Fortress Republic, page 17
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
Julian doubted he could have pulled such an admission, or the blunt appraisal, out of Corwin Sandoval. Or Victoria either. Duke and Duchess, the dynasty leaders who controlled the Federated Suns’ Draconis March. It was a concession. Aaron admitting that he might—might!—require something from Julian.
“If you are asking me to believe that the Sandoval dynasty as a whole has interests within The Republic as well as the Federated Suns, I can safely say that I do. In fact, I’m fairly certain that is common knowledge within many political circles. Exarch Levin and I certainly discussed it.”
“Then you can see how it behooves our mutual interest to keep Tikonov strong and secure.”
Julian did not miss how the you could have meant Julian, Julian as representing Prince Harrison’s interest, or as he might represent the exarch on Northwind and within Prefecture III. Classic fenceline politics. Give your neighbor a strong nod, but let him see you smile at the home on the other side of you and make him wonder what that meant.
“You are wondering about our response to the plans you forwarded.” It was not a question. And it served the ball back into Aaron’s court. Our might also refer to Prince Harrison, or Exarch Levin.
“Of course.”
Julian nodded to young MacDougal, who had slaved his workstation to the master computer. On the forward monitor, a map of The Republic splashed itself over two-thirds of the screen space. Northwind glowed a bright, pulsating silver, along with Terra. Tikonov glowed golden and just as bright. Intentionally in competition with Terra’s radiant light.
“You would like us to shift forces from Northwind, to Addicks and Mallory’s World and a large force settled down on Yangtze specifically, in order to free up Swordsworn troops you can then concentrate on Tikonov.” Force-maneuver arrows slid around on the map, striking like snakes among the mentioned worlds.
“Yes.” Aaron made himself sound the very model of a reasonable man.
“No.”
Julian did not care how he sounded.
The lord governor looked taken aback, as if a good friend had suddenly asked to borrow money. “I have to say. That is a very unreasonable position from which to begin negotiations.”
He shrugged. “I am not negotiating. Mac, fill it in please.” He waited as the lion’s share of Prefecture IV colored over a dark, sublime gold. The shade spread out from Tikonov and Tigress and Tybalt, leaving only Achernar and Ronel untouched, and half a dozen worlds cut off by the line that stretched from Deneb Kaitos to Kawich.
Meanwhile, Liao green pushed up from Prefecture V, drawn to Yangtze like metal filings to a lodestone. And the border of Prefecture III lit up with red and silver sparks around Mallory’s World, Ozawa, and Addicks.
“There is at least this one evaluation . . .” at least this one, hinting at more, “which considers the possibility of my Davion Guards and a few Republic troops drawing the full weight of House Liao’s eventual push as well as clashing with Senate designs. Meanwhile, this leaves the Swordsworn free to consolidate their gains.”
“That is a very pessimistic view,” Aaron said. Though he seemed impressed with the analysis. More intrigued than insulted. “A fascinating piece of fiction. Though if the exarch is truly so paranoid after suffering under the depredations of House Kurita and the Liao, I suppose we must humor him.”
“And that is exactly what I thought as well,” Julian said, spooning some real bonhomie into his voice. Then darkened. “Until young MacDougal here discovered that you might have the extra resources yourself to safeguard those three worlds and free up regular Swordsworn forces.”
“He found . . . I . . . The Swordsworn can . . . what?”
Aaron glanced between Julian, who dialed for a regretful expression, and the Northwind cadet, who had been schooled to show nothing but his usual grinning charm. Julian doubted it was much of a stretch for either of them.
“Mac,” he prompted.
MacDougal nearly bounded out of his seat, ready for the call and with a real gung-ho attitude. “Aye,” he said. His accent, nearly undetectable most of the time, took a slight Scottish tinge when excited.
“T’wasn’t much, Lord Governor. I couldn’t even be certain what it meant, when I dug up a report of Caselton’s Legate Johnetta Popadic being dismissed from her post.”
