Fortress Republic, page 30
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
Limping forward now as his leg actuator gave out in a burst of sparks, he swatted at a nearby Fulcrum. He took the long trigger pull this time to carve a wide, deadly swath down the side of the tank.
Sent it fleeing, listing to one side.
One weapon torqued out of alignment, the other low on ammo. Leg scraped down to the titanium skeleton. The armor that had once protected the Rifleman’s chest and arms also more memory than material. It was everything Conner could do just then to hold his part of the battle as his line broke apart into three disparate pieces, each working hard to join back up with the others. He still held the bulk of his forces in the center of the field, but his force was rapidly depleting in numbers.
All slipping away from him. The battle. The alliance. Everything he had worked for since his father’s suicide. Two more months. If Jonah Levin had waited two more months before this shutting down of the borders, isolating Terra and Prefecture X from the rest of The Republic, the alliance might have had a chance to get firmly rooted. Link up through Liberty. Force the exarch back to the table, or rally enough of a public outcry to set the entire government on its ear. But that hadn’t happened.
And now, Julian had put Conner’s back to the wall. Again, dammit! Again.
All Conner’s plans. His life as a knight, thrown aside. For nothing?
His father’s death. For nothing?
The Republic? Stone’s dream?
“No!” Railing against the odds stacked against him, Conner swung the Rifleman around in search of his tormentor. Shuffling in an awkward walk, gazing through the light misting rain that fell from a lightened sky. Searching . . .
There! The Templar.
Conner cleared his jammed rotary, and from several hundred meters fixed his crosshairs firmly against the side of Julian Davion’s BattleMech. He pulled into his double-triggers and kept his finger firmly mashed against them.
His weapons spat several hundred rounds of raging metal across the field, ignoring wounded tanks and a struggling Arcas. Tearing long, gaping wounds into the Templar’s side.
The eighty-ton ’Mech teetered on one leg, but righted itself. Then it twisted at the waist and levered both long-barreled arms forward.
Hellish lightning streamed out in an azure cascade of energies. It snaked quickly across the field, slashed apart Conner’s hail of autocannon slugs for just a moment, and then carved deep into his left side and right leg.
“To me,” he called. “To me!” Rallying what was left of his armored column, his Senate loyalists, his scattered mercenary forces. Never looking to see who rallied, who didn’t.
Shoving his throttle forward, he limped into his best speed of only fifty kilometers per. Again he slashed out with his autocannon. And again. Moving for Julian even as the Templar turned into the embrace and came at him with lightning in the grip of each fist.
Another gash carved down his centerline, coring through engine shielding.
And again, chopping through the last of the brittle armor protecting his hip. Freezing that joint as well as armor composite melted, ran into the coupling, and then refroze into a wax-looking wash that looked softened but was hard as steel and not about to bend again.
He hobbled forward, rotary autocannons blazing.
. . . Stone’s dream . . .
Saw on his HUD the Destroyer racing in, putting itself into harm’s way one final time to draw fire from the Templar. Left it to his remaining M1, which punched a Gauss slug into the skirting and shattered lifting vanes.
The craft grounded, leaped back into the air and nearly overturned. Then it slammed down for one final, long, mud-streaked slide. Bent its steering rudder over and powered into one final turn, pointing its one hundred twenty-mill autocannon right back down the throat of the advancing M1. Let go with all it had left to tear the turret from the Marksman’s deck.
. . . Republic . . .
Conner slashed the final spin of fifty-mill rounds out of his left-arm cannon, walking them across the Templar’s chest. The shots chewed down into the savaged armor. He used his right-arm RAC to saw off the Templar’s left-side PPC, then spun the last hundred rounds out of that weapon as well.
He throttled forward, pushing for every last meter, every bit of momentum as he charged into point-blank range. Ready to take his enemy with him. One last great act of defiance.
. . . his father . . .
That was what his father had reached for in the end as well, wasn’t it? One last great act of defiance?
No!
That hadn’t been it at all.
