“Battalion, ord-eeer, ARMS!”

The shout had barely left the officer’s mouth before seven-hundred-and-forty aramipolymer rifle butts smacked into the cobblestones of the large square, and thirty-eight finely polished steel blades were lowered towards the ground.

“Battalion, slooo-pe, ARMS!”

The same number of long-barrelled pulse rifles was lifted from the ground by white-gloved hands and in three distinct motions were placed on the right shoulders of navy blue uniforms with golden epaulets.

“Battalion, pres-eeent, ARMS!”

1st Battalion, Grand Duke of Novorosyia’s (King Edward III’s) Own Royal Marine Light Infantry Regiment (5th) smartly brought their guns from slope positions and held them out in front of their chests, while taking a half step back with their right feet, whilst the officers held their long, thin swords vertically in front of their faces. The full honour guard battalion was dressed in high collar navy blue tunics and trousers, with red detailing on the cuffs and trouser lining, white belts, and wore white peaked caps adorned with the golden globe and anchor that had been worn by the original regiment from which they claimed descent since 1704 CE. However, if examined closely enough, one would note that the original “MARE” in the crest’s motto had been changed for “ASTRUM”, and the wreathed golden globe showed the continents of Aurora, not Earth. As the Royal Marines presented weapons in honour of the assembly on the large parade square in front of Admiralty House, an even more spectacularly dressed Royal Marine band played up, and the jaunty tunes of the “Royal Navy Praesentiermarsch” sang out, a quick and uplifting march. The Royal Marines occupied the centre of the walled parade ground, while around them on all angles were Royal Navy personnel in their black and gold ceremonial dress uniforms, formed into ordered lines. As soon as the march started to play, the Royal Navy officers and enlisted came to attention, smartly snapping white-gloved hands to the brim of their berets or peaked caps.

If the upper crust calling their capital city mansions “apartments” was a gross understatement, deciding on the name Admiralty House for the gigantic Neo-Georgian palace in the middle of downtown Cordelia was even more absurd. Esplanades of marble columns, terraces, balconies and expansive staircases dominated the massive structure, all in a golden grey colour regularly interspersed by the many hundreds of windows with their tall arches. The cobblestoned parade ground in front of the majestic quadruple blood-oak door main entrance could hold thousands, ensconced as it was by decorated walls on the far side, and by wings of the Admiralty building on the remainder. The whole Admiralty complex was situated at the northern end of Admiralty Park, the fourth largest park in Cordelia, and it buttressed the Quarters district, where St. Andrew Palace and the Royal Courts were located, in addition to most of the department houses for the different branches of government. This entire part of Cordelia, located just a few miles east and up-river for the Cordelia Tether Island –which served as a natural foci for the city as a whole– was dominated by its many parks and man-made recreational lakes, with private mansions dotted among the landscape. It really was an escape from the rest of the metropolis, no monorail lanes or skycar landing towers existed within this bubble of classical splendour. Admiralty Park was a popular leisure spot for the people of Cordelia, taking strolls along the footpaths, watching the tame swans and Auroran water-waxwings, or simply taking a break from the hustle and bustle by walking among copses of both adapted Earth trees and flowers, as well as local Auroran flora. And dominating the skyline of this magnificent green meadow was the impressive Admiralty House, from where the largest space navy in the known galaxy was administered.

The band finished the first march, and launched into “Battotai”, a decidedly different piece of music, and the Royal Marines snapped back into the shoulder arms position at the shouted order of their lieutenant-colonel. Stepping out in perfect lockstep from the lines of Royal Navy officers in front of the main entrance, directly facing the honour guard, were a group of strikingly dressed officers, the amount of gold details and embroidery put all the others to shame, and they all carried sheathed swords in gilded scabbards. From the left of the main entrance, another group of Royal Navy officers came marching, equally splendidly adorned. The two groups met in front of the Royal Marines and exchanged sharp salutes, all the while the repetitive tunes of “Battotai” continued. The air was veritably humming with Dumb Artificial Intelligence (DAI) drones busy streaming the whole ceremony to a myriad of net channels.

“Sir Hugh,” the man leading the first group said.

“Sir Damien,” the man in the middle of the second group responded. No one but the two dozen or so officers nearby could hear the exchange, and they pretended that nothing was out of the ordinary.

“I see you brought Lord Sélincourt with you today. Bit of a faux pas allowing a half-pay officer into an official ceremony like this, wouldn’t you say?”

