Fortress Republic, page 11
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
He had reveled in his reputation, in fact, with his mohawk and non-conservative dress. Until the political pressure leveraged against Senator Gerald Monroe pushed the man over the edge and Conner had left military service for the political arena.
Except, if that were true, how had it ended up with him leading a desperate, violent charge out of Germany to take Paris? His attempt to capture political leaders as bargaining chips?
How many more good men and women had died since Conner’s agreement to serve out the remainder of his father’s term?
Shaking the questions from his head, Conner led the other two senators into the nearby alcove and down a short hallway lined with closed, steel doors. The ceiling was low here. Barely high enough for a good-sized man to stand upright with the pipes and electrical runs suspended overhead. Near the wall, a steady trickle of water drip-drip-dripped into a small puddle spread over the floor. He’d have to get that seen to.
“This was the Monroes’ fall-back position during the Jihad,” he said. Sixty years before. When the Inner Sphere had burned under Word of Blake’s scorched-earth campaign. “Complete with defensive systems and storage, and apartments for several hundred families. A base of operations from which we expected to fight an ongoing resistance. We’ve kept it a closely guarded secret.”
“So you have your own private bunker.” Usuha shrugged. “In itself, not so noteworthy.”
The corridor ended at a double-wide steel door, reflecting back stretched images of Conner and the other two senators. If Melanie or Subhar noticed the murder holes to either side, out of which sentries could thrust muzzles of assault rifles at any moment, they did not say anything. So neither did he.
Instead, he placed his palm on the inset piece of dark, charcoal-tinted glass next to the security door. A light flashed behind the glass, outlining his palm. Then the door slid back into the wall with a hiss of driving pneumatics.
“Perhaps not. But I do get a sense of security while here,” he admitted, leading the two inside.
Then he smiled as the room’s “presence” washed over his two comrades. It stopped them cold, leaving them both momentarily speechless.
The room was a command center, full of communications boards and tactical plotters and satellite imaging stations. A large holographic projection table rested on a raised dais at the center of the room, its glasstop screen glowing softly amber in the dim light. Fully operational, the center would have been the envy of any planetary defense force and likely competed with anything less than the exarch’s own situation room on Terra.
In enough space for fifty or more staffing officers and technical crew, just now a skeleton team of three junior officers and one staff sergeant worked the various boards, panels and computer interface screens. Most of the equipment sat dark and lonely, often covered by a plastic shroud. The entire room had a fresh-from-the-factory smell. Plastics and cold steel, mainly. The scents had yet to be overpowered by the ozone taste of warm electronics, the human touches of old coffee and nervous sweat.
“Well?” Conner asked, breaking the silence.
Subhar Usuha nodded. “I take it back.”
Melanie was also impressed, walking out among the aisles between dark screens and chairs still wrapped in thin membranes of shipping plastic. “This must have . . . How could you . . . Years. Decades. Conner, this cost a fortune!”
And was never to be used except in the most dire emergency. Had his father ever considered that the actions he had taken, along with the rest of the Senate cabal, would initiate just such a crisis as this? Their “victimless plan” to influence the military, and the government, at the highest levels. And Conner’s strong defense against the exarch’s high-pressure tactics.
“Sergeant,” he said. “Throw The Republic onto the main table please.”
He walked over to the large holographic array, stepping up on the dais and waiting to be joined by Melanie and Subhar. She was slow in coming, stopping to pull up the corners on a few plastic shrouds. Checking . . .
“Matsushita. Kamaharra. These were manufactured in the Draconis Combine.”
And imported illegally. She left off that part of her accusation.
“Mother was much more the careful one,” Conner admitted. He stared down into the table as the amber glow parted into a soft, blue background and tiny suns winked into existence. “Over the last twenty years, I believe we’ve upgraded or replaced every piece of equipment in this room.”
It helped that his mother was also a Combine citizen, and the head of a very large merchant family, influential on both sides of the border.
