Fortress Republic, page 22
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
His life was truly in the hands of technology and fate. Both of which had a tendency to fail, from time to time.
But not here. With a final roaring burn, the drop pack set Julian down in a hard but livable landing on the dry lake basin. His knees flexed deep as they absorbed what was left of his descent momentum.
Julian arched back quickly, forcing the ’Mech into a tall stance, and slapped at a nearby control that sent a wireless signal to the drop pack (which could not be received unless and until all lifters had stopped firing). Explosive bolts fired, separating the drop pack from the Templar. And Julian took his first steps out onto a live battlefield.
He had already dropped his crosshairs over a gray-and-blue painted Arbalest, ripping his PPCs down either side of the twenty-five ton ’Mech, before he remembered to start breathing again.
“Guard-one, down and engaged!” he reported, gasping for breath, having toggled back over to an all-hands circuit. Though he swore he heard a distant jerk whispered through his neurohelmet’s speakers.
Then, “Guard-two down. Engaging.”
“Guard-three . . .”
“And four!”
A full lance of freshly armored ’Mechs. Hitting the field just as two companies of Storm Chasers and a few loyalist crews smashed into the ragged line set by Sho-sa Jirobi Katanga. Julian tried to imagine what it must have looked like to the mercenary commander, seeing four fresh machines crash down on long trails of desperate flame.
Especially when they began tearing apart his line.
The Guards’ Enforcer quickly moved to aid a staggered Griffin, while their Centurion and a captured Legionnaire slashed into a mix-up of armored vehicles and scattered infantry that looked ready to bowl over what was left of the Dragon’s Fury column.
Julian throttled his Templar forward into an easy walk, laying about on both sides with his particle cannons, his medium lasers. Tied his Tharles four-pack into his main triggers as he worried the Arbalest again, using his cannons and SRMs to give it a solid kick in the backside as it turned and fled north without waiting to see if any of the rest of the Storm Chasers would follow.
Julian let it go. He still had more than enough targets to worry him.
Like the engineer squad swarming up the side of Leftenant Sheila Hanson’s Enforcer, using magnetic grapples as they clambered up towards the cockpit hatch. The young warrior tried to swat them away, but her ’Mech’s arms could not reach far enough around on her flank.
“Hold still,” Julian ordered. He climbed his crosshairs over her shoulder, settling them on the egress hatch. Waited until the first engineer slipped up to plant a shaped charge against the lock. And then triggered his single medium laser.
Light body shields or not, ’Mech weaponry was designed to burn through some of the best armor composites developed. The flash of ruby red cut the combat engineer in half, hurling his legs over the side of the Enforcer’s shoulders. His head and arms and upper body fell away to the other side.
Only a light scorch mark nicked Hanson’s ’Mech.
It might have changed the minds of the others, though that would never be proven as a squad of Raiden armored infantry leaped up into the side of the Enforcer and used their arm-mounted lasers to sweep away the rest of the engineers.
The Storm Chasers might have been caught completely unawares, but Julian had to hand them some credit. Except for the Arbalest, the unit held its ground well and shifted quickly to respond to the First Guards’ sudden threat.
Which meant, of course, that they shifted quickly against Julian.
Lasers and missiles hammered in from all sides, in a last-ditch effort to take down the heaviest machine on the field and throw a measure of doubt into the new arrivals. It was a gamble, and one Julian might have made in their stead. But his Templar held up under the savage assault, rocked back by the physical force and the loss of several tons of armor, but never in danger of being dropped to the ground.
He could play that game as well. He dialed in his command circuit, overriding the combat chatter, and tied in a general-broadcast frequency as well. “The Sun Cobra,” he said, choosing their first victim. Letting the Storm Chasers hear.
And from their various positions on the battlefield, all four Guard ’Mechs turned towards the fifty-five ton machine with its flanged head and the deadly bite from its paired PPCs. The Centurion’s lasers sliced deep into its right side, while the Legionnaire’s autocannon hammered the legs full of fresh, jagged-edged wounds. Hanson’s Enforcer used lasers and autocannon both to heap more misfortune on the Sun Cobra.