Sir Damien Koyanagi was of middling height, with a receding hairline that he tried to cover the best he could with headwear, and keen brown eyes. Sir Hugh Fitzroy Donegal was slightly taller, with thinning chestnut hair and a regulation-cut chestnut beard. His frame was more robust than his counterpart, and not nearly as athletic as Lady Emily Chiang who stood a few paces to his left. His eyes were impressively sea green, usually the first thing people made note of when meeting him up close; they always shone with both humour and determination.

“Actually, Sir Damien, Sélincourt is here by invitation of Lady Ashwike, and I believe it would be a very poor start indeed to our future working relationship by refusing her request to have a friend attend the baton ceremony.”

Something flickered in Koyanagi’s eyes and he extended his hand to keep up appearances and keep the quadrille of military parade and ostentation moving.

“I take it you’re retaining Ashwike as Sixth Lady then.” It wasn’t a question and Donegal didn’t answer. “A good choice if you want my opinion, though I don’t presume you very much do. But you could have chosen a much worse Admiral of Research than her. I take it these are to be your senior Admiralty and station commanders then?” Koyanagi made a slight nod towards the group of officers that had accompanied Donegal, and this time the new First Lord Admiral did answer.

“Yes, I have chosen Lord Lowe Hill as Second Lord and Admiral of Planning, Dame Vanessa Howards as head of Personnel, Sir Reginald Templeton as Admiral of Ships, Adrienne Bower-Henton as Lady Spook, and will be keeping Lady Ashwike in Research as well as Sir Cornelius McIndoe as Judge Advocate General. And Sir Morgan Mizushima of course.”

Koyanagi blinked a few times as they finished their shake and saluted each other again.

“That is actually a lot more, and you’ll forgive the choice of word, conservative group of people than I expected out of you, Sir Hugh. I was sure you were going to bring some absolute hothead in with you, like that damn loose cannon Harper-Rowland or New Acre, if nothing to keep the Grey Hill crowd pleased.”

Donegal smiled lopsidedly.

“You haven’t seen who I am proposing as fleet and station commanders yet. If you had, I don’t think you’d be saying that. Let’s just say Hartcastle, Suncrest, New Acre, Kuznetsova, and Sélincourt are all going back to active postings.”

A grimace cut across Koyanagi’s face for a moment before resuming his mask of civility.

“I say, that’s more like what I would expect from you and your lot. Lord Grantham of Hartcastle and Lady Chiang I can understand, but Kuznetsova and New Acre? I certainly won’t deny that New Acre has tremendous frontline experience, but even you have to admit she has a tendency to be too, for lack of a better term, trigger-happy. And let’s not even open the can of worms that is Erica Kuznetsova; putting that woman in charge of a fleet is an international incident waiting to happen.”

“Sir Damien,” Donegal said with as a polite smile he was able to muster, “I will not insult your intelligence by pointing out that all these officers are splendid and proven commanders who have long track records of excellent service, but I will politely hint to our political differences and ascribe your opinions to stem from these. I will also be keeping your man Sir André Choudhry on in Novorosyia at the time being, if that is any consolation.”

While the two had been talking, the other senior officers of the two groups had been saluting, exchanged handshakes, and were chatting lowly under the sound of the band playing. Sélincourt, while mentioned by name, was standing off among the other Royal Navy officers, who were still saluting, wearing the same black-gold ceremonial uniform as the others, but without his sword to indicate he was not currently on active posting. The music died down and the two groups of senior officers straightened into at ease, the rest of the soldiers on the ground doing the same, and once more a resounding clack reverberated as the Royal Marines’ rifle butts hit the cobblestones. A drone came swooping in and hovered just above Sir Damien Koyanagi and a score of loudspeaker drones came to life with a pop.

“I hereby,” Koyanagi said clearly, his voice amplified and broadcast over the loudspeaker drones, “transfer command and control of His Majesty King Nicholas I’s Royal Navy to the new First Lord of Admiralty, Sir Hugh F. Donegal. May you serve His Majesty and all his subjects diligently and to the utmost of your abilities for as long as you remain First Lord. May you safeguard our allies and our citizens in space, and preserve the integrity and honour of His Majesty’s Service. May God aid you in this endeavour.”

The last comment prompted Donegal to sharply salute Koyanagi again, and the first three bars of the “Praesentiermarsch” were played again by the Royal Marine band. Koyanagi continued as the music stopped.

