Fortress Republic, page 15
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
“Does that mean another—”
It did. Vertigo swam over Caleb as zero-G returned. Or, worse, not quite zero-G. There was a shifting center of gravity stapled somewhere to the ceiling just now, as the DropShip flipped end for end and centrifugal force roiled Caleb’s stomach. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and the Pajarito Smooth pounded in his temples.
Then the screen caught Caleb’s attention, and he forgot all about the disorientation of a three-dimensional battlefield. On the live-camera side of the monitor, a blue-and-silver painted Corsair fled from a pair of angry DFC-O Defiance fighters painted green with white trim. The camera operator worked to keep the fast-moving, jinking craft in focus.
Caleb divided his attention between this and the tactical screen, which showed the Corsair trying to make the safety of the First Sun’s weaponry. He then felt a slight sideways jolt as the Overlord shuddered, and two new icons leaped onto the tactical display. The ready-craft had finally launched. They sped out on an intercept course with the Corsair and the paired Defiance fighters.
They weren’t going to make it. The Corsair was in trouble now, as the Liao fighters’ pulse lasers chewed on its tail. It was too far away.
This Caleb understood.
“Can we drive forward to provide covering fire?” Caleb asked. Thinking like an armor commander. Move your artillery base up. Give your crews an umbrella to escape under.
“And leave the JumpShip vulnerable to capture?” Marti asked. “Not even by direct order, Highness.”
“We can swing back after.”
The captain stared at him, dumbstruck for all of two heartbeats. “An Overlord does not change vectors as easily as you throttle a tank into reverse, Prince Caleb. I have six overlapping spheres of containment to coordinate. Sire, please, let me fight my battle!”
Caleb’s ears burned with the rebuke. As courteous as it could be under the circumstances, and as necessary as it might have been, a darkness stirred within him to hear a man so subordinate to his position talk to him so. Who did Shaun Marti think he was? His battle? The Federated Suns was Caleb’s, and his alone!
“What do you mean she threw him out of the cockpit!?” Marti railed at his comms officer with a string of inventive curses Caleb had never heard out of a line officer. Very little of it complimentary. Caleb was not certain what had set the stoic man off, in fact, until he ended his rant with, “Faith-cursed Raven bitch!”
Sterling!
“She’s in one of the Daggers,” Mason said, coming to the same conclusion as Caleb at roughly the same time. Leaned forward for Caleb’s ear, though he still clung to the stanchion for stability. “She’s going to get herself killed. Natural selection in action.”
The ready fighters. That was where she’d run off to, then. Unable to sit back with an aerospace battle in hand, separated from her own DropShip, which was almost certainly going to claim a Lung Wang “kill” without her (never, never bet against a Raven Alliance pilot!), she had commandeered one of the First Sun’s ready-launch escorts.
“Which one?” Caleb asked, leaning forward to stare bullets at the monitor. “Which, which, whichwhichwhich-which . . . ?”
On screen, the Corsair had finally given up on escape and had cut his own thrusters, flipping end-for-end to trade blistering salvoes with the two pursuing Defiance. The end came quickly then, with the green blades of the Liao pulse lasers slicing into the nose, and through the cockpit’s ferroglass canopy.
Oxygen burst into space, freezing instantly into a shower of small crystals. The pilot might still have his flight suit, Caleb knew, but that also became a moot point a moment later when one Defiance showered the cockpit with blistering energy, gutting the interior and leaving the fighter a dead hulk flashing silently through black vacuum.
Now the Defiance craft and the Daggers were head to head and closing extremely fast. Almost at once, lasers lit up the vacuum between the two flights, green pulses flashing from the Liao fighters in towards the Davion craft, which answered back with furious, white-hot tracers spit from their rotary autocannon. One Dagger churned through his ammunition quickly, almost recklessly. The other concentrated on short, controlled bursts while at range.
“That’s her,” Caleb said, spearing one hand forward to point at the controlled gunnery. “That kind of fire discipline has to be Sterling McKenna.”
