Her name was Heather Pt.8
19 Dec 2017Gmanharmon
Part 7I passed the next several days in seclusion aboard the INV Imperial Freedom, within the penthouse lent to me by Senator Denton Patreus. A holo-message was delivered to me, and I watched the disembodied head of the Senator inform me that I would be put in contact with a Marquise upon arrival in Zaonce, who apparently had the power to pull some serious strings in the Navy and ascend my rank a bit.
The best part about the room, aside from the vastness and seclusion, was the computer in the den, with access to just about any Imperial service. With a bit of wizardry and the installation of a few applications, I accessed the EM pipes and scanned the airwaves, listening for the old Morse code signature the FNS Los Angeles used to relay its messages. It took less than a minute to parse out the specific dit-dah signature out of the stream of noise, and I sniffed the burst data packet out into an encrypted plain-text file. I uninstalled the app and ran a system re-image dated five minutes before I accessed the computer, then took the file into the loaned dataslate and decrypted the jumbled mess, revealing the message from Holliday.
MESSAGE START
GRAYSON–PRESENCE REQUESTED ON LA FOR SITREP. ZAONCE 6C
POP SAYS DONT FOOL AROUND WITH THAT TRAMP. HIS WORDS.
DARIUS NEGATIVE. NOT OURS.
WARDROBE CHANGE FOR YOU AND FORGED DOCS FOR EVENT ON INDUSTRY.
HOLLIDAY
STOP STOP STOP
So they knew about the party as well. It wouldn’t surprise me, since Pop told me we had sleeper agents everywhere, in almost all levels of Federal, Imperial, and Alliance government and social strata. The function wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.
Meet them at Zaonce 6c? I asked myself. No way I can make it off this rotten tub unseen, especially with Patreus falling over me for rescuing his bitch. I paced the floor, wondering how I could sneak away and rendezvous with the Los Angeles and not draw undue attention to myself. The Python had been scuttled soon after Aisling and I had boarded the Cutter, sent on a collision course with the main star at Waukea, so that was out of the question. I wondered as to how the news would be taken by the Chapterhouse when we returned to Imperial space.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” the quartermaster had told me down in the maintenance hangar. “We have a few cookie-cutter responses we can issue to people stubborn enough to push for detail. Ships get lost all the time out in the black.”
“How many get sidelined by an entire Imperial fleet?”
He smirked. “More than you’d think, Serf.”
The jump to witch-space in the Interdictor was a terrifying sight to behold, and utterly unlike anything I had experienced in both the Eagle and Python. The whole ship thrummed with energy as the massive T2B frame-shift drive began its final spool-up, rattling windows and shaking the teeth in my head. We didn’t jump into witch-space, as such; instead, the Interdictor opened a portal in front of it surrounded by mysterious blue clouds and crackling lightning, then traveling through the tear in space-time and entering the new dimension. The whole experience took only a minute or two, but when we re-appeared in front of the planet of Industry in the Zaonce system, several days had elapsed.
The space around Ridley Scott (what a strange name for an Orbis, I told myself) was filled with ships of every size and shape, in all the colors of the rainbow. Saud Kruger vessels were shuttling in and out of the starport, flying out past the exclusion zone and turning inward towards Industry, before blinking out into supercruise, ferrying passengers and laborers alike. GalNet was abuzz with the news of a massive fundraising event by the Bank of Zaonce to improve their standing in the galaxy or some such nonsense, when it was revealed that an opera was taking place in the capital city tomorrow.
“So that’s what this is about.” As I read the entertainment dross about the famous tenor performing the signature role at the opera, a knock at my door pulled me away from the dataslate.
“Yes?”
“Serf.” It was the squad leader from the boarding party. “Your shuttle is leaving for Ridley Scott in ten minutes, and it’s highly advised you don’t miss it.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know.” I re-imaged the dataslate and left it on the table where I found it, before passing through the door and handing him the room key. “Please give the Senator my compliments for the room and board.” The grunt next to him, dressed in a battle-dress uniform, rolled his eyes.
“We’re going over the place with a fine-toothed comb as soon as you get out of here. Just because you got a piece of the Princess without the Senator knowing doesn’t make you a criminal mastermind.”
“Sure, just keep telling yourself that. I wouldn’t stick anything of mine in that filth.” The unexpected response caused Squad Leader and Grunt’s eyes to widen, as well as place hands on weapons.
“You’re a pretty brave son of a bitch, speaking that way about Aisling to us.”
“So we aren’t friends, then?” I replied, looking him square in the eye. Nothing would make me happier in this instant than putting two, .44-caliber slugs through these two Sentinels’ thick skulls. I was confident in my draw speed, but discharging an unsuppressed firearm in the residential wing with cameras trained on us would leave a bad impression. The grunt had a death grip on his electro-baton, ready to deliver a debilitating zap should I try something smart.
