“That’s a million kilometers away…,” the gunBlue says. “It’ll be shot down.”
“He bloodywell knows that,” Sevro says. “Follow the order.”
It took a campaign of counterintelligence not just in our transmissions to Sons cells throughout the Core, but among our ships and commanders to bring us here unnoticed. The Jackal will not be in position to help the Sovereign, nor will the Classis Venetum, the 4th Fleet of Venus. Or the Classis Libertas, the 5th Fleet of the inner Belt, which the Sovereign sent to Mars to aid the Jackal. At full burn all the ships will be three weeks away at current orbit. The lie worked. The spies in my ship leaked misinformation about our plans, just as I’d hoped.
That is the peril of a solar empire: all the power in all the worlds means nothing it if is in the wrong place.
Twenty minutes later, my missile is shot down by orbital defense platforms.
“New direct link incoming,” the comBlue says behind me. “It’s got Praetorian tags.”
“Main holo,” I say.
A Gold Praetorian with an aquiline face and gray at the temples of his short-cropped hair materializes in front of me. The image will appear on all bridges and holoscreens in the fleet.
“Darrow of Lykos,” he asks in an impeccably well-bred Luna accent. “Are you in possession of imperium over this war fleet?”
“What need have I of your traditions?” I ask.
“Very well,” the Gold says, maintaining propriety even now. “I am ArchLegate Lucius au Sejanus
of the Praetorian Guard, First Cohort.” I know of Sejanus. He’s an eerie, efficient man. “I am come with a diplomatic envoy to your coordinates,” he says dryly. “I request you stay further aggression and give my shuttle access to your flagship so we might relate the Sovereign and Senate’s intentions in…”
“Denied,” I say.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If any Society ship comes toward my fleet, they will be fired upon. If the Sovereign wishes to speak with me, then let her do it herself. Not through a lackey’s mouth. Tell the hag we’re here for war. Not words.”
—
My ship throbs with activity. Told only three days ago of our true destination, the men are filled with madcap excitement. There’s something immortal to attacking Luna. Win or lose, we’ve forever stained the legacy of Gold. And in the minds of my men, and in the chatter we pick up over the coms from the Core planets and moons, there is real fear in the air. For the first time in centuries, Gold has shown weakness. Breaking the Sword Armada has spread the rebellion faster than my speeches ever
could.
Soldiers salute as they pass me in the hall, making their way to their troop carriers and leechCraft.
The squads are predominantly Red and defected Grays, but I see Green battletechs, Red machinists, and Obsidian scouts and heavy infantry in each capsule as well. I resend the shuttle flight clearance order to the Morning Star’s flight controller with my authorization code. It’s accepted and cleared.
Most days I’d trust the order to stand on its own, but today I want to be sure, so I make my way to the bridge to confirm in person. The Red marine captain responsible for the security of the bridge shouts his men to attention when I enter. More than fifty armored soldiers salute me. The Blues in their pits continue in their operations. Orion’s at the forward observation post where Roque once stood. Meaty hands clasped behind her back. Skin nearly as dark as her black uniform. She turns to me with those large pale eyes and that nasty white smile.
“Reaper, the fleet is nearly ready.”
I greet her warmly and join her in looking out through the glass viewports “How does it look?”
“The Ash Lord is pulled up in defensive array. He seems to think we intend an Iron Rain before moving him off the moon. Sharp assumption. He has no reason to come to us. All the rest of the ships in Core will be headed here. When they get here we’ll be the cockroach pinned between the ground
and the hammer. He’s assumed correctly we’ll rush the engagement.”
“The Ash Lord knows war,” I say.
“That he does.” She glances at her datapad. “What’s this I hear about a flight clearance for a sarpedon-class shuttle from HB Delta?”
I knew she’d notice. And I don’t want to explain myself to her now. Not everyone is as compassionate toward Cassius as I, even with Sevro sparing his life.
“I’m sending an emissary to meet with a group of Senators,” I lie.
“We both know you’re not,” she says. “What’s going on?”
I step closer so no one can overhear us. “If Cassius remains in the fleet while we go to war, someone will try to get past the guards and slit his throat. There’s too much hate for the Bellona for him to stay here.”
“Then hide him in another cell. Don’t release him,” she says. “He’ll just go back to them. Rejoin the war.”
“He won’t.”