South of the Ecliptic

By Donald Ladew

South of the Ecliptic description:

South of the Ecliptic is a science fiction military adventure that tells the story of the resurgence and finally the reinstatement of the Mars Legion.

Having unwisely chosen the side of the Federation over the Imperium nine years before our story begins, the Legion is defeated in the final battle at Vincent's planet.

Brigadier General Jerrad Piehl, in command at the last battle, and who would not surrender, was imprisoned for six years. When we meet the general he is Captain of a run-down trading ship.

The current King offers him a task that involves the Princess Iralane and getting her to a place of safety. It proves no easy task. Powerful forces that have good reason to hate and fear the Legion go to great lengths to destroy Piehl.

At the heart of the story is the secret of a functioning Intergalactic Portal whose use and control is being sought by Piehl's enemies. No more is known about it than that it is located south of the plane of the Ecliptic. With the help of his friends and members of the legion, Piehl seeks out his enemies and brings them to battle there, south of the Ecliptic on the portal world of Seerelan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456603175

Book preview

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, an aide stepped forward to introduce them.

Sir Claren, may I present Brigadier General Sir Aubrey Jerrad Piehl, TSV. General; Sir Claren Trone, Lord Darien Sur-Maine.

Trone had a tight contemptuous curl to his lip. He stared at Piehl.

Piehl stood straight; at two and a half meters he towered over the diminutive Star-Lord. Piehl had the soldier’s way. He stared down at the smaller man. He didn't offer his hand or take the Star-Lord's when it was offered. Piehl spoke to him in the flat, piercing bark of the flight deck.

You are rude, Trone, in a house where you are a guest. Perhaps you feel safe here. You are not safe from me, little man. Kings are often plagued by human lice who insult their hospitality and kindness. I would consider it an act of fealty to remove such lice from the Royal coat. Do you understand me, little man!

He leaned forward into Trone's face and put a lot of snap into the little man.

The slack, mottled flesh of Trone's neck turned red pale, but his reptilian expression never changed.

He hissed. Who..who..do you...think you are...talking to, criminal! He was so filled with rage the words exploded out a fragment at a time. You should have been exterminated nine years ago. This night when you go back to your pitiful ship, look in the mirror. It may be the last time, General. The last word was spoken with a sneer of contempt.

Piehl couldn't hold himself back. You don't have to wait, lice. Begin exterminating now if you've the stomach for it.

Trone started to bring his hand up and the King's aide deftly stepped between them and had Piehl moving down the line so smoothly the incident seemed unreal. Piehl knew it wasn't. When he looked back Trone's malevolent stare never wavered.

Piehl felt stupid, thin-skinned. Hell and damn, first time out in decent company in years and I'm ready to kill someone. Well done, Piehl.

When they reached the out-system admiral they came to attention and rendered him formal salute. Piehl thought how the profession of arms was such a small, exclusive club. It wasn't unusual for one military man to know everything about another though they'd never met.

The aide moved forward to introduce them. Admiral, may I present Brigadier General Sir Aubrey Jerrad Piehl, Commander 3rd Brigade, Mars Legion, and Flight Major John Hathaway Holtzman. Gentlemen, Admiral Carstairs McClellan Commanding, 7th Fleet in Hercules.

So this is ‘Carsty’ McClelland, Piehl thought.

The admiral impulsively shoved out his hand and shook their hands.

Yes, by God, if you'd lasted three months beyond Vincent's it would have taken us another ten years to get the job done and by then most of the fleet would have gone over to the Legion. Wretched stupid business! he boomed, as if all the universe was his flight deck and he'd never learned to tone down to a smaller world.

Damn me, I might have gone over myself just to see how you did it. He turned to Flex. I know you too, young man. You were in our files as the best pilot in the Legion. They call you Flex and we called Piehl, inflexible. His laughter boomed around the reception area.

He paused, then looking at both men, spoke in a loud voice. We were on different sides, but I am proud of you both. You're military men. You fought with honor and courage. I am damned well pleased to finally make your acquaintance.

They both came to attention, saluted, thanked him and reluctantly moved down the line. That little encounter went a long way toward removing the odor of Trone from the air.

Piehl made no mistake about Lord Darien Sur-damned-Maine. He realized the man had been his enemy long before he attended the King's birthday party.

The rest of the evening was uneventful except for one thing. The King made a point of speaking with Piehl personally. He was a tall man with a ruddy complexion; Child of Orion some of the court astrologers said, because of his reddish hair.

