“Why would I need air support when I’ve got you,” I say, gesturing to Sevro’s gravBoots. A plastic gray case sits on the ground behind him. Inside, a sarrissa missile launcher in foam padding. The
same Ragnar used on Cassius’s craft. If the need arises I’ve got myself a psychotic Goblin-sized fighter jet.
“Mustang said they’ll be here,” I say.
“Mustang said they’ll be here,” Sevro mocks in childish voice. “They better. Fleet can’t squat for long out there without being spotted.”
My fleet waits with Orion in orbit since Mustang took her shuttle to Nessus, the capital of Io. Fifty torchShips and destroyers hunkered down, shields off, engines dark on the barren moon of Sinope as the larger fleets of the Golds swim through space closer in to the Galilean Moons. Any closer and the Gold sensors will pick us up. But as it hides, my fleet is vulnerable. With one pass a measly squadron of ripWings could destroy it.
“The Moonies will come,” I say. But I’m not sure of it.
They’re a cold, proud, insular people, these Jovian Golds. Roughly eight thousand Peerless Scarred call the Galilean Moons of Jupiter home. Their Institutes are all out here. And it is only Societal service or vacations for the wealthiest among them that takes them to the Core. Luna might be the ancestral home of their people, but it’s alien to most of them. Metropolitan Ganymede is the center of their world.
The Sovereign knows the danger of having an independent Rim. She spoke to me of the difficulty
of imposing her power across a billion kilometers of empire. Her true fear was never Augustus and
Bellona destroying one another. It was the chance that the Rim would rebel and cut the Society in half.
Sixty years ago, at the beginning of her reign, she had the Ash Lord nuke Saturn’s moon, Rhea, when its ruler refused to accept her authority. That example held for sixty years.
But nine days after my Triumph, the children of the Moon Lords who were kept on Luna in the Sovereign’s court as insurance toward their parents’ political cooperation, escaped. They were assisted by Mustang’s spies which she left behind in the Citadel. Two days after that, the heirs of the fallen ArchGovernor Revus au Raa, who was killed at my Triumph, stole or destroyed the entirety of the Societal Garrison Fleet in its dock at Calisto. They declared Io’s independence and pressured the other more populous and powerful moons into joining them.
Soon after, the infamously charismatic Romulus au Raa was elected Sovereign of the Rim. Saturn
and Uranus joined soon after that, and the Second Moon Rebellion began sixty years, two hundred and eleven days after the first.
The Moon Lords obviously expected the Sovereign would find herself mired on Mars for a decade,
maybe longer. Add to that a certain lowColor insurrection in the Core and one can see why they assumed she would not be able to devote the resources needed to send a fleet of sufficient size six hundred million kilometers to quash their nascent rebellion. They were wrong.
“We’ve got inbound,” Pebble says from her station at the shuttle’s sensor boards. “Three ships.
Two-ninety clicks out.”
“Finally,” Sevro mutters. “Here come the bloodydamn Moonies.”
Three warships emerge from the heat mirage on the horizon. Two black sarpedon-class fighters painted with the four-headed white dragon of Raa clutching a Jovian thunderbolt in its talons escort a fat tan priam-class shuttle. The ship lands before us. Dust swirls and the ramp unfurls from the belly of the craft. Seven lithe forms, taller and lankier than I, walk down into the sand. Golds all. They wear kryll, organic breathing masks made by Carvers, over nose and mouths. Looks like the shed skin of a locust, legs stretching to either ear. Their tan combat gear is lighter than Core armor and complimented with brightly colored scarves. Long-barreled railguns with personalized ivory stocks
are strapped to their backs. Razors hang from their hips. Orange optics cover their eyes. And on their
feet are skippers. Lightweight boots that use condensed air instead of gravity to move their user.
Skipping them over the ground like stones on a lake. Can’t get much height, but you can move nearly sixty kilometers an hour. They’re about a quarter the weight of my boots, have battery life for a year, and are dead cold on thermal vision.
These are assassins. Not knights. Holiday recognizes the different breed of danger.
“She’s not with them,” she says over her com. “Any Telemanuses?”
“No,” I say. “Hold. I see her.”
Mustang steps out of the craft, joining the much-taller Ionians. She’s dressed like them, except without a rifle. Joined by another Ionian woman, this one with the forward hunching shoulders of a cheetah, Mustang joins us atop the dune. The rest of the Ionians stay near the ship. Not a threat, just an escort.
“Darrow,” Mustang says. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Where’s Romulus?” I ask.
“He’s not coming.”
“Bullshit,” Sevro hisses. “I told you, Reap.”