But the concentrated firepower of both Defiance fighters proved too much for the second Dagger. Or he had jammed his RAC with the long bursts. Squaring a turn against his own flight path, he powered away at a ninety-degree angle, taking himself quickly out of range from the Liao fighters.
The second Dagger stuck. Used vector thrust to wobble against her own flight path, avoiding most of the emerald laser fire as she held her own fire to those same short bursts.
Luring them in!
Surging in at point-blank range, Sterling finally opened up with full weapons. The bright, ruby daggers of her medium lasers flashed forward to carve deep into the nose of one Defiance. She followed up with a long, steady burst from her rotary AC, which hammered its way along the starboard wing, walking large, gaping rents into the armor as it clawed over the fuselage and finally tore apart the cockpit in savage retribution for the Corsair’s earlier death.
Caleb nearly cheered her victory, but sat rooted in sudden fear as he saw Sterling’s Dagger suddenly roll over on one wing and quickly veer into a collision course with the second Defiance.
Her lasers chewed away at the nose and port wing as the two fighters skimmed in very close to one another. For a moment, it seemed as if there could be no other outcome but a fiery collision and fast death for both pilots. But the Defiance pilot flinched away at the last second, thrusting beneath Sterling’s flight path . . .
And right into Captain Marti’s own “sphere of containment.” The veteran spacer leaned forward, hand gripping the air in front of him. “Take it!” he ordered. And the First Sun rained out with its heavy weaponry, filling the dark vacuum around the Defiance with violent energies and hard-hitting autocannon. It gave Caleb a fair impression of the captain’s earlier jibe about momentum and space combat tactics, because now the Defiance was trapped by its own maneuvering. Caught inside the Overlord’s reach, it could not maneuver away fast enough, but had to try to tough it out as it flashed close by. Too close.
A pair of particle cannon streams reached out to swat it hard, finally carving through one wing and completely killing one thruster. Throwing it into a death spiral. The DropShip’s next salvo blistered the fighter across its port and aft, caught the fusion engine.
Caleb watched as it came apart at the seams, erupting into a silent fireball of brilliant, blinding, silver-white.
Now there were cheers. Several shouts on the bridge and some heavy glad-handing. Captain Marti was already ordering the First Sun, “End around and after that Dagger. Get ready to catch the next one she throws our way!”
Caleb settled back, suddenly a great deal more calm. He glanced behind him to Mason, just the one time. Whether his friend saw the conviction written on his face, or simply sensed what Caleb meant to do, Mason nodded. Once.
Caleb faced forward again, saw Shaun Marti staring at him quizzically. Gave the ship’s captain his best cold smile. “So. How would you rate our odds now?”
Nodding, Marti merely said, “Better than even.”
Still selling the Raven Khan short. But victory went a long way towards silencing naysayers, and proving a warrior’s—or a prince’s—worth. Sterling would certainly disabuse him of that before they left New Hessen.
And so, next, would Caleb.
16
News of a large buildup of military forces within the Federated Suns has been grossly exaggerated. Count Brisham Vicore has personally verified and attests to the situation. Count Vicore has worked very closely with local government administrators in recent months, putting to rest any rumors that he had considered fleeing into Davion space to escape the exarch’s wrath.
—What You Don’t Know, Station Break XLTV, Caselton, 3 August 3135
Tikonov
Republic of the Sphere
12 August 3135
Standing atop the western tower of the Dao Xi office complex in Kai Lampur, Erik studied the overcast skies in every direction. Hard and gray, nearly black, as if steel wool had been used to scour the skies clean of all color. The edge of a major storm front was sweeping in from the northern ocean. There were reports of funnel clouds as far south as Jiaten, but nothing local. Here the clouds held still, and despite the cover the day was hot and muggy and tasted of sweat in the way only a summer storm could.
Nothing moved in the skies. Not a speck on the horizon. Not a flash of red running lights out of the east where twilight gathered early this day. Erik checked his watch again, shrugged. Gavin was not often late, but it happened. Occasionally.
