Fortress Republic, page 6
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
The crowd gathered in three deliberate rings as directed by officers of ceremony. The first, spread around the entire clearing at the edge of the treeline, was comprised of visiting nobles and the many off-world rulers visiting Terra. A second group, closer in, was mainly officers and the knights currently on-planet. Then, finally, the paladins themselves. There were six of them in attendance today, circling a low, wooden dais at the cardinal points, Exarch Levin at their head.
On the dais, Ariana Zou knelt in quiet meditation. After choosing the site of her ascension, she had spent the entire night here in contemplation of her life and military career, and her future responsibilities as a Paladin of the Sphere. She had knotted her raven-black hair into a bun at the base of her neck, but several strands had escaped and were matted to her skin by the morning dew.
She did not appear to notice.
Julian’s small group were among the last to arrive, which was fine as his place was reserved near the back of the third tier regardless, at the center of those off-world dignitaries who had been invited and chosen to attend. Julian noted two of the three Captains-General, jockeying for position within the swelling crowd. Trillian Steiner holding court with Aaron Sandoval and some minor nobility from both sides of that border. And Caleb and Amanda Hasek.
Alaric Wolf, holding himself apart from the rest, snarling when approached too closely by other Clan warriors, including those from his own Clan Wolf. A savage animal ready to break his restraints at any time.
Coordinator Vincent Kurita with his New Samarkand warlord.
And Sterling McKenna of the Raven Alliance, who appeared isolated and alone. She had spent a great deal of time in the company of Prince Harrison this last year, traveling with him as friend and consort after four years of the prince mourning for his wife, Isabella Hasek.
No sign of Daoshen Liao. Or any of the Capellan nobility. With a year of open war flaring between the Confederation and The Republic, if the Capellans were even on-planet Julian had to guess they had not been invited. Just as well. Caleb did not need Danai Liao-Centrella distracting him further. Such a near-disaster that had been.
“He is not even here, quineg?” Lars Magnusson asked. Whispering as a quiet settled over the assembled witnesses. Things were about to start.
Callandre looked over. “Who?”
“Erik Sandoval. I recall him from the grand ball. And he was there when Julian and Yori annihilated each other in the simulated War of ’39. But not at the funeral. Nothing since, in fact.”
Julian had taken his mark, shown to him by a young lieutenant in The Republic’s Triarii Protectors. He glanced over, but kept watch on the upper paths as well, waiting for the cue to his small part in today’s ceremony. “No. Erik left Terra nearly three weeks ago. Before the big showdown.”
But that was Lars Magnusson, as Julian had come to know him. A Ghost Bear warrior, he certainly looked the part. Well-muscled. Platinum-blond hair worn parted down the middle and long to his shoulders. Pale skin and heavy nordic features and thick, white eyebrows. He had a tattoo of his Clan crest centered on his right temple, with two of the six “arms” reaching across part of his face.
But to concentrate on the physical and forget about his mind was a mistake. No missed detail escaped the younger man for long. His mind was always at work, looking at problems and even simple conversations from every angle.
“Still getting daily intel feeds from Riccard Streng?” Callandre asked.
Julia shook his head. “No.” Those had stopped right after Prince Harrison’s accident. Julian assumed Caleb was being quickly brought up to speed, though he had not seen Streng, the Federated Suns’ spymaster, in several weeks. “No, I spoke to Aaron Sandoval, briefly, last week. Erik left quietly for Tikonov, to stiffen resistance against the Liao offensive.”
Quietly, and secretly. Which had the lord governor of Tikonov concerned but not so much that he rushed right after his nephew to hold his own fort.
“Julian?” Sandra prompted. Thunder rolled overhead as the storm finally spoke.
“I thought that brushfire had burned down into a lull,” Callandre said.
Fourteen months of hard fighting and a dozen worlds retaken by the Confederation. Julian wasn’t so certain it could be called anything but a major offensive. “If there was any lull, someone apparently forgot to notify the Liao agents on Tikonov.”
