Fortress Republic, page 8
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
The way she constantly toyed with the ring, as if checking to make sure it was still there, Julian guessed the engagement was recent.
He spotted the signal only because he’d been watching for it, and guessed that it would come from Ms. Lane. The elderly woman looked up from her holographic display, where words danced along the page as fast she typed them, and gave Héloïse a smile and a nod. The chief of staff did not hesitate, but moved right for the nearby door, which Julian knew from past experience opened onto the exarch’s public office. He followed.
Unofficially, the exarch’s office was known as the Bullet. As soon as Julian had heard it, he’d understood why. The long, rectangular room was capped on one end by a semicircular glassed alcove that looked down over Magnum Park. Bullet-shaped. But there any military allusions ended. Levin’s office was richly appointed with red cherry wainscoting and walls of deep, dark gold. Wood polish and leather flavored the room. Two cases of leather-bound law books and the exarch’s baroque desk of mahogany and bronze ran about as far as one could get from the utilitarian designs favored by the military.
Exarch Levin did not wait behind his desk, but instead met Julian in the comfortable sitting area arranged beneath a wide skylight. Out of respect, Julian walked around the carpet inlay, which displayed the Great Seal of The Republic—an outline of Terra, surrounded by ten golden stars and run through the middle by a knotwork banner. And around the outside, its Latin motto. Ad Securitas Per Unitas.
He certainly hoped so. As he continued to sink in the quagmire of politics, a little security would seem a welcome gift about now.
Julian shook Levin’s hand. “That must bring you some small measure of relief,” he said, nodding back towards the seal. When last he’d been here, the stars had burned red, not gold, and the banner had been replaced by a sword. A traditional change to always remind the exarch that fighting had come to Terra.
“Some very small measure,” Levin admitted. He smoothed the front of his suit and gestured them into seats, taking one of the two oversized armchairs while Julian accepted the other and Héloïse perched on the edge of a leather divan. “But Tara Campbell mopped up the last resistance around Sao Paulo, which officially puts Terra back at peace.”
“I read about it.” He smiled, though not with much humor. “How can one not? The news media loves her. Several outlets are calling her final salvo the ‘shot heard ’round the Sphere,’ as if she ended all The Republic’s troubles right there.”
“I believe that may be wishful thinking. A few pro-Republic agencies trying to influence—or intimidate—the debates on Liberty and Markab.”
“Senators Derius and Monroe.” He nodded. Two Senators who’d led the recent call to arms against Exarch Levin. Conner Rhys-Monroe was also an ex-knight, and had taken to the field himself in the final assault.
“I’m not sure we can call an ongoing conspiracy to unseat the exarch a ‘debate,” ’ Héloïse said. “But it’s worth noting that similar fires are burning on Park Place and Augustine and Kervil as well. The Senators are organizing as best they can. For once, the Blackout is working in our favor.”
“A thin silver lining if ever there was one.” Levin nodded towards an antique Chippendale that crouched between the glass-fronted bookcases, sending his chief of staff to play bartender.
“Kervil?” Julian asked. Something about the name of the world sparked a memory.
Levin pursed his lips, as if he’d bitten into something sour. “Senator Melanie Vladistock. Someone I thought I knew. She was part of the original cabal, loosely associated with Mallowes and Derius. A minor player, much like Gerald Monroe.”
Of course. Kervil was Jonah Levin’s homeworld. And while it was safe for the moment from the encroachment of House Kurita, among his many worries Levin must be wondering when the other shoe would drop as the Dragon continued to press forward through Prefecture II.
“I’m not certain how to say this, Exarch.”
“Straight out tends to work well with me, Julian. Prince Harrison . . . he thought well of your gift for brutal honesty.”
“Yes, sir. Well, then, I’d suggest you stop thinking of Kervil as home and Senator Vladistock as an old friend. There are no minor players on this stage. Not anymore. Not since the Senators pushed an army out of Germany with every intention of staging a military coup. If there was a final line to cross, that was it. Anyone who stands with the cabal is now your sworn enemy.”