As Melanie joined the two men, Conner adjusted some holographic controls projected into the air above the table’s edge, and a fully detailed starmap of The Republic of the Sphere slowly coalesced into being. Not fully three-dimensional, as the emitters were good for only eighteen inches above the table’s wide, glossy surface. But good enough to give some depth perception to the starfield. Nearly three hundred burning suns in hues of yellow and red and a few bright white or hard blue. Terra pulsed at the very center like a miniature strobe. Then the prefecture borders sketched in with thick, golden lines, fencing Prefecture X within a circular wall, stretching spider-like arms out to divide each Republic district into its own place. Border worlds from neighboring realms peeked out like eyes watching from the edge of the dark.
“Sergeant.” He did not look back, but studied the starmap with intense concentration. “Add the latest strategic overlays.”
Several dark cancers ate into the bright field. Stars dimmed in Prefectures V and VI as House Liao pushed out from their Capellan Confederation. The Oriente Protectorate swallowed two worlds as well. In Prefectures VIII and IX, the Jade Falcons carved out their own territory. And the Draconis Combine border shifted as well with their most recent military drives chewing deep through Prefecture II.
Melanie shivered. Gripped her arms in a solitary hug. “Watching that happen is enough to give one chills. How many worlds has The Republic lost to outside aggression?”
“Twenty . . . ?” Subhar looked to be counting. “Thirty . . . ?”
“Now,” Conner said, as he performed his own input over the projected control surface. “Let’s see where we stand.”
A silver halo glowed to life around half a dozen worlds spread across a large part of The Republic.
“Markab,” Conner said, “and Ozawa.” He nodded at the two worlds marked out of Prefecture III. “Kervil.” Melanie’s homeworld in II. “Liberty and Augustine and Park Place.” Senators Lina Derius, Michael Riktofven. Therese Ptolomeny.
Their new Alliance of Senators.
“Far flung and unable to support each other,” Subhar said. “The Blackout notwithstanding. You are isolated and ineffective.” He spread his hands as if to encompass all of the displayed Republic. “When we gather together in the Senate, we speak with a voice Exarch Levin is forced to heed. There, we have a solidarity of purpose and will.”
Very careful uses of “you” and “we,” Conner noted. Subhar was not yet on board. But he would be. He had no choice.
Fortunately, Melanie had recovered well enough to answer the Ozawa senator. “What else would you have us do? Let Jonah Levin run roughshod over our rights and responsibilities? He disbanded the Senate, Subhar. He took away the voice of the people. Can we really trust that he will simply give it back?”
That rattled the man’s composure. He laid a hand to the side of his face, slowly rubbed it along his jaw. Thinking. “I am not saying I agree with his methods. But I see no call to join you in what I perceive as a mutual suicide pact. I do not fear Noble’s Court or a military investigation. And I am responsible to the people of Ozawa as well as to the benefit of all worlds in Prefecture III. This . . .” he waved his other hand at the disparate worlds with their solitary halos, “is not convincing.”
“All right.” Conner stepped up his program to Stage Two. Gestured at the starfield where the silver halos suddenly expanded into a web of thin strands, tying other worlds together.
Markab grabbed Mallory’s World, Cylene and Ronel. Ozawa tied in Towne and Addicks. On the other side of The Republic, Liberty pulled in Outreach and Hall. Augustine tied itself to Irian and Hamilton.
“See it yet?” he asked.
Subhar looked the map over. Shook his head. “Senator Derius has no impact on Hall. You’ve no influence on Ronel either. If I’m not mistaken, Ronel was recently fought over in a three-way struggle between Katana Tormark’s Dragon’s Fury, the Swordsworn and the Steel Wolves. Tormark holds it for now.”
“For now,” Conner agreed. “Then how about this?”
He advanced the network to the next stage. Filling in a few more worlds between Augustine and Liberty. Scooping up a wide swath of systems at the inside border of Prefectures III and IV. And a few along the border of II and III as well.
“This assumes, of course, that we can successfully shift Senator Vladistock from Kervil to Markab, where she can continue to influence worlds such as Ancha and Sadachbia.”
