Fortress Republic, page 19
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
An easy choice to make, given that all salvage was divided on a pro-rated basis for the entire field, and the loyalists’ share would far outweigh anything the mercs might hope to claim.
“Besides,” Conner said, softer but still strong. “We’ll get another chance at it.”
He’d call it a near-certainty, in fact. In battle after battle, the Dragon’s Fury had proven a tenacious opponent. Never surrendering an easy victory. Always ready to push back should Conner or one of his senior officers take their eye from the goal for even a second. With no hope of relief or rescue—not with Katana Tormark busying herself with House Kurita—and certainly no hope of an overall victory, they fought for pride. They fought for honor. And glory. And just out of basic contrariness, he suspected.
And because they knew the stakes on Ronel. A world of secondary importance before the Blackout, it now possessed one of the most precious resources a widespread organization required.
A working HPG.
What the Senate Alliance needed. The reason Conner had come.
The prize, for which he was redrawing borders. As he had mistakenly tried to do on Terra, where the fences were planted deep. But outside of Prefecture X, especially, where the nobles had considerably more sway among the many worlds, he felt they reached for a much greater opportunity.
“We’ll get another chance,” he repeated.
They would!
20
As remnants of the Highlanders continue to trickle in to Northwind, and in the continued absence of Countess Tara Campbell, Major Lewandowski from the Academy Commandant’s office was quick to assure people today that the departure of Paladin Zou and the Davion Guards was not a significant loss to Northwind’s defense.
“With further elements of the local Hastati and Principes arriving within the week, Northwind will be well-garrisoned.”
—From the Office of the Commandant, for General Release, 23 August 3135
DropShip Markeson Pride
Zenith Station, Northwind
Republic of the Sphere
29 August 3135
A Fortress-class vessel, the Markeson Pride belonged to the First Davion Guards. And Julian.
Never as luxuriously appointed as Harrison Davion’s First Sun, still there was a touch of extra effort to the gleam of brass fittings, the smooth operation of all doors, hatches, and machinery. Every stairwell, every maintenance ladder; when one stepped out onto a new deck there would always be a red sun painted on the nearby wall, reaching out with its flaming corona, with a simple numeral stenciled inside giving an exact position by deck and bulkhead number. Crew members hurried through the corridors with an extra bounce to their steps. Even the most junior astech pressed a military crease into his oil-stained coveralls.
Julian could hardly remember a time when it was any different.
So when Callandre asked, he actually had to think for a moment.
Paused at the hatch they had been about to drop through, he anchored himself to one of the convenient grips to keep from bouncing in the light gravity environment. He wore a dark green singlesuit with gold piping down the outside of his legs and arms, and a tight-fitting beret to keep his hair from becoming a hassle. He rubbed a hand against the side of his face, felt the light scratch of his midday shadow.
“In my first six months assigned to the First Guards,” he finally said. “No one wanted a piece of me. I was Harrison’s nephew, handed my commission and my command on a platinum serving plate. And the First Davion Guards were known mainly for the warriors who promoted up to the Davion Heavies, or the Assault Guards.”
“The First was known for much more than that,” Callandre said.
“Historically, yes. But they were virtually destroyed in the Steiner-Davion civil war. Then with the Jihad, and the later disarming, what was left of them, what got rebuilt, never regained that legendary status.”
“So they had history, but lacked any current chops.”
“Exactly.” Julian nodded. “Morale wasn’t bad. It was just . . . just. Down ladder!”
He shouted through the hatch, a spacer’s courtesy, then stepped over the opening and dropped through.
Not that it took much to control his fall. At point-two gravities, a hand on the ladder’s outside railing was enough. He bent his knees ever so slightly, and when his feet hit the lower diamond deck plating flexed deep to easily absorb the shock of landing. Grabbed hard onto a lower ladder rung to dampen the bounce-back. And stepped away in a half-walk, half-glide as Callandre followed right after him.
