Fortress Republic, page 4
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
“You would not rethink your strategy and actions now with time to look back on them?”
“No, sir.” She did not hesitate. Not for a single heartbeat.
Jonah looked to McKinnon first. Saw the man’s grudging nod. Heather GioAvanti and Gareth Sinclair were more circumspect. Each tipped their chin down only slightly, satisfied, though it was his vote, and his alone, that counted in the end.
And Jonah liked what he saw.
“Admirable,” he said. “Heroic, even if touched with a bit of conceit.”
“I did not mean to—”
He interrupted her with a raised hand. “These are also traits I’ve found in the best of my knights . . . and paladins. Meraj Jorgensson had both in abundance. You just might do as his replacement.” He nodded to McKinnon. “Have her tested,” he ordered. And saw Ariana reeling behind an expression of wide-eyed incredulity.
“I believe you may be right about Julian Davion,” he said. “But it is just as hard on The Republic to lose a paladin. Remember, in the coming months, that I cannot afford to discard any of you so casually.”
Then he turned and left Ariana in the care of the others, struck dumb and likely half-blind as well. As he had been when the offer of a paladinship first rolled over him. She wouldn’t regain her equilibrium for days, he knew. Not with the battery of tests and the strains to which she’d be subjected in short order. The mounting mental and physical exhaustion. The psychological strain running her ragged, until she failed or came through the far side baptized by fire.
Cleansed.
Ready, he hoped, as there would be little time to recover. Ariana had the right of it. The sands were shifting beneath The Republic’s feet. Jonah Levin felt them moving every day. Felt them now, in fact, as he stepped across the threshold that divided the Chamber of Paladins from The Republic’s Hall of Government. His unsteady footing, threatened by a gathering storm.
If The Republic were to survive, it needed allies. And anchors.
Like Julian Davion.
And Ariana Zou.
3
Still no word on how the tragic accident that has befallen Prince Harrison Davion will affect The Republic’s relations with the Federated Suns. Sources close to Julian Davion, Lord Markeson, remain hopeful of a continued and strengthened relationship.
—Thoman Clarke’s Inside Politics, Genève, Terra, aired 10 June 3135
Thonon-les-Bains, Terra
Republic of the Sphere
14 June 3135
Caleb Hasek Sandoval Davion paced the chateau’s third-floor balcony at Thonon-les-Bains, drink in hand, staying well away from the stone rail yet unable to take his eyes from it. By now he knew every chip, every last moss-filled crack. And as the sun fell towards the snow-capped crowns of distant mountains, and twilight’s coming gloom gathered in the doorways and tall shadows behind the estate’s many trees, he wondered again how his father could have done something like this to him.
“All of it so magnificently unfair,” he complained. “So . . . treacherous!”
The sour taste burning at the back of his throat had not lessened in the last two weeks, no matter how he tried to soothe it. The smoky flavor of his whiskey masked it with every swallow, but too quickly the warm glow faded and left him shivering despite the beautiful, cloudless day.
He paused mid-stride. Stared down into the wide highball. Swirling the amber liquid, he watched the ice dance through a small whirlpool. The oval cubes tapped musically against the heavy glass, then settled again.
“Treacherous,” he whispered. And couldn’t help his glance towards the nearby door that let into his private suite.
The stain had faded, finally. The dark wash of bourbon he’d smashed against the wall, splashing fine Syrtis liquor over the flagstone patio and the leading edge of plush, gray carpet. He remembered his anger, and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
It didn’t help when Mason Lambert stepped from the room and stood right where the spilled alcohol had pooled. Best friend or not. A piece of gravel caught in the sole of Mason’s boot crunched against the gray flagstone. Gravel. That’s all it was.
Though it sounded like glass. A shard missed by one of Levin’s expert forensic teams. Pieces they had collected with due solemnity, as if weighed down by the tragedy that had occurred here. A sorrowful event.
Treacherous.