“As is honoured tradition, the new First Lord Admiral is allowed to choose their own motto, which commonly reflects the personality of the new First Lord, as well as their new Admiralty administration. My chosen motto was Aere perennius, ‘More lasting than bronze’, and I have during my tenure tried to adhere to that adage by expanding the Royal Navy’s network of bases and supply depots, as well as reworking the structure of the line of battle in order to create a strong foundation for future augmentation. May I ask, Sir Hugh, what your motto will be?”

Donegal straightened a bit.

“Sir, the motto for me and my administration will be Si vic pacem, para bellum, ‘If you want peace, prepare for war’.”

A barely perceptible stir emanated from the gathered troops, but no one broke At Ease position. Koyanagi barely blinked; no doubt he had seen it coming.

“Sir Hugh, as you are the new commander of His Majesty’s Navy, I ask permission to be dismissed.”

“Sir Damien,” Donegal replied, “thank you for your long service as First Lord Admiral, and may I express my gratitude for the incessant work and incredible devotion you have displayed as His Majesty’s servant. You are dismissed.”

As Donegal and Koyanagi saluted each other, the Royal Marine band struck up an ancient tune that had only a few words in the lyrics changed since its premiere in 1760 CE. To the exuberant and fervid notes of “Heart of Oak”, the whole parade square saluted again, and the groups of senior officers marched off in lockstep to where the other had started from; Donegal and his to the main entrance, and Koyanagi’s to the left of the square, incidentally right where Lord Sélincourt stood. Koyanagi flashed him an irritated look, but the marquess didn’t bother responding.

As “Heart of Oak” died down, the band started playing “Life on the Ocean Wave”, and to the shouts of their lieutenant-colonel, the soldiers of 1st Bat, Grand Duke of Novorosyia’s Royal Marines trailed arms and started to file out of the parade square in ordered marching columns, led by the band in front. The Royal Navy personnel remained at ease until the last of the honour guard had quit the grounds before many of them started to march away as well, while others filed into the Admiralty buildings. The drone cameras were shutting down, and the streams cutting out, sparing the viewers from watching Lord Sélincourt flipping the bird to Koyanagi as the latter got into a waiting black staff skycar.

“Well, that went actually a lot better than expected,” Lady Ashwike said as she sloshed the contents of her Valhallan crystal glass around.

Admiral of the Red Valentina Kirkland, Countess Ashwike, was very tall, with wavy blonde hair, and a heart-shaped face. She had all the hallmark traits of the old Kirkland dynasty, tall cheekbones, a long neck and eyes like dark blue pools. The Kirklands were one of the oldest of the old and prestigious Auroran noble families, descended from the first generation of colonists. Valentina Kirkland was not the head of the main branch of the family, that’s how large and rich the family was; their main seat was not Ashwike, but the Marquisate of Flowerhall, a grand summer palace built in the early 2410’s, and the vast tracts of land that accompanied it was famed for its pristine beauty. Valentina was instead the countess of the smaller Ashwike Abbey, located near the Sélincourt estates in New Devon. The noblewoman’s every movement oozed confidence and a quiet sort of unstated superiority, making such a simple task as moving a glass seem sophisticated. Lady Ashwike was unusually young for her rank; she had just celebrated her sixty-eighth birthday, while the average age for a full admiral in the Royal Navy was hovering around one-hundred. Unlike most of the people in the richly decorated Admiralty drawing room, Ashwike had never commanded a ship; she had done a few tours during her younger days as quartermaster and intelligence officer, but most of her career she had spent behind a desk at Admiralty House or at Admiralty Palace on New Malta.

“I almost believed Koyanagi would have included some barb or veiled insult in his transfer address, but apparently the man has a bit more integrity than I gave him credit for.” She nipped her Summer Isle cognac and made a sound of contentment. The person seated in the large upholstered chair Ashwike was leaning her arm on scoffed.

“You don’t seem to harbour much respect for your former employer, Lady Ashwike,” Adrienne Bower-Henton said, while refilling her glass of Angevin rosé. Vice Admiral of the White Bower-Henton was the diminutive and dark eyed freshly appointed Fifth Lady Admiral, the Head of the Department of Intelligence. As she turned to regard the much taller Ashwike, her brown ponytailed hair dashed around her gilded uniform epaulets.