She actually fell head first, opening up into a brief, almost-comical swan dive. Then she shoved away from the ladder in a reverse tuck with her head swinging up and away. She landed in a stiff-legged bounce, reached out and accepted Julian’s clasp, never doubting for a second that he would be there for her.
“Show off.”
Unlike many “ground-pounders,” Callandre had always loved space flight. Loved the travel between stars, and the privilege of setting foot on new worlds. It didn’t hurt her that she had spent a few years in gymnastics training, or that she had voluntarily taken a course in zero-G combat.
“So?” she asked as Julian used the quick-release lever to access a nearby hatch door. A thick door, well fortified and insulated.
“Well, there were rumors following me out of academy—”
“I’ll bet.”
“—so it was apparently decided before my arrival to treat me with all due courtesy, but expect nothing much to change. Certainly no one was going out of their way to guard my back. I was a curiosity on a good day. In a combat environment, I was an unknown, and therefore a danger.”
“And? How did you solve that?”
“With something my father taught me,” he said, and cracked the hatch. He used leverage from a handhold to shove it open. He and Callandre slipped through and onto the observation deck that Lars Magnusson and Yori had already found.
Similar to Harrison’s flag bridge on the First Sun, the observation deck wrapped around a good part of the outside hull and had a thick ferroglass wall for a direct view onto the hard vacuum outside. Cold, with shipboard heat radiating out through the glass, the room was kept warm enough only to prevent frosting on the inside surface. To keep a clear view.
Not that there was much to look at just now. With no atmosphere to soften their edges, here the stars were bright and violent and stared unblinking out of the black depths of space. And very, very alone. The ship had a slight roll to it, so eventually they would swing around to see the local recharge station with its solar-collecting panels and microwave dish for transferring energy to orbiting JumpShips. Like the Northern Wind, which would soon take them (and five other waiting or converging DropShips) on the first leg of their journey, a drop-off and layover at Addicks’ nadir station.
Until then, they waited to dock. Patrolling the area at not much more than “station-keeping” thrust. Swimming in a low-gravity environment.
Like Julian and Callandre, Yori and Lars had also opted for single-piece jumpsuits—convenient when dealing with uncertain gravity conditions. Lars’ was a solid, silvery-white, his name stenciled on the upper right breast and a Dominion crest patched onto each shoulder. His unruly hair waved in the low gravity, but apparently was not much of a distraction.
Yori, on the other hand, wore a hairnet to keep her dark fall of thick hair under control instead of slicking it back with holding gel as Callandre had done. Her jumpsuit was dark red, trimmed in black and with only the Kurita dragon on her breast. She bowed. Carefully.
“Dozo gomenasai. I thank you, Julian, for making the Markeson Pride available to us en route to zenith station. Do we know when the Northern Wind will be ready?”
“Six hours. Lady Zou shuttled over to shake things up.” He saw Yori puzzling out the idiom. “She’ll get them back on schedule,” he promised.
“Ah. So ka? Then we shall enjoy your hospitality a little longer.”
And then some. It would be a fast jump to Addicks, where two DropShips would be detached, strengthening the local Swordsworn garrison. Then a transfer to a new JumpShip, already charged and holding on station (supposedly) and a new jump just as fast as the Markeson Pride and escorts could detach from one docking collar and latch onto the second. But insertion on the other side was likely to take days—a week even—before making a new planetfall.
And then?
Who could say? The reports coming in were sketchy at best. Even so, “The exarch, and I, continue to appreciate your assistance, Yori. And the forbearance of House Kurita to spare you. For however much longer that is possible?”
Wondering, waiting, but still without an answer as Yori shook her head. As she always did.
“It shall be for as long as it is. And no longer.” She turned back to the window. Hooked her toes beneath a low railing which ran along the wall. Relaxed in a low-gravity posture.
Lars Magnusson studied her behind her back. He looked to Julian and shrugged. He was far more forthcoming as to his reasons for staying around so long. The Dominion was worried about the health and stability of The Republic. Lars hoped to learn differently, and take such knowledge home.
