Fortress Republic, page 9
part #18 of BattleTech : Mechwarrior Dark Age Series
“Prince Caleb. I am so sorry for your loss. Highness.”
She held his gaze, smiled when he put hands on her waist just in a need to do something. To return her heartfelt embrace. Standing so close, he smelled the lavender soap on her skin, or maybe it was her hair. He allowed her that moment of intimacy, stared over her shoulder as Mason stood up and quietly left the room to let the two leaders talk. From the bottom of the stairs, Mason nodded again, once.
He would wait near the top of the staircase, Caleb knew. Listening in. Ready to offer his advice the moment Sterling left.
“Thank you,” he finally said, separating the two of them with a short step backward.
He gestured to the wide sofa covered in brocaded fabric and easily large enough the two could sit comfortably, and intimately, but still maintain a distance of respect. They sat, turned towards each other with just the right amount of mutual attention. His aunt would be proud of him for his complete mastery of the situation.
His father . . . as proud as a man might be, when he had already decided his son was unworthy. Caleb frowned. Shook his head to clear such a thought.
“Formally,” Sterling said, “the Raven Alliance extends its condolences and pledges its support in this difficult time. Prince Harrison was a fine leader.”
She was the first person, after Mason of course, to refer to his father in the past tense. In his presence, anyway. “He’s not dead yet,” he reminded her.
Sterling’s upper lip curled ever so slightly, and Caleb knew at once what he had done. Contractions were frowned upon among Clan trueborn as the sign of a weak and lazy mind. And he was neither! Resolving to do better, he repeated, “He is not dead yet.”
Crossing one arm across her middle, she propped her right elbow up and tapped her fist against the point of her chin. A strong pose. Sterling McKenna nodded. “You will forgive me if I speak frankly, Prince Caleb. Quiaff?” She obviously did not care if he took exception or not. “The Clans do not hesitate to accept and move on. We are a warrior-based society, bred for war, and with us it is the prerogative and the duty of the younger generation to step up to supplant the elder. Which is why Julian Davion still has a great deal of support within the alliance. True, Harrison may recover. But you know as well as I that he will never be as fit to lead. To command. The Federated Suns demands a strong leader.”
“I hadn’t—had not!—considered looking so far ahead.” Though hadn’t Mason warned him of this after the two of them had reviewed Harrison’s full preparations in the Capellan March? This need for an appearance of strength. Of continuity on the throne? “Of course I expect my father, should he recover, to continue to rely on my steady hand. Your counsel, and your support, is appreciated.” And it was. It was. But . . .
A warning flare went off in his head. Like a strobe flash, temporarily blinding him to all else. His vision swam with a overcast haze, as if all color had drained away to leave a world of blacks and whites and many, many shades of gray. Sterling glowed a soft, subtle shade of dove gray.
“Julian?” he asked. “You mentioned Julian just now, as having support within the Alliance.”
She nodded. “He was prince’s champion. Paraded as an example of youth and excellence. Harrison showed him great favor, and it is difficult for a certain amount of power—of authority—not to rub off onto him because of that. Quiaff?”
Was prince’s champion. He did not miss that emphasis. If one looked upon the situation as Caleb ascending—even temporarily—to the full throne, what was Julian’s official position?
“Aff,” Caleb said. Frowning. “Aff.” That was the proper response to a Clan rhetorical, wasn’t it? “I suppose it must.”
“Which is why he continues to take meetings with Exarch Levin in your stead. Is that not so? One today, in fact?”
He had not known about that. Though certainly he hadn’t forbidden Julian from taking meetings—Caleb assumed with regard to the local deployment of the Davion Guards—shouldn’t he have been kept apprised of such talks?
“I should’ve been,” he said softly. “I should’ve.”
A lot of things should’ve been brought to him, in fact, but hadn’t. Only an off-chance remark by his aunt had brought the Capellan March preparations to his attention. And he had demanded an immediate report. It had taken time, as Riccard Streng was still nowhere to be found. Dr. Strange, his father’s master of spies, had slipped away without word or warning. Where was the Suns’ chief intelligence officer? Why wasn’t Julian here to tell him of this meeting with the exarch instead of Sterling?
Why did it seem as if there was an effort going on to keep him isolated from his own legacy?
“. . . things that need to be done,” Sterling said.
Caleb blinked long and slow. When he opened his eyes, color had returned to the world. Sharp and vibrant and even painful. Dark, bottomless blues and sharp reds in Sterling McKenna’s outfit. The burning, buzzing oranges and yellows of the fire—a snap of golden sparks and a whispering hiss as pitch boiled out of a split seam in one log.
The sofa’s golden brocade, writhing like serpents over the fabric, slithering over his hands. Biting at his wrists. His legs.
Caleb stood, brushing off his trousers with sharp, violent swipes. Stopped. Fixed his green uniform jacket with a careful shrug and tugging down the hem. “You said?”
“That there are things that need to be done.” Sterling stood. “I have taken up quite enough of your time, and have done what I came here to do.”
