The construct looked fairly simple, with habitation rings and dockyards around a tubular central axis. The top and bottom of said axis ended in thick rings, bearing the beginnings of weapons batteries, sensor masts, and shield generators.
“A substantial investment, is it not?” He asked.
“Depends on the inside.” His chief of staff replied, tracing the edges of his manicured beard. “The superstructure ought to cost a fat lira, but the machinery he puts inside will determine the final price tag.”
“He’s probably gutting the old stations’ internals.” His intelligence officer offered. “We’re seeing a lot of heavy lifter traffic between the four orbitals, and their heat signature is getting smaller and smaller by the day.”
Colombo’s eyebrows jumped at that.
“Smart, though there is a lot to be said about the quality. According to what scant few records we have, they were built on a shoestring budget.”
“He could be refurbishing the machines before putting them to work in the new station, sir.” The intelligence officer countered. “New air filters, cleaner reactor fuel, stronger water pumps…the works. For all we know, his men are salvaging the machines for the few useful components they have and building the rest from scratch.”
Either way, such an investment of time, money, and human resources showed, once again, that the Duke wasn’t just another warlord. He must’ve had support of substantial industry back in his home system, or some method to earn hard currency.
That realization filled Colombo with a strange feeling. The Duke may prove to be the ally the Republican Navy needed all along, and that brought him immense hope. Yet deep in his mind he knew, that the greater the Duke’s offerings…the greater the price.
—
Minister Joshua Akreites patiently waited at the hangar, surrounded by the welcoming committee assembled for the Leonian envoy. The welcoming arrangements were lean, mean, and militaristic; the perfect kind of advertisement for an alliance-seeking rebel group. A platoon of marines had been assembled in full regalia, while banners showing the Akritan and Nimbian insignia had been erected along the walls.
The welcoming committee itself consisted of Joshua himself, Governor Luka Belloti, the newly promoted Captain Julian Webb —his nephew’s former logistics officer— and Commander Pike, the navy’s attaché to the foreign ministry.
Webb had received a promotion to full commander right after Nimbus’s liberation, and he was one of the first officers to be ‘loaned’ to the Federal Navy. The nascent military organization had next to no officers, aside from a couple of more agreeable ex-wardens and former royal navy officers who’d been sent over as political prisoners.
Unfortunate as the situation might be for their ally, Joshua knew it played in the dynasty’s favor. They’d already shipped the first batch of officer candidates to the newly built naval academy at Bridgehead Station on Pollux, where they would receive training in Akritan naval doctrine. Just as with the Polarii Navy, the Federal Navy would form close ties with the Duke’s.
‘And that’s not even the full extent of my nephew’s plans. Truly, we raised him well.’
Joshua and his brother-in-law had been firm believers in the value of realpolitik, constrained as their ambitions may have been under the rigid political system of Nova Roma. To see the man they’d raised adopt their philosophy, and put it to use in such a volatile, fertile environment… filled his cybernetic heart with pride.
—
“Contrammiraglio?” A voice awakened Colombo.
“Mm, yes?” He muttered, looking around as he realized he’d fallen asleep in his seat.
Looking towards the voice’s origin, Colombo found one of his bodyguards looking at him.
The woman wore her ‘dress blues’, a hastily assembled dress uniform the Fleet Admiral himself commissioned for the first anniversary celebrations of Independence Day. Silver buttons and rank insignia decorated the Republican Navy’s dark blue synthfiber instead of the Veisgolt insignia and decorations used in royalist uniforms.
“We’re about to arrive at Victoria Station, sir. If you would please prepare yourself for the reception ceremony.”
“You have my thanks.” Colombo acknowledged dusting and straightening his uniform, while glancing about the pinnace.
The transport craft was among the equipment ‘liberated’ from the royal navy during the opening days of the Revolutionary War, and as such built to a higher standard of comfort than more modern examples built in republican factories and shipyards. That meant springier, wider seats, totaling just sixteen to republican shuttlecrafts’ eighteen to twenty.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
As he looked about, he found the rest of his diplomatic team was also getting ready for disembarkation. These were more than just officers; they’d been selected for their expertise in diplomacy, intelligence, strategy, and economics to aid in the upcoming negotiations. Hopefully, they’d be enough to ensure the republic got a good deal out of the duke.
…
The pilot’s voice sounded from the intercom, appraising the passengers of their landing at the designated hangar bay.
One marine checked the sensors just outside the door before nodding back and confirming that the environment outside was breathable. Though the variety of safeties and handshake protocols between station and pinnace would warn both crew and passengers in the unlikely case they tried to disembark into the vacuum, manually checking basic sensors worked wonders in reassuring everyone that they were not, in fact, about to have the very air sucked out of their lungs.
The door opened with a hiss, unfolding into a staircase as it touched down on the gritty hangar floor.
Colombo took a deep breath, his lips forming into a well-practiced smile as he walked into view of the hangar. His eyes scanned the large chamber, taking in the conditions inside the station and the various decorations.