Squad Leader pulled his upper lip in a scowl, baring his teeth. “Just get the fuck off my ship,” he growled.
“Gladly.” I walked backwards toward the lifts, keeping them in view until they disappeared into the penthouse. By the time they found the computer and dataslate had my digital footprints wiped clean, I would be long gone.
The lift shot down through the Interdictor to the main hangar, where another Serf noticed me and began waving his hand frantically in my direction.
“Master Harmann!” he called out. I winced at hearing my name being bellowed inside the cavernous space. “Master Harmann! This way!” He was halfway up the boarding ramp of an Imperial Courier and crabbing his way into the ship as I watched its dorsal and ventral thrusters blink to life. I broke into a jog and made it up the ramp as the pilot finished his pre-flight checks, lifting off the deck as I buckled myself in the business-class cabin with the other Serf.
“So you’re Aisling’s savior!” It was my turn to roll my eyes, this time after an extended blink. “The Senator can’t stop talking about you! I’m Ulysse Jarmell, Marquise Reynaud’s aide-de-camp. I was flown up here to make sure you get to see her straight away!” He was all smiles as he extended his impeccably manicured hand, and I shook it. I felt the slick film of moisturizer against my palm, and noticed that his fingers loitered just a bit too long. It was an effeminate touch, and I figured him as quite the dandy. His mannerisms were overexaggerated, and the usual Imperial lisp was accented with a certain something extra, not to mention his uniform was cut very slim, most notably in the rail-thin legs.
This vassal is as bubbly as he is light in his loafers. Indeed, he crossed his legs and started reading from a fashion magazine, its cover page emblazoned with a picture of the Princess, as well as a headline extolling the benefits of an “air bath”. These damn Imps are a strange bunch.
We rode the rest of the way in silence to Ridley Scott, taking a small pad at the back of the starport. Jamell and I were whisked away from the Courier’s hangar to another, escorted by some plainclothes Imperial agents wearing civilian clothing. There was a woman standing off to the side dressed in the regalia of a Marquise, with dirty blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, reinforced with wooden sticks. She smiled when we saw us, and the Serf made our acquaintances. Her proper name was Michelle Reynaud.
“Grayson,” she said to me, “Senator Patreus has told me all about you.” She extended her hand, fingers pointing downward, and I brought them to my lips to give a faint kiss. “You’re very formal, as well,” she continued with a giggle. “A Serf like you can go quite far. Leave us, please.” She dismissed Jamell and the secret agents, leaving the two of us in the solitude of the hangar with a Zorgon Peterson Fer-de-Lance, painted in glistening chromium.
“My husband’s ship,” she said, “the Extinction Event. More powerful than any Clipper in the Navy. Do you like it?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever flown a Fer-de-Lance before,” I admitted, “but it does look pretty.”
“We should fly it later, just the two of us.” I was getting the feeling that the Marquise wasn’t getting to brass tacks for a reason.
“Your husband is indisposed?” I asked.
“In a manner of speaking.” She turned her eyes from the Fer-de-Lance to me, the smile fading from her. “I found him in a police holding tank, nursing a shiner. He lost the ship in a game of cards with his superior officer, and tried to kill him. He struck a bargain that he would pay off his gambling debt as an Imperial slave and not serve a prison sentence for insubordination and conduct unbecoming.
“However, I have the deed to the Extinction Event, and the keys, so the ship is mine to do with as I please. I don’t fly, so I may just sell it.” The smile returned, and her teeth gleamed in the fluorescent light. “Maybe you’d like to have it…?”
“Oh, I don’t think I could afford a fully-loaded Fer-de-Lance on my salary...”
“Not as a Serf, of course, but that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Her smile grew wider, then placed an arm around me. “Take me to dinner, and we can discuss your ascension.”
Dinner, as it turned out, was a nice experience of haute cuisine at a restaurant apparently headed by a celebrity chef, whom Marquise Reynaud was personally acquainted with. It was a proper four-course meal with onion soup, a light vinaigrette salad, a sizable portion of filet mignon trimmed and cooked to perfection, and the chef’s seasonal specialty: a plateau de fruits de mer. Michelle and I got to know each other quite well, talking about our personal lives as well as our experiences in the Navy. My skill of memorizing scripts allowed me to keep on topic with my forged existence, while she just wouldn’t stop. Nearly everything that could be revealed in public was described to me, including the nocturnal habits of her friends. I smiled and nodded, snacking on a chilled langoustine dipped in cocktail sauce, while she made her way through the oysters.