“You certainly owe Koyanagi at least a semblance of gratitude for taking you on for the past six years, despite the very public political disagreements between the two of you. And for the fact that he has let you have almost unchecked liberty when it comes to prototype research. I seem to remember you benefiting quite a bit from that when you managed to get the next generation of COGAF engines into the mass production stage.”

“Adrienne,” Donegal warned, “please don’t push it, you’ve been colleagues for barely an hour and I won’t have you picking fights already. Let’s bury the axe already and concentrate on making the next ten years a productive and successful period in Royal Navy and Auroran history."

“Hear, hear!” Lord Sélincourt commented, standing by the drawing room window with a glass of cognac, “let’s have a cheer for Sir Hugh and the next ten years. Finally someone with actual brains is running this goddamn navy, and I for one am more than willing to drink to that.”

Replies of “cheers”, “hear, hear”, and “salut” came from the rest of the gathered officers.

“Now,” Lady Chiang said after draining her glass of New Forest whisky, “what is first on the agenda for the new Admiralty? Obviously a massive personnel clean-up is in order, that much is clear, but after that I mean.”

“You tell me,” Dame Vanessa Howards scoffed, “Department of Personnel is filled with people who don’t know their arses from their elbows, either because they’re improperly trained or because they knew someone who knew someone in the previous administration and are paying their favours back.”

More than one person had described Admiral of the White Vanessa Howards as “dour”, and it was a very apt description of the tall, gaunt, and stern-looking officer, who invariably kept her greying auburn hair in a tight regulation bun, both on and off duty. She also abstained from alcohol, and had a glass of iced tea on a small table next to her chair.

“I swear, the summaries my aides and I have received in preparation for taking over the department is nothing but a confusing mess. There seems to be an abnormally high number of beached officers, many of them senior enough to warrant ship- or station command…”

Sélincourt gave her a little wave from the other side of the room, as did Lady New Acre, who was standing next to him.

“… And the projected number of enlisted personnel finishing specialisation training on shore establishments like Cumberland and New Saxony are well low of the mark required to crew the next generation of ships coming off drydock, not to mention additionally replacing retiring troops. And the less said about the number of graduates from King William’s Academy annually, the better.”

“Well, that’s why we have you here, Dame Vanessa,” New Acre said with an accompanying hand gesture with her black-and-silver prosthetic. Admiral of the Black Adeline le Fey, Countess of New Acre, was of average height for an Angevin woman (shorter than the Auroran average), with a quite triangular face and fiery red hair that reminded Carlisle of his daughter’s. Stretching up to her right elbow joint, her prosthetic was almost a piece of art, made from titanium and coated in a matte black with vines and flowers inlaid in silver that stretched like ivy across the length of the forearm. In the palm of her hand were engraved the names of the seven officers who had lost their lives in the same engagement she had lost her limb. Despite her fierce reputation and somewhat sinister look, she was a soul of joviality and good humour, and was a rabid fan of comic operas.

“If anyone,” New Acre continued after a hearty swig of her cognac, “have the ability to unfuck whatever the hell Koyanagi’s boys and girls were up to here on the House, it’s you Dame Vanessa. And possibly Sir Morgan, now that he doesn’t have Koyanagi protesting in his ear every time he tries to make a decision. Speaking of, where is the good Sir Morgan? Is he sleeping yesterday off somewhere instead of being here at the ceremony?”

Donegal gave her an admonishing glare over the top of his wine glass.

“No, Lady New Acre, he isn’t ‘sleeping it off’, he has been detained at United Services Headquarters, because Duke New Brunswick wants assurances that we won’t try to expropriate more of the collective defence budget overages.”

“He does know the Royal Navy is funded separately from the Royal Army, right?” Ashwike said somewhat incredulously.

“I’m sure he does, Lady Ashwike,” Donegal replied, “but you’ll pardon the good duke for doing his due diligence when it comes to budgetary matters, especially since it isn’t exactly a secret that we all belong to the part of the ‘Fisherian School’ of the Royal Navy, and that I’ve publically many times promised a marked increase in ship production. And since there is a collective overage and supplementary budget allocated to the United Services as a whole, I can understand that New Brunswick might think we’ll be running off with the lot of it.”

“As if the Lobsters need more funding,” Lord Lowe Hill said contemptuously, “what are they going to spend their extra money on, more tanks? Tanks that haven’t been used in anger for more than a century?”