Julian took an extra second, weathering the storm of fire against his Templar, as he relied on his targeting computer to help lock in precisely on the right leg. The azure particle streams of both PPCs twisted together into a single, devastating whip, bursting through a weakened knee joint, blowing the leg in half without any seeming effort.
The fifty-five ton machine crashed over, not about to hold up under that kind of damage. It bounced twice against the dry lake basin, and was immediately swarmed by armored infantry.
To which Julian simply said, “Now. The Bandit.”
A fifty-ton hovercraft capable of speeds in excess of one hundred fifty kph, the Bandit had been skating in closer and closer to use its lasers and short-range missile packs to devastating effect against isolated clumps of the Dragon’s Fury infantry. Seeing the Sun Cobra dealt with so ruthlessly, and hearing its own name next on the hit list, it spun about in an end-for-end turn Julian had often seen Callandre pull in her Destroyer. But momentum was another factor. Before it could reverse on a one-eighty, it had to cancel its forward motion, and that took time.
Time enough for Julian’s four ’Mechs, and a Dragon’s Fury Panther to turn their weapons against the hovercraft. Ripping away the elevated turret. Carving off a steering vane and blasting terrible, gaping holes into the lift skirt.
The three PPCs between Julian’s Templar and the Panther were enough to slag away nearly every ounce of armor protecting the Bandit’s right deck. As streams of autocannon fire hammered in after, followed by knives of scarlet laser fire, the vehicle had no chance.
One scarlet lance cut deep into the lift vanes, and suddenly the basin to all sides of the craft was filled with high-speed metal as the spinning blades disintegrated into a blow-out of razor-edged shrapnel. The Bandit bottomed out hard, sliding to a rough stop but—fortunately for the crew—not rolling over. The mercenary crew managed to shut down their fusion power plant before anything worse happened.
Before any more of the mercenaries heard their name called out next, they broke and ran. A few managed to hook up with a companion for safety in numbers as they beat a rapid retreat back to the north. But most cut loose from wherever they stood and ran far and fast in the opposite direction from the nearest enemy machine. Some went east and a few more, it seemed, westward. The bulk spread out in a wide fan heading north, towards the far side of Mitchell Basin.
“Do we pursue?” Sheila Hanson asked.
“No,” he decided. “Let them run.”
Any moment now the retreating forces would see the landing flare of the Pride as it closed the door on the north side of the basin. Yori Kurita and Lars Magnusson would lead out the Guards’ armor contingent, spreading them into a wide net meant to trap every last loyalist and mercenary machine.
“They have nowhere to go.”
23
New Hessen’s name has come up yet again as a world also facing encroachment by House Liao. Or is that the truth?
“We cannot say for certain that Liao forces are not working hand-in-fist with the Davions,” said Knight-Errant Bishop Reinhardt in a pubic statement released on Kansu. “New Hessen could well be a staging ground for strikes deeper into The Republic, with local garrisons simply looking the other way.”
—Interstellar Associated Press, Algol, 17 August 3135
Kai Lampur, Tikonov
Republic of the Sphere
5 September 3135
The Dao Xi offices at Kai Lampur were in full operation, with data-runners carrying their noteputers from station to station and room to room, and swarming around any of half a dozen different individuals for final authorizations—none of them Erik Sandoval-Groell. Or his uncle.
Erik knew it had been set up this way on purpose, to prevent a breakdown in organization during those times he had to be absent. Gavin had explained it very carefully. Erik provided direction for his top advisors, was given twice-daily updates and sought for counsel only when an aide deemed it necessary for dire political ramifications. Usually, when the direction they leaned went against the grain of his uncle’s plans. Then he weighed the risk versus return, made the call, and orders went out over his signature with an efficiency to rival any military-political organization Aaron had ever headed.
