Fortress Republic, page 12
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
She threw one leg across the bench, and him. Straddling his stomach, she leaned down, grabbed hold of the bar and forced it right down against his chest before he could think to react, adding a good measure of her own weight.
“You self-centered sorry-for-yourself petulant child!”
Julian huffed a quick breath, barely able to keep the bar from crushing his chest as he strained against her. “Good to see you too,” he said in a rush. On a short, sharp exhale.
So close, her breath felt warm against his cheek. Smelling of . . . licorice? She glared. “What are you doing, Jules?”
“Currently? Being assaulted. Before your arrival?” The bar slipped back a few centimeters. Pressed against his chest. He chuffed and shoved back. “Trying to work out.”
She eased back only slightly, but kept her hands wrapped around the bar on the outside of his. Fully in control.
“You don’t return my calls. You don’t bother to tell me that mutt of a princeling fired you. I have to hear it from Sandra?”
“Sandra called you?”
“No I caught her on a talk-show exposé.” She shoved down on the bar, bouncing it against his chest. “Yes, she called me. She’s worried. Ducking calls from Exarch Levin? Avoiding your staff officers for the Guards? She thinks you’re feeling undermined by Caleb’s action and are making bad decisions. I assured her that it’s not likely a recent thing. You’ve always been pretty dumb.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Everything all right here?” a new voice asked. Above Julian’s head.
He craned his neck back far enough to see one of the gym’s managers in baggy shorts, a lifting belt and a ripped muscle shirt with the Silva’s logo scrawled across the front. Arms too thick to comfortably fold across his chest, the manager hooked his thumbs into the leather belt. Two other men waited not far behind him—customers whose workouts Callandre had interrupted.
“Fine,” Callandre said. “Just fine. I’m his spotter. See?” She pulled up on the bar, helping Julian lift the weight back to near-full extension. Then she settled her own weight on it again, levering it down until it sat atop Julian’s chest. “How many is that?” she asked with false sweetness.
“Seven,” he grunted.
The manager wasn’t buying. “Look, ma’am. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Callandre looked down into Julian’s face. “Ma’am?” she said.
Now there was a way to get on Callandre’s bad side in a hurry. Julian craned his neck again. “It’s all right,” he said quickly. “Just a little motivational help. Really. Leave us.”
The guy didn’t leave. But he didn’t push, either. Maybe he had heard Callandre’s earlier mention of the exarch. She had not exactly been subtle. Julian shoved hard against the bar, and Callandre. “C’mon,” he said. “Eight?”
She helped him lift the bar and spotted him back down. Again. Then again.
“Ten,” Julian counted. Then gasped as she pressed down hard again. “That’s ten, Calamity!”
“You’ve never done sets of ten since I’ve known you,” she said. “Jules.” She forced him through another slow and painful five reps, grinning down at him. Her leather jacket creaked as she twisted with his piston-like presses.
“Fifteen!”
Julian grunted with relief as she helped him lever the bar back into its cradle. She swung off from above him and let him sit up, then grabbed a seat at the foot of the bench and sat with her right side to him. She smiled hard at the gym manager, who shrugged and left them to their games. The other customers had already returned to their own workouts, the sounds of dropping weights rising again, though more than once Julian caught an interested glance in their direction.
His chest ached and his shoulders felt as if they might fall off at any second. Bending to one side, he scooped up his towel and his Vita-Sports drink. She took the bottle from him and popped open the cap, took a long swig.
“Have a drink,” he said. His voice warmed with a touch of anger now that he was out from beneath the weights. “Were you trying to kill me there?”
“Put you out of your misery,” she said, and handed him back his bottle with barely a swallow left in it. She stood and stepped away from the bench press station, moving closer to the mirrored wall where she had thrown her helmet. Then she did something very female and played with her wildly tangled hair.
Julian stood and followed. He dropped the bottle in a nearby receptacle and laid the towel across his shoulders.