“Have some, they’re delicious!” she insisted, nearly shoving a shell into my face. Once I finished my shellfish, I took the oyster and held it for a moment, watching the quivering mass as I jiggled the shell before shutting my eyes and feeling it slither down my gullet. My body responded with an intense shudder and an eye-watering belch.
“My, my!” Michelle said, covering her mouth. “Looks like we’ve had enough.”
“Sorry,” I replied. “Shellfish are a rare treat for me.”
“Now then,” she replied, stepping away from the table and taking my hand, “let’s go back to my place and talk about your ascension a bit more.”
Just before the main leg leading into the habitation ring of the Orbis starport, in one of the more affluent fashion districts, sat a ten-story hotel festooned with lights and baubles. A semicircle driveway in front allowed curbside service by chartered cars and mag-lev trollies, complete with bellhops in ancient uniforms and luggage carts. Michelle tapped the lift’s call pad with her room key, indicating a sense of security in the place. A short trip later, and another tap of her key on the door, and we were in her well-apportioned suite, not much different than the residence I was loaned on the Interdictor. I placed my jacket in the closet nearby, dropped my gun belt in the floor safe, and followed Michelle to the living area, where she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me deeply. I started to protest, but I was in too deep. She looked up at me and smiled again.
“Such a strapping lad. Can you believe I’m the same age as Arissa Lavigny?” Last I read, the Senator was 46. Marquise Reynaud didn’t look a day over 20. “It’s amazing what progenitor cells can do for someone.” She kissed me again, a bit softer this time, then stepped back and held my hands.
“Why don’t you wait outside and let me slip into something more comfortable?”
“I’ll take a shower,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind getting the stink of space off me.”
“Even better,” she replied with a grin, ushering me into the bathroom. I disrobed and showered, and twenty minutes later, I stepped back into the bedroom in my undershirt and thermal leggings. Michelle was standing next to the bed, dressed in four-inch patent leather stiletto heels, thigh-high stockings, garters, and lace, with very little left to the imagination. She beckoned me over with her finger, then whipped me onto the edge of the bed. Without another word, she sunk to her knees and went to work.
It was a very long time later when I finally roused myself out of Marquise Reynaud’s bed, hearing the water running in the bathroom. The clock nearby said 17:38. I was still naked, and so was she, finding her freshening up and running her long blonde hair through a straightening iron. She looked in the mirror, and smiled when she made eye contact.
“I see you’ve rejoined us among the living.” I padded over to her and stood just behind, embracing her. She giggled as my hands played around her hips, then turned and kissed my mouth. “Are you trying to tell me you want to go for another?”
I grip her hips and pull her closer. “Maybe I am,” I say softly in her ear.
“Not many men are out there with your stamina. Truly you are a Lord.”
“Why not a King...” She laughed, then turned around and sat up on the sink before pulling me close and wrapping herself around me.
“That would make me very happy,” she replied, “but unfortunately, my love, I don’t have that much pull with the Navy. You’d need a meritorious combat action against a Federal capital ship to even get close to Duke.”
“Right...” I replied, pretending I knew Imperial rank structure.
“But… since it’s you,” she continued, massaging my forearms, “I’m sure I could put in a good word somewhere...” Michelle kissed me once more, as deeply as before, then disengaged from me and went back to her bedroom, changing back into her uniform. I decided to do the same, since I’ve done all I can.
The door swished open as I buckled my pants, and I heard the sound of very masculine footfalls in the hallway.
“Hey, baby,” a gruff voice boomed forth. I slipped on my gun belt as silently as I could, then cracked open the bathroom door and saw a wall of muscle embracing Michelle.
“Welcome home, sweetie,” she replied, planting a kiss on his cheek. “I haven’t started dinner yet, what do you feel like?”
“You know I like a nice filet of you,” he said, gripping her crotch violently, eliciting an excited yelp. I fumed; it was one monkeyshine after another.
Imperial slave, my ass. While they had their backs to me, I slid into the living room, grabbed Mister Reynaud’s sidearm, and fired twice into Michelle’s chest. Her face was locked in a surprised expression as she collapsed backwards, crashing to the floor locked in rigor. I whipped around and prepared to take down the big guy.
“What the f—” was all he got out before I punched him in the neck. He choked and struggled for air, and while his mouth was agape, I jammed the pistol barrel against his palate and pulled the trigger. His skull split apart and gray matter sprayed the ceiling, and in the same fashion as his wife, fell straight back to the floor.
I took a flannel from the bathroom and wiped my prints from the gun, and the blood off my face, before putting the gun in Mister Reynaud’s hand and taking anything of value. Only a few thousand credit chips and some medals, but of greater value were the clearance codes to the Fer-de-Lance, and Michelle’s list of benefactors.