“Julian.” Sandra’s whisper was quieter, yet more severe. She nudged his elbow and nodded up the path where Paladin Heather GioAvanti had stepped out from beneath the low aspen branches, bearing a sword.
It was starting.
“Yeah, Jules. Pay attention.”
Heather GioAvanti wore the gray uniform and full scarlet cape of rank allowed her position. She wore her frosted hair down, swinging straight over her ears. Her blue eyes fixed on the sword she carried balanced across both palms, as if she had the path memorized. Likely, she did.
With slow, stately grace, the paladin approached. By the time she had fully emerged from beneath the aspen, not a single whisper could be heard. Only a distant grumble of thunder. All eyes were riveted on her as if scope-locked on a target, including Julian’s.
He waited, counting her measured paces as a way to still the dark whispers stirring at the back of his mind in this moment of silence. Forty-three from the edge of the grove to his position right at the back of the third circle. And Heather GioAvanti stared up at him.
Julian looked down at the sword. Nothing too special about it, except that it had been well cared for. No jeweled hilt. No engraved blade. A good field saber, which Devlin Stone was said to have commandeered on his flight from the Word of Blake reeducation camp during the Jihad. The man who had eventually led the Inner Sphere to victory, and later fought to form The Republic of the Sphere. A modern-day King Arthur, forging his Camelot by sheer will and determination.
Now this blade was all that was left of such a powerful and charismatic man. A symbol of what he had accomplished. A reminder of the responsibilities to every caretaker who followed.
Julian bowed forward from the hips, more in the manner of the Japanese courtesies followed in the Combine than a courtier’s bow from the Davion court. Then he turned and raised his hands to the crowd, which parted to allow the sword to pass through. That was Julian’s sole duty in the ceremony. Simple enough, though sweat beaded at the nape of his neck as the weight of the moment rolled over him like Juggernaut’s carriage.
He paced forward ahead of Heather GioAvanti, traversing the dozen paces that made up the entire thickness of the outer circle. Then, as he’d been instructed, he stepped aside to allow the sword to pass.
Heather continued, approaching the second tier of witnesses. The captains and majors and generals of The Republic’s line regiments. The knights and knights-errant of at least half a hundred worlds.
This time, it was the youngest of the assembled knights who stepped forward. A tow-headed youth, he barely looked old enough to shave. If the boy was twenty-one yet, Julian would have been surprised. Though his own cynicism surprised him more. As if the extra six years he carried conferred the wisdom of the ages! Prince’s champion or no, at times he had to remind himself that he, too, wasn’t much more than a young heir to ancient traditions, and it was that heritage which spoke with power, not necessarily him.
The young knight-errant passed the blade through, letting Heather approach the exarch and the rest of the assembled paladins. Jonah Levin stepped up to silently accept the christening blade from her hands, and then passed himself through the third and final tier to set foot on the dais with Ariana Zou.
For all the attention Ariana paid, Exarch Levin might as well have been passing by on a stroll through Magnum Park. Even from his new position at the leading edge of the third tier, Julian saw how her eyes were unfocused, her face without animation. It was as if she had truly cast off her past, and was waiting to be reborn.
In a way he envied her that, remembering how Prince Harrison had finally bestowed on him the title of Prince’s Champion. Harrison had not stood on ceremony with family. He’d called Julian into his private quarters one day, and handed him the title without fanfare.
“You’re it,” he’d said. “Until you die or I find someone more deserving. Don’t let me down, Julian.”
Again. That had been the unspoken caveat. Of course it had. The sorrowful tone. The recriminations in Harrison’s eyes, as if he knew what he did was more politically motivated than necessarily the best choice. Julian had repledged himself then and there to always stand worthy of such trust, and responsibility.
And, he believed, he always had.
But here, this day, the ceremony carried the weight of nearly six decades of tradition. And three years of desperation as The Republic fought to hold onto its strength. Raising a new paladin was no light matter. These were some of the most powerful men and women within the Sphere. The military and political elite. Each one was looked upon as a new, potential savior against the dark times rearing.