Conner blindly grabbed for the throttle, wrenching it back through a full stop and into a powered reverse. So hard, so fast, momentum alone still carried him forward, overtaxing the gyro.
He stumbled and fell, right into the final discharge from Julian Davion’s last PPC.
A blinding flash. The smell of ozone and the sound of shrieking metal. And . . .
. . . for nothing . . .
31
Imbros III. Liberty. Denebola. Devil’s Rock. Outreach. New Home. Hall. Northwind. (list continues . . .) These worlds are now under the aegis and protection of Terra. Attempt no landings. Anticipate no communication. Expect no exceptions.
—Communiqué delivered simultaneously to all worlds surrounding Prefecture X by transmission from Zenith, 29 September 3135
Richmond, Ronel
Republic of the Sphere
30 September 3135
The Richmond DropPort was a small town in and of itself, located a full twenty kilometers outside of Richmond proper with a large house complex as well as full amenities for restaurants, clubs, shopping, and recreation. On most other planets, the area would be worth its own charter. On Ronel, the capital had no desire to give up such a lucrative venue for collecting city taxes as well as planetary ones.
Just one more thing for Julian to keep in mind when he arranged for the Senate loyalists to ransom themselves, paying a stiff fee into the planetary coffers as well as giving up a portion of their military equipment—though hardly a major fraction—in salvage rights.
There was nothing to do for the spilled blood, of course, except pray for those who were still alive but fighting for it. And mourn those who would not live to fight another day.
Another thing to keep in mind. Which was what brought Julian out to the DropPort early. To stand silent vigil in the light rain alongside Viscount Markab, Conner Rhys-Monroe, with Ariana Zou on his other side and Callandre watching his back, as always.
The wounded and the dead had been collected. From morgues and hospitals, and from those recovered only recently off one of the forgotten battlefields on Ronel. All of them cleaned and cared for. Loaded into MASH trucks or collected by personnel carriers. Driven out to Richmond’s DropPort and right up the ramp into the waiting bay of the Union-class vessel.
Conner waited at the foot of the ramp, having already kicked the dirt from Ronel out of his boots. Standing at full attention, frozen in salute as one truck after another passed by in a slow procession, each one bearing the wounded or the dead. Each one afford the same courtesy.
Julian waited with the ex-Senator, blinking rainwater out of his eyes and not caring how slowly-but-certainly the light fall was soaking his uniform through. He waited until the last truck boarded and Conner rendered final honors with his sharp salute.
Then Conner turned and offered him a hand. Julian accepted.
“I appreciate your being here. You are a credit to the Federated Suns, Julian Davion.”
Julian nodded. He studied his former adversary. Conner’s military bearing—or perhaps he had first learned it as a noble of Markab. The man’s direct manner, as if ready to take on the world at any given moment. No wonder men and women had followed him to such extremes. Why the Senators had turned to him as their champion.
Conner Monroe also had a slightly unfocused distance lurking behind his peridot eyes. A way of not quite meeting another’s gaze, though Julian knew it was not an intentional snub. It had taken Conner several days in the hospital before his eyesight came back enough to walk unaided, flash-blinded by Julian’s final PPC discharge. If the Rifleman had fallen any slower, stumbled another half-meter closer, instead of carving through the top of the ’Mech’s head the blast would have cremated Conner inside his cockpit.
He still might never pilot a ’Mech again. How much his eyes healed would take weeks and months to determine. Perhaps years.
“This was never personal,” Julian said. “Though it was not easy to remember that at times. You fought to keep something from dying. I fought to help it live for so long as it was possible.”
“Such a careful distinction.” Conner shook his head. He looked to Ariana and Callandre as well. “It would seem we should have been on the same side.”
“It would seem,” he agreed.
The other man turned to go. Paused. “I nearly made that mistake, you know.”
“Which one?”
