“The Tomahawk Incident” is the first book in a series taking place in the “Æsterverse.” 

In the Æsterverse, a strange, gaseous substance called the Æster blankets two-thirds of the Earth’s surface, it’s clouds stretching from the poles to twenty-three degrees north and south latitude. Of the superconductive and highly corrosive clouds many properties, it’s greatest is the Draw. The Draw pulls objects upward into it, beginning from the Æster floor at ten thousand feet. Thus, not only do heavier than air Æsterships prowl the clouds, but entire cities float, suspended between gravity and the draw. Beneath the æster’s glowering cloud cover, the Cities of Light stand as beacons of civilization. The greatest is London, an expression of British imperial might standing in defiance against the darkness. But there are other empires in on the ground. Britain’s enemies, the Ottoman Empire and the Chinese have their own cities of light and æsterships. But for all their terrestrial power, they are unaware that forces are moving in the skies above them that threaten them all. 

The Tomahawk Incident is the story of Rescue Marine Major Katja Kryzanowski. A failed assassination attempt is her first warning that she’s become embroiled in a war she knows nothing about - nor does anyone else on the ground. The warlord Asher Koora follows a mystical prophecy that he believes will lead him to absolute rulership over the skies. And his seers have identified Katja Kryzanowski as a threat to his ascension.

The department heads were crowded in Fitz’ cabin. They’d already been over the attack on her and she was glad to no longer be the center of attention.

        “Why would they want to move the pre-departure briefing to Admiralty command in London instead of keeping it at the military aeroport?” Commander Mark Gaines asked. The Tomahawk’s Executive Officer leaned against the inside of the door rolling the coffee around in his cup.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to, Mark. It’s certainly about the Juno and the Balboa,” Fitz replied.  

        Juno was a research ship from the Royal Æster Sciences Institute; the second ship reported missing, six months ago. Built for the worst conditions the æster could offer, well captained and crewed, the giant ship’s disappearance raised serious questions. “They are trying to keep a lid on things, but everyone knows something is up.”

Her superior, Colonel Bill Garrett asked, “Why do I get the feeling you know a lot more about this than you’re telling us, Sir?” 

        “Not as much as I’d like,” Fitz replied. “And I don’t want anyone running off on a half-ration of information, so I’m going to keep my suspicions to myself until we get confirmation from the Admiralty. There are enough rumors as it is.”

“Is there a threat to the ship?” Katja asked.

        “I don’t know,” Fitz replied. “But I’m not willing to ignore the possibility. I’d much rather have your marines on edge for no reason the whole trip out than run the risk of something slipping by.”

 Lieutenant Commander Ben Thompson, Tomahawk’s weapons officer chimed in, “Well, someone’s going to have to get close enough to board us before Bill’s marines get involved. I don’t have any intention of letting that happen.”

Bill looked at him. “Speaking of that, what happened to our small arms requisition? That should have been taken care of weeks ago.”

“My people never saw it. Did you get it in?” 

Bill narrowed his eyes at the Weapons Officer. “You know we did, what are your people doing?”

Fitz interrupted. “If you two want to joust, do it after this meeting.” 

Bill was still eyeing the Weapons Officer. “I’ll bring the horses.” 

“You do that,” Ben replied.  

        Commander Mike Sykes, the Chief Engineer, a big Australian from the grain belt that used to be the Outback, spoke up. “Well, if we are making guesses, I’d put my money on the Ottomans.”

        Mark Gaines nodded. “It’s a good bet.”

        Fitz put up his hands looking exasperated. “Was I just talking to myself? I said I don’t want a bunch of speculation going on. If you start thinking in one direction, you close off other avenues. I want us all to keep the channels open. I’ve been instructed to not discuss anything, even suspicions with the other hatchet captains.”

         There was an uncomfortable murmur in the room. Rescue ships were colloquially referred to as Hatchets in the Admiralty. Their design was brutally straightforward, some people even called them ugly. Like a hatchet, they cut straight through the BS, was the saying within the Rescue Service.

 “There is a developing situation and since we’re the first ones out of port we’re being aimed at it. We’ll know more after the pre-departure briefing, so keep your speculations to yourselves until then.” He stood up. “That will be all. I’m planning on seeing all of you at the Admiralty ball tonight.” Fitz stared at her. “And I do mean everyone.”

        Katja opened her mouth to reply, but Bill beat her to it. “Kelly’s already got her committed to being there. If she begs off, Kelly will have her head on a platter.”

Katja glowered at his triumphant look. There was a chuckle in the room.  

“Very well, if she doesn’t show up, I’m holding you responsible, Colonel,” Fitz warned. 

The Tomahawk Incident - Prologue and Chapter One

prologue:

The exciting prologue and first chapter of The Tomahawk Incident are available to read below!

chapter one: Someone out there

Lieutenant Commander Maggie Trunham clutched the logbook of His Majesty’s Destroyer Balboa to her chest. Even with her arm thrown over Crewman James’ burly shoulder, she had to fight for balance, hobbling on unsteady legs toward the captain’s gig. They hurried past the busy hangar crew preparing the boat for emergency launch. Heavy smoke from fires raging in adjacent compartments made Maggie’s throat and lungs burn. A harsh cough forced its way out, seizing her badly injured back with an agonizing cramp that locked her legs. 

        “You alright, Ma’am?” James asked.    