Soldiers dressed in formal black and gold uniforms flanked the path to the welcoming committee, marked by a red carpet. Large crimson banners covered the walls, some emblazoned with the golden avian of the Akritan Dynasty, while others bore six silver stars.
The latter made him flinch; why in the stars did Nimbus have its own flag?
He dismissed the thought, suppressing a frown; now was not the time.
Where a band might’ve usually welcomed him during his days as an officer in the Royal Navy, music played from the hangar’s speakers. Marching music, he soon realized; nothing else had such a strong, yet regular tempo. Not his regular cup of tea, but he kept up the smile. It wasn’t bad…just different.
Twenty steps between armed and proud-looking marines later, He arrived in front of the welcoming committee with his team in tow.
“Contrammiraglio Perella, I assume?” The chubby man at the center asked, reaching out for a handshake with a smooth, confident smile. “I’m Minister Polanski-Akrites, Akritan Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
‘This must be the second in command.’ Colombo thought, firmly clasping the man’s hand. “You assume correctly, Minister. Thank you for the warm welcome.”
“Think nothing of it, Contrammiraglio.” The Minister said, shaking his head lightly. “Ah, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce you to these fine men over here.”
As he turned to face the three men, the minister introduced the first. “It is my pleasure to introduce Governor Luka Belloti, chief executive of the Nimbian Free Federation.”
‘Ah, they’re trying to make him look important.’ Colombo thought, looking at the man dressed in a simple long-sleeved tunic and cargo pants.
He expected to find near-vacant or wandering eyes, but they were sharp as a blade. Was this a puppet, or an earnest collaborator? Colombo decided he would take the ‘Governor’ seriously…for now.
“Ah, a fellow Leonian. How do you do, Governor?” He clasped the man’s hand.
The governor’s eyes twitched at his mention of their shared ancestry.
Colombo saw it but said nothing. Now was not the time to play on the ‘patriotism’ card…especially with people who might hold a grudge for their unique terms of imprisonment by the kingdom.
“Quite well and getting better every day.” Belloti curtly replied, his handshake tightening before he let go.
Colombo sent back some boilerplate reply, but his mind was caught on the issue of Nimbus’s loyalty.
The stations had been running for decades; there had to be a sizeable number of children whose first taste of freedom was served on an Akritan plate. It was a… worrisome situation.
“Here is Captain Julian Webb of the Federal Navy, the commander of Victoria Station.”
The captain was young, and definitely not Leonian. His skin was paler, and his facial features more defined. No, this man was Akritan. A transfer, then?
“You’ve assembled quite a sight for the eyes, Captain. I’m sure your station will look marvelous by the date of its completion.” He complimented the captain, gesturing around the hangar.
Captain Webb smiled at his compliment. “I’m just the face of the operation, sir, but thank you on behalf of my engineers and work crews. I hope you have a productive stay.”
“As do I, Captain.” Colombo honestly replied, turning to the last man.
Hardly anything to note about the captain, except that he seemed rather passionate about his work. He didn’t look or speak like a political animal. That particular ‘feature’ was far more common with officers born to the purple, like himself.
Colombo’s noble upbringing and his past socialization with men and women of equal social rank meant he’d been knee-deep in politics since he could walk. Yet during his tenure in the Republican Navy, he’d learned that most of the officers, especially those below flag rank, were apolitical…save for their hate of anything related to royalty or nobility.
That thought made him frown, as he considered just how many among the navy would have an adverse reaction to hearing of an alliance with another hereditary monarch in a revolution against the nobility. It was only a passing thought; he couldn’t let his host wait. In any case, victory would drown out the nay-sayers.
“—is Commander Pike, the foreign ministry’s naval attaché.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Commander.” Colombo shook the man’s hand.
“Likewise, Contrammiraglio.” A steady, inflectionless voice replied, pronouncing his formal title to perfection.
The officer screamed ‘naval intelligence’, with a picture-perfect smile that never reached his appraising stare. There was no unconscious movement, no twitches or micro-expressions. His face was downright serene…and that made Colombo feel a bone-chilling realization.
‘The duke has spooks.’
Training a navy was ‘easy’. Building big ships and infrastructure ‘just’ needed money. You could do both with just time and money. Running an intelligence agency? That needed some insane dedication. The kind that was usually borne out of ideological fervor…or absolute loyalty.
“Contrammiraglio,” The minister called his attention. “If you would please follow me, the Duke has arranged for us to talk over dinner, and is awaiting our presence.”
“Very well, Minister. Lead the way.”
Rest, relax and enjoy the weekend as much as you can! Don't drink and drive, don't drive and drink. No touching the ole' Colombian, that money's best served buying you Big Macs. Don't touch Jimmy, he likes it. Love your loved ones, and make sure your friends know why you hang out with them.
awesome if you wrote a review! It draws more people in, and gives me more reasons to keep writing!