Ivil Antagonist

The Imperial Navy’s officer uniform was meant to remind people that the Imperial Navy was not something you should fuck with.

The Imperial Navy’s uniform was grey. No fun. Gunmetal. The kind of grey that reminded people of freshly poured concrete. It had that kind of texture too. Callous, abrasive, utilitarian.

The Imperial Navy’s uniform was made of a synthetic fibre weave. A square metre of it cost as much as a conscript made in a year. It could stop an explosive rifle round like a fly off a windshield. The kid wearing the suit would be pulped. Bones smashed, organs ruptured. But the uniform? Crisp as the day it was vat-printed.

The Imperial Navy liked its officers. Gave them medals for passing basic. A second lieutenant had a strip of them across his breast. An admiral had more tinsel than an old-Earth Christmas tree.

Wipe your ass well? That’s a medal.

The Imperial Navy Uniform Ivil Antagonist wore was custom. That was against regulations. Regulations were sacrosanct in the Imperial Navy. No one had the balls to tell her that she couldn’t, because sacrosanct only protected that which was holy. Ivil Antagonist made doing the unholy her life’s mission.

Her uniform was black.

Grey was the colour of bureaucrats.

Ivil Antagonist had once dropped a tungsten rod from low-earth orbit through a bureaucrat and the seventy-six floors of skyscraper beneath him. She didn’t do paperwork, she left trails of it in her wake.

Her uniform was the pitch darkness of empty space. It was the colour of places where stars went to die. No one knew what it was made of. No one asked.

There was a single pin on her chest. It wasn’t a medal. She had medals. They were in a case in her room that required four marines in exo-armour to lift. The pin was a small circle with two wings coming off of it. They’d been silver once, but time had rubbed the shine off, revealed the tin under the shiny paint.

It was the pin given to new Valkyries, back when they were all ritz and glamour. Most of them didn’t live to be old enough to buy a drink. Ivil Antagonist was thirty-six years old and felt like she was seventy.

She waited for just a split second before an armoured bulkhead. The systems connected to the door noticed her, then the powerful AI controlling the door weighed its options. It wasn’t meant to open the bulkhead door. There were several dozen protocols it was designed to follow that said, in black and white, that the door must remain closed.

It weighed this against the very real possibility that the door wouldn’t survive contact with Ivil Antagonist’s frustration.

The door hissed open.

Ivil stepped onto the bridge of the Imperial Star DreadnoughtPurgatorial Oblivion.

Only ten Imperial Star Dreadnoughts were ever commissioned, and of those, only three were actually built. Three was all the Imperial Navy needed to remind everyone in the system that they shouldn’t be messed with.

The average Earth-made warship was a workhorse. It was a 20th-century pick-up with the fat tires and an up-tuned engine. Next to them, an Imperial Dreadnought was a 20th-century supertanker.

The bridge was laid out like a giant ring, console and command areas pressed up against the edges with a raised platform in the centre for the officer in command of the ship to watch over their crew. It was a panopticon of control where one person could keep an eye on the entire command infrastructure of a ship able to go toe-to-toe with entire navies on its own.

Ivil walked up the steps to the centre of the command plinth. At the moment, the bridge was quiet except for the occasional groan or gasping breath. The officers were pressed into their seats, sinking into gel pads while machines pumped their blood for them.

A large navigation screen showed that at the moment thePurgatorial Oblivion’s crew was experiencing a balmy 7 gravities and would be experiencing those for another twenty minutes as they slowed down on their way to Haumea.

“How are things going, Admiral Vestri?” Ivil asked as she came to stand next to the admiral’s crash throne.

“Hrrr,” the admiral replied.

Ivil raised an eyebrow and looked down at the man who was struggling to keep his eyes open against the weight of his eyelids. A spurt of liquid shot through the plastic artery connected to the admiral’s neck. Enough painkillers to give a horse a high that would last a week and the kind of drug cocktail that would make the average tweaker shit themselves with envy. The crash after the dose was spent would make the average person’s life a living hell for a few days, but there were even more drugs to deal with that.

The admiral cleared their throat. “All is well, Ma’am,” he said. “Haumea is within scanning range.”

Ivil nodded sharply, then wandered over to one of the consoles to look over the shoulder of the lieutenant in charge of navigation. She moved some hair out of her face with a casual swipe while the brave lieutenant fought to keep conscious next to her.

Haumea was a pitiful excuse for a dwarf planet. It was way out in the fringes of the Sol system, well into the Kuiper Belt. It had no strategic value. It had no natural resources that weren’t better found elsewhere. Its moons were little better than some captured asteroids, and it was weeks distant from anyone or anything of interest.

That made it the perfect home for the Lunatics.

There were three large habitat bubbles poking out of the planetoid’s surface within a kilometre of each other. They were partially protected by a large crater wall.

ThePurgatorial Oblivion’ssensor suite was painting targets as quickly as it could spot them, and that meant that the screen Ivil was looking at was filled with several hundred contacts. Large freighters, pleasure barges, transportation ships, warships. The Lunatics had a thriving little community out here, and all of it was moving away from them like fish spooked by a shark.

The crowning jewel of the Lunatic fleet hovered above the largest of the habitation domes. TheParadoxical. It was as long as a full on Earth Alliance cruiser, and twice as fat. Even that bulk only made it half the size of thePurgatorial Oblivion.

“Have we been cleared for landing?” she asked as she straightened up.

No one answered her for a moment, then one of the officers strained to sit up straighter. “N-not yet, Ma’am,” she said. “There might not be enough room.”

Ivil frowned. That was... unfortunately possible. ThePurgatorial Oblivionhad its own personal berth in Mars’ orbit. In a pinch, it could use a super-tanker’s space to load and unload materials, but that was a chore. The Lunatics wouldn’t have anything to handle her.

“I’ll be heading out in one of our smaller ships, then,” Ivil decided before she spun on a heel and walked out.

With the ship undergoing enough stress to pulp an orange under its own mass, the onboard elevators and trolleys weren’t active. The grand halls of the imperial warship were devoid of crew, passenger, or soldier. Anyone that hadn’t made it to their crash seat--and there was always one--would either be dead or wishing they were.

Ivil walked through the lonely corridors with her head held high. She considered stopping in her suite onboard the dreadnought to freshen up, but dismissed the idea. It would eat up too much time. Ivil did not rush. Instead she walked through the ship at a calm, reasonable pace until she made it to one of the hangars.

Fourteen fully armed and operational ImperialAngel-class frigates were sitting in locked berths within thePurgatorial Oblivion’sbelly. Enough ships to form a complete naval battle-line, or to blockade a small planetoid.

She walked past the first two, then paused at the third. TheLucky Despot. She’d never seen, nor heard, of this particular ship before, but the name amused her. The captain might have had a sense of humour, which was a unique thing indeed within the Imperial Navy.

The entire ship groaned in relief as the pressure it was under subsided bit by bit. They were no longer burning hard to slow down, which meant that they were only hours from their destination. Soon, soldiers would be stumbling out of their couches, engineers would be running around looking for damage, and thePurgatorial Oblivionwould be brought to full battle readiness.

Ivil suspected that bringing an Imperial Dreadnought to visit some space clowns might have been a little much as far as shows of force went. It was bringing a nuke to a knife fight. But it might just get her the respect that her name lacked, and she would need all the clout she could manage.

In a few hours, if everything went well, Ivil Antagonist would be face to face with one of the solar system’s most dreaded adversaries. Claire, the Cosmic Clown of Clairvoyance and C-classed Valkyrie of the Lunatics.

***