“Legate Popadic being an outspoken critic of Count Brisham Vicore and the Senate,” Julian provided. Though he had little doubt from Aaron’s cagey expression the lord governor knew exactly who Count Vicore was, and what the man meant to the Swordsworn.
“Do tell,” Aaron said, recovered from his earlier aphasia.
The cadet had come to the front of the class, standing before the video map of The Republic to tap a finger against the screen’s soft surface. A rainbow of color splashed out around Caselton, beneath MacDougal’s finger, then Mirach and Schedar and even Sonnia on the Federated Suns’ side of the border.
“Vicore has a wide range of influence in this corner of space,” MacDougal said as if delivering a book report. Neutral. No agenda here.
Julian nodded. “And a long history of dealings with the Sandoval dynasty.”
“Political cover,” Aaron said, dismissing the close relationship between Brisham Vicore and the Sandovals. “The man does not want to stand noble’s court should Exarch Levin prevail. Can you blame him?”
“He also has military forces under his control. Two companies. And, according to another report we dug out of the background noise, he recently hired two more companies of mercenaries off of Ruchbah.” Ruchbah being the world in Prefecture IV with the strongest ties to the mercenary circuit.
Aaron’s guarded look darkened. “I did not know this.”
Julian paused. Then, “I believe you.” He conceded that point, confident that he had taken control of their little game of who knows what. “But if I assume that Count Vicore has asked you for political cover. Or . . .” the insight came in a flash, “has been granted such assurances by Erik. Your nephew?”
“Cousin.” Aaron’s voice was flat and clipped.
“Then I assume these forces are also brought under your control. And if they are not being used to help secure Tikonov, Lord Governor, you see that I must wonder what they are being held in reserve to accomplish.”
What indeed, if Duke Aaron was first learning about this from him. The man tapped the point of his chin with a thoughtful finger, studying the map for himself. His blue eyes were intense but gave nothing away other than his sudden interest. Certainly he was not about to let Julian move too far ahead in their contest.
“A masterful analysis, as always,” Aaron finally said. Then smiled a politician’s smile in MacDougal’s direction. “And I see you have inherited Prince Harrison’s penchant for surrounding yourself with bright and capable men. May I ask, is Caleb also privy to your counsel on this matter?”
“Not at this time. I believe Caleb is . . . No.”
“Interesting.” Somehow Julian felt that he’d surrendered a point, and had failed to even see it slip away. “Well, I would like a day to review this new data with my own counselors. If you would have any supporting data transferred to my staff?”
“At once,” he promised.
“And can I assume from your candor as well as your demeanor, that a compromise may still be possible? If there is a way to support our efforts to secure Tikonov while not endangering the exarch’s position . . .”
“Quid pro quo. It is the only offer you will see from me, Duke Sandoval.”
The duke nodded. “And I would expect nothing less. Lord Davion.”
Especially now.
“If you let my people know what you may need from us. And it is within our ability without compromising our position.” He paused. Came to a decision. Nodded. “You’ll have it.”
“I’m sure the exarch appreciates your support in this matter,” he said. “And so do I.” Julian drew a definite line between Jonah Levin and himself this time, wanting Aaron to know that he accepted the man’s pledge personally. It was the kind of politics Harrison had taught him best. Always, always collect the debts yourself!
Aaron Sandoval withdrew, pausing at the door for one brief look back. “You may do better than I thought,” he said. Cryptic, but warm.
Julian let the other man slip away with having the last word. He turned to James MacDougal and gestured him back to his seat.
“Now,” he said. “We just have to hold things together.”
For a little while longer, at any rate.
Jarman City, New Hessen
Federated Suns
Nothing had yet gone right on New Hessen.
Caleb’s DropShip had taken fire from a squadron of Republic aerospace fighters during atmospheric insertion, leading to a harrowing few moments as Captain Marti cut engines and dropped in a desperate freefall, then hit the crew and complement with three G’s heavy burn to make up for it.
Sterling McKenna’s covering flight ran The Republic pilots off, and a Major Thom Oakley did eventually transmit a “most sincere apology,” but not before Caleb spent several excruciating moments plastered to his stateroom bunk: his heart laboring, every joint bruised from the stress, and wondering if he were about to die.
