Rules were designed specifically for the star women. They were the only way anyone could think of to deal with the star women. They were the only way the Clan Lords could think of to bring the star women into the Clans without causing a major disruption.
The Clan Lords felt it a duty they owed to the Emperor, but as the incidents continued, and as the Clan Lords grew uneasy with the Emperor’s Voice and his constant emphasis on money, they began to consider a step unthinkable only a few years before. They began to consider what would happen if they were no longer associated with the Emperor.
As a first step, the Clan Lords had sent several of their more intelligent men out into the Galaxy to look around. They were especially charged with studying the Empire, the PSK, and the other systems. Their mission was simple: to learn how the Clans of Boabdil could fit in with the rest of the people of the stars if they were not beholden to the Emperor. The Clan Lords were not stupid, not with the Families biting back harder every year and the Empire slowly withdrawing from them. Each of the Clan Lords knew there was a time for war and there was a time for peace. The more far-sighted among them began to suggest that the time for war had passed, that peace among the stars was the best way the Clans could follow.
When their men returned, the arguments had raged unfettered for days. What those men had discovered had given the Clan Lords a bitter dose of humility. Boabdil was a poor system with very little to offer anyone except some trade in food and a few luxury items. There was no reason for anyone to bring precious knowledge and technology to the planet. There was no reason for anyone to help the Clans of Boabdil look up from the dirt in front of them.
Distasteful as that was, everyone recognized it as a hard truth. What was to be done as a result of that knowledge sparked even more controversy, and not a few minor wars. What direction should the Clans follow if the Empire ended their special relationship? The Emperor had promised many things: training, help, and precious technology, all paid for with the blood of Boabdil. What he had delivered had been promises, some training, some help, and only enough technology that the warriors of Boabdil could con and fight a ship. His Voice had delivered even less, treating the Clans as mere servants rather than honorable warriors.
Following the disaster and the defeat at Casimir, the Clans felt themselves cut adrift. The Emperor could not afford his relationship with the Clans. He had a stronger enemy, one the Clans felt was too strong for him, and Setosha proved them right. The Emperor had sent his main Fleet to Setosha, along with an Army. He got nothing back, not even fragments. Clan ships lurking in the dark near that system saw the nuclear fire that had consumed the Emperor’s Fleet. Those ships brought word of that event back to the Clan Lords. Even the most cautious of the Clan Lords had realized that they must find a way to make peace with the Families before that same fire touched Boabdil.
A truce of sorts had been worked out. Ship Lord Kiril had initiated it, and made the break with the Empire complete by handing over two of the Empire’s three intermediary stations as a sign of good faith. After that, everyone had waited for the Families’ response, wondering how their bitter enemies of so many years would respond to these peace overtures.
Now, Ship Lord Thorarin thought, now we have their answer. They have invaded us. But they have not really invaded us, either. Their ships could kill the entire planet, and we have certainly given them reason to do so, but instead, they have stayed their hand. If I am to believe this Admiral, they are promising to build Boabdil the way we have to grow. And all they want in exchange is for us to return the star women.
“The trade you propose seems one-sided,” he said quietly. He missed the flare of relief that briefly touched Edita’s eyes. He was thinking of trade, now. He was thinking of the future, and how his people could benefit from this. He was no longer thinking of fighting.
“Perhaps it is not so one-sided as you think,” she said quietly. “The Families are close-knit. Like the Clans of Boabdil, the Families are conservative. We are not quick to change. What worked for our mothers and grandmothers works for us.”
He shared a bleak smile. “I have known Clan Lords who think the same way,” he murmured. “Many of them; most of them, actually. Life on Boabdil does not permit you to stray too far from what you know works.”
“It is that way with the Families,” she said. “We spend most of our energies keeping our planets fit places to live.”