Читать книгу South of the Ecliptic - Donald Ph.D. Ladew - Страница 4

Chapter 1

The messenger stood at attention in the portside entry. He read the invitation in a voice meant for the parade ground.

"His Majesty, Karl Tellemann the XVIII of his line, requests the presence of Sir Aubrey Piehl, TSV; Commander, 3^rd Brigade Mars Legion, to attend his birthday celebration at the Royal Palace on the 212th day of the 1816th year of the Imperium. It is requested that the General be present in dress uniform with honors at 19:00 hours on the day specified with a senior officer as aide.”

He rolled the invitation carefully and handed it to Piehl. “Should the General wish, transport will be made available."

There was a second invitation. Piehl filled in the name of his aide. He signed his acceptance while the messenger waited. The messenger saluted and left.

Uniform, and medals, strange. Piehl thought.

Piehl knew little of the King even though he had been nominal head of the forces who defeated the Legion seven years earlier. The King had the reputation of never doing anything without a plan.

Damn, I have no desire to be pulled into some political game, Piehl thought.

These were difficult times. Piehl took work as an independent merchant captain, and was between jobs… again. His ship, the I.M.S. Goddard, was laid up in third-class dock on Regent IV, home of the Royal Family, political center of the Federal Union of planets. Independent merchant was another definition of couldn’t get regular work.

Piehl headed up-ship toward the flight deck.

“Why does the King want me at his birthday bash? I better call Flex.” Flex was his partner in the freighting business and a former Flight Major in the Legion. Piehl had acquired the habit of talking aloud even though no one else was present.

When Flex arrived Piehl handed him the invitation. "Have a look at this; tell me what you make of it?

Flex looked it over, checked both sides, felt it between fingertips. It wasn’t a forgery and it didn’t appear to be a practical joke.

“Why would he invite us to his annual soiree?" Piehl asked.

"Damned if I know, sir, but it's the real thing."

Piehl closed his eyes and thought for a long moment, then sighed. "All right, dress uniform, shoulder braid of a General's aide. Clean it up, we're going."

"Sure, Captain, good food, lots of pretty women." Flex was easygoing.

The afternoon of the King’s Birthday Party, they spent several hours putting their kit in order. It had been packed away in the aft hold and in no condition to wear.

“I wonder if the King would be surprised to see us shining our own boots,” Flex laughed.

They drank spacer's brandy and talked of inconsequential things. It was almost nine years since Piehl had a man to look after things like shining boots and keeping uniforms neat. A grim memory: Private Kersey, killed when Piehl's ship was destroyed at the final Battle north west of Vincent's planet.

By rights I should have been killed too, Piehl thought, and in his darker moments felt it would have been better if he had; preferably by the last shot in the last battle, that was the way to go, but he wasn’t one to dwell on things that couldn’t be changed.

It was the first time they had worn the uniform in many years. Piehl looked Flex over. He was something to see in the dark green, gold and black of the Legion with full medals and cape.

Piehl stood in front of the mirror. It was difficult to see himself objectively. The last time he'd worn the full uniform he'd been 29 years standard and just brevetted Brigadier, and Commander into the 3^rd Brigade.

He murmured with a mixture of disgust and regret.. "Back then, my hair was black and there was a lot more of it."

He took a last look over the uniform and straightened the sash that gave him the right to put Sir in front of his name.

There was strength in the uniform. Good lines; strong colors, the way a ship should look. Flex handed him the round flat-topped Kepi, a tradition of the Legion said to go back four thousand years.

They both had another brandy and made jokes, trying to suppress emotions long buried. It was pain worse than wounds in the flesh. It ground on the marrow of their existence, it put an end to their highest goals.

They joined the Legion as boys of fifteen years standard. It was the only life. To rise high and serve. Piehl had been in the Legion twenty-five years and Flex twelve. It was all they knew except childhood, and then it was no more.

"Some fool said losing a battle is easy to forget," Piehl murmured. "That's crap, Flex, just the opposite. The memories get stronger with each passing year."

Flex nodded. "Aye, Captain, that they do."

On the evening of the affair, the King sent a car with a liveried driver. The man was efficient, and Piehl guessed a member of the Household Guard. He was meticulously turned out and formal. Piehl sensed respect, even admiration.

At the palace the King's imprint was everywhere. He liked fine things and hadn't spared the credits. The main building was over five hundred years old, built by the present King's distant ancestor. Tall, graceful spires and oval shaped buildings in multi-tiered layers connected by delicate bridges and walkways. Piehl had been there in better days.

Once at the palace, at the outer reception, Flex was quickly surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women vying to be his escort. He took the women's interest as natural, as he always had; no more than he was due.

Piehl lacked the ability, still he tried to act as though he was having a good time. The receiving line in the main hall was long, which gave him time to remember some of the faces of years past. Just ahead a small erect man in a somber cloak and the sash of a Star-Lord spoke in an intentionally loud and grating voice.

"I see the King has invited the pitiful dregs of the past, the whipped dogs of the sad old Mars Legion to spice up his evening. He'd do better to send that riffraff to the mines instead of parading them in front of their betters."

An Out-System Admiral of the Imperial Navy Piehl didn't recognize turned on the Star-Lord.

"That man, Trone, is not riffraff. You'd do well to remember it, and your manners."