Major Oakely was on his list to find out how far a “most sincere apology” flew with the First Prince of the Federated Suns!
Then, to make matters worse, local control brought Caleb down in Weldon Port instead of Jarman City, necessitating a lift-off burn and a second landing (also without fanfare!). And another day lost.
Poor intelligence on the ground. No one certain of exactly what units from the Confederation or The Republic were at hand. A broken chain of command. The local lord sequestered at an undisclosed location. It took a summary order from his “lord, prince and master” to force the man back to his estates where he could receive Caleb properly.
Two cities burning thanks to collateral damage taking out a petroleum refinery in one case. A crashed Claymore in another.
And the local weeds had Caleb hacking hard enough to bruise his lungs.
“What do you call that . . . that filth!”
The door had hardly closed behind them: Caleb and Sterling McKenna, Brevet-Colonel Mark Hedges, Lord David Faust, all standing around the drawing room on Faust’s Jarman City estate. Caleb wheezed deep as the filtered, air-conditioned room relieved him of the terrible cough and sinus squeeze that had pained him since leaving the First Sun. His breath came back slowly. His eyes still watered, though, as if not yet believing relief was at hand.
He caught Faust gesturing towards a seating area, where two suede couches faced each other over a low table. The steward of New Hessen was whipcord thin, with brown, almond-shaped eyes set in a round face. His black, oiled mustaches were weighted at each end by a tiny silver bead.
“Black creeper,” the noble said easily. No doubt used to the question. “It is like Terran kudzu, pervasive. It constantly sloughs off its outer husk, like snakeskin, growing and spreading and rotting all at the same time. You are also here during its flowering season.”
“You should slash-burn it out of existence,” was Caleb’s opinion.
“Oh, we’ve tried, Highness. Believe me, we’ve tried. Fortunately, it does not thrive away from New Hessen’s white sun and greenhouse atmosphere. So as far as we know, it has not spread to other worlds.”
If it could, Caleb had an answer for the military-industrial machine. Forget BattleMechs. Seed planets with black creeper, and the population would move out, clearing the way for an easy invasion.
Of course, that did not solve the problem of what to do once his forces seized control of the world. Ah well.
As it turned out, the suede sofas were extremely comfortable, padded with deep, overstuffed pillows. The low table between them would have been of a good height to rest his feet upon, if not for the chess set that stood ready right before him. Each side stylized after House Davion (black) and House Liao (white), with BattleMechs for rooks and pawns of saber-bearing infantry.
“Do you play as well?” Faust asked, nodding towards the board. Strangely phrased.
To which Caleb shrugged. “Who has time for games?” he asked. Lounged back, relaxed. Still catching his breath, he turned down the glass of plum wine offered by his host, but did not hesitate to ask for New Syrtis brandy, three fingers. His first sip cleared the rotten taste that lurked at the back of his throat. His second replaced the iron-wet stench with warm, smoky amber.
Then he allowed himself to enjoy it.
“You have a problem, Lord Faust.”
The other three also sat, Faust and Hedges looking no more relaxed than Sterling, who sat next to Caleb on the edge of her seat as if she might spring to action at any time. Sterling had refused a drink of any kind, as had the local garrison commander. Faust enjoyed his dark, purple wine.
“I have many problems facing me and New Hessen, Prince Caleb. Which would you care to address first?”
The man’s attitude might be slowly crawling up the list. But Caleb felt generous in letting it slide. Living on a weed-choked planet where a man couldn’t draw a deep breath of pure air had to take a lot of the normal pleasantries out of life. He let the brandy warm his throat and gut. “Let’s start with your inability to keep New Hessen free of invading militaries, plural.”
“Sire. It took your cousin the prince’s champion, and a Republic knight, to kick the Liao irregulars off last time. Why it did not take, I can’t say. I know the moment they left, we suffered considerable raiding by pirate forces bearing the insignia of a double-edged battleaxe. These raiders kept us off balance until the Confederation pushed forward once again, and then began to work with the Liao troops.” He shrugged. “Then we lost Colonel Torris, and our small garrison could not summon the wherewithal to do much more than stumble about blindly.”