“Not that it is any of your business, Callandre, but my continuing role here on Terra has been pretty narrowly defined by my prince. I’m a soldier. I follow orders.”
“You’re sulking, Jules. And I have to say it was far sexier back at the Nagelring when we were waiting for the honor board to convene. Now . . . This reminds me of how you looked after. Those few days when you thought your entire career was crashing down around your ears. What am I going to have to do this time to shake you out of it?”
“We are not going on a three-day drunk.”
“Like I would even suggest that.” Her reflection in the mirror smiled hard at him. Callandre turned to face him. “This time,” she amended.
He relaxed. Tension bled out of his shoulders, leaving only the raw, pounding ache from straining against the weights and against his friend. He had been thinking of their wild year at the Nagelring, actually. How good it had felt to cut loose, even if for those few, ruined months, with the darling rogue of the Class of 3129 . . . and 3130 (thanks to their suspension).
He leaned up against the cold, mirrored wall. Swallowed dryly.
“I’m not here looking for a date or for a wild party, Jules. I’m looking for the Prince’s Champion. How you’ve been acting lately, from what I’ve heard . . . this isn’t you. Prince Harrison expects better.”
It was a sharp jab to the stomach. Hollowing him out. Steel bands tightened around Julian’s chest, making it harder to breathe. “You don’t know anything about Harrison Davion. How could you possibly know what he’d expect?”
“I know more about him than you’d think. The best measure of a ruler is the people he keeps around him, isn’t it?”
“I’d accept that as a maxim,” he said, cautious.
“Well, then. From everything I’ve heard and seen, Harrison kept no one closer to him than you. Not even his own blood. So put that in your Gauss rifle and launch it.”
Not even his own blood. Callandre’s words.
As . . . a leader, Harrison’s voice whispered from the back of his mind.
Julian swallowed. Hard. “I’d have to say, you’re likely a bit prejudiced towards my case. Honor among thieves, so to speak.”
She smiled. “Harrison didn’t care for me, did he?”
“Not even a little bit,” was his quick response.
“And I’m okay with that as well. If I were Prince of the Federated Suns, given our reputation together, yours and mine, I’d not like me much.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never really liked you, either.”
“Right. You wanted me so bad, it must have made your teeth hurt.” She bent down to scoop up her helmet by the chin strap and swung it lightly against her leg. Possibly—possibly!—daring Julian to deny it.
Calamity Kell could do a lot of damage hanging onto the helmet by the strap. He’d seen it before.
“So,” she said. “Even if you are a second-rate ’Mech pilot and a dog at heart, you still mean quite a bit to the man lying in a hospital not a two-minute drive from here. And I have to say, Jules, letting Harrison’s agenda stagnate is poor service from the Prince’s Champion. Especially when there’s not much else you can do for him just now.”
The only jab sharper than her calling Julian a second-rate MechWarrior was her pointing out how he had failed his prince. Because Callandre Kell was absolutely right. Not that Julian would give her the satisfaction of admitting it. Never that! But it pained down deep, at the core of his being, making the aches of his workout and even the hurt of Caleb’s accusations pale by comparison.
“I suppose you have some grand scheme all planned out?” he asked. “Your bike waiting at the curb, probably in a no parking area? Ready to drag me off?”
Callandre stepped in close. She smelled of leather and . . . yes . . . licorice. “Sandra said you cabbed it over, so I thought I’d drive you to the hospital. Long as I’m in the area, that is. And just maybe there’s a dinner this evening. A bunch of us getting together. Lars and Yori. Sandra. The few of us that are left on Terra, skulking around Genève.”
Skulking was certainly a word that oft applied to Callandre. “Fine,” he said. A visit to Harrison’s room had been last on his list for the day. But not anymore. “Then you can drop me at the Hall of Government. There are some things I need to do.” Things he had put off for too long. “And if I can catch up to you for dinner, I will. Otherwise, make my excuses for me.”
“Like I’m not used to that.”