Trone just raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Piehl felt as if every ounce of blood in his body was in his face.

Flex's hand was on his arm. "Ignore it, Captain," Flex said in a stage whisper, "less than a pimple on a the ass of progress."

Piehl looked at the Star-Lord carefully, committing his face to memory. He was an older man in his sixties. The name was familiar.

When Piehl reached a point in front of Trone, an aide stepped forward to introduce them.

"Sir Claren, may I present Brigadier General Sir Aubrey Jerrad Piehl, TSV. General; Sir Claren Trone, Lord Darien Sur-Maine."

Trone had a tight contemptuous curl to his lip. He stared at Piehl.

Piehl stood straight; at two and a half meters he towered over the diminutive Star-Lord. Piehl had the soldier’s way. He stared down at the smaller man. He didn't offer his hand or take the Star-Lord's when it was offered. Piehl spoke to him in the flat, piercing bark of the flight deck.

"You are rude, Trone, in a house where you are a guest. Perhaps you feel safe here. You are not safe from me, little man. Kings are often plagued by human lice who insult their hospitality and kindness. I would consider it an act of fealty to remove such lice from the Royal coat. Do you understand me, little man!"

He leaned forward into Trone's face and put a lot of snap into the “little man”.

The slack, mottled flesh of Trone's neck turned red pale, but his reptilian expression never changed.

He hissed. "Who..who..do you...think you are...talking to, criminal!" He was so filled with rage the words exploded out a fragment at a time. "You should have been exterminated nine years ago. This night when you go back to your pitiful ship, look in the mirror. It may be the last time, General." The last word was spoken with a sneer of contempt.

Piehl couldn't hold himself back. "You don't have to wait, lice. Begin exterminating now if you've the stomach for it."

Trone started to bring his hand up and the King's aide deftly stepped between them and had Piehl moving down the line so smoothly the incident seemed unreal. Piehl knew it wasn't. When he looked back Trone's malevolent stare never wavered.

Piehl felt stupid, thin-skinned. Hell and damn, first time out in decent company in years and I'm ready to kill someone. Well done, Piehl.

When they reached the out-system admiral they came to attention and rendered him formal salute. Piehl thought how the profession of arms was such a small, exclusive club. It wasn't unusual for one military man to know everything about another though they'd never met.

The aide moved forward to introduce them. "Admiral, may I present Brigadier General Sir Aubrey Jerrad Piehl, Commander 3^rd Brigade, Mars Legion, and Flight Major John Hathaway Holtzman. Gentlemen, Admiral Carstairs McClellan Commanding, 7^th Fleet in Hercules."

So this is ‘Carsty’ McClelland, Piehl thought.

The admiral impulsively shoved out his hand and shook their hands.

"Yes, by God, if you'd lasted three months beyond Vincent's it would have taken us another ten years to get the job done and by then most of the fleet would have gone over to the Legion. Wretched stupid business!" he boomed, as if all the universe was his flight deck and he'd never learned to tone down to a smaller world.

"Damn me, I might have gone over myself just to see how you did it." He turned to Flex. "I know you too, young man. You were in our files as the best pilot in the Legion. They call you Flex and we called Piehl, inflexible." His laughter boomed around the reception area.

He paused, then looking at both men, spoke in a loud voice. "We were on different sides, but I am proud of you both. You're military men. You fought with honor and courage. I am damned well pleased to finally make your acquaintance."

They both came to attention, saluted, thanked him and reluctantly moved down the line. That little encounter went a long way toward removing the odor of Trone from the air.

Piehl made no mistake about Lord Darien Sur-damned-Maine. He realized the man had been his enemy long before he attended the King's birthday party.

The rest of the evening was uneventful except for one thing. The King made a point of speaking with Piehl personally. He was a tall man with a ruddy complexion; “Child of Orion” some of the court astrologers said, because of his reddish hair.

He had a powerful presence. He didn't speak directly of the war, but his comments were obvious. He had a strong, clear voice and knew how to use it.

"Sir Aubrey, if a man's greatness were measured by the quality of his enemies I would be thought a great man indeed. Personally I would rather be remembered for the quality of my friends. I regret that you weren't my friend in past years. I hope we will be able to repair that error of history."

Piehl admired him so he was able to reply with sincerity.

"Your Highness, perhaps we already have."

"Ahhh...now that would be fine, much to my liking, General Piehl. Some wars should never be fought. They are for the satisfaction and gain of one or two men over things which are indefinable, and indefensible as reasons in any moral sense."

He was even a bit mysterious. "Old wrongs do not always fade in history, or in memory, but they can be made right in the present. Then perhaps one can create new, more honorable pages in history."

He was a polished speaker and it was obvious his audience was seldom limited to the person in front of him.

Deep space here, Piehl thought.

Later as they were making their farewells the King spoke quietly. "General Piehl, perhaps we shall meet again, if not in person, then through another known to both of us."

Piehl didn't know what to make of that so he bowed and said he was at the King's service and meant it. Flex said later that he'd met an equerry of the King who asked if they might meet quietly in a week or so to discuss some shipping business.

On the ride back to the ship they said little, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Piehl thought of Trone and decided they'd better take care when they went about their business in the future. Trone wasn't the type to let an insult pass, and Piehl's outburst at the ball definitely put him in that category.