“So you went looking to The Republic for help? Or did they come volunteering again, asking you to look the other way?” In either case, it was a grave assumption of risk to take such a step without consult.
“They did not ask, Prince Caleb.” He took a sip of his sweet nectar. To Caleb, it smelled sickeningly cloying. “But yes, we did look the other way,” he admitted. “And thankful to have them. Until the possible cure simply became a new disease.”
“Where, exactly, do things stand now?” Sterling asked, a hungry look in her eye.
A good question. One Caleb would have gotten to. Still, absent Mason Lambert, who had chosen to remain at the spaceport to help organize the debarking elements of the Davion Heavy Guard and New Syrtis Fusiliers, it was good to have Sterling along.
Very good.
Brevet-Colonel Hedges rubbed his hands together, looking far too eager. Fresh-faced and clear-eyed, Caleb doubted he had seen much of the actual hard-line fighting being reported here.
“We’ve identified elements, some, of McCarron’s Armored Cavalry, as well as a company, at least, of line troops. We think a battalion of irregulars, conscripted out of the cities and handed a rifle, basically. Nothing too much to worry about there.”
Did the man have to qualify every statement?
“From The Republic, we’re sixty percent certain there is no knight present to lead them. We believe they followed McCarron’s out of Prefecture V, possibly from the fighting on Ningpo or Algol. Elements of the Fifth Hastati and Fourth Triarii Protectors.”
“If their insignias can be believed,” Caleb pointed out.
Hedges rocked back. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
No, of course not. Caleb traded a quick glance with Sterling, who nodded.
Whatever New Hessen had suffered in military leadership since the loss of Colonel Palos Torris, an able commander if Julian’s reports were to be believed, it was about to change for the better again. He had come to a decision on First Sun’s bridge during the aerospace battle—there could be no argument with victory.
Coming home to New Avalon as First Prince of the Federated Suns was not enough. Not with the dark cloud of his father’s accident hanging over his ascension.
But coming home a hero as well . . . Proving himself on the battlefield . . . What more could a people ask for in a leader?
He sipped his brandy, letting the burning liquid coast past his tongue. Lost in his reverie so deeply, he missed Colonel Hedges’s question.
“What was that?”
“I asked if you would like to see our latest battle-rom footage. It was captured from a Republic Joust. In it, you can clearly see elements of McCarron’s Armored Cavalry, we are almost sure, and what we suppose are the Fifth Hastati Sentinels.”
“Aff,” Sterling said, though Caleb had less interest in it.
He could allow her these kinds of moments, however. A military leader of a martial people, of course she would take an opportunity to review battle footage. But as with the idea of staring at a chess board for hours on end, Caleb did not see the value in such time spent.
Not until Lord Faust used a remote to drop a hidden monitor down from the ceiling, and paged his way through several dozen files to find one dated the week before. He started it running, the scene jumping in through a snowstorm of static to track across a raging battlefield in slow pan.
The Joust’s turret swung around, looking for a target.
Like any battlefield, this one was a study in chaos. Missile trails arced across a pale sky, the gray contrails spreading out into the building haze. Warheads dropped down across a riverbank and into the water, erupting in geysers of blackened earth and water and mud.
Streams of particle cannon energies skipped across a nearby lake, slashing deep scars into the side of a green-and-ochre painted Centurion wading ashore amid a flotilla of hovercraft: SM1 Destroyers, Regulators, and a lance of Pegasus scout vehicles.
Lasers slashed to and fro, jeweled hornets that flashed by so fast and cut so quick that a ’Mech or vehicle hardly knew it’d been stung until the molten armor began to cool against the ground.
The Joust’s battle-camera washed out in a backflash of crimson laser fire, bled into grayscale for a few seconds, then colored in again as the (modified) Centurion limped off-camera stage right, favoring the left knee into which the Joust had cut deeply.