         Maggie had to consciously pull in a breath before she could growl, “I’m fine,” through gritted teeth. She forced her right leg forward again and put weight on it, then hopped on her splinted left.  

        Alarms wailed, cutting through the booming and shuddering of the ship around her as they approached the flattened torpedo shape of the captain’s gig. Maggie hopped over the threshold into the boat as Crewman James helped her squeeze in through the narrow hatch. Getting into the pilot’s seat, her splinted left ankle smacked against the helm housing. Everything spun for an instant. Maggie clamped her jaw closed so tightly to keep from crying in pain that she heard the enamel of her teeth squeak.

        “Sorry, Ma’am.”

       She choked out, "It’s alright James," blinking her eyes until the spinning stopped. She stowed the logbook, then grabbed the yoke, pushing her compact frame against the backrest, taking long breaths to manage the pain. “Thank you.” Maggie dragged stray locks of chestnut hair out of her face with soot blackened fingers. A new spasm of pain tore through her when she glanced over her shoulder at the twenty-seven wounded packed into the tiny boat. “Is that everyone?”  

        “Everyone we can fit.”

        “Move your ass, James!” another voice called. Medical Assistant Peter Claiborne pushed into the seat next to her, throwing switches as he sat. His right arm was in a sling, his forehead bandaged, all of his exposed skin red with burns. Lights and instruments sprang to life.

        “Turbines?” Maggie asked.

        He grimaced, straining to look above him. "They’re spooling… about eighty percent.”

        “Get those umbilicals off!” Maggie yelled as James exited the boat. “Close us up!”

        “Aye aye!” The air thudded against Maggie as the door was sealed. 

        “Pressure?”

        Claiborne glanced at a dial, his finger following a line of breakers. “Uhh… Yes. All the tanks show good - bringing up the pressure now.” He reached across his splinted arm and turned a wheel with practiced ease, checking other instruments.  

        “Sheathing?” 

        “Give it a few seconds.” He bashed a panel with his fist. “Come on!” Candy striped indicators tumbled like dice then turned green. “Solid conductivity, we’re ready.”

The squawk box at Maggie’s left barked, “Gig, this is the captain.”

        “Aye aye, Sir,” Maggie answered, pulling the pins from the helm column and watching the deck crewman outside the window. The crewman looked along her port side, then her starboard and raised his arms. Maggie checked the motion on the helm wheel, spinning it left and right, pushing the column forward and back. The deck crewman indicated the gimbals were following her commands.

         Captain Rodrigo Diaz’ thick Dominion of Texas drawl cut clearly through the cacophony. “Get them home, Commander. Let the Admiralty know what happened.” There was a delay; she could hear that the microphone was still open. “Vaya con Dios, Maggie.” 

        Maggie’s brown eyes burned as she thought about the hundreds of men and women still at their stations aboard Balboa. 

        “And with you, Sir.” Maggie’s voice was husky when she answered. The microphone went quiet.

        The crewman outside wiped his hands down his sleeves indicating the umbilicals were clear.

        “Claiborne?” Maggie kept her face turned from him so that he wouldn't see her tears. 

        “We're on the internals, we’re ready to go.”  

        Maggie heard the warning claxon. The deck crewman turned and raced for the airlock. A few seconds later the bay indicator outside the window turned green and the boat jerked as the gantry began to move. She looked left, her injured back cramping painfully again. 

        The bay door opened to a firestorm as gunnery from Balboa and the enemy ship erupting in the volatile æster the ships floated in. Beyond the hewing gunnery and wreckage blasted from the brawling ships, lightning flashes twitched and laced the supercharged, caustic aerial landscape of glowing nebula-like clouds. The gantry pushed the boat beyond Balboa’s sheathing envelope. The boat's own sheathing whined, holding the corrosive clouds at bay. A concussion threw her against the straps; the flash of a gunnery explosion filling the windows. Some of the wounded cried out in fear. 

        “Get us off the gantry!” she hollered over the noise.

        “We’re not clear of the structure yet!”

“We’re not going to do any good if we get destroyed while we’re still on it!”

        “Aye aye! Everyone hold fast!”

        Explosive bolts cut them away from the gantry in a set of rapid concussions like a zipper. The boat rocked violently starboard. They were being pushed upward by the æster’s draw, trapping them against Balboa’s structure.

        “Commander!” Claiborne yelled.

        “I know!” She pushed the control column all the way forward ignoring the tearing sensation in her back. The boat continued to roll against the gantry.

        Come on you bitch! Maggie pushed against the bucking column with all her weight holding the wheel in a turn to counter the roll. There was a deafening screech of tearing metal and the wheel threw itself back at her. An instant later they were free. 

        “Flank ahead!” Maggie nodded to the throttles; she didn’t dare let go of the wheel. Claiborne shoved the handles all the way forward. The boat leveled, accelerating away from Balboa. 

        “We’re being drawn!” Claiborne cried. “It's got us! Draw plus forty! “We're too high!”

        Maggie pushed the descent levers to their maximum, watching the indicator; they were still moving upward, deeper into the æster. And they were accelerating. 

        She nodded to the relays below the throttles. “Maximum turns on the turbines! Disable the impeller safeties! Burn ‘em up if you have to! If we don’t descend nothing else will matter!”

        There was a flash. Maggie slammed painfully against the straps and the control wheel. Sound faded back in with a ringing in her ears. She craned around, looking out the side window. Where His Majesty’s Æster Destroyer Balboa had been, a black and orange fireball expanded, the flammable æster igniting all around it in a fiery corona. 

