51. Dancing on Fire

New Toledo, Vidako

Imperium Stellarum

December 23, 2847

It took two days at the Palacio de las Orquídeas before Arc was able to actually get into a cockpit.

Esteban and Marcus were on his team from the moment he had explained the circumstances of the duel to them, that first day in the cigar room. Unfortunately, neither one of them actually piloted a Tagma, which was, as Cassie had pointed out, the closest thing at hand to a Janissary. The two mechs in question were piloted by, respectively, Lieutenant Pilar de Estrada and Lieutenant Willard Lysholm, the final two members of the ducal guard’s mech squad.

Pilar was the more agreeable of the two; when she joined them in the cigar room, just after lunch on their second day at the duke’s palace, she snapped to attention and saluted Commander Esteban Alarcón Montalban with deliberateness and precision. She was, Arc observed, not a large woman—but then, a mech pilot didn’t need to be a mountain of muscle. And since she specialized in land-based combat, rather than in space, she’d never needed to undergo the training meant to help her pilot under crushing g forces.

Unlike you, Iceni nagged him, as Marcus lit another cigar. You don’t have any genetic modifications to increase lung efficiency or prevent cancerous growths. If you really want us to pilot a Kestrel, we should not be breathing in chemical-laced tobacco smoke. It is revolting.

We’re being polite, Arc told her. We need their help. Putting up with a little cigar smoke for a few days isn’t the end of the world.

He could practically hear the AI muttering in the back of his mind while Esteban explained the situation to Lieutenant Estrada.

“—which is why Arc here needs time in a cockpit over the next few weeks,” the duke’s younger brother explained. “We don’t actually have any Janissaries, but the Tagmas are close enough to at least get him started.”

“You want me to loan the cadet my mech during the times that I’m off duty,” Pilar said. Her dark eyes flicked over to where Arc and Cassie sat next to each other in cushioned seats of soft leather.

“Actually, no,” Esteban said. “I want you to train him. We’ll put him in Willard’s mech, and you can take him out to the range and show him a few things.”

“I expect comp time if I’m giving up my off-duty hours,” Estrada said. “Approved by Lieutenant Colonel Marín.”

“You’ll get it,” Marcus promised. “I’ll bring the old lady a bottle of her favorite tequila.”

Pilar Estrada nodded. “Once her orders come through, then, I’m all yours.” She turned back to face Arc and Cassie. “I hope you don’t waste my time, cadet.”

“I won’t,” Arc said.

After that conversation, he thought that Willard Lysholm might be the more difficult conversation of the two—especially once he saw the man. Estrada was so young that Arc was certain she’d only done a single tour of duty with fleet, and Esteban confirmed it—but Lysholm was at least a decade older.

“She’s one of the pilots my brother sponsored to the academy,” the older man explained. “With the understanding that as soon as her obligations to the imperium were met, she served in his guard.”

“Willard’s another case entirely,” Marcus said, but would not explain further.

Lysholm entered the cigar room with the attitude of a whipped dog: half afraid that he was about to be struck, half snarling. His face was lined, his hair mostly gone to gray, and he seemed allergic to making eye contact with anyone else—especially the princess imperial at Arc’s side.

“It won’t cause you any trouble, Willard,” Esteban explained. “The kid’ll use your ride while you’re off duty, and it’ll be waiting for you when your next shift starts. The chair won’t even be warm when you sit down.”

“It’s my mech,” Lysholm grumbled, shoulders hunched.

“It’s Duke Montalban’s mech,” Marcus broke in. “Your ass just rides in it when he lets you. But we aren’t taking anything away from you, Willard. Just trying to help a kid out. You can do that, can’t you?”

Lysholm opened his mouth, glanced over at Cassie, and then clearly reconsidered what he had been about to say. “I get comp time?”

“You will,” Esteban promised. “So long as I don’t have to sober you up at the end of it. Is that understood, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.” Lysholm saluted, turned on his heel, and left the room.

“He’s a bit old to be a lieutenant, isn’t he?” Cassie asked, her brow furrowed, once the door had closed and the departed pilot wouldn’t be able to hear them.

“I’d guess he was busted down,” Arc said, turning to glance at Esteban for confirmation.

The duke’s brother nodded, but it was Marcus who actually answered their questions. “Yeah.” He took a puff on his cigar. “Yeah, he was. Made it to Lieutenant Commander aboard the Basiliscus, I think.”

“And the Licinius before that,” Estaban answered, taking a sip of brandy from his tumbler. “But it was the Basiliscus where everything fell apart. HD 189733 b.”

Arc and Cassie exchanged a glance.

“A planet?” he asked.

“More like hell,” Marcus said, with a grunt.

Esteban leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “A gas giant,” he explained. “The way I understand it—and Willard won’t talk about it—the Basiliscus got called in to rescue a xeno-archeology team, about five years back. Apparently the Church of the Progenitors funded it. They found some kind of floating derelict station in the upper atmosphere. Sent in a team—”

“Through an atmosphere that rains molten glass,” Marcus added.

“—and everything went to shit,” Esteban continued. “The whole thing’s classified, but afterwards our lieutenant was released from service.”

“You can see it in the man’s eyes sometimes,” Marcus said. “The ghosts.”

Arc sat back in his chair and turned to meet Cassie’s eyes. “You ever heard of this?”

“No, but I would have been thirteen at the time,” she answered. “There’s no reason I would have. I might be able to find out more, depending on what level of clearance is required. Or I could just ask my father the next time I see him.”

“It’s interesting, but I’m not sure it’s relevant right now,” Arc said, shaking his head. “As long as he’s willing to loan me his mech, I think we’re good.”

𝝮

And so, on the morning of the twenty-third of December, Arc climbed into the cockpit of a vibrantly painted F-2 Tagma. Whether Lieutenant Colonel Marín’s approval had been motivated by the request of her duke’s younger brother, or by the presence of a princess imperial, was unclear. Arc hadn’t actually talked to her personally, but the orders and approvals had come through.

He, Cassie, and Santiago, the duke’s son, took a car over to the base on the east side of New Toledo where they were waved through by the guards at the entrance. Lieutenant Estrada waited for them at the hangar, where two identical Tagma’s stood next to each other, rope ladders hanging down from the cockpits. Every plate of armor was painted the same bright red, save for a few flourishes of equally fiery orange. It was the difference between mechs meant to be seen, and mechs meant for battle.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.