“It may seem so,” Amanda Hasek said. She moved to his side from one of the umbrella-shaded seats where she’d waited out his silence. Duchess of New Syrtis and Caleb’s aunt, she was part of the Federated Suns’ contingent to visit for the funeral of Victor Davion. “But truly, Caleb, these things happen without nefarious design. No malicious intent.”
Which hadn’t stopped her from doubling her personal guard. As if she suspected foul play. Though with tragedy striking so close to home, who could blame her? Amanda Hasek ruled over the Capellan March, fully one-fourth of the Federated Suns, and after Harrison Davion was likely the most powerful among all the Suns’ nobility. Only Corwin and Victoria Sandoval came close.
And Caleb! Heir to the throne, and now the acting First Prince. De facto if not de jure.
“It was so hard to believe,” Caleb said. “All happened so fast.”
“I know. I know.” His aunt raised a hand to smooth back her coal-dark hair. As a nod to her years, she had finally allowed a touch of gray to creep in at her temples. But no more than that. “Harrison was always so healthy. So alive! Hard to imagine him any other way.” She patted his arm. “I know.”
But she didn’t! No one did. Though Amanda stayed at the Thonon-les-Bains chateau as part of the prince’s retinue. Had been here that night, asleep, when Caleb also paced his balcony. Waiting for his cousin to arrive from Genève, that great and honorable champion, the hero of the hour.
A traitor to his blood.
And as difficult as the late hour had been on Caleb, they were the last moments in which he had felt in any way normal. Before then, at least the household had existed in an uneasy peace. Amanda Hasek quietly at odds with her brother-in-law’s choice of consort, distracting herself by working hard to marry off Sandra Fenlon and Julian when anyone (other than the duchess) could see the two of them were merely humoring her. When Harrison was not entertaining Sterling McKenna, he kept himself busy with matters of state. Julian as well, with the prince’s champion of late taking on more duties than usual.
And despite his personal gaffe, the near-disastrous relationship he had unknowingly started with Danai Liao-Centrella, Caleb had been given his freedom to roam and explore and indulge himself. As an heir to the throne should be allowed.
And after . . . After . . . The instant paranoia and worry that Harrison had fallen victim to a Republic plot. Or one of the Raven Alliance! Amanda quickly expelled Sterling from the chateau, not taking any chances with Harrison’s “poor judgment.” Sandra Fenlon was moved to Genève, if only to get her out from underfoot. And Julian—he was kept under close watch by Caleb’s own honor guard officers. Waiting to see what the “champion” might do. Might try.
Might accuse.
The sour taste burned at the back of his throat like a rising gorge. His skin tensed and tingled. A few places on his arms and the back of his neck pricked as if stuck by the tip of a blade. Caleb shivered, swirled his drink, then tipped it up and belted back a healthy slug of the warming amber.
He resumed his slow walk along the stone balustrade. Always at greater length than an arm’s reach from the railing. Not wanting to look over the edge. Never again wanting to see that three-story plunge his father had taken.
The wild fear in Harrison Davion’s bright blue eyes.
The short yell, cut off as the large man cracked his head against a second balcony far below.
The heavy crash of the prince’s body hitting the slope, and rolling down through the brush to fold around one of the large pine trees that isolated the château.
“I think I should be alone for awhile,” Caleb said. He tried to put the authority of the Prince behind it. Nearly got it right. It only sounded a touch empty. Hollow.
“Of course,” Amanda said. And gave him another pat on the arm. As if he were still fifteen, and spending the summer on New Syrtis. Not a man twenty years beyond those visits.
Not a prince.
He waited as Amanda collected her personal bodyguard from the far side of the open-air patio and led the way back inside. She hardly gave Mason a look, obviously trusting her nephew’s judgment in friends more than his own father ever had. The security guard was not so easygoing. He did raise a hand near his breast lapel, as if ready to reach inside his suit jacket for a weapon. But Mason made not one movement as the duchess passed by, quiet and respectful as always.
“Has to be difficult for her,” Mason said once the duchess had passed inside, out of earshot. “Losing her sister, and her prince as well.”