He had a powerful presence. He didn't speak directly of the war, but his comments were obvious. He had a strong, clear voice and knew how to use it.

Sir Aubrey, if a man's greatness were measured by the quality of his enemies I would be thought a great man indeed. Personally I would rather be remembered for the quality of my friends. I regret that you weren't my friend in past years. I hope we will be able to repair that error of history.

Piehl admired him so he was able to reply with sincerity.

Your Highness, perhaps we already have.

Ahhh...now that would be fine, much to my liking, General Piehl. Some wars should never be fought. They are for the satisfaction and gain of one or two men over things which are indefinable, and indefensible as reasons in any moral sense.

He was even a bit mysterious. Old wrongs do not always fade in history, or in memory, but they can be made right in the present. Then perhaps one can create new, more honorable pages in history.

He was a polished speaker and it was obvious his audience was seldom limited to the person in front of him.

Deep space here, Piehl thought.

Later as they were making their farewells the King spoke quietly. General Piehl, perhaps we shall meet again, if not in person, then through another known to both of us.

Piehl didn't know what to make of that so he bowed and said he was at the King's service and meant it. Flex said later that he'd met an equerry of the King who asked if they might meet quietly in a week or so to discuss some shipping business.

On the ride back to the ship they said little, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Piehl thought of Trone and decided they'd better take care when they went about their business in the future. Trone wasn't the type to let an insult pass, and Piehl's outburst at the ball definitely put him in that category.

Chapter 2

The great hall of Darien Sur Maine was shrouded in darkness. A dim light emanated from one corner, cold and feeble against the tangible blackness of the rest of the room. It was a room only a madman or a king could love. In it was a man who was quite mad and wanted desperately to be king.

Beneath the faint white light, behind an ancient stone desk, Sir Claren Trone watched the man in front of him squirm. His fear was a palpable stench in the still, humid air.

Vaslov Krasnieven, you are a coward, but a useful coward, Trone thought. You don't mind getting your hands dirty, and for a taste of the true power, you'd wallow in the blood of every man, woman and child in the Western Arm.

So would I, Trone thought with typical self honesty, so would I. But not just a taste; oh no, not even a bottle, nor a case. I want it all. He knew he'd lie to anyone for his ends, but not himself. That way is disaster. Your perception of people, events, the entire game became clouded when you lie to yourself. This game of power required the clearest perception of all, down to the smallest detail.

Trone spoke slowly and Krasnieven shivered. His voice was dry and piercing, painful as a knife scraping bone.

Vaslov, old friend, his voice clearly sarcastic, seven years ago I pressed to have Piehl and the men of the Legion executed as war criminals, you backed off; you sided with the King and the other admirals. I asked you then, why? You said the brigades were broken, destroyed forever. Piehl and the key officers were safely tucked away in Valshorn Prison.

Sir Claren, please understand, I was in trouble because of that business with the 6th Brigade and Colonel MacCreath. MacCreath went to service schools with many of the officers of my fleet. Before the war began, both the Imperial Navy and the Mars Legion exchanged officers and men on a regular basis. He was respected by everyone in the Imperial Fleets. There was talk of sacking me right then, maybe even putting me in prison. I didn't have...

Shut up! I'm not interested in your pitiful excuses, ex-Admiral Krasnieven. You were sacked shortly after that anyway, weren't you? Krasnieven looked around nervously. There was no way to escape.

"Let's not dwell on that, Vaslov. My interest is now. You have been useful over the years. But, your advice regarding General Sir Aubrey Piehl is flawed. You've exhibited bad judgment, failed to stay current.

Two nights ago I attended the King's birthday ball. Who do you suppose was there? Krasnieven sat head hanging like a whipped child.

Right; Sir Aubrey Jerrad Piehl, ex-Brigadier General of the Mars Legion, with a senior aide. They both looked fit, and very much in the good graces of the King. Both were in full dress uniform, Krasnieven. Do you understand what that means? Full Dress Uniform! Can you comprehend the significance of that? Do you even begin to sense the danger? It has always been one of your failings, Vaslov. You cannot grasp the long view. Can you imagine what might happen if an arrangement, an alliance were established between Piehl and the King?

Trone was motionless. He looked toward Krasnieven but not at him.

There are probably thirty to forty thousand ex-Legionnaires spread over the Western Arm. If Piehl sent a general call to them to rally to his standard would there be one who wouldn't answer the call? No, of course not. They would come. He stared at Krasnieven for a long count. "I see you are beginning to get the message.