Which gave him time, now, supervising the work around him but not an integral cog in this growing machine, to take a moment for himself while the lord governor inspected reports flashing up on screen after screen on the computer stations they walked past. Erik’s worry could only be measured in the damp sweat itching in his palms, the dry cotton taste sitting on the back of his tongue. His outward calm was perfectly in place, and he allowed himself just a moment to enjoy a quick flash of warm pride before returning to the present.
Returning to war.
Seize the high ground.
A military maxim at least as old as Sun-Tzu’s The Art of War, he knew. When higher ground meant your archers could shoot farther—and kill at a greater distance—than your enemy’s. When it added impetus to your charge, with soldiers and horse-drawn chariots charging downhill to meet the tiring warriors pushing up at your line.
Signing off on orders to move the Swordsworn’s Schedar auxiliaries, splitting them between the systems of Ankaa and Hoan, he paused in the middle of his wide-looping scrawl, stylus scratching to a halt on the noteputer’s glassy surface. Considering. Was there an older reference? Willing to bet that there was. Surely there would be appropriate Scripture in ancient biblical texts, thinly disguised in verse, or anecdote, which carried the same thought.
Or, perhaps not disguised. In the Old Testament days, hadn’t violence often been preached hand in hand with tolerance and love? The gouging out of an eye for an eye. Stoning thy neighbor to death for such serious transgressions as planting the wrong crops. Somewhere, back in his youth studies, he was sure he had read that.
“Nothing has changed.”
“Sir?”
A smart-dressed aide in a button-down Oxford and a blazing red power tie, the young man could have been equally at home running orders on the floor of Tikonov’s common market stock exchange. It seemed to have been an easy lateral move to this political appointment, overseeing logistics or public relations or whatever new department the young aide had taken here as a home. Where had Gavin found such people so quickly? Two months almost to the day since Erik had authorized the man to build this secondary system, and it had the feel of a government long accustomed to power.
“Nothing,” Erik said. “Nothing.” He finished his signature with a quick flourish and nodded the aide on his way.
But . . . Nothing has changed, he admitted to himself again. Four thousand years of “progress” to come back full circle. So often still, might could make right, and tolerance and love only went so far before it was time to dust off the weapons of war.
“Everyone is still thy brother’s keeper,” Erik whispered. And laughed.
He watched as his uncle stopped the young man with the noteputer and checked the orders Erik had countersigned. Aaron’s face clouded over with a dark pall, like a bruised sky promising a storm before the day was through.
Seize the high ground. And he had. Bringing his uncle into this nexus of Erik’s own power base. Letting him see what his nephew—his cousin!—could do when well-funded and provided with the best intelligence (Aaron’s) money could buy.
“You are thinning our border with the Federated Suns?” Aaron asked, his voice tightly controlled. Hardly a question, it demanded an answer in the same way a direct order would.
Erik nodded. “With Brisham Vicore in our camp, we have freed up resources best spent elsewhere.”
“Best spent on Ronel, on Addicks.” Aaron ticked off the locations of his “hot spot” priorities with the fingers of one hand. “Mallory’s World. Kansu. Sheratan.”
“Achernar,” Erik argued. “Ankaa. On Sheratan we agree.”
“Ankaa will not save us Ronel or Addicks.”
Of course not. Ronel and Addicks were short-term objectives, and Erik was thinking far beyond his uncle’s current reach. For once. “Ankaa will save us one of the most mineral-rich worlds in the region. It has no overwhelming exports, yet, but with key restructuring and one or two of those pre-fab factories developed by the Clans—which we will purchase from the Dominion—within the year it can begin producing war materials and operate as a base for logistics support.”
“Now he looks ahead.”
Aaron gestured to the organized chaos buzzing around them. “Read the reports, Erik. Realize. The Republic does not have a year left to it. This—this—is the moment for which we’ve been waiting. What I’ve been looking towards from the start, while you whined about our military setbacks and worried about a few minor pawns being lost on the board.”