Caleb resumed his slow pacing. “I’m her prince now.”
Prince of the Federated Suns. Leader of House Davion. He had waited his entire life for this. Had never known a moment’s doubt of it, actually. Not one day of his thirty-five years. With ties to the three strongest noble lines within the Federated Suns—the Haseks of the Capellan March and the Sandovals of Robinson and the Draconis March—he had always seen himself as a unifying figure. A living truce among the powerful nobility and the ruling line on New Avalon.
He’d never had reason to doubt. Until recently.
“What do I do about him?” he asked. He reached the end of the patio, near a corner where two of the stone walls met. Stayed away from both. Turned and started back the other direction. “What do I do about Julian?”
Halfway back he stopped. But not to wait out Mason’s answer. Caleb spied a small tag of bright yellow crime scene tape stuck to the balustrade cap, caught in the slight evening breeze and fluttering up from the outside edge.
He shuffled half a step closer, craning his neck. The breeze kicked the tape up again. Yellow, with a piece of red lettering. And taped to the rail just at the point where his father had gone over. Where he had—
Fallen!
“You do what you have to,” Mason said. “Just like that night, you did what had to be done.”
Caleb remembered his friend saying just that to him. Stepping up at his side and laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. Comforting him on the loss of his father, who had thrown Caleb over for a cousin! A distant cousin who had taken advantage of the prince’s generosity and sponsor-ship to eat away at the love Harrison Davion had once known for Caleb.
The finest schools and training hadn’t been enough for Julian. Nor being named the youngest prince’s champion in the Suns’ long history.
No. Julian had wanted it all. Had stolen it all.
Caleb edged up towards the rail. Held the heavy, chilled highball in his one hand. Reached out carefully with the other towards the fluttering tag of tape. Yellow. Bright yellow. A warning. But it wasn’t red lettering, he saw now. It was blood. A smear of blood on the end of the tape. His father’s blood, of course. Right where Prince Harrison had gone over the rail.
Right after he had told Caleb the chilling, damning news.
Julian will be my heir.
His hand trembled as he leaned out towards the balustrade’s stone cap. The sour taste flooded through his mouth, turning bitter, like spoiled adrenaline. Caleb remembered how his father had simply blurted out the truth as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Never mind the years Caleb had spent touring the realm, cast out among every backwater world, getting to know the nobles.
Never mind how hard he had worked to get his officer’s commission.
Never mind that Caleb was his son!
We’ll help you understand. We will. And then he had tried to pull Caleb to him. Reaching out. Grabbing hold. Just as Caleb reached out for a handful of the prince’s silk shirt, driving forward . . . shoving . . .
“No!”
Dashing his drink to one side, leaping forward, Caleb snatched at the fluttering yellow tape. Tore it from the stone railing even as he overbalanced himself and collapsed. Folding over the balustrade, his hips pressed painfully into the stone as he leaned far out over the drop-off to stare at the ground swaying sickeningly far, far below. A shadow fell down and away from him. A large shadow, quickly swallowed up by the night. One short yell, and the sound of the prince’s head smashed against the second railing below, and then silence.
Silence. And the headlamp from Julian’s car sweeping up the chateau’s long drive.
And Caleb standing there, watching his father’s body roll down the slope, to lose itself among the brush and trees.
The scent of spilled whiskey was strong. The ground swayed back and forth, back and forth, as Caleb slowly caught hold of his bearings and hauled himself back from the overhang. Back from the same long, deadly fall his father had taken that night after dashing all of Caleb’s dreams and desires as if they were a mere favor to be dispensed to another as easily as Harrison might grant land or title to some upstart warrior.
Back from the truth of what had happened.
That Harrison and Julian had conspired together to rob Caleb of what was rightfully his. His birthright. His people’s need for a strong ruler to unite the realm and lead it into a glorious future.
Stumbling back from the rail, Caleb sat down hard on the flagstone patio. Silence descended. The world swayed once more, then settled firmly back into place. Leaving Caleb on the cold, wet patio, sitting in a spill of fresh whiskey, and clutching at . . .