Take it a step further. Consider Blair Prince, Colonel Blair Prince and the missing First Brigade. He was Piehl's best friend. We've done our best to destroy Prince through the News-Comp, but the fact remains, despite the reports of those liars and optimists in the Imperial Navy, he's never been found nor have any of his men been taken alive. That's ten thousand marines, eight or ten capital ships and as many support vessels. What common factor do you perceive?

When Krasnieven opened his mouth to answer, Trone raised his hand like a weapon ready to strike.

Don't answer, I don't need more stupidity. Piehl, Prince, the men of the Legion survived. Yes indeed, he said, looking inward at something only he could see. "They are good at that. Should Piehl and Prince get together, with the support of the King and those parts of the Navy I cannot control, all that I have worked for could be destroyed.

I tried to penetrate the senior staff of the Legion for fifteen years. I did not succeed. The King made it plain at his birthday ball that he holds Piehl in the highest favor. I don't like this situation at all. I strongly suggest you spend less time with those wretched women of yours, and more on the affairs of Mr. Aubrey Piehl.

Trone spoke with grinding intensity, pinning Krasnieven with his eyes like a snake beneath a forked stick.

Longevity in my service depends on utility. If you wish to have a future, I recommend you pay more attention to business. Do you understand me, Vaslov?

A sheen of oily sweat covered Krasnieven's vice ridden face. Yes, Sir Claren, I understand. I'll get more people on Piehl. You'll know every move he makes.

"That would be good, Vaslov. For instance, I have it from one of my people inside the palace the King intends to contact Piehl for an assignment of some kind, and that First Princess Iralane is involved. I wouldn't take it amiss if some kind of accident happened to Piehl, or the Princess for that matter.

I understand, Sir Claren, leave it to me.

I will, for now, Vaslov. Only for now. Great events are imminent. My destiny hangs in the balance. You know what's happening out on the Rim. I was distressed to hear rumors of what's out there circulating around the port area. The last thing I need at this point is that self-righteous, ex-Legionnaire meddling in my affairs. Remember this, Krasnieven, and remember it well. I do not reward error, nor do I forgive fools.

Vaslov felt as though he'd just been sentenced to death, then given a temporary stay of execution. His perception of the situation was accurate.

That is all, Krasnieven, leave.

Krasnieven got up slowly; a fearful man, an evil man, with an indefinite future. He faded into the heavy blackness of the room knowing his absence wouldn't be noticed.

Trone brooded silently, his pale eyes half closed. Then, as though coming alive a piece at a time, the fingers of one hand lying motionless on the stone desk began to tap out a slow, monotonous rhythm and the flaccid muscles on one side of his face twitched asynchronously. His voice, when it passed his thin bloodless lips, was a piercing wail, penetrating to the furthest corners of the ancient hall. He sang! It was a song of madness and obsession.

The King is dead, the King is dead, God save the King.

Finally he stood and walked to a passageway in a shadowy corner behind his delusory throne.

Chapter 3

A week passed. Piehl had forgotten the King's birthday ball. There were more immediate problems, like eating and paying dock fees. They hadn't turned up anything in the way of a job, not even a lead.

Regent's planet wasn't some rogue's lair out on the Rim where rules were non-existent and things could be worked out with the port authorities. If it hadn't been one of the best places to get cargo, they would have left years before.

Flex left the ship earlier in the morning to check on something. Piehl was still aboard overhauling the portside gyro. When Flex buzzed, Piehl was sitting amidst a pile of parts, systematically going over each assembly with a tester, trying to find out why the damn thing insisted they fly upside down at the odd moment.

Piehl was whimsical, but trying to land a twenty thousand ton merchant inverted went far beyond whimsy.

The Comm system buzzed again and Piehl flipped it to receive.

Captain, I have something in the way of business. How soon can you get to the Outworlds Bar? He sounded excited.

Thirty minutes, Flex. I'm sitting in a pile of what use to be the port gyro. Now I know why they have electro-techs in the service. This stuff is too damned complex for a simple-minded ex-general. It's going to take me a while to get the damn thing back together.

Right, Captain. As soon as you can, I think we have a possible job.

Piehl left the ship a half hour later and made the mistake of looking back. Poor old Goddard was a wreck. They bought her third hand three hard years earlier.

The old Gordon Carry-All's weren't that great to start with. There wasn't one square centimeter of surface unscarred, and the replacement plates made it look like a badly designed chess board. Two hundred and fifty meters long, she was shaped like a ugly torus; with a hundred meter cylindrical drive unit on one end, the old girl was bone ugly.

