Schism of Blood and Stone (The Starfield Theory Book 1) (6 page)

“I have the Cassian's guarantee that the mask will work,” Drayton persisted. “The Azuren won't detect the drive at all,” Drayton said and leaned back in his chair, apparently willing to take the Cassian at his word. Chris had dealt with Cassians before, even worked for one briefly. He was lucky to escape with his ship after the Cassian had tried to wrangle it from him.

Nick shook his head vehemently. “We can't do this, Chris. We can't forsake the Commonwealth like that.”

“We're not allied with the Commonwealth,” Drayton interjected quickly.

“No, but we do operate in their space,” Chris reminded him.

“What about Ian, Chris? He gave you the
Cleod
and you'll repay him by making his home a battlefield?” Nick hastily shot back.

Maybe we should return the prisoners to House Evers, instead,” Chris recommended. “I'm sure we'd receive a nice reward from them.”

Drayton leaned forward, holding up a finger. “They have nothing to give us. The Commonwealth is near bankrupt,” Drayton persisted. “There is no place for loyalty here. We are not allied with the Commonwealth so politically we have no responsibility to them whatsoever. We are not a part of their political system nor under the purview of any of their house lords. We are an independent firm and we can easily relocate our operations wherever we please. Besides, this is a humanitarian mission. If the Commonwealth catches the prisoners here, they're likely to be executed just like the Theorist today. I've seen so many executions in my years. I find them crushingly sad and I can't stand to see more of them, not when I could have stopped it.”

“We can't turn our backs on the Commonwealth, Chris. We grew up here, went to school on Goteborg. You're friends with the heir to the ruling house,” Nick protested putting a hand on Chris' forearm before realizing he overstepped his boundaries.

“The Commonwealth is finished. We'd be smart to make friends with Goteborg's new owners,” Drayton continued.

Chris nodded and was silent for some time. Nick had a fair point. Returning Dominion soldiers, especially the general responsible for taking a chunk out of the Commonwealth's flank would be perfidious, but the Commonwealth was slowly collapsing. Lord General Damien's border forces had been depleted after years of fighting the Dominion. House Mercer, longtime allies of Lord Damien and the Sten family had been virtually wiped out. Lord Damien had already several worlds along the border and, powerful as they were, House Evers would not have the military might to repel the forthcoming invasion. Helping the Caephites would improve DLT's standings with them, maybe even bring in additional contracts. Maybe even the high value military contracts, shuttling supplies and troops. Maybe those ties would be strong enough for them to wield some influence in minimizing their damage to civilian infrastructure. They had an opportunity to do some good. Goteborg would fall, but maybe, just maybe, he could make the inevitable less devastating.

“I agree,” Chris said finally. “Goteborg will likely fall to the Dominion. We can do some good, maybe act as mediators between the new Dominion government and the Commonwealth citizens on planet. Let's get the prisoners back to the Dominion so we can pull some favors later. Maybe aiding the Dominion would bring an end to the war and save some lives.”

Nick shook his head and looked away, unwilling to meet his boss's gaze. His tattoos burned furiously.

“Let's get
back to the
MacCleod
and get her ready. I want to get this done with as soon as possible,” Chris said.

“You made the right choice, son,” Drayton said happily as Chris shook his hand. Chris knew the tone to be patronizing, but choose to ignore it.
Let Drayton have his little victory.

Nick was already out the door and down the hall before Chris even left the office.
He'll get over it,
Chris thought as he followed at a distance.
This is merely business, and we have to survive the changing times just like everyone else. I just hope it's enough.

Lord Damien Sten

Duke of Hidelborg, Defender of the Border, The Gray Knight

Crimson Lady,
Goteborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth

______________

Damien felt the familiar lurch and sudden vertigo of falling into space. For a moment he could feel the universe tugging at his mind, pushing him into the immense blackness between the stars. He felt weightless, a sort of weightlessness that only accompanied the loss of a great burden, but, as always, t
he weight returned suddenly and violently as his flagship
Crimson Lady
reemerged in the Goteborg system, hovering above the star's zenith, just a few dozen klicks from the massive stargate. Damien could see the station from the window of his quarters, a huge, spoked testament of human engineering. Hundreds of ships waited in line to jump, forming a long snaking formation of vessels of every size and make.