Julian decided to let her have the last word. It was the least he could do. He’d visit Harrison. Then Exarch Levin if possible; Paladin Ariana Zou or Heather GioAvanti if Levin was busy. Because there were important events still afoot. And “watching out” for Harrison, Caleb’s orders, could be liberally construed. No matter what else Julian might be, he had an obligation. To his prince.
And . . . as a leader.
13
Will I answer the charges Lina Derius and others have levied against me? As they have preferred not to subject themselves to a proper investigation and the nobles’ so-called honor court, I can only say that they will have my answer in due time.
—Exarch Jonah Levin, Q&A press conference, 19 July 3135
Genève, Terra
Republic of the Sphere
2 August 3135
“You must be kidding me. Him? The Ghost Paladin?”
Jonah Levin watched his chief of staff stagger back from the holographic table, her pale green eyes fixed wide and staring on the man who had just palmed open one of the most secure locks in all of The Republic. The base of a deep leather chair struck Héloïse Montgolfier in the backs of her calves. She collapsed back into the seat with a soft fall and a groan of protesting leather.
The man Jonah (and so many others) had for years known simply as “Emil” let the door close behind him. Stood there in a dapper, dark suit with feet together and hands clasped in front of him. The picture of self-effacing. He gave her a slow smile and a single nod.
“It does lend itself to a certain amount of incredulity,” the ghost paladin agreed.
“Yes.”
It was apparently the only thing Héloïse could think to say. She looked to her exarch, and Jonah shrugged.
He’d been leaning over a glass-topped desk, a modern sculpture of metal and glass which, with a few codes tapped in, converted to a fully functional holographic display capable of accepting battle-rom footage, hyper-detailed maps from the World Cartography Office, or feeds from any military satellite in orbit over Terra. Just now the scaled miniature of a large battle stood in frozen display. Half a dozen ’Mechs, including a scarred Hatchetman, and two dozen or so armored vehicles. Infantry at this scale were little more than ants, scurrying around the feet of metal-shod titans. Jonah and Héloïse had been in the middle of a strategic review, but she didn’t seem to be in a . . . receptive mood . . . at the moment. So he shoved himself away from the desk and crossed in three long strides to the door, to shake Emil’s hand in a quick, two-hand clasp. Welcoming him to the meeting.
Although officially known as the exarch’s private study, the windowless room was Jonah Levin’s inner sanctum among the many public and private offices dedicated to his position within the Hall of Government. Appointed in the same cherrywood paneling as the Bullet, the same bronze accents and leather furniture, it felt like an extension of his main office and yet at the same time was so much more.
Armored and shielded against anything short of a direct nuclear blast, it was Jonah’s first-line bunker where he could retreat with relative safety in the event of any surprise attack against Genève.
Other times it served as a meeting chamber. Or a strategic and tactical planning center where the exarch could run simulations on, say, an invasion of the Federated Suns—without any possibility of the idea being leaked.
It was the room Jonah retreated into to watch worlds fall, and to plan where and how to send men to their deaths in battle.
A room filled with secrets.
And several of them were on display this late, late evening. A bank of plasma screens covered one entire wall in lieu of windows. Four of the nine monitors displayed a composite map of The Republic, the borders shifting slowly in a kind of time-lapse motion that swelled Prefecture X by as many as a dozen systems. Two more scrolled through bios of various command-level officers, flashing pages out of their personnel files for exactly six seconds, then moving on to the next.
Another screen did the same with political figures. Lord-Governor Aaron Sandoval held the place of honor at that particular moment, but was quickly replaced by Senator Lina Derius. Then a sketchy page on Caleb Hasek Sandoval Davion. Jonah saw his ghost paladin frown at the sparse information.
The final two screens compiled several lists. Of military forces and their current strength. Stockpiled resources. Monetary worth of The Republic’s largest defense contractors, and a rating of their overall value in terms of military readiness.