He moved to the steel rail that fenced in the rooftop landing pad. Leaving the large, white “X” behind him, he gripped the cool pipe railing and leaned out over the twelve-story fall. Halfway down was the sky bridge, a glass-encased walkway connecting the two towers. People moved within the enclosure, oblivious to his presence high above. Going about their lives—their work, or thoughts possibly turning towards home and dinner with the evening drawing nearer. Wondering whether or not to bet the spread against Hektor in this week’s grudge match on Solaris VII—being billed as the summer’s number one blockbuster. Thinking about the terrible weather and how it would affect weekend plans.
Did any of them worry about the military operations taking place on their very own world? A few, certainly. Those with friends or family in the military, or living in a district under assault.
How many worried about the Swordsworn? The direction it took as government from Terra grew more and more distant?
Fewer.
And the war being waged in Prefecture V? The Capellan front stalled out as it backbuilt energy in the same way the overhead storm waited and gathered more strength before unleashing hell on this quiet city?
No matter. Erik worried for them. Erik and Aaron. The men and women under their joint command. And Gavin, with his secretive, distant masters. They would do the worrying about such things, letting these citizens and residents of The Republic go about their lives. Walking to and from the different towers. Marching through the glass-covered sky bridge with the thrump-thrummp-thrummmp of so many feet against . . .
Not an echo of feet. Not only in his mind. Erik heard it now, the VTOL. A dull, soft beat as rotors chopped up the air.
Still not a blur of motion on any horizon, and it sounded as if the VTOL was closer. Much closer than that. Erik looked straight overhead in time to see the Brightstar executive craft drop out of the cloud cover like a descending storm demon, calling out with its own whispered thunder, bullying the air.
Straight down at the western tower, and the white “X” glowing softly with inset lighting. The artificial winds stirred, then hammered at the rooftop pad. They whipped dust and grit into the air, stinging Erik’s eyes. They tugged at his dark topknot, ruffling it with wild fingers, but he neither shielded his eyes nor brushed back his hair.
He held tight to the cool, steel pipe railing. Watched as Gavin soft-landed the sleek VTOL with a veteran’s touch.
Only then did Erik move, ducking beneath the still-spinning blades to meet Gavin as the other man rolled back his door on the pilot’s side of the cockpit and hit the tarmac with his usual confidence.
“Two days?” Erik asked as the two men walked towards the small dormer abutting the landing pad. “You drop out of contact for two days, and send me only a cursory note instructing me to change plans and meet you?”
The man Erik Sandoval-Groell had come to know only as Gavin stared right through him with flat, hazel eyes. He had slicked his chestnut hair back with some kind of cream today, holding it in place despite the air still being pushed around by the VTOL blades. He did not duck beneath the spinning rotors as Erik did. He did not seem to care one way or another about them now that he had abandoned his craft.
“Things change,” he said. “You asked for concrete intelligence on the plans Liao has for Tikonov. That takes time.”
“Three times we’ve come close to securing Tikonov again. Three times these ‘Liao irregulars’ have reinforced their position. Damn right I want to know the full extent of their involvement here. You are making me look foolish.”
The small dormer was nothing more than a pair of swinging glass doors that let onto a small foyer with two chairs and a bench seat, and doors to an elevator. With the doors swung shut behind them, even the whisper of the slowing blades was lost, giving them a moment of quiet while waiting for the car.
“I warned you that Capellan involvement on this world was stronger than believed. If we had taken your uncle into our confidence, perhaps he’d have allocated greater resources to be put under your control.”
Not likely. The lord governor had grown increasingly stingy with anything resembling shared power. Another reason Erik was disinclined to speak with his uncle about the inroads he had made with Gavin’s organization of power brokers and information traders. That Aaron had even left Erik to mind Swordsworn business on Tikonov while he took his flying palace away again (to Northwind, this time, of all places!) had come as a surprise. But an opportunity he would put to the best use possible.
“My uncle and I will argue about what direction to take the Swordsworn later, Gavin. What I need now is a target. A victory. So tell me. How many worlds in Prefecture IV has the Capellan military dug its claws into?”