Suddenly, two distinct shapes took form within The Republic’s chaos of stars. A triangular wedge, anchored between Irian and Park Place and crowned by Liberty. And a sweeping field from Markab down through Ingress and Sheraton. Drawing final lines through Epsilon Eridani and Capolla formed a network of worlds that sliced away fully one-fourth of the existing Republic.
Watching it happen, Conner felt a stir in the dark recesses of his mind. A black argument, worried that taking such a step would be the beginning of the end for The Republic of the Sphere. But watching it die a slow death, devolving into a military police state where the ages-old system for giving voice and protection to the people was traded for a false sense of security held even less appeal.
The lesser of two evils. That was always the argument.
“Do you believe the exarch could possibly ignore this?” Melanie asked, her voice dark and honeyed. Her eyes were aglow with the possibilities laid out in Conner’s bold plan.
Subhar appeared suitably impressed. “You can support such a network?”
“There are weak areas,” Conner admitted. “We skirt close to Swordsworn-held worlds and, of course, the advancing Liao menace. Coordination is the key, and lack of HPG communications hurts us almost as badly as it does The Republic entire. Almost. These borders were chosen with great care to take advantage of the few ComStar stations still in working condition. And with two JumpShip bridges here, and here,” he pointed out two open stretches of space, which included the territory surrounding Liberty, “we can maintain a solid arterial stretching from Markab to Irian.”
Melanie nodded. “Of course, Ozawa is of great importance, Subhar.” She leaned over, almost against his side. “Your leadership would figure heavily in any plans.”
And Conner thought they had him. Caught up in the scope of such a resistance to the exarch’s totalitarian grip. Able to leverage their political muscle as well as any military strength necessary, the former having been what was lacking when they fought for their cause on Terra. Not this time. Now, with a few months of preparation, Exarch Levin and his paladins would be forced to meet them on equal footing!
But, “No. You don’t have it yet.” Subhar shook his head. The beads weighting the ends of his thin braids clacked together, rattling a soft dissent. He folded his arms across his chest. “Too many holes in your current infrastructure. Too many chances we’d have to take, warning the exarch of our plans.”
Our plans. Conner caught Melanie’s raised eyebrow and nodded. Perhaps Subhar Usuha was not fully committed, but he straddled the fence and leaned far to their side. Ready for the last push.
“Do you have any suggestions?” he asked. Sometimes, a man merely needed to tug against the leash. A little slack could go a long way.
His father had taught him that.
“Move carefully. Move quietly. Don’t reach too fast for the brass ring.” Subhar stepped away from the table and turned to face them both. “Show me you can accomplish even part of what you’ve laid out here. And I will deliver Ozawa.”
“Ozawa?” Melanie asked, letting a touch of regret tell in her voice. Of disappointment. In the great Subhar Usuha.
Conner nearly laughed when the large man recoiled as if slapped. “And Towne. Addicks. Small World. Give me a foundation to build upon, and I will raise a magnificent fortress.”
“I knew you were the right man for the job,” Melanie said. She placed a hand on each of his wide shoulders, looked up solemnly and gave him one regal nod. A vote of confidence.
And when she looked away, she slipped Conner a pregnant wink. One he returned.
Let Subhar remain distant. Let him play lord of the manor, if it catered to his ego as well as his sense of caution. In the end, hard-line practicality would force him into this new alliance as one of its strongest members. Conner had no doubt. But let him believe it was his own choice, and that he competed with Lina Derius to be the one to sit highest atop the dais. Conner did not mind. Because he and Melanie knew the truth of the matter.
When Exarch Levin finally came to realize what had happened, and approached the new alliance, Levin would not worry about who sat isolated within the fortress.
He would deal with those guarding the gates.
12
Sources will not say where Countess Tara Campbell has been sent. Only that she continues to “champion The Republic’s interests.” Speculation, of course, knows no bounds. Liberty, Markab, Tikonov, and Skye are high on the whispered list. Skye may be most likely, as it is known Countess Campbell was seen with Jasek Kelswa-Steiner during his recent visit to Terra. A relationship that may have begun much earlier . . .