        Illuminated in the flare of Balboa’s death was her killer, a looming enemy ship like nothing Maggie had ever seen before. A trio of hulls, like carapaces spined with guns surrounded a central spine. There was no apparent up or down in its fearsome configuration. 

        The æster flared along its length, ignited by their guns firing.  

        “Get us out of here!” Claiborne yelled, fear clogging his voice.

        Maggie watched the rounds burn their way through the æster toward them.

        Oh my God.

        Her son Eli’s face suddenly filled her mind. He’d cried so hard when she’d left home this time. She’d promised him she’d be back.

        I’m so sorry, honey.

 

        Rescue Marine Major Katja Kryzanowski tucked her attaché case under her arm and stepped from the cab onto the crowded sidewalk at the base of the London military aeroport.

        It’s cold for October. She shrugged her heavy wool overcoat against the back of her neck. It was always cold under the permanent cloud cover of the æster, but it was particularly raw this morning. Even over the clatter of street noise, the din of voices and the thud of airship engines overhead, she could hear the rumble of thunder in the supercharged clouds above. It’s also a lot more active than usual for this time of year. Katja held the brim of her polished white helmet and looked up past the buildings to the sky. Differences in potential discharged through the clouds in colorful flares of lightning.

        The bawling lightning matched the emotions churning beneath her precisely uniformed and groomed exterior. Are you still out there somewhere, Maggie? His Majesty’s Æster Ship Balboa had gone missing seven weeks ago with her childhood friend Maggie Trunham aboard. Balboa was the sixth ship to disappear in eight months, but the first Royal Navy ship to be lost.

“Good morning to you, Ma’am,” the hack driver called from his seat atop the steam carriage, pulling her back to the present. He tipped his hat.

“And to you.” She touched the brim of her helmet and stepped off toward the lifts.

She checked the giant clock face on the aeroport tower. 04:05; plenty of time for a cup of coffee before the 04:30 lift. She glanced to the sky again.

        It’s not like back home in New Manchester. Katja had grown up on the Aureus, the band along the equator where the sun still shone. But she'd spent the last fifteen of her thirty-five years living in and under the æster's glowering, corrosive, supercharged clouds; the region known as the Nyx.

Katja glanced east toward “old” London trying to marshal her thoughts. Although London was no longer the seat of the Empire, it was still its heart, dragged from the sea and rebuilt in defiance of a world turned against Mankind. Some other capitals had been taken back from their watery graves, but most were no more than drowned skeletal reminders of the world before the cataclysms of the Rise. 

        London glowed… visible thirty miles away. The three thousand-foot aeroplex tower was the tallest structure in the world. The military aeroport tower where she’d catch the lift up to the Tomahawk was over fifteen hundred, but it looked like a toy compared to the tower at the heart of London, the first City of Light.

        Images of the vacation she and Commander David Menzies had taken last year flashed through her mind. She suppressed the smile that wanted to lift the corners of her mouth. They’d spent three blissful weeks swimming and basking in the sun on the west coast of Africa at one of the sprawling resorts near the French Imperial capital at Dakar. David was a good swimmer. But he couldn’t match her. He hadn’t grown up plowing through the waves off the northern shores of Australia the way she had. Their competitive streaks kept them head to head on most things, but their first day at the resort, they’d gone for a long swim and she’d left him in her wake. When he’d gotten back to shore minutes after her, exhausted. He’d struggled out of the surf and flopped on the hot sand panting, then raised his hands.

“You win!”  

        The ache in Katja’s chest returned and the corner of her mouth turned down remembering how easily he accepted her prowess and accomplishments. He’d never been threatened by them or her. Days of dancing and dining had passed with him seeming to enjoy nothing more than surprising her with flowers when they got back to their room or bringing her coffee in bed when she indulged in sleeping in. But it was the memory of days spent just loafed in bed together that were her favorite. She would lay against him while he read to her from one of several ever-present books he always traveled with. It was… perfect.  

Katja shook her head to drive out the thoughts, the storm inside her raging again. All of that was over.     

 Katja called “Behind you,” to a lightkeeper, her mind filled with the night a month ago when she’d broken things off with David. The Lightkeeper looked back over his shoulder as his mechanical stilts lowered him from an open electrical box ten feet above her. He steadied himself on his staff; the illuminated globe at its top lighting his face as he descended. The odd shadows reminded her of David’s shocked and heartbroken expression when she told him things were over. At street level, the lightkeeper’s staff collapsed to normal walking height. The signature chin-strapped top hat, tail coat and mantle all lightkeepers wore made him look as jaunty as a palace guard. He smiled, his cheeks accented by a wide, extravagant moustache. “Can you get past?” 

 Katja’s heart was suddenly sore and bruised again, the lightkeeper’s smile reminding her of David’s.

“Yes, thank you.”

        She was just turning past when he shouted, “LOOK OUT!” It came simultaneously with a powerful blow against her arm and side that knocked her back, tumbling onto the street. Katja hit the pavement hard.  

        Katja was too surprised for anger to blossom before she turned back to see what happened. And it never got the chance. The lightkeeper was just finishing the ungainly swing that had thrown her to the street. His feet tangled, momentum spinning him toward the pavement. He crashed to the sidewalk with a sharp cry of dismay and pain as a tall, severe-looking woman dodged past him.  

