South of the Ecliptic. Donald Ph.D. Ladew
South of the Ecliptic
by
Donald Ladew
South of the Ecliptic
Copyright © 2011 Donald P. Ladew
All rights reserved. No part of this book
May be reproduced or transmitted in any
Form or by any means without written
Permission of the author.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0317-5
| This book is dedicated to all my friends in the BGA. |
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, 3rd 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 3rd 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,