Piehl sighed. Nothing to be done about it.

He made his way through the hurly-burly of the port towards the Outworlds Bar. He and Flex used it as an unofficial office. When Piehl reached the bar, Flex was sitting slouched in one of the relaxors sipping spiced coffee.

Piehl noticed an old ex-Imperial marine crashed out on a bench in the back. He knew him; they had shared a mug from time to time. He was a good man come on hard times. The owner, an ex-legionnaire, was off somewhere on his own business.

Flex smiled. Morning, sir. Coffee's fresh.

Don't get up, Ensign. You shouldn't trouble yourself to get a cup for your captain, Piehl said sarcastically.

Oh, good, sir. I'm feeling mellow this morning. Her grace, Lady Jane Esterlys was most solicitous of my health and well-being when she discovered I was put in prison by the nasty old Imperial Navy.

Really? Now how did she find that out, Flight Major? Piehl had a look of wry amusement on his face.

Oh, I told her of course. However I forgot to tell her I got out three years ago, and somehow she got the impression I was only just released and that I must therefore be feeling the pangs of confinement. She was most kind and tender regarding my...well being, Flex sighed.

Flex, you are without conscience. Why these women find you worth their time I will never know.

Captain, begging your pardon, you really should pay more attention to the ladies. You've promoted and demoted me so many times during the past seven years I worry the lack of feminine contact is causing you cell damage.

Piehl chuckled and threw the bar rag at him. Flex ducked and easily picked it out of the air.

Listen, Private Holtzman, we'd better forget the problems of the flesh and figure how we're going to pay the docking fees. You called me with what sounded like a possible contract.

Piehl took a seat in a relaxor and waited for Flex to tell him what was going on.

Captain, would you be willing to take a contract beyond the frontier, in the Dark Worlds?

Damn, Flex, you know how I feel about that. We aren't set up for that kind of action. Those people are renegades. Try to remember we've no armament on the Goddard at all.

Sure, Captain, sure. I know how you feel. I don't want to go anywhere near the rim.

Piehl worried when Flex agreed with him.

Captain, I wouldn't give it a thought, except we've been offered 25,000 prime credits to escort an important personage out that way...and the use of an armed Gideon Class Merchant for the trip. They'll also put up credit to fill the holds with whatever we might want for trade when we get there.

Did you say 25,000 prime credits!

Great Gods, Piehl thought, we'd be out of debt with credits to spare. Oh! Oh! Here I go, one minute filled with resolve, the next a slavering enthusiast, ready for the lure. Piehl knew he should tell Flex to forget it, but those credits completely numbed his brain. So be reasonable, Aubrey, Piehl said to himself. You can listen, right? Can't hurt to listen. You don't have to do anything.

Flex smiled and said nothing. Piehl couldn't stand it.

So, who would we have to take out there? Is it legal? No, strike that. Is it political? Piehl learned a long time ago that political can get your days shortened a lot quicker than illegal. Finally he ran out of questions.

Look, Captain, you don't want to go, it's okay. Something will turn up before Firstday.

Huh? What's with Firstday? he asked.

Oh, that's when our credit runs out, and the docking fees are due.

That soon? I thought we had more time.

Nope, afraid not, Flex said with a doleful look. They're going to stick us on Work List Zero.

The hook was firmly embedded. Piehl gave in to curiosity. You'd better tell me about it. The Dark; bad dreams. Oh well, better than cleaning sewers beneath the Rockpile, as Central City was fondly called. Piehl was not happy.

Okay, said Flex. It's not a big deal, we fix up a nice space for the girl...

Girl! Piehl groaned. What girl? Not on a ship, Flex, you have got to quit drinking that five minum slop, it's turning your brain to mud.

Flex went on totally unmoved by Piehl's ranting. The girl and her companions...

Companions! Great. What the hell, it gets dull on those long runs anyway.

Flex waited patiently for Piehl to run down then went on as though nothing had happened. Well, there's always Central City's great cloaca, which I'm told an army of ten thousand couldn't clean in a year.

Piehl was still grumbling. I always knew there was a lot of crap in this world.

Flex laughed. Well if we don't get off the pot, so to speak, we're going to get to look at it up close.

Flex waited a moment. "Please listen, Captain. There's the girl, her companion, and an Imperial Sufic Warrior as guard. Her uncle is Viceroy of the Beyond The Rim Hegemony. She's being sent there to cool