Katja saw the outline of the long knife in the woman's hand and her mind caught. Distracted by thoughts of David, she’d let guard down.  

        But Katja’s body reacted instinctively as the woman lunged toward her. Her attaché came up in an instant, like a shield. The point of the dagger slammed into the paper-filled leather case. Katja twisted it hard and threw the case aside, levering herself to her feet from the cobbles. All thoughts of David vanished as the nondescript woman pivoted, following the motion and dislodging the knife.  

        Katja hadn't thought about grabbing the collapsed baton at her belt. It was muscle memory. She wouldn’t have even been aware she’d done it if the weapon hadn’t snagged as she tried to withdraw it through the slash pocket in her overcoat. She gripped her coat and yanked. The baton came free with a pop of stitches. The knurled grip in her hand and familiar Snap! as she threw her arm down to extend it focused her

Someone in the crowd was screaming. Katja only had an instant to scan for other opponents before the woman was driving in again, attacking furiously, forcing her back. Katja caught the telltale twist of the woman’s body and threw her arm and shoulder up to protect her head. The powerful spinning kick knocked her sideways, sending her helmet clattering to the street. There was a flash of colors and the whole world wobbled.  

        Everything else faded away as instinct born of endless training took over. The woman slashed at her face and hands, thrusting and kicking in a continuous, relentless assault. Punches, blocks and kicks blurred together in violent call and response. 

        Katja threw an elbow. It landed full force, snapping the woman’s head back, blood gushing from her shattered nose. Before Katja’s mind registered it happened, the woman’s knife hand was in hers and Katja threw a stomping kick into the would-be assassin’s groin with all of her weight behind it. The woman doubled over. The twist of the woman’s wrist that hyperextended her elbow was instinctive, as was the blow that brought Katja’s baton down on the joint with all her strength. The woman shrieked as her elbow folded backward with a meaty Crack! 

        Katja was driven back, the wind knocked out of her by a kick that seemed to come from nowhere. She tried to pull in air, but her traumatized diaphragm wouldn’t respond. Katja checked around her again, uncertain how the woman had been able to kick her. 

        A chill climbed Katja’s spine as the woman glared at her and purposefully picked up the dropped knife with her left hand, her right forearm dangling at a sickening angle from her shattered elbow.

Don’t make me kill you.  

The woman charged forward again. 

        Two gunshots cracked past Katja’s ear. The woman jerked. Katja turned; the checkpoint corporal of the guard had his pistol out, carefully aiming at the woman.

She tried to shout, “NO!”, but couldn't drag in enough air. “I need her alive!” she tried to say. There were two more gunshots and the woman crumpled.

Goddamn it!

         Katja bent over, forcing her belly out to draw in breaths between clenched teeth. A thousand thoughts suddenly crashed into her. In the space of two painful breaths, self-recrimination was shouting in her head again like a drill sergeant. How could you have been so stupid!  

The assassin's eyes stared fixed as Katja knelt and put a boot on the woman’s weapon hand. Katja felt for her pulse. She was dead. 

        Katja wrenched the knife from the dead woman’s hand and her eyes narrowed. There was blood on the blade. Katja checked her hands. But she didn’t cut me.  

Realization brought Katja’s head around. Illuminated in the glare of the lightkeeper’s staff, a pool of blood was expanding.   

        Oh no. No, no, no. Katja leapt to her feet and covered the distance to the lightkeeper in three long strides. Blood was running from a cut that spanned most of the right side of his neck. 

         Katja dropped the knife and clamped her hand over the wound, using her other hand to support his neck. She turned to the checkpoint guard. “Get a medic! And secure the perimeter!”

The Corporal holstered his sidearm and raced back toward the boiling checkpoint. The Lightkeeper’s eyes fastened on hers.  

        “Hold on,” she told him. “I’m right here. You stay with me. You’re going to be alright.” The blood wasn’t the bright, pinkish red of arterial blood, nor was it spurting, but there was a lot of it, and it was running fast under her fingers.

He nodded, clutching her sleeve. His eyes started to roll back in his head.

“Hey! Eyes on me! Keep your eyes on me. What’s your name?”

“Clive,” he choked. 

“Are you married, Clive?”

        He nodded. She could see the distance growing in his eyes. “Hey! Do you have any children, Clive? What are their names?” she gripped the wound and shook him trying to keep him focused on her.

“Edgar,” he mouthed.  

Somebody knelt next to her. “What can I do?”

        “Air ambulance – right now!” She turned back to Clive as the man raced away. “You know what? We’re going to have a story to tell him, aren’t we?” Other sounds suddenly faded in; the checkpoint alarm siren was wailing, the noise of the gathering crowd. “We’ll tell him how you saved my life.”

He smiled weakly. “I wasn’t just going to just stand there and let her…” His eyes fluttered. “…stab…” His eyes rolled back in his head.

        “Clive! CLIVE! Stay with me!” She could feel his pulse, but it was weak. One of the check point guards skidded to a halt next to her with a first aid kit and threw it open.

“Where’s the damn medic!” 

“They’re on the way, Ma’am.”  

Katja took the bandage he handed her and she pressed it against the wound. “Hang on, Clive.”

Katja wiped her bloody hands on a towel someone had given her as the airborne fire brigade ambulance became nothing but a flash of lights in the sky against the buildings around her. The sirens had been silenced; the crowd was being controlled by bobbies and military police.