Levin accepted a clear glass from his chief of staff and took a small sip. “I guess I asked for that,” he said. “But it is not so easy, to tell our real enemies from our possible allies. By your litmus test, I should have arrested Lord Governor Sandoval unless he turned all Swordsworn resources over to The Republic. Instead, we sent him home to Tikonov. Because without him, the world will fall to Liao, I’ve little doubt. Or will be held by Erik Sandoval-Groell, in whose love of The Republic I have less confidence.”
A fair analysis. Erik held his citizenship from the Federated Suns, and was certainly an agent for Corwin or Victoria Sandoval. How far he’d follow his uncle was always hard to gauge.
Of course, Duke Aaron Sandoval was no guarantee either. The lord governor was still young and ambitious as well, and in the end would swing with prevailing winds, Julian had little doubt. Looking out for what was best for Aaron Sandoval.
Accepting a glass from Héloïse, he said as much to the exarch, who nodded and managed a short-lived laugh.
“Yes, I think you have that pegged fairly well. Which is precisely the reason I asked you to join us today. To discuss the Sandovals, the situation developing on Tikonov, and the unstable border The Republic now shares with your Federated Suns.”
Julian’s drink smelled lightly of citrus. No alcohol, for which he was grateful. He took a sip of the flavored water, letting a fresh, orange taste wash away the bitterness. The glass had a thick, heavy base. The kind that felt just right in his hand. A pleasant distraction, though Jonah Levin’s emphasis could not be overlooked. Not for long.
“It is not my Federated Suns, Exarch. I am prince’s champion, but without a prince to champion. A murky situation, with Caleb as acting First Prince and Harrison still hanging on in a coma.”
Levin was quiet for a long moment. Chewing over Julian’s words and considering his approach. Julian saw the exarch begin to speak more than once, then resist.
Héloïse Montgolfier toyed with her engagement ring. Brushed back long bangs from her pale green eyes. Glanced several times towards the door as if wanting to return to the bustle and activity of the outer office. Or perhaps she wanted to go ask Ms. Lane for any precedents on the division of power within House Davion. If an easy answer existed to be found, no doubt it would be part of the older woman’s encyclopedic knowledge.
Then, “Certainly you have some influence with your cousin.”
Which was not what the exarch had considered in his long silence, Julian felt certain.
How much to admit? That was the question. How far should Julian go in following the last wishes of Harrison Davion? The prince had admitted to putting a tentative alliance on the table with Exarch Levin, which was how Julian and his Davion Guards came to be fighting alongside Republic troops in the recent troubles. But there were no formal declarations. Nothing recorded at all, of which Julian was aware.
“Truthfully, Exarch, I have not had much access to Caleb in the last few weeks. He grieves, of course. And he has been sequestered away on many days with his intelligence aides, coming up to speed as quickly as he might. I know you and he have spoken on more than one occasion as well.”
“Ceremonial demands,” Levin said. “Expressing my personal condolences, and offering the resources of The Republic to do all that can be done for your prince.”
“Then I should not step too far outside of political channels.” He balanced the glass at the edge of his lips and took a long, satisfying pull from the sweetened water. Then he set the glass on the low table dividing the armchairs from the leather divan and made a decision. “I can discuss military coordination and some other matters, however, which do fall within the scope of my position. Prince Harrison made it clear to me that we were to work together, and Caleb has not countered that position as yet.”
On shaky ground, perhaps. But Julian could almost feel Harrison Davion prodding him from the hospital bed.
“Tikonov is critical to our border defense,” Héloïse said, taking up the discussion for the exarch. Eager, in fact, now that the awkward moment had passed. “Our latest reports indicate that what we first considered probing assaults may be a much stronger—more heavily supported—push than estimated.”
Levin set his glass down as well. “The Capellans are sitting in strong positions on Algot, Menkar and Foochow.” He counted those worlds out on one hand, raising three fingers. “They’ve pushed as far as Buchlau and Halloran V. Even made a stab at Kansu.” Three fingers on the other hand. “But that’s as far as they seem to be reaching along that front. They’ve put most of their effort into reinforcing the world of Liao, and isolating our stronghold on New Aragon.”