The
Crimson Lady
powered up her engines and burned away from the stargate towards the system's capital world. The stargates linked the vast human empires together, manipulating the stars' massive gravity to pull space together like two edges of a piece of paper being drawn together. Rather than the ship traveling to its destination, the destination traveled to the ship, allowing vessels to jump a much shorter distance and travel through the depths quickly. Of course, the stargates were never exactly accurate. Forty years earlier, Damien's own father, Archduke Haakon, vanished during a misjump. After an extensive search, the ship and crew were considered lost and the Commonwealth crown went to Peter.

Damien chuckled as he considered the sad coincidence that he, too, might vanish during one of these jumps. He had endured most of the trip in the silence of his own quarters, refusing to speak with the rest of his staff. He had spent that time thinking, plotting and occasionally grumbling. He had been handed a most unfair situation. It seemed so ludicrously out of the ordinary that it was one of those things that actually made him consider the influence of fate and perhaps even the will of some deity like Amrah.

He rubbed his hands together angrily as he stared into the fire lit in his own personal quarters. Being the Archduke's brother and a Commonwealth lord allowed him certain privileges, like fire on board a ship, commonly denied to others. The pulsing warmth helped him relax and the jumping flames allowed his mind to focus better. His eyes followed the dancing flames and sudden cracking of wood. Fire was so much like life: hot, bright, persistent, unpredictable, but so worthy of study. He spent many hours watching the flickering flames.

His private quarters, though spartan in nature to the eyes of a mega-corporation CEO, were luxurious by his usual standards. His desk, a large dark wood structure, was a carefully crafted gift from his holdings on Hidelborg. The armchairs, though old and worn, were one of the few comforts he allowed himself. Despite being barely middle-aged, Damien still had war wounds that bothered him now and again and the stiff, but familiar leather helped grant him some reprieve. The walls were painted black and adorned with the House Sten banner that hung from wall behind his desk. The sigil, a sword laid across an open book, was widely recognizable and signified the Sten dedication to warcraft and statecraft. It bore similarities toward Starfield Theory ideology as well. The two branches of Theorists, Praxis and Pedant were represented by the sword and book respectively. It seemed a happy coincidence, but Damien believed the family's founders were once Theorists as well.

As he tried to relax and ease away the sick feelings of space travel, the image of his nephew, Kristoffer, and the many problems he presented flashed in his mind. The boy was no doubt a near spitting image of his father, pale skin, blue eyes, high cheekbones. The relation between them was so obvious that Damien had no doubt in his mind that the boy was Peter's son. If he put on the uniform he might even pass for a young version of him, as blasphemous as it sounded.

How would he handle the boy? Obviously, he could not be the Archduke. He had no experience, no training, nothing. He hadn't even spent a day in a royal palace, had no idea of the politics, the treachery, the dangers that presented nobility. The theories he learned in his schooling were a nice start, but actual experience was the only way to have any sort of influence. All he did now was pilot a ship under contract with some no-name shipping firm. Damien wondered if he'd bought into that spacer culture, looking like some monstrosity etched with glowing tattoos and ridiculous clothing covered in fuels and lubricants. Though most nobles and common soldiers had the SESE tattoos to interact with their war machines, most used more invisible forms rather than the garish vanity of the spacer culture.

What was Peter thinking!?
Damien raged suddenly, smashing his fist on the armrest.
He went so far in protecting them that he's completely alienated them from their own destiny. And what of these Sørensens? How could they possibly believe he is capable of ruling the Commonwealth? Dietrich has finally lost his mind.

And why had Peter never revealed the children to me?