Katja went to the dead woman and squatted again, pulling back the blanket.  

        Who the hell are you? The skin of the woman’s face was pale from lack of sunlight, like everyone who lived under the æster. Katja pushed down the woman’s scarf. Her neck was olive-toned, and tan. Rubbing fingers across the dead woman’s cheek left a smear of makeup. You’re not from the Nyx. She pushed up the woman's sleeves. Faded scars covered her hands and arms. Someone’s been training with a knife for a long time. Katja covered the body again and stood, everything inside her churning. Why would someone send an assassin after me?

        She turned to the marine who had shot the woman. “Corporal!” He stepped to her and came to attention. With the assassin dead, finding out who she was working for would be impossible. 

Until the next time they try.

       Katja nodded the crowd around them, then fixed him in hard gaze. “Did you have a clear background when you fired, Corporal? You risked a lot of lives firing in a crowd like this.”

        “Our orders are to take reasonable precautions, Ma’am. It was a risk, but a bystander was already down and from what I could see, she was trying to kill you. She was a clear and immediate threat.”

        Katja ground her teeth together and looked up. The air ambulance had disappeared among all the other lights. She wanted someone to be angry at. She wanted there to be a reason, something more than a senseless act of violence that put a good man's life in danger; someone who had only tried to help her. She dismissed the guard with a nod. “Thank you, Corporal.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 Katja passed through the crowds and checkpoints, cursing the spots the reporter’s flash cameras left on her vision. The 04:30 lift was long gone. She quietly formed up for the 05:30, checking her hands again. She’d washed them, but it would take scrubbing to get Clive’s blood from under and around her nails. The sleeves of her overcoat were damp from where she’d run water over them to keep his blood from setting. She’d hand it over to the laundry once she got aboard ship. The transit car was warm and a little stuffy. After putting her overcoat and street-scuffed helmet on the seat next to her, Katja straightened her crimson uniform tunic and ran a hand over her tightly braided black hair to settle any additional locks that might have strayed since the fight, then sat down. 

        Why would someone send an assassin after me? Katja closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Relax, it's done for now. There will be plenty of time to go over it... and over it... when you report it.  

        She blew out the breath and pulled the newspaper from her attaché case. There were holes through the pages. Katja checked the case. The puncture was there, but had she not been looking for it, she wouldn’t have noticed it. She felt the pressure change signaling that the car had been sealed for the twenty-five minute, twenty-two-thousand-foot trip up the cables to the beehive. She settled herself with the newspaper, glad the car was only half full. She felt like a sardine packed in a tin on some trips up. Katja stared at the page for several minutes, rereading the same paragraphs over and over, having no idea what they said. She was about to give up when a tug on her sleeve brought her eyes up. There was no one there. She let the top half of her paper drop. A boy, just barely school age was looking at her. 

“You’re Major Kryzanowski, aren’t you?” he asked excitedly, pointing across the cabin.

        Katja followed his finger and winced. An admiralty recruiting poster with her face plastered on it decorated the wall, every freckle clearly detailed. Heat rose in her cheeks. Katja loathed being cast as the admiralty’s poster girl. She clamped down on her irritation, folded the newspaper and smiled at the boy. 

“I am. And what’s your name?” 

        He was a handsome fellow with short cropped black hair and big brown eyes, dressed up in a jacket and tie. “Robert!” he exclaimed.    

“Bobby!” a Royal Navy Petty Officer in his dress blue jumper and trousers called. He stepped to the boy and put a hand on him. “I told you to stay right next to me!”

“But Dad, it’s Major Kryzanowski!”

The Petty Officer looked mortified. “Yes, I can see that. But she probably wants to be left alone. That was very rude.”

The interchange between them was a welcome distraction from Clive’s eyes, which seemed to look back at her wherever she looked.  

“It’s alright.” Her smile at the father was only partly forced. “He was actually quite gentlemanly about it.”

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am. He’s just excited.”

Katja read the arching patch at the top of his sleeve, “HMAeS Martinique,” His Majesty’s Æster Ship.

“Martinique?” she asked. “You just pulled in, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am, last night. We’re having friends and family aboard today.”

         Katja turned her attention to Bobby. “You should be very proud of your father. He’s been away from home for a long time protecting people. The Martinique is a fighting ship.”

        “My Dad’s the greatest sailor in the world!” the boy pronounced. There were discrete, sympathetic chuckles from those around and Katja’s heart tugged in opposing directions. She could see Maggie’s son Eli in the little boy, but his bright-eyed enthusiasm dragged her away from darker thoughts. Bobby’s father looked chagrined all over again. 

 “I’m sure he is.” Katja’s smile was completely genuine now. She stood and took a card and pencil from her punctured attaché, wrote on the back and signed it, then showed it to the boy. “When you go back to school, give this to your teacher. It means that you and your friends can go on a tour of the Rescue Service Academy where I trained. You’ll be able to meet other Rescue Marines like me and see the things we use to save people. Would you like that?”

        The little boy’s mouth made an “O” of astonishment and he took the card. Then a wicked twinkle formed in his eyes as he stared at it. “Everyone’s going to owe me for this!” He turned to his father. “Can we, Dad?” 

         “Make sure you talk to your teacher before you tell your friends,” he warned. “But I’m sure that with Major Kryzanowski’s signature, it will be alright.”

“Thank you, Ma’am!” The boy threw his arms around her. 