“Making it personal. There at the end. I saw the prize slipping away, never willing to admit that it was an illusion I had begun to chase.” Maybe he saw a look of triumph in the face of Lady Zou, because he looked to her, not Julian as he continued. “Not my stand on Terra, nor our Senate alliance in which I still firmly believe. But here, on Ronel, I let my desire to win a military campaign get in the way of what truly mattered. The need to defend our rights. Not enforce them upon others.”
Gracious in victory, if not accepting his point, the paladin nodded. “I wish we could convince you otherwise, that your rights did not need defending.”
Conner smiled sadly. He looked up into the gray skies and let the light rains wash a fine mist over his face. “We might wish a lot of things, Lady Paladin Zou. It does not change what is. The dream of The Republic has died. For me, it died in a gunshot. For some others, it died in a proclamation.” He looked from Julian to Callandre to Ariana. “Perhaps it has not died with all of you yet. But it will. And I do wonder how it will be when that happens.”
Julian nodded. “The Republic was never my dream,” he said. “But I take your point, and I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I believe that you are. And thank you for your generosity in letting us ransom our equipment as well as our freedom. Markab and Prefecture III will need our strength in the coming months and years.”
Julian was not so sure. “Even with the exarch walled away inside of Prefecture X?” he asked.
“Even so. And as to that, I can only wonder . . .”
“What?”
But Conner was no longer in a talkative mood, having said his piece and treated well with them all. The only hint he dropped, if it were a hint at all, was to ask, “Have you ever heard of an old Scots fable, Julian? Hector’s Wall?”
“Can’t say that I have. Is it important?”
“You know, I’m still not sure. You should ask Tara Campbell about it, if you ever see her again.”
And with that, Conner turned on his heel and strode up the ramp with barely another nod for Julian, Ariana, or Callandre. His boots rang smartly against the ramp as he followed the truck bearing his final cadre of loyalists. Ready to lead those who would still follow, and bury those who were no longer able.
Julian watched the man depart, and wondered just how much he would end up having in common with Conner Rhys-Monroe.
For better or worse.
“Are you certain?” Ariana Zou asked as they stepped away from the ramp and watched it fold up into the DropShip. The trio moved to a nearby armored sedan and stood outside it, for the moment no longer caring about the gray, wet day. “Letting him leave?”
Julian shrugged. The high moral ground was well and good for treating with the enemy, but in the end he was also a practical man. “What else was there to do? Keep him in chains on Ronel? Encourage other Senators—Vladistock? Usuha?—to come here after him?”
He looked askance at Callandre, who shrugged her opinion. “It isn’t like we’re welcome back on Terra. Any of us, at the moment.”
Those orders had come down through the local legate. Those and no others. Remain on Ronel. Attempt no return to Northwind, or into Prefecture X.
Julian nodded slowly. “Besides, if Yori was right, and the Dragon comes knocking on the door to Prefecture III, Aaron believes there may be a chance to quickly move Markab under Tikonov’s sphere of influence. And with it comes Ozawa and the resources of half a dozen worlds. Until we know what Exarch Levin has left for us out here, or I hear from Prince Harrison or . . .” he hedged, then, “or Caleb, I have to think about the potential of such an alliance.”
“With the Senate loyalists?”
“With anyone I can find to help keep this border secure for the Federated Suns. As I said, Lady Zou, The Republic is not, and has never been, my dream.”
“But it is mine,” she said.
“And that,” Julian said, opening the car door and holding it for both women, “is why I still believe there may be hope, and help forthcoming, from Exarch Levin and from Terra. Because no man or nation could command such . . . unrequited commitment. Not without a firm foundation to build upon.”
That pulled a laugh out of Callandre—a mocking bark he had heard many times before, and likely would again. “Same old Jules,” she said. “You still put a great deal of faith in the better nature of men.”
“I do,” he said. He stepped one leg in through the open door but spared a glance back at the towering DropShip. “I do,” he whispered.
“Until and unless they finally let me down.”
32
Rejoice, citizens of the Federated Suns! Your prince is rescued and well, and soon returns with important tidings from The Republic Territories! Forward the Suns!