Admiral of the White Lord Anthony Rostov of Lowe Hill was the newly appointed Second Lord and in charge of the Department of Planning. Rostov was slightly portly, both a combination of unfortunate genetics as well as a largely sedentary lifestyle. He was also extremely conscious of how he presented himself, and his uniform managed somehow to have more golden embroidery than the rest of the assembled officers’, and his brown beard was slightly forked in what he considered a debonair style. Having spent his entire career as either a quartermaster, flag operations officer, or in some way attached to rear area services in Admiralty, Rostov was supremely convinced that the Department of Planning was the beating heart that kept the rest of the Royal Navy, and by extension the Kingdom, alive. The other admirals might concede that he was technically correct, given that Planning operated the vast Royal Navy Auxiliary, the King William’s Naval Academy, the shore establishments, the naval space stations, the supply depots, the naval hospitals, the Judge Advocate General’s legal division, the Naval Provost’s division, and a load of other bureaus, it still didn’t make Lord Rostov’s trademark arrogant demeanour easier to tolerate. Still, he was incredibly good at his job, which was why he had been Donegal’s first choice as Second Lord.

“I swear, the fact that we aren’t folding the Army into the Royal Marines is beyond…”

“Please, Lord Rostov,” Chiang interrupted, “we’re not having this discussion again, and I’m sure I am not the only one in this room that is of the opinion that the Royal Army have roles and responsibilities that the Royal Navy or Royal Marines cannot complete. And let’s leave it at that for the time being.”

“As you say, Lady Suncrest,” Lowe Hill conceded grumpily, “and if I may, Dame Vanessa,” he said while turning to the flinty woman to his right, “we’ll soon sort out those training issues, you have my word on that. I have been sounding out a few friends in Parliament about establishing a second naval academy on either Amaranth or Cymru. And to get it up and running quickly, I was planning on sounding you out about taking some of the more capable of the old fogies Koyanagi had assigned to ship- and station command, in addition to some of those beached officers you just mentioned, and make them the training staff for this new establishment. It will of course take time to establish a completely new naval academy from scratch, but in this way the first few graduating cohorts wouldn’t be qualitatively inferior to the King William graduates.”

“I didn’t think I’d be saying this,” Bower-Henton commented, “but that is actually a pretty good idea, Lowe Hill.”

“And it might,” Sélincourt shot in, “be something that can be accepted across the aisles in Parliament, especially in the Commons. No idea what the Tories might vote in the Lords, but the Unionists and Democrats in the Commons would certainly be interested, and Royalist and majority Social Liberals support is a given. Labour would of course say something like ‘another military educational institution endangers the continued peace in the galaxy by encouraging youth to enlist in the forces of destruction’, or something to that effect.”

“My,” Lady Ashwike chuckled, “your ventriloquist act is improving, you sounded almost like John Baptiste there for a moment.”

“Thank you, I thought it was a pretty good impression too, if I do say so myself.”

Donegal glanced at his old-fashioned wrist watch and grunted.

“Well, drink up people, we have to address the public in twenty minutes and then there’s press conference. Or, at least some of us,” he said with a sidelong glance at each of Sélincourt, New Acre, and Suncrest, “the ones who are going to be in the public eye that is. You fleet commanders get to slink off somewhere and remain undisturbed on your flagships.”

“You important people go do that,” New Acre said while grinning and refilled her glass and Sélincourt’s, “we’re going to be here for a spell longer and enjoy a few free drinks. Well, they’re technically paid for by the tax payers, but close enough I guess.”

“Hey, considering how much I pay in taxes, there’s a good chance I am paying for all the alcohol imbibed by the entire Royal Navy!” Sélincourt mock-protested and New Acre, Ashwike, and Suncrest laughed. New Acre turned her newly filled glass towards Sir Hugh and the rest of the departing admirals.

“Si vic pacem, para bellum, Sir Hugh,” she said without a trace of mirth. “Strike up our drums, pursue the scatter'd stray. God, and not we, hath safely fought to day.”

“Please, New Acre,” Bower-Henton said, one eyebrow raised, “do not quote Shakespeare to us, for I know you all, and will awhile uphold the unyok’d humour of your idleness.”

“Agh,” Ashwike protested, “can we go already before these abecedarians ruin the good mood? I think I’d rather face the journalists than listening to these barbarians mangle ancient poetry.”

“These are going to be ten long years, huh,” Donegal sighed while opening the drawing room doors.

“Better keep the drinks coming, Sir Hugh,” Lady Suncrest commented from her chair with a smile as the rest filed out.