Timing was measured down to the last second, for the precise moment when dawn’s light would have broken the eastern horizon and warmed the top spires of the Hall of Government. And though stormclouds shrouded Genève, Jonah Levin raised the sword at what should have been that moment, and laid the tip lightly on Ariana’s shoulder.
She slumped as if he’d laid the full weight of his person against her. In a way, perhaps he had.
“Ad securitas,” he whispered, and shifted the blade to Ariana’s other shoulder. She began to weep. “Per unitas.”
It carried over the entire clearing. Through unity, freedom. The Republic motto.
Or, looked at another way, through security, unity. A warning? Or a threat?
Exarch Levin brought the blade up to a simple salute. “Ascend,” he commanded, “and attend your duties. Lady Paladin Ariana Zou.”
6
The flow of information from Lord Faust’s oversight government is thready at best, but we have been able to confirm that among the black-painted raiders are a few machines and ’Mechs bearing the dao-sword crest of the Confederation.
House Liao, it seems, has returned to New Hessen.
—Maya Smith, Political Correspondent for WXTV, New Hessen, 8 June 3135
Tikonov
Republic of the Sphere
23 June 3135
A silver-gray drizzle swept across Tikonov’s latest battlefield. The Jurai Foothills. Territory Erik Sandoval-Groell knew well, having led several training exercises into the region on more than one occasion. Lightly wooded slopes favored wide infantry dispersal. Hovercraft were at a severe disadvantage, with little room to open throttle and run, confined to streambeds and gravel roads. Dry washes. Choke-point ravines. Many, many shallow valleys running alongside easy slopes. And a few high-ground vantage points from which a BattleMech might control half a klick in any given direction.
As good a place as any to die.
Tracers converged on Erik’s position—streams of violent fireflies that flared briefly in the light rain, swarmed, and died. Hunching forward, Erik ducked his new Enforcer III beneath the hailstorm of autocannon rounds. The white-hot sparks chewed through the air over his BattleMech’s right shoulder. A few stray slugs pinged off his arm and chest.
He dry-swallowed past the knot in his throat, knowing how close the Capellan irregulars had come.
Alarms rang out for his attention. Threat indicators. Missile warning locks. An ammunition cautionary. Of them all, this last one worried him most. His fifty-ton BattleMech had already taken severe damage down its right side, with the armor composite protecting his flank little more than a memory. It left the ammunition bin for his Mydron Exel autocannon vulnerable. One or two more solid hits and the bin would rupture, and by the time the explosion finished ripping through his BattleMech’s chest there wouldn’t be much left of it.
Or him, likely.
“Alphas, guard my back.” Erik already had his communications system toggled for an all-hands command frequency. He called up the pair of Condor hover tanks that were left to his personal fast-strike lance. “Bravo and Charlie, swing inside. Now, now, now!”
The Condors raced up from behind, skating alongside and through a wide, shallow stream. Their lift fans cast up a wash of dirt and small pebbles and water. Their push threatened the Capellans’ forward line, driving back a pair of light Demons and a Shandra scout vehicle. Everything but the Defiance Industries Schmitt. Like a shark scenting blood, the wheeled tank powered forward, crushing several small pines beneath its carriage and digging deep furrows in the soft, black soil.
Erik sidestepped to his right, clearing a path for his Condors and presenting his left side to the Schmitt. And just in time. Long tongues of fire licked out of the tank’s rotary autocannon, spitting terrible streams of fifty millimeter slugs. These hammered at the Enforcer’s left leg and arm, with a few rounds chewing in against the left chest as well.
Then the Schmitt’s turret disappeared inside a cloud of sooty, gray exhaust as it spat out a flight of fifteen long-range missiles. With barely enough distance for the warheads to arm themselves, they speared out on a flat, shallow path. Chewing into the ground around Erik’s feet, blossoms of orange fire threw scorched earth and gravel into the air.
Half a dozen warheads shattered armor from his legs, his lower torso. Shards and splinters rained down over the ground, littering the Jurai Hills with more detritus.
Erik rode out the worst of it, shaken against the straps of his restraint harness. He pulled his crosshairs across the Schmitt’s blocky nose and settled them right over the triangular crest of House Liao. The reticle flashed from red to the deep golden hue of a hard targeting lock.