        “Bobby!” His father looked like he wanted nothing more in that moment than to hurl himself from the car. There were more chuckles, even from her. 

        Katja knelt and gave the boy a squeeze. “You’re welcome, Robert. And thank you. I needed a good hug this morning.” She disentangled herself from him, a wide smile now stuck on her face. 

She turned to his father, who was beet red. 

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

Katja laughed, running a hand over the boy’s black hair. “Don’t worry about it. If his teacher asks, tell them that it’s for the whole class. The academy loves having school groups come through.”

He shook her hand, clearly relieved. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Thank you. And welcome home.” The Petty Officer led his son away.

        Katja straightened her tunic and sat down again, trying to return to her paper. But the little boy’s enthusiasm and his father’s horrified expression kept making her smile. 

Katja sipped her whisky sitting in Captain Christopher “Fitz” Fitzroy’s cabin aboard the Tomahawk. Fitz was glaring into empty space, tapping his whisky glass on his desk.  

        Old wolf, she thought of the Tomahawk’s captain, her thoughts meandering after recounting the details of the attack. He’d caused a furor when he came over to the Rescue Service from the most prestigious arm of the service, Fleet Combat Command. Fitz was one of the most experienced and highly decorated combat æstership captains of his generation. When he’d requested a transfer to the Rescue Service the brocade-mongers at the Admiralty thought he'd lost his mind. He'd been in line to command the King George, the most powerful æster warship ever built. Some said he was a shoo-in to become one of the Lords of the Admiralty. But he’d chosen the Rescue Service over prestige and promotion. It had made him an instant hero to everyone in the Rescue Service, and Katja was immensely proud to serve under him. He was also old for active service, sixty-one. She watched his intense brown eyes burning a hole in the air, his jaw cabling as if he were literally chewing on what she'd told him.   

        She smiled. The “Old Man” wields that moniker like a weapon. He had a look he’d give people that said, “If an old man like me can do it, what’s wrong with you?”

        “This Clive – is he going to be alright?” Rescue Marine Colonel Bill Garrett, her superior, asked from his chair next to her.

         His question drew her out of her musings. She threw down the rest of her whisky. It burned the inside of her right cheek. I must have bitten the inside of my cheek.  

 “I’m not sure. He lost a lot of blood. I have a request in to the hospital to let me know.”

        Fitz looked up, shaking his head. “You two are unbelievable. A woman just tried to kill you and the only thing you’re worried about is a bystander?”

        “It wasn’t his fight, Sir!” Katja snapped, then checked her tone. She hadn't realized how spooled up she was from talking about it. “He got caught in the middle of it. She might have killed me if he hadn’t.”  

Fitz held up a hand. “Alright. We need to figure out what to do now.” He pulled a handkerchief from his desk and tossed it to her. “Looks like you got cut.” He indicated her left cheek and then the open door of his bathroom. “There’s alcohol behind the mirror.”  

Katja wiped her cheek, stood and stepped through. Dried blood marked the white cloth.  

“How many witnesses, Katja?” Fitz asked.  

        Blue eyes looked back at her from the mirror. A fine line about an inch long crossed her pale, lightly freckled left cheek. Katja noted all the other small scars she’d gained over fifteen years of active service. She put alcohol on the cut, talking over her shoulder.

“Over a hundred. It happened right outside the south gate checkpoint. There were a lot of people around.”

        “Dammit,” Fitz answered. “There’s no way to keep a lid on this.” He was quiet for a moment. “There was also an incident yesterday. Someone got as far as the Admiralty offices in the aeroport tower. He was killed.”

“An attack on the Admiralty offices?” she asked.

       “It doesn’t look like it. But the two attacks appear connected; a single attacker, like yours, with a knife. No bomb or anything like that and wearing makeup.”

“Who were they after?” Bill asked.

“No one knows. He was killed near Lord Cameron’s offices.”

“The Lord of the Admiralty?” Katja called from the bathroom.

She saw the face Bill made at her in the mirror. “No, Lord Cameron, the greengrocer.”  

Katja glared at him. Well, it was a pretty dumb question. Maybe that kick in the head rattled something loose.

        Fitz continued. “They’ve thrown a blanket over the whole thing. I might not have known about it if I hadn't been there. That isn’t in the public eye, so they can keep it hushed up while they investigate. With you…” He gestured to her with his tumbler. “We’ll be lucky if this isn’t in every paper from here to India by tomorrow afternoon.”

Katja dabbed the alcohol on the cut feeling it burn clean.  

        Bill finished his whisky. “We just need to get through the ball tonight without any incidents. We’re underway tomorrow. Do you think we can keep it quiet until after that?”

        “I doubt it,” Fitz replied. “If it doesn’t hit the evening edition, it will certainly be in the morning paper. We’ll have to increase security for the ball. But no talk about this to anyone until after the ball.” He eyed Bill skeptically. “Especially Kelly. I swear that your wife has a better intelligence apparatus than the Admiralty. If she doesn’t already know about it, it will be a miracle if she hasn’t heard before the ball. I don’t want this getting out. At least not from our side of the house. I’ll tell those who need to know. Speaking of that,” he turned back to her. “Do you need to have John take a look at you?”

Katja could just imagine Doctor John Stiles, Tomahawk’s chief medical officer clucking over her.