Gavin studied the digital readout, watching as the elevator climbed up floor by floor. Stopped to take on passengers, or possibly let some off. Climbed again. “How many?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“In Prefecture IV?”
“Yes.”
“Including Tikonov?”
“Yes,” Erik said again. Letting a touch of anger show.
“One.”
Erik felt the frown cover his face like a slow-moving avalanche. “One,” he repeated. Wanting to take Gavin to task for the answer, but knowing the other man had never—not once—distorted information or failed to produce results. Information was neutral. It might have a price, depending on its difficulty to obtain, but it was never subject to debate once delivered. “They cannot operate so far in advance of their main lines without a staging world.”
“Yes.” Gavin nodded.
So it was a puzzle? Something Gavin’s contacts had dug up that did not fit in the neat little box Erik had anticipated wrapping for his uncle. “Is The Republic selling us off to barter a peace with Daoshen?” If there was a crown jewel sparkling for the Chancellor’s eye after the world of Liao itself, it had to be Tikonov. Could Levin buy peace by putting the Swordsworn up against the Capellans?
He might. But not according to Gavin. “I think I can safely say that the exarch has no interest, at this time, in Tikonov’s troubles. Not for or against.”
“That seems unlikely, with Senator Vicore joining his resources to ours. How can the exarch not see us as a potential ally or threat?”
“Answer that, and you will have solved Duke Aaron’s greatest puzzle,” Gavin promised. “But as to the Capellan threat, there is no great conspiracy within The Republic. And no advanced-staging world within Prefecture IV.”
“Those DropShips do not appear out of blue sky. They are ferried in, dropped, and abandoned with regularity that worries my top officers. There needs be a staging world.”
“And I’m suggesting it’s time to stop looking under the stones in your own backyard to find it,” Gavin said as the elevator car arrived. A soft chime sounded through the tiny lobby as the steel doors rolled back.
“Where else is there to look?” Erik asked, and caught Gavin’s slow, secretive smile.
The information broker reached into a pocket and drew out a memory crystal. He passed it to Erik with an easy handshake.
“On another side of the fence.”
17
LIAO RESURGES!
In a strong gesture, Capellan forces have struck out from the world of Liao in several directions against multiple worlds. The escalation of violence comes as little or no surprise, though the scope surely does . . .
—The Tikonov Times, Headlines, 18 August 3135
Northwind Academy, Northwind
Republic of the Sphere
18 August 3135
News swept the campus of Northwind Academy like a summer wildfire, burning low and fast through the dry fields as students carried rumors and the bits and pieces of fact they overheard from one small gathering to another. Jumping between treetops as faculty and staff clustered, broke apart, clustered again. Raging out of control with the story growing out of proportion, warped far beyond what simple facts supported.
Fortunately, as the flames licked up around Julian Davion and the others, its source was one of the primary embers. From a man who spent a great part of his life putting out fires. Near unimpeachable.
“How many worlds have they hit again?” Julian asked, speaking around a mouthful of pita sandwich. He shook his head, as if the news had not quite fit between his ears the first time.
Sir Marcus Crane, a local knight-errant called to service by Lady Ariana Zou, leaned down against the large metal table Julian et al had commandeered at the Northwind Academy’s student union—part of an outdoor café. Marcus’s curly blond hair glowed under the buttery yellow sun. A gusting breeze stirred a few longer curls, pulling strands across bright blue eyes.
“Ningpo, Azha, Arboris, Genoa, Nanking,” Marcus said. “Five. And stepped-up operations against New Aragon and Hunan as well, if you want to count those.”
An excited muttering buzzed through the small crowd of cadets quickly gathering around them in this public area. Lady Ariana Zou had half-risen from her chair at the news. The rest of the table sat thunderstruck, most of them staring over half-eaten sandwiches. Yori Kurita held her chopsticks paused in mid-dive at her rice bowl, hovering, like a stooping hawk suddenly uncertain which of the several thin slices of teriyaki chicken it had chosen for its prey. Callandre Kell was the only one finished, having wolfed down her food quickly to better concentrate on the chess match she’d taken up with Julian, against Sandra Fenlon’s friendly advice.