“Jules?” Callandre asked. Unlike the others, she rested in a comfortable stance away from any handgrip or toe rail. Quite comfortable at a fraction of her usual weight. “Your father?” she prompted.
He smiled. Nodded. Tore himself away from the puzzle that was Yori Kurita and returned to the simple enigma of Calamity Kell, whose primary guide in life seemed to be the mantra, Do what you feel like doing.
No. That was unfair to his friend. And for everything they had come through together, he knew better than that. Callandre had a deep sense of commitment, and the passion to make a difference, and damn the rules if necessary. Perhaps better would be, Do what you feel needs doing.
And don’t forget to have a little fun along the way.
“My father,” Julian said. He could hear his words in his head, as if they had been spoken yesterday. “The basis for any strong relationship is . . . ?”
“Respect,” Lars said. Jumping in first, and with both feet. As if daring anyone to argue the point.
To which Callandre raised an eyebrow and asked, “But will you still batchall with me in the morning?” Lars’ eyes grew wide, his own brows crawling for his hairline as he worked through the double-entendre.
She laughed. “I’d say it should be trust. Like knowing there must be a good reason a friend would go seven years without contact.”
“Get over it,” Julian groused.
“Mutual honor.”
This from Yori Kurita, who stared through her pale reflection in the deep ferroglass and studied the harsh starlight outside. As usual, she held herself distant from the others, yet at the same time remained a part of them.
“Only when you are willing to put your personal honor in the hands of another can there be any level or trust or respect.”
A sentiment not too far off from what Julian had been about to say. He nodded, considering. Then Callandre nudged him. Hard. “Unrequited commitment,” he finally said, rubbing his shoulder where she had poked him. Shrugged. “At the core of any strong relationship is at least one moment of pure selflessness.”
The others stared at him, curious. Julian found himself suddenly missing Sandra Fenlon, who had stayed behind on Northwind out of necessity. She had met Julian’s father. Once. Would appreciate such a simple idea.
“I’m going to give you that,” Callandre finally said. “But how did that help with the First Davion Guards? Or, at least, with the Pride?”
Now he laughed. Remembering. Feeling so foolish as he ignored the whispers and jokes behind his back. “I unpacked a set of dungarees. Working coveralls,” he said for Yori’s benefit. “Cleaned. Pressed. About as shipshape as you could want. And my first day I spent in the base ’Mech bay giving my own machine a thorough diagnostic and coolant flush.”
A puzzled expression.
“The next day,” he said, “I did the same for the scruffiest looking machine in the bay. And touched up its parade colors. I spent two days after that working in the motor pool, helping to rebuild an engine. Then basic maintenance on some infantry battlesuits.”
“You are kidding me.” Callandre shook her head. “Right?”
“It’s not hard. If you’re willing to take some direction from the techs.”
“Lower caste labor?” Lars asked. The Dominion still strictly regulated a caste system between warriors and the military support branches. To him, it was an alien concept to worry about more than your own equipment.
“Every day. And every night I washed and pressed my coveralls, and shined my boots, for the next day. They would be stained, but never slovenly.”
“And that did it?”
“Nope. A few warriors thanked me for cleaning up their machines. I think a tech or two had me on their ‘favorite officer’ list. But nothing I’d done was really . . . impressive enough to sway them. Finally, it did come back to the Markeson Pride. Sitting out on the landing pad and really not cared for too much, because the First Guards so rarely left Markeson. Fusion-scorched base. Faded battleship gray. Completely ignored.”
The observation deck was dead silent. Julian held his audience in a firm grip now. Even Yori Kurita looked interested, turning away from the window to study Julian with dark, impassive eyes.
“Iie,” she said. But it was half of a laugh. “You did not.”