—The Terran Tattler, 12 July 3135
Genève, Terra
Republic of the Sphere
16 July 3135
Julian Davion enjoyed the feel of a good gym.
Not the solemn, antiseptic rooms of an elite center, with social class requirements, private rooms and a personal trainer standing by. Another supposed perquisite of the nobility, where the latest in soft and silent machines provided a manufacturer’s promised “strength training resistance.”
Give him time-tested counterweight machines—and free weights!—any day.
Silva’s Gym was exactly what he had been looking for. And it had the added bonus of being only half a dozen blocks from the Sisters of Mercy. Mirrored walls made the room feel about ten times bigger than it really was, which was large enough to start. Coming in right behind the early morning crowd, there were enough people working out to give the place a well-used feel but not so many he had to wait long for any machine or free weight station. The open room smelled of honest sweat and the not-so-honest body sprays some men and women used when they approached the gym as a pick-up point, rather than to lose themselves in an hour of exertion.
Julian was here for the burn.
Coming off of squats, thighs throbbing with a deep, dull ache, he straddled a plastic-covered bench for his second set of presses. Pooled his terrycloth towel onto the floor by his feet. Dropped his Vita-Sports bottle into the soft nest. Laying back flat, muscle shirt bunched at the small of his back, he braced his arms beneath a rough-textured bar loaded with ninety kilos of old-fashioned steel disks.
With a soft grunt and a shove he popped the bar loose and balanced it over his chest. Eased it down. Pressed it back up again. Down. Then up. Sliding into a rhythm of piston strokes, giving it an easy set of ten repetitions. The weights rattled together at the top and bottom of each press, joined the metallic scrapes of other weights being loaded onto a nearby leg press, the sharp chinks of dumbbells touching at the top of a press, and an occasional slam as someone let their counterweights fall back too hard on one of the many machines.
Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . fifteen!
Holding the bar at full arm’s length, he rocked it back to slip easily into its cradle. He sat up, careful not to knock his head (again) against the bar. Grabbing his towel and his plastic bottle of Vita-Orange from the floor, he dabbed his face with the sweat-damp terrycloth and sipped. Staring straight ahead into the mirrored wall, he met his own gaze.
His reddish-blond hair was mussed to one side, and he didn’t care. His muscle shirt stuck to his body, soaked through, and his skin held a healthy, ruddy glow that came with a good workout. He recognized the strong chin and hazel eyes he had inherited from his father. And although Christoffer Davion had died when Julian was thirteen, sometimes he still heard his father counseling him.
Sometimes, his father spoke with Harrison’s voice.
A good prince serves the people well, uses the person badly.
Had his father actually said that? It sounded like Christoffer, who had much preferred his elected post as World Chairman of Argyle as opposed to any hereditary title his name had brought him. Still, he had given his warmest blessing when Harrison showed an interest in Julian’s upbringing. And Julian liked to think his father would have been proud to see him graduate, to become the youngest Prince’s Champion ever. He would have liked that.
This last week? Not so much.
Julian took another hard swallow of the sports drink, grimaced at the too-orange taste and checked the label out of habit. The ingredients list promised real oranges, but even the feel of the beverage—oily slick as it washed over his tongue and slid down his throat—was artificial. Had to be all the rest of the junk they packed in. The sodium and glucose. The electrolytes.
A decent sweetener was too much to ask?
He snapped the top down, buried the bottle within his towel and dropped them back to the floor. Lay back again. Flexed his hands and took a good grip on the bar. Ninety kilos. Plus another five in bar weight. Another set, easy.
Uses the person badly.
He glared at the bar, popped it up and levered it directly above his chest. Lowered it and then shoved, rattling the weight disks. Lowered. Shoved again. He powered through four quick reps. Five. Six.
At that place in the count, Callandre Kell suddenly appeared. Red leather pants, glossy jacket zipped all the way up to the base of her throat, black gloves. Riding gear. Her tangle of hazelnut hair streaked and tipped in wild, bright red highlights today. A storm clouded her face, turning her doe-brown eyes hard and dark.