—Relayed message from JumpShip Dark Chaser, transmitted first to Sonnia, 5 October 3135
Kai Lampur, Tikonov
Federated Suns
7 October 3135
Sweat beaded on the back of Erik Sandoval-Groell’s neck. His mouth felt cotton-dry. His skin vibrated with a special intensity as he worked the room, signed a dozen or more noteputer documents thrust into his face by eager aides and advisors, and listened for the call from the door that would be his cue to drop everything and hurry forward for the most important day (so far) of his life.
So much to do, he could almost—almost!—wish his uncle back to Tikonov to take up part of the load.
The exarch’s recorded address, delivered to Tikonov by special courier just the day before, was nearly finished playing. After which Prince Caleb Hasek Sandoval Davion would conclude his own statements. And still Erik worked tirelessly behind the scenes, in command of the lobby at the Dao Xi office complex. Security personnel and staff administrators working for Erik and Caleb had commandeered the building’s reception hall, turned it into a combination military command post and political action center. Here Erik had brought, bought, or bullied just about every leader Tikonov claimed.
Planetary Governor Vitucci; now about to be retired, comfortably, to new estates.
Legate Maureen Keeting; due for a promotion.
Minor nobility. Religious leaders. Economic moguls. Pop culture icons. None had been fully immune to Erik’s reach, thanks to the system of careful influence the Curaitis Organization had helped him build. Not all were on board, but enough to secure Tikonov. And with it, a half dozen worlds (or better!) that recognized Tikonov’s leadership and the Swordsworn’s strength.
Senator Brisham Vicore was the final cornerstone laid into that foundation, giving Erik the political boost he’d needed. His uncle had overlooked that possibility, too intent on Julian Davion. Too certain of Erik’s ultimate trust, even after nearly getting him killed.
Erik slowed his way across the lobby, leaving behind his last impromptu meeting and heading for the intimidating wall of security agents who protected the “green room.” He brushed the front of his new uniform flat, then counted the worlds he was certain to secure, ticking them off against raised fingers.
“Vicore delivers Caselton and Schedar.” Two. “Between Caselton and Tikonov we apply more than enough pressure to swing Mirach and New Rhodes III.” Two more.
On his own he had leveraged Ankaa (even with Aaron’s interference) and possibly Hoan and Alrescha as well. Almost certainly Hoan (which put him into counting fingers on his other hand!).
“And the gem in my crown: Tigress.”
Once a stronghold for the local military prefect, who had gone over for the Steel Wolves several years back, the Clan-inspired faction had abandoned Tigress. Left it open for the taking. Aaron had always overlooked the world as beneath him. But a vacuum wants to be filled. Erik had filled it. Cemented the Swordsworn position there in his name—his, not Aaron’s—and with that, he pulled together one neat and tidy package.
Pulled it together, and dropped the entire thing into the lap of Prince Caleb Davion.
The “green room” for today’s event wasn’t much more than a large corner of the building’s vaulted lobby, screened off by tall, cubicle-style dividers with underlays of ballistic cloth. Erik subjected himself to yet another security scan, and tolerated the Syrtis Fusiliers captain who escorted him through security and into Caleb’s presence.
“Well?” Caleb snapped. He continued pacing. “All is in place?” he asked back over his shoulder as he turned along a new direction.
Erik smoothed his polished façade, counting to three in his head before answering. Dialing up a calming voice. “My ambassador to Tigress believes there will be no problems. The new legate is trusted, and will be granted extensive estates once he trains and delivers a cadre battalion.”
Caleb stopped. Glanced around. Searching. “Perhaps I should speak with him.”
In this state? Not a chance. “I’ve handled it for you, Prince Caleb. This transition will go smoothly. You have my word.”
“Yes. Well. It has been good so far.”
A new prince. A harrowing ordeal on New Hessen. With who knew what problems waiting for him back on New Avalon. Yes, Erik could forgive Caleb the nervous energy, the paranoia.