        “No, I’m fine. Just bumps and bruises other than this,” she held up the red-stained handkerchief. She rubbed the back of her head. “But I’ve sure got a goose-egg, though. I can’t think of when I’ve ever been kicked like that before. She was very good, probably trained in the Far East based on her fighting style.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would come after you?” Bill asked.

 “Maybe because somebody thought it was a great idea to splash my face all over those damn posters,” Katja answered without much humor, then shrugged. “No. God knows we’ve stirred up trouble for enough people in the past. Maybe a family member of the people we didn’t get out of the American Venture.”

        “Knock that off,” Fitz ordered impatiently. “It’s been a year, Katja. You did everything you could for those people. No one has called your decisions into question. Stop assigning yourself guilt over that.”

         “But it is a possibility. At least as much as any other reason someone would come after me.” Katja returned to her seat. “But I think them targeting me because I’m the face of the Admiralty seems the most logical.”

Bill sighed. “It’s out of our hands anyway. We won’t be involved in the investigation; we’ll be on patrol.”

        Fitz drained his whisky. “Alright, there isn’t much we can do right now, so let’s just get through tonight. We’ll see what the investigation has found out when we get back.” He eyed her. “You just be careful, Katja.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Katja took a few aspirin for her headache and the aches in her back, arms and shoulders and then left her cabin heading for the Marine assembly bay. The laundry list of things her department needed to get done before the ship got underway pulled her mind in one direction, but thoughts of David dragged it in another. Her confusion over suddenly breaking things off with him crept in again. He’d always known - understood, how her world, her whole damn identity for that matter, centered on her life as a Rescue Marine. They’d talked about it for hours at a time. Her heart was sore all over again, the feeling of betrayal burning hot as the memory of him asking her to leave the service replayed in her mind.  

        But there was something in that memory… Something in it that just didn’t feel right. Her confusion, the constant distraction was because she just couldn’t pin down what that something was.   

Lieutenant Bradley Kent fell in step beside her, his Royal Navy blue jacket striking next to her scarlet marine tunic.

“Morning, Major.”

She was glad to focus on something else. “Did you get taller again, Brad?” 

        At twenty-four, Brad Kent was six feet tall and rail thin. She was sure that he was still growing, seeming to get taller and narrower every time she saw him. Three months ago, he would have locked up at being teased. Now he grinned back at her.  

“Not that I know of. Maybe you’re just getting shorter, Ma’am.”  

Katja snorted and made a show of blowing at him, then feigned surprise. “Huh, you’re still standing.”

“I still outweigh you, Ma’am. You’re what - hundred forty, forty-five?”

She laughed. “Yes, and I can still drop kick you from here to Timbuktu.”

He’d proven a good addition to the officer’s mess, both capable and likeable, and she’d heard he was shaping into an outstanding bridge officer 

“You’re here early,” she observed.

“I’m helping with a supply fiasco. With Chief Gavnichy gone, everything seems to be coming apart at the seams.”

“That’s good of you; supply isn’t a line officer’s job.”

        “We can’t get underway until it’s resolved, and the Captain will spit nails if it doesn’t get cleaned up soon. I’m just trying to keep Ensign Wibowo out of his gunsights. He’s doing a good job given the mess he was handed.”

“Gavnichy was either a wizard or a thief - I think the jury is still out as to which.” She stood aside for a pair of crewmen carrying a crate.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” one said.

        Brad pushed against the bulkhead as they passed. “I’ve never served in a command that’s so unified. I’m used to there being more rivalries between departments; agendas, politics.”

        Katja smiled and raised an eyebrow at him. “Welcome to the House-that-Fitz-built. The captain’s changed the whole landscape since he took over. Don’t take it for granted.”

“Anything new on Balboa?” 

Katja’s heart sank again thinking about Maggie. “No. She’s now classified as lost, just like the others.”

Brad nodded. There was uncomfortable silence. “Looking forward to the dinner and ball tonight?” 

Katja restrained herself; he was teasing her back. Since becoming the Admiralty’s poster girl, her distaste for soirees like the one happening that night was no secret. The feeling of being the Admiralty’s show pony grated against all the sacrifices she’d made to get where she was. And of course, David would be there. She hadn’t told anyone about their breakup yet, not even her best friend Kelly, Bill’s wife. The thought of explaining yet another disaster in her romantic life was just too much for her to deal with right now.  

“After you’ve done your first twenty or so of these things, ask me the same question,” she replied sourly.

“I’m personally looking forward to a bit of champagne and dancing.”

        “Champagne? You’ve got a starry-eyed idea about these things. Do you think they’re going to go to the expense of importing champagne into the Nyx for us?” Katja could rarely afford even cheap champagne on her Major’s salary. The artificially lit farms that surrounded the cities of light grew staples, not luxury crops like grapes. After import duties and transportation costs, things like wine and champagne were exorbitantly expensive.

“You grew up on the Aureus, didn’t you?” she asked, trying to shove thoughts of David out of her head.

“No, actually, in the Argentum. Springbok, in the Cape Colony, twenty-nine degrees south latitude.”  

        The Argentum was the region of increasing cloud cover between the æster free skies of the Aureus on the equator and the complete cloud cover of the Nyx at forty degrees north and south latitude. Enough sun broke through in the equatorial half of the Argentum that some crops could be grown without artificial light.  

“Really? You don’t have an accent at all.” 

        “My mother is a teacher; she was adamant that we didn’t sound ‘provincial’. What about you, I thought you grew up in Australia? You don’t sound like an Australian.”