Say what one wanted about Héloïse Montgolfier. Nothing kept her down long. She shifted her weight in the leather chair, sitting forward now as she studied the man who strolled casually around the room. She brushed a few strands of red hair back from her face, tucked the short bob behind her left ear.
“For how long?” she asked now, glancing between the two men.
Jonah was not surprised when Emil said simply, “Long enough.” Uncomfortable giving too much away at once, his master of spies and champion of the ghost knight organization. The secret, eighteenth member of the paladin corps.
And concierge at the Duquesne, Genève’s most prestigous hotel. A place uniquely suited for the ghost paladin to monitor so many visiting dignitaries, as well as so many knights and even the other paladins who came and went beneath Emil’s watchful gaze. That was what had floored Héloïse so easily. The ghost paladin being such a nondescript man—a minor-level functionary—whom she must have talked with and dismissed hundreds of times.
In other words: perfect.
Emil paused at the desktop projection. Studied it with quiet intensity. Looked up at Jonah.
“Liberty?” he asked.
Not in any doubt as to the world. Asking after Jonah’s intent on sharing the information with his chief of staff. Who, until today, had not been privy to all his secrets.
“If we are going to bring others inside, we can’t hold back on such details.”
Jonah crossed to a sideboard table where he had left some tea to cool. He found his white china cup and cradled it in both hands, then blew across the still-steaming beverage. “Tara Campbell must and will figure into any plans we have for The Republic’s future.”
Héloïse thrust herself out of the chair. She stood motionless a moment, as if unsure how to act in the presence of the ghost paladin. Then she paced a tight square around the room. “Except that according to what you just told me,” she finally said, “The Republic has no future.” She spoke to Jonah, but rested her pale green eyes, sharp with accusation, on Emil. She seemed to blame the ghost paladin, though Jonah assumed the man was merely a convenient target.
A decision Emil made very easy. “It does not,” he promised. “Unless we find a way to make one for it.”
“We could try to save what we already have.” But her voice was small.
“A feat of which, I promise you, no one in this room is capable.”
Jonah stepped between the two. He recognized what his ghost paladin was doing, drawing Héloïse out. Exposing any prejudices and testing for weaknesses that might poison her against the exarch, and their plans. But that wasn’t what he needed here and now. He needed a friend. Someone he trusted. Someone he knew. Héloïse Montgolfier did not belong to the entrenched Republic bureaucracy.
She belonged to him.
“The time for that debate has passed, Héloïse. The Republic is dying. Andrew Redburn held it together for what short time he could, and I’d hoped to cut out the sickness before it spread too far. Like the cancer it is. But we all came to the party too late. The Senate cabal was too firmly entrenched. The factional politics too rampant. And the Blackout . . .”
She nodded. Stopped pacing and hugged herself. “The Blackout lit the fuse. And we can’t stamp it out. This part of the conversation you’ve shared with me before. When things stop working—the basic things we all take for granted—people get nervous. They get defensive. And far too many of them still have weapons.” She sighed and reached up to tap a finger against her brow. “I know that. Intellectually.”
Then she lowered her hand to her heart. Made a fist. “But it’s still hard to accept.”
He gestured her back to the chair she’d found earlier against the wall. Sank into the one next to it, letting the warm leather mold against his body in a comfortable grip. Emil remained standing. Taking a sip of his tea, he let himself enjoy the taste for a moment. Just that. The golden aroma and the spiced blend that would soon be a treasure lost to him as the plans for Fortress Republic moved forward.
“It gets easier,” he finally said. “I fought it for half a year. I’m sorry, you don’t get that kind of time.”
“Yes, sir.” But she still wasn’t accepting. Not yet.
“You know. For all his great efforts, all his political insight, Devlin Stone worried that The Republic could not stand.” He saw her eyes widen at his mention of the great hero of the Jihad. The Republic’s founder. “It’s true. In his private notes, he called it the ‘momentum of ignorance and fear. Plaga factiosus. The plague of factionalism.” ’