Nothing.
No yellow tape. He had grabbed it. He was sure. He had snatched it from the rail and dragged it back with him. If he had lost it, dropped it down among the tall gasses and brush, he would have to send someone to find it.
“Mason . . . ?”
But Mason had disappeared as well.
A good friend, not wanting to see Caleb caught in a moment of weakness. Yes, that was what had happened. Mason would retrieve the yellow tape, and dispose of it. And Caleb could move on from what had occurred.
When he did what had to be done.
4
Shinonoi, Biham, Ancha . . . Three more worlds fallen to the Dragon! As the march of House Kurita pushes deeper into Prefecture II, and Paladin Marik returns under orders to Terra yet again, we are left to ask: Where is our Exarch?! Where is our rescue?
Assistant Governor Kalvin Montgomery, Al Na’ir, 7 June 3135
Genève, Terra
Republic of the Sphere
18 June 3135
Julian walked slowly along the dove-gray corridor at Sisters of Mercy, Sandra Fenlon’s long, slender hand clasped tightly in his own. Two knight-errants of The Republic, stationed at the security post that let onto this private floor, pulled the doors closed behind them. Their cold, impersonal stares followed after, raising a prickling feeling at the back of Julian’s neck.
Sandra shivered. Whispered, “I always feel guilty when they look at me that way.”
He nodded. Squeezed her hand. “Human nature,” he said.
Most people tended to feel uncomfortable under the direct gaze of authority figures such as police, politicians, or military officers. Among the things Julian had learned in the course of his early officer training was recognizing this effect, and understanding how to use it. It had also helped him banish such reactionary impulses of his own. As an officer and especially as prince’s champion, being stared at—studied and weighed—was the norm. Came with the name, as his father would have said.
So why, then, did it bother him now?
Partly it was the hospital, he decided. Partly. The astringent scents in the air. The heavy silence, broken as the sharp step of his leather dress boots against the terrazzo floor echoed down the length of the empty hall. Julian half-expected a nurse to leap out of a doorway with padded mufflers and a stern warning, that the prince required peace and quiet and a tranquil environment for his recovery.
And for the first time that day, he smiled. Thin, tense, but a smile nonetheless. Anyone who could say such a thing truly did not know Harrison Davion.
He squeezed Sandra’s hand again.
Third door down on the right. One of the executive care rooms. Julian kept his gaze locked on the door handle as they approached, and startled when the door suddenly swung inward as if expecting them. Then Amanda Hasek stepped into the corridor, stopped. As surprised to see Julian and Sandra as they had been.
Sandra hesitated for a heartbeat, then dropped Julian’s hand to quickly step forward and embrace the duchess. Though Sandra had come into her full majority the year before she was, legally, still a ward of Amanda Hasek. And would be until married off. Matchmaking Sandra with Julian was the duchess’s chief endeavor. Usually. Today, though, there was no hint of a prideful gleam or any need to push Sandra back on Julian’s arm as quickly as possible. Amanda accepted the offered comfort. She looked as if she needed it, with her face more drawn and pale than usual, her upswept hair in slight disarray, reddened eyes from crying.
Amanda broke away, hands on Sandra’s shoulders as she held the younger woman at arm’s length. With motherly care she reached up to smooth the side of Sandra’s long, ash-blonde hair, worn in a straight fall down to curvaceous hips. She tucked a few strands back behind Sandra’s ear, giving her ward a touch of girlish charm. Then she divided her gaze between Sandra and Julian, forcing a smile at seeing them together.
“He looks better today,” Amanda said. Julian heard the lie in her voice. “A spot of color in his cheeks. Hands are warmer.”
If so, it would be the first positive sign in two weeks, among Julian’s six visits. Every time he looked for improvement in the prince’s condition. Some sign that the prince would struggle out of his coma. And when he couldn’t come himself, he read a daily report prepared by the hospital staff. So far, nothing.