A few nearby men glanced over. Officers, wearing the modified Republic uniform common to most Swordsworn companies. Gray fatigues stripped of old unit loyalties, and green berets with a modified sword-and-sunburst crest patched to the side. The men’s eyes widened with the insult aimed at Erik.
“Take care, Aaron.” Erik’s voice was only two notches above a growl.
“We must support Julian Davion on Ronel!”
Ah. Now that was what Erik had waited for his uncle to admit. Not the needs of the Swordsworn or even a particular world’s worth (or lack thereof) in the greater picture. Aaron had cut a deal. Of course Erik knew it. He paid well to know such things now, and while his account might be accruing some heavy interest, it was all worth it.
“Why?” Erik asked. “Julian Davion has shown no sympathy towards our cause. Harrison Davion, when he held Julian’s leash, hardly gave you the time for a meeting. Now Julian shills for Exarch Levin and The Republic and suddenly you are on board?”
“Julian Davion is his own man. He is a strong leader and has in him the seeds of greatness, I promise you. The time to make him our ally is now, while he struggles, not later, when he . . . when he gathers more power.”
When he . . . what? What had Aaron been about to say? Something his uncle knew about Julian—and Prince Harrison?—he had not confided in Erik.
“What of Prince Caleb?” Erik asked, attacking swiftly from the flanks. “He released Julian as prince’s champion. Why wouldn’t he see these ‘seeds of greatness’ in his own cousin?”
Aaron smiled slowly. Maddeningly smug. “Perhaps he did. And that is why Julian was released, and abandoned.”
Something not quite right. A cog, half a turn out of position. Because Julian was young and strong and a fit leader, the Prince of the Federated Suns would not want him at his side? And Aaron would then risk Caleb’s irritation by courting the young general who was so obviously out of favor?
“You are not making sense. If what you say is true, we should seek Caleb’s support and leave Julian to wither. Why the sudden enthusiasm for this man?”
But Aaron closed up. A withdrawal Erik read by the way a blank mask settled over his uncle’s face. “I’ve no need to explain myself to you.”
Erik laughed. Not loudly, not enough to shame his uncle in front of the men and women surrounding them, but between the two of them, to share the joke. “What else have you been doing the last thirty minutes? If you do not need to explain yourself to me, then climb back aboard that flying palace of yours and pass along the orders to secure Ronel yourself.”
But Aaron would not, because he could not. And that was what galled the lord governor and duke, Erik’s superior in most every way, that he had no choice but to seek Erik’s willing allegiance if he wanted things done his way and fast enough to make a difference. Erik had enough direct control over a percentage of Swordsworn resources now that Aaron had to take him seriously.
“You could not have picked a worse time to grow a backbone, Erik.”
But Aaron sounded two parts impressed to his single part of annoyance. A master, finally forced to admit that his student had learned, and learned well enough to rise to the challenge of a game. He gestured to an abandoned computer station, one with a map of Prefecture IV projected a few centimeters into the air across the flat, glassy surface of a holographic display emitter. Using a light-tipped stylus, Aaron drew quick circles around five worlds. The five he had named before.
Those stars suddenly glowed brighter. Small information tags opened up in tiny windows next to each. Planetary names. Populations. Gross manufacturing capability. Strength of the local economy. Plucking an icon out of the window would bring a wealth of information to their fingertips.
Erik borrowed a stylus from a nearby station. With a glance, he sent the Swordsworn corporal manning that screen on a coffee break. With a quickly slashed “X” he closed the window over Kansu.
“Lose it,” he said. “The Confederation has too many forces in play, spearing out from Liao, from Menkar and Algol. We cannot stand against the Capellans and The Republic.”
Except that Aaron had put Kansu in play with his recent victories against the Confederation on Shensi, on St. Andres. Those victories had vaulted him onto a larger stage, and lulled Exarch Levin into giving him a large benefit of doubt. To go back on that stratagem now . . .
“Done,” Aaron said in his characteristic decisiveness. Then visibly winced as Erik slashed away Addicks and circled Ankaa and Hoan in its place. “I may give you Ankaa,” he said. “But Hoan?”