        “The American Enclave in New Manchester, on the northwest coast. People tend to sound more like New Englanders than Australians where I grew up.”

“It must have been hard adjusting to the dark after growing up on the Aureus."

“It's just different; trading typhoons and sunstroke for freezing to death and æster storms."

“Well, I’ve heard they brought in a shipment of champagne for the ball this year.”

“Somebody must be trying to impress someone. This isn’t your first one of these do’s is it?”

“No, it’s just nice to see everyone out in all their finery.”

        Katja gave him a wan smile and a sidelong glance. “The fact that there will be bevies of young ladies looking for a smart young officer like yourself doesn’t have anything to do with it, does it?”

“Well, it might.” He smiled broadly. “Anyway, I’m off to the hold.”

“Alright, see you tonight. Are we still picking you up?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Seven o’clock sharp.”

“Ma’am.”

 Katja stepped through the hatch into the Marine’s work space. The barked, “Officer on deck!” shook the air. Eighteen marines came to attention.  

The chilly air was filled with comfortable, familiar smells; metal, weapon oil, cleaning supplies and a tinge of sweat.  

        “At ease.” She crossed the deck to the ranking marine, Corporal Diana Pruitt. The rest went back to what they were doing. Air canisters and carbon dioxide scrubber cartridges were being inspected and stowed in a breathing apparatus locker while other marines continued the never-ending ritual of cleaning.  

        Diana Pruitt was built like a bull; her burly arms and shoulders stressed the seams of her marine fatigue uniform. Next to her, Katja was as lean as a leopard. Diana’s brown hair was cut short, a carry-over from her origins in the Army. She was new onboard, but Katja liked her; a tough, no-nonsense marine who’d taken a loss of rank to come over to the Rescue Service. That said a lot about her.

“Good morning, Major.”

“Good morning. Where are Sergeants MacDonald and Khalid?” 

        “Color Sergeant MacDonald is ashore with Captain Tibbs. Weapons shorted us part of our ammunition requisition. Captain Tibbs took both the Color Sergeant and Sergeant Khalid with him to help sort it out.”

Katja raised an eyebrow. “Is he planning on assaulting the ammunition depot and stealing what we need?” 

        Pruitt grinned. “Captain Tibbs was pretty hot under the collar the last time I saw him. Goddamn Navy can’t find their ass with both hands when it comes to record-keeping.” 

“Watch your talk, Corporal,” Katja scolded, although she felt the age-old rivalry between Navy and Marines as strongly as anyone.   

“Yes, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am.”

Katja scanned the deck. “Private Moresby!”  

The man turned and snapped-to, his open fatigue jacket showing the singlet beneath.  

        “You’re not working at the Seventh Veil, here, now are you, Moresby?” It was well known that he moonlighted as a bouncer at a ‘gentleman’s club’ in town. There were some snickers and rude noises from the rest of the marines.

“No, Ma’am,” he replied, buttoning his jacket quickly.  

“Alright then.” He went back to work.

Katja eyed Pruitt.

The burly marine acknowledged that she should have been the one to catch the lapse. “Ma’am.”  

        A pleasant, burbling Nepalese voice called, “Good morning, Ma’am.” Her adjutant, Lieutenant Tulbahadur Gurung poked his head in through the hatch. “If you have a moment?” He held up a clipboard.

“Good morning, lieutenant.” She nodded to Pruitt and joined him.  

As she stepped through, she heard Pruitt growl, “Moresby…”

I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that happening again.

Good humor radiated off her adjutant like echoes off a bell. His permanent wide smile and unrelenting good mood made it hard not to smile around him. ‘Tully’ was friendly and outgoing and was also one of the fiercest fighters she’d ever met. He lived up to every syllable of the Gurkha’s fearsome reputation. A head shorter than her, he was strong as an ox and faster than a cobra. He’d given up the Gurkha’s signature kukri in favor of the Rescue Marine baton.  

“Killing is what the kukri is for,” he’d told her once. “But that’s not what we do. Not wearing it reminds me of that, every day.”  

        He was the first Gurkha she’d ever had the privilege to serve closely with. His presence seemed to improve everyone around him, including her.  

        “Please sign these, Ma’am.” He handed her the clipboard, keeping an eye on the daisy chain of Marines shifting crates hand to hand along the passageway.  

“What are they?” Katja flipped pages.  

“Copies of the pressurized gas and oxygen inventories we completed last week.”

“Who are they for?” She looked over the numbers with a practiced eye.

“It’s a spot check. Fleet operations has been doing it everywhere according to the XO, Ma’am.”  

        He handed her a pen and she signed through them, Pruitt’s words echoing in her head. “I think the Admiralty lost a piece of paper a few decades ago and has been generating paperwork to try and find it ever since.” 

“Yes, Ma’am.” She handed the clipboard back. “Colonel Garrett wants you to meet him up in the captain’s quarters.”

“I just came from there.”

        Tulbahadur indicated the bitch box on the bulkhead in the bay. “He just called down. The department heads are up there, and he wants you there.”

 “Alright, then.” She turned around and headed back the way she’d come. “Are we still sharing a cab to the Admiralty dinner tonight?” 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“We’re picking up Lieutenant Kent at his apartment at seven. Meet me in the lobby of the BOQ at six fifteen, then?” 

“Yes, Ma’am.”