The thought sobered him instantly. As the de facto heir to the throne, Damien had a right to know the developments of the line of succession. And, on a lesser, but still important note, Peter was his brother. He thought they had developed a mutual trust over the years. The children were his niece and nephew! Members of his own family. What made Peter keep them secret for twenty-five years? Did he fear Damien or Salena would attempt to have them killed as Arthur died? Had their relationship really become so strained over the years that Peter could no longer trust him with his secrets?

Damien furrowed his brow. “
I had nothing to do with Arthur's death,” he whispered to the crackling flame. “I would not harm my own kin. Why did my brother not trust me? Why would be put us in this situation?”

The fire did not answer his questions.

“Bah!” Damien lurched from the chair and kicked the logs from the fire, sending embers and ash scattering. He observed his destruction for a moment before collecting his thick overcoat and headed into the hallway. The
Crimson Lady
was an ancient warship so her hallways were narrow and lined with pipes and access consoles lit only every few meters by illumination panels set into the ceiling. Besides the fireplace and weapons upgrades, Damien had ordered no major changes to the vessel. She remained largely as she was when she was build nearly a thousand years ago when the Commonwealth was still young and humanity still possessed the technology to build such massive star ships. She had spent her life on the border fighting the Dominion and safeguarding Commonwealth territory just as Damien had. They were kindred spirits in a way. Damien gently followed a length of pipe with his fingertips.
The only woman in my life
, he thought somberly.

His solitude was beginning to be too much. He needed answers and another keen mind with whom to discuss them. He weaved his way through the ship's halls, returning salutes from the few officers he encountered. They recognized his presence and his authority, but none of them went out of their ways to acknowledge him. They were all his veteran crew, and they knew better than to bother him with needless military pomp. Damien wore no identifying markers on his destrier either preferring to move across the battlefield as if he were just the lowliest of recruits. The enemy would not waste ammunition on such a low level target, at least so he believed. He had spent his entire life in combat and the fact that he still lived provided some evidence for his theories.

Damien headed for the docking bay and settled into his personal shuttle. He ordered the pilot to take him to Sir Aaron's command ship donated from House Mercer. The
Scarlet Light
was younger than the
Crimson Lady,
but not by much, a few centuries at most. It sat halfway between the stargate and Garda Station as part of the defensive fleet Damien had left in place before leaving for Remmington.

His shuttle docked without incident, but he declined the duty officer's request to contact Sir Aaron and assemble him for a meeting. He wanted to see what the young knight was up to. Apparently, he was in the ship's gym. Damien made his way there startling knights, sergeants and ships' crew as he went. No one expected the Lord General to be back so soon or present on the
Scarlet Light.

The gym was nearly empty, reserved for Sir Aaron's workout. Inside, Aaron and another woman were sparring with blunted blades. They were fit, and dedicated warriors, still possessing the strength of youth. He longed for those days again when he could fight without feeling tired, sore and old. He paused a safe distance away and watched.

Sir Aaron Mercer-Sten kept his blade high, feet shoulder-length apart, his muscles rippling and tense from his effort. He was lean man, standing 1.8 meters tall. his short black hair was slicked with sweat and his Mercer emerald eyes narrowed in concentration. Reyna, his opponent, a woman a head shorter with fiery red hair tied in a ponytail behind her head held a relaxed almost arrogant stance, resting easily on the balls of her feet. Her blunted blade held low and away made her look exhausted. She was not tired, he knew, only waiting.

Aaron struck quickly, swinging high at her face, forcing her to flick up her blade and deflect the blow. She recovered and pushed ahead, knocking Aaron back a step off balance. He swung desperately, but she slipped away under the blade. She circled him mercilessly, like a bird of prey watching for weakness. She attacked swiftly when Aaron did not turn quickly enough to track her, but realized too late it was a trap. He deftly blocked each thrust and swing with precision drilled into him through two decades of practice.