“So what you are missing,” Julian said, taking up the narrative, “is any direct line from, say, Algot, through to Tikonov. Which would support your earlier reports that the forces there are irregulars sent to cause trouble.”
“Except . . .” Héloïse began.
“Except,” Julian agreed. “You are thinking of Demeter and New Hessen.”
Worlds of the Federated Suns, where some of the recent fighting had spilled out of The Republic. En route to Terra, in fact, Julian had dropped on New Hessen with some of his Guards and routed (with the help of a Republic knight) a well-organized band of Capellan irregulars. New Hessen would be a perfect jump-through system to reach Tikonov.
The exarch nodded. “We are thinking exactly that,” he said. “Though knowing the history between Houses Davion and Liao, I feel fairly comfortable in assuming that no one is actively working within the Federated Suns to support Capellan aggression.”
Even better, Julian knew. Before Victor’s death and this trip of necessity to Terra, Harrison had been working to fortify the Capellan March. Not just in anticipation of Daoshen Liao turning an eye on Davion worlds, but in preparation for a flanking attack into Confederation space. A perfect, political necessity to drain resources from the Draconis March, and to occupy Amanda Hasek with visions of conquest. Distracting one. Undercutting the other. And keeping either powerful March Lord from turning their own eye and ambition towards the Davion throne on New Avalon.
But one did not discuss “family” matters in front of strangers. “I would consider that a reasonable assumption,” was all Julian said.
Héloïse toasted him with her own glass of sweetened water. “Then I see no reason why we cannot work together on this.”
Julian had no choice but to correct her. “I will take it to Caleb,” he said. And they all knew it was no adamant pledge. “I will argue strongly in favor of the proposition. In fact, if he can be reassigned, I recommend putting Sir Raul Ortega after this. He has been our ‘guest’ on New Hessen once before, and has at least the beginning of a working relationship with the local garrison commander and planetary lord.”
“A good suggestion, Julian.” The exarch nodded his confirmation to Héloïse. “It will be done. At once.”
And with that, Héloïse stood. “Thank you, Exarch. And our appreciation, Lord Davion, for your assistance.”
Julian stood with her. And then Exarch Levin. They exchanged handshakes, Levin lingering over the clasp for an extra heartbeat. “I truly am sorry, Julian. And I hope the best for you and yours.”
“Prince Harrison is a strong man.” Julian’s stock answer these days. Though he did not miss the loaded glance Levin traded with his chief of staff. Clearly, he’d been speaking of more than Harrison’s condition.
As . . . a leader.
Harrison’s voice again, whispering from the dark shadows within Julian’s mind.
“Thank you, Exarch Levin.”
Julian again walked around the great seal, being escorted out by Héloïse Montgoflier. He made it to the main door, had his hand on the bright brass handle, before the exarch spoke up.
“Julian.”
He looked back, pausing with the door barely cracked open. “Yes, sir?”
Jonah Levin stood just the other side of the seal, the toes of his patent leather shoes scuffing the Latin motto. The one-time paladin and current exarch matched gazes with Julian, held him. “What will Caleb do?” he asked. Held up a hand before Julian could respond with any pat answer. “Tell me what you think.”
It was the kind of order Harrison might have given. Not caring for the political niceties. Or any bruised egos, including his own.
“Exarch Levin, I truly wish I could tell you. I do. But right now . . .” He shook his head. “There is just not any knowing Caleb’s mind.”
Not at all.
Thonon-les-Bains, Terra
“What do you think she wants?”
Caleb Hasek Sandoval Davion paced in front of the chalet’s massive, darkened fireplace, back and forth across a thick floor rug of tightly coiled braids. Hardly a need to watch where he was walking. He’d already kicked back the low table with its delicate, carved legs. And when his dress uniform boots fell sharply against the brick-tone ceramic tiles, it was time to turn sharply on his heel and pad softly back to the far side of the large, lodge-style room.