“I did. I got out a simple chipping gun and a compressor, a cherrypicker truck, and started the next day. It was a Saturday. Nice warm sun. A great day to begin prepping and painting a DropShip, I thought. I managed about one hundred square meters by the end of the day. About one fifty on Sunday, and that included church services, which I attended in full dress uniform with the insignia of the First Guards newly sewn to my jacket.
“On Monday, I had thirteen volunteers out there helping me. Everyone one of them in fully pressed dungarees. Not a shabby laborer in the lot.”
Callandre shook her head. “That’s where it started?”
“By week’s end, the entire First Guards were out there. From the most senior MechWarrior to the most junior logistics clerk. We scraped and repainted the entire Pride by hand. No dock. No automated machinery. Lots of sweat equity.”
“And when you were finished?” Callandre asked.
But Julian had a hunch that Yori Kurita knew the answer. He looked the question to her, and she smiled. Thinly. And gave him another bow. A deeper one, as she might have reserved for another samurai. She gestured around at the spotless room, the perfectly cleaned ferroglass wall.
“That,” she said, “was when they started on the inside.”
Lars and Callandre laughed, Lars so hard that he lost his grip on the toe rail and nearly fell over in his scramble not to fall off-balance in the low gravity. But Julian and Yori did not. He could not tell what Yori considered behind that mask she wore so often in public, but Julian felt a thrill of fresh expectation. Because she was exactly right. That was when they had moved to the inside and kept on working. As a team.
And that, he suddenly knew, was how he would need to work this motley array of forces into a coherent whole. Not as supernumeraries grafted onto his First Guards, but as full and equal members of a new ad hoc unit. He would dedicate himself to that cause. Never expecting anything.
Unrequited commitment. If anything, that was the key. But he had better turn it fast. There wasn’t a whole lot of time left, and a great challenge rising ahead of them all.
On Ronel.
New Hessen
Federated Suns
“Back, back, back!” Mason Lambert yelled in Caleb’s ear as the M1 Marksman trembled under hard-hitting autocannon fire. Desperate peals rang through the cramped interior, like a hundred ball peen hammers ringing against the upper turret assembly in a rapid tattoo.
“Po!” Mason said. Sitting in the tank’s only passenger “jump seat”, he had his helmet’s facemask pressed hard into the padded finder on a telescoping viewer. “It’s a Po. In our five.”
“I saw it,” Caleb yelled, his voice filling the Marksman without one trace of hysteria in it. You could not command in an armored corps and not learn to trust your machine. Its armor. Its ability to dig itself out of a scrape.
He swallowed dryly, using his control system to seize control from his main gunner of the right-side missile launchers. Ignoring a VV1 Ranger that jumped out of a nearby vale, sliding through the grassy field, he swiveled the weapons out from the turret on universal mounts to drop a flashing red crosshair against the broadside of a Po II heavy tank. The targeting reticle flashed amber and red, a partial lock. Best he was going to get on an override. He thumbed his secondary firing stud.
Overhead, the muted roar of warhead exhausts called out like a wounded beast. The Shigunga medium-range launcher screamed out ten fat-bodied warheads, the missiles slashing across his monitor in a blurred image of fire and soot.
They blossomed in bright flowers of destruction as they walked from fore to aft on the sixty-ton tank, cratering armor on the tread overhang.
“Got range and bearing,” Caleb called.
In case his gunner hadn’t noticed the override, and was deafened by the autocannon slugs pounding across the turret base, his voice-activated mic also kept him in constant contact with the driver and main gunner.
“Fergie. Chop back on the throttle and give us a right-hand turn. Maverick, bearing relative one, seven, two; range one hundred ten. Get there!”
Sergeant First Class Donald Ferguson rogered the order. “Let me get us around that burning Jessie . . . there!” Deep within the tank’s guts a grinding sound tore through the machinery as he hauled the ninety-five ton vehicle into a tight turn.
Corporal Matt “Maverick” Rolph was already busy twisting the turret further around, bringing the Lord’s Thunder Gauss rifle to bear against the Po. Each second counted off as the turret gearing chocked its way through the long turn.