When she seemed to exhaust herself against his defenses he retaliated with a vicious chop to her head which she narrowly evaded. He pursued, pushing her further back. He aimed low, swinging at her knee and her desperate bid to avoid the hit resulted in her tumbling to the mat. Aaron pounced and left his blade hovering half an inch from her throat.

“Got you,” he said, breathless.

“It's a trade,” she gasped back.

Damien arced an eyebrow seeing her blade a hairsbreadth from his crotch. Whether she was looking to cut his femoral artery or castrate him he wasn't sure. It was hard to tell with Reyna. He smiled in spite of himself, encouraged to see the next generation as skilled and tireless as his own.

“Well fought,” Damien shouted at them. They both jerked their heads to look at their lord commander then quickly bowed in the formal method on one knee, blades extended hilt first.

He waved off the formality while approaching them. “You know better than this. There's no one else here.”

Aaron got to his feet first. “One should always respect seniority,” he said.

Damien snorted. “Titles never stopped an autocannon nor a blade. Remember that, Sir Aaron. Formality is for ceremonies and other silly displays of pomp.”

“But you are the Archduke now. That must count for something?” The young knight asked expectantly.

Damien blinked, his sudden cheer vanished as quickly as it had appeared. There was no point in delaying his disappointment. He had worked out in his mind just how to explain the meeting with Dietrich Sørensen to his subordinates, but he decided the truth was more effective than any twist he could imagine. He had been snubbed – again. Dishonored, disrespected, and discarded, a lifetime of selfless service cast aside.

Damien took a deep breath. “No. I am not privileged enough to be granted such a title.”

Aaron frowned deeply. “Salena then?”

“She also was not selected by the Sørensen council.”

Reyna narrowed her brow. “Then...who? Surely Dietrich did not select himself. The Sørensens would never survive a coup attempt.”

Damien nodded. “They are not so foolish. However, my brother found some free time in which to produce offspring after Arthur's death. They are twins and the eldest of which, the male, has been awarded control of the Commonwealth.”

“You jest,” Reyna said laughing. “Where have they been hiding these children? Just in time to take over for their father when he dies mysteriously?”

Damien sighed loudly. “I sincerely wish I was joking. Before her suicide, Duchess Ciara gave birth to twins, one male, Kristoffer, and one female, Claire, who were both secretly integrated into the population on Goteborg and grew up under the watchful eye of the Sørensens as subjects of House Evers. With Peter's death, Kristoffer Sten is now the heir to be as Dietrich Sørensen commands,” he said mockingly.

“I smell a Sørensen plot to put a puppet on the throne,” she continued. “They have a certain stench, my lord.”

Reyna's eyes twinkled brightly as they did when she caught some subordinate in a lie or figured out the Dominion's strategy before they had even executed it. Reyna was Damien's chief logistics officer on loan with Sir Aaron from House Mercer. She possessed a keen intellect and sound mind for strategy. On more than one occasion he'd seen her and Aaron discussing some matter of Commonwealth policy intensely. He had hoped her quick wit might rub off some on Aaron and apparently it had to good effect. Aaron was a good commander and wiser than his thirty-five years, but his Mercer upbringing had left a few rough edges including a tendency towards self doubt and hesitation. Damien hoped Reyna might correct those short comings and give him the confidence he needed to make difficult decisions.

At one time, Damien and Reyna had shared
a
thing
, though neither seemed quite sure what it was. They had spent considerable time alone, perhaps more than was proper for Commonwealth royalty and lowborn subject. While most couples might talk about when they first met or whatever gossip they found to their liking, Damien and Reyna reminisced about battles past and discussed military doctrine and tactics with just the same sort of enthusiasm and intimacy. She was intoxicating, he realized, but there was something about her that was oddly out of place. She was highly intelligent, of course, but also possessed something violent, dark and frightening. He wondered, albeit privately, if Aaron had begun to take a liking to her. He would have given them his blessing if they only asked for it, but her secrets ran deep, and like Damien, she owed her allegiance to entities beyond the Commonwealth alone.