“My turn.”
His Enforcer III was a good, well-vetted design with seven decades of combat deployment recommending it. Its right arm ended in a large-bore Mydron Excel ultra-class autocannon. The left arm opened into the barrel of a Blaze-Fire extended-range laser. Erik toggled for both of his main weapons, speared his arms forward, and eased into his triggers with a veteran’s calm.
A ruby lance of energy slashed across the Schmitt’s nose, slagging through armor composite, dripping fiery globules down to the ground that quickly crisped over with coal-black husks. Then his autocannon dug in right behind, hammering hard with an extra-long burst of fire. Chewed through scarred and pitted plating. Pounded hot metal deep into the tank.
Spiking through the main crew compartment.
No glorious explosion. No tall column of oily smoke. The Schmitt’s turret simply sagged downward, pointing at the ground.
“Hit them!” Erik commanded. “Hit them hard.”
Dividing his attention between the water-softened world he saw through his ferroglass shield and the iconic layout on his heads-up display, Erik throttled forward into a hard run to lead the Condors forward after the retreating vehicles. Both Demons and the Shandra had fallen back down the slope onto a secondary line held by a fifty-five ton Griffin and two captured Haseks. Like the others, all three combat vehicles had been painted with tan and green colors being used by these supposed “Capellan irregulars.” Skirmish troops thrown at Tikonov in advance of any main thrust. Poorly trained and mostly disposable freedom fighters.
“But they don’t fight like it,” he whispered, careful of his voice-activated mic.
In fact, reports of House Liao’s well-organized probing assault were what first tempted Erik away from Terra and what might very well be the high-level political event of the decade. Leaders from every Great House and most of the smaller realms, all converging on the capital of The Republic? At a time when the Senate was disgraced and disbanded, and starting what amounted to a civil war? Seven months ago, Erik would have been hard pressed to imagine turning his back on such an opportunity.
Seven months ago, however, he had not yet learned to look at the larger picture.
Seven months ago, his uncle, Lord Governor Aaron Sandoval, had not nearly gotten him killed.
A lot had happened since then. Erik had developed the first of his own intelligence assets. He’d made contact with one of The Republic’s largest subversive organizations. These were both secrets he now kept from his uncle.
And both were reporting to him the same thing. House Liao’s push forward at Tikonov was larger, and better organized, than The Republic credited. Which meant Tikonov—and the Sandoval hold over the Swordsworn faction—was in danger.
So Erik had come back. And without his uncle. The better to make his own mark now, while so many eyes were watching.
Whatever the case, the Capellan MechWarrior—a true irregular or not—led the defense. Holding back his defensive fire until Erik ran into range. The Griffin lanced out a scarlet beam, slashing wide of Erik’s path, but the Haseks more than made up for it as a pair of particle cannons slashed out with manmade lightning, blasting and melting armor all up and down the Enforcer’s front.
“Pop and fire!” Erik called out, tightening down on his own trigger.
His laser’s ruby spear dug into the Griffin’s centerline, carving away valuable protection. On his thermal scanners, the heat bloom at the core of the machine jumped several levels, from a warm yellow to hot orange.
He followed up with more hammering slugs from his autocannon, walking their destructive power from waist to shoulder on the fifty-five ton ’Mech.
The Condors cut loose with their own autocannon as well. And on Erik’s command a dozen battlesuit infantry broke cover from the wooded slopes on either side of the Capellan station. Hauberk infantry shouldered their own long-range missiles, and let fly with a number of warheads. Infiltrator designs worked their way in closer, using their arm-mounted lasers to splash away more armor composite.
It had the desired effect, painting multiple threats across the enemy HUDs. The Demons raced out to challenge Erik’s infantry. The battlesuit troopers quickly faded back into the woods to shift and then pop and fire again. The Swordsworn Condors used their clustering munitions to sand down the armor on the Griffin. Erik turned his own weapons against one of the Haseks, stranding it in place when his fifty-mill autocannon cut through one of its treads.