A fire burned on the flagstone hearth behind a wire mesh screen. Not yet built up for the cool evenings that came to Thonon-les-Bains even in summer, the fire looked small and inconsequential within the cavernous opening. Not that Caleb trusted it. At every pop, every hissing crackle, he veered aside, the legs on his green dress trousers warm—too warm—with the spreading heat and tiny sparks of hot fury stabbing into the sides of his legs. First the left leg. Then the right. He never saw a spark jump out through the wire mesh, but they were there.
And he still did not trust it.
“Amanda told her—warned her—to stay away.”
He stepped onto the tiled floor, paused in front of a wall-mounted mirror. Shifting from one foot to the other, he checked his uniform one more time. He hadn’t bothered with the parade-dress since leaving Firgrove, after his brief remarks made in front of a local military academy. It had mattered less to him these last several months to be seen as an officer in the New Syrtis Fusiliers than it had to appear as Harrison Davion’s son. Heir to the throne of the Federated Commonwealth.
“But Sterling.” He tugged his jacket straight. “She looks at things differently. Right?”
Mason Lambert waited on one end of the long sofa, perched on the arm, not quite sitting in the presence of his new prince. But their long-time friendship allowed for a few concessions, so Caleb let it slide.
“That’s what I think,” Mason said. There was the sound of a heavy engine outside on the circular drive, then silence. He glanced meaningfully at the door and nodded. “And one would hardly call her subtle.”
Mason had never voiced much of an opinion about Sterling McKenna before, one way or the other. He rarely acknowledged the Raven Alliance khan at all, though she had become a favorite subject of many public and pundit debates after taking up with the widowed prince. So Caleb had known a moment’s surprise when Mason stepped forward earlier to recommend he take the meeting despite Amanda’s standing objections to the woman.
“The duchess is an astute leader,” he’d said. Treading cautiously. “With her in charge of the Draconis March, likely the Federated Suns would still hold the Draconis Reach worlds.”
Including Harrow’s Sun, on which the Lamberts had been part of the local nobility. It wasn’t often that Mason played that trump card, reminding his friend about the losses he—like Caleb—had endured in life.
“But when it came to her brother-in-law, your father, she was understandably biased. Let Sterling McKenna have her say. Then you can act on it or dismiss her counsel as you decide. It costs you nothing.”
And Caleb trusted Mason’s counsel above all. A friend in the long, dark years of his Periphery tour, his exile, Mason had been there after Julian pulled away and Caleb’s father had apparently all but forgotten him.
Footsteps on the far side of the double-wide entrance. A rapid tattoo knocked on the far side, and a security agent from the Davion Guards opened the door to lean inside. One of Caleb’s long-standing guards. One of his faithful. “Khan McKenna?” the agent said.
A sharp glance to Mason, who stared back with encouragement. Caleb nodded.
Letting the heavy door swing fully open, the guard stepped aside to admit Khan Sterling McKenna. A tall woman, several centimeters over Caleb’s medium height, she carried herself with poise and a kind of stealthy grace. As if barely restrained strength lurked beneath her calm. Luxurious, blue-black hair hung in a thick, straight sheet down the back of her neck to her waist. Stormy, gray eyes, like those of a hunting falcon. And young. Too young, many had said, shocked to see her accompany a man twice her age. She had learned to eschew Clan leathers in the company of Harrison Davion, though had never mastered (or never bothered to care about) the idea of political dress. Instead of a conservative business suit, McKenna wore a tailored design cut along Capellan fashion and in the striking, bold colors of blood red and dark blue, a broach fashioned after the Alliance crest, and dangling earrings that dropped down into razor-sharp talons.
No subtlety. None at all.
Caleb found that refreshing.
He also expected an awkward moment—the silence that usually descended the first time someone came to grips with addressing him in his father’s stead. The quiet comparison, and the just-barely-perceptible shrug of acceptance in the end. He’d learned to hate that moment, but hide his displeasure.
So he was surprised the second time this day—and pleasantly so—when Sterling McKenna did not hesitate, but crossed the room with long, determined strides. Her hands warmly grasped his shoulders, her gray eyes soft and sympathetic, but never showing one ounce of pity. Or regret.