She stepped in towards him, raised a hand and laid it against his chest. “Thank you for taking my audience.” She began to move away.
Caleb caught her hand, clinging to it with both of his own. “No. That is . . . Neg—is that how you say it?” Her hand warmed between both of his. “I appreciate your candor and . . . I apologize for the way you have been treated of late. This cannot be an easy time for you, either.”
Though it was becoming harder and harder to imagine his father with Sterling McKenna. Woman and warrior. Khan of the Raven Alliance. Now, one of his peers.
And her smile, when it came, was slow and full. Showing white, white teeth. “Prince Caleb. You do your realm credit.” Her smile faltered slightly. Her eyes darted away. “If only.”
And with that she withdrew. Slipping her hand free of his, though the warmth of her touch lingered. And her scent. Nothing so flowery as perfume, but the honesty of soap and just a touch of wintergreen. A breath mint? A cleanser? Caleb wanted to know.
Now was not the time, however. Now he let her retreat, following her with hungry eyes as she glided across the room and let herself out the château’s wide entryway doors. He stood there, transfixed, considering, as Mason slipped back down the staircase and leaned over the lower rail to watch him. Waiting for his friend—his prince—to speak.
Sterling had been more right that she likely knew, Caleb decided.
“There are things to be done.”
9
“I did not ask for this position, nor would I have sought it. I would have given my life in service to The Republic, and counted myself fortunate to be allowed to serve. But when the tyranny of small men usurps the Faith-decreed right of Republic citizens to be represented by those they have chosen to speak for them, this . . . this is what brings us here to the brink where we must and will accept the necessity of a hard course of action!”
—Senator Conner Rhys-Monroe, Viscount Markab, Inaugural Remarks, 4 July 3135
Tikonov
Republic of the Sphere
7 July 3135
“You’ve done well, Erik.”
Studying, manipulating data on the blue, holographic screen shimmering in the air above the glasstop desk in his supposedly private office, Erik Sandoval-Groell startled at the strong voice with its familiar edge but not-so-familiar note of praise. He caught himself between stabbing for the power switch and slamming a fist into the intercom panel glowing to one side, and instead settled his hands flat against the cold, smooth glass, swallowing back the bitter taste of adrenaline.
A light push, and he half swung his chair around to face his uncle.
Duke Aaron Sandoval leaned through the door, one hand to either side of the frame. Lord governor of Prefecture IV and leader of the Davion-inspired Swordsworn militia, he had blond hair shaved into the traditional topknot favored most within the widespread Sandoval dynasty and had grown a light, well-trimmed beard since their visit to Terra. Intense blue eyes. A paramilitary uniform complete with a noble’s cape. He looked young and strong and every centimeter the leader people touted him to be.
Erik didn’t exactly hate him for that. But they were hardly endearing traits in the man he was beginning to look upon as his competition as well as his mentor.
“Was that a compliment?” Erik held his uncle’s gaze for a steady moment, fighting the guilty flush that burned its way from the back of his neck, spreading over his scalp. He caught the edge of Aaron’s smothered glower.
“Could not have been,” he said. He turned back to the holographic screen.
He felt Aaron move into the lavishly appointed room, but did not hurry as he ran two fingers in a swiping motion over one of the larger blocks of suspended text. A white haze swirled around the blue-glowing words—an excerpt from Gavin’s latest report—and he tucked it away into a sidebar folder with a casual press, drag, and double-tap.
“Would you like a lollipop, Erik?” Aaron Sandoval’s voice had a harder edge to it now. Dark. Cold. “Or would you prefer to be treated like an equal? A partner?”
Erik tapped his chin, as if considering, then raised a finger for patience. Swiped over a small, electronic post-note, tucked that into a secondary open window, and then double-tapped it closed as well. Hiding it among a series of tabs at the bottom of his screen, this one labeled as nothing more sinister than “Weather.”
His own private code. Reports from LI ANN, the Capellan agent he had subverted and was now running as his own asset behind Confederation lines, came in under the less-than-impressive codename South Wind.
Which left one confidential report open and vulnerable, peeking out from behind a partially collapsed window. His uncle would find it.
“You’ve never treated me as an equal partner, cousin. Shensi made that much clear to me.”
Erik stood, swinging away from his chair and sitting back against the edge of the desk in time to catch Aaron’s flash of surprise. Since Erik’s arrival, his exile from the Federated Suns’ Draconis March, he had referred to Aaron as his uncle, though only six years separated them and their family tie was actually distant cousins, four generations back. But “uncle” was a more respectful title, they’d thought. Aaron had thought. Erik never realized how subservient that simple decision had made him. Until recently.
Aaron veered away just short of the desk, stepping up to one of Erik’s several bookcases. He browsed the leather-bound histories, with a finger trailing along the edge of the shelf. “You are still angry about that?” He glanced over. Shook his head. “You prevailed, Erik. You proved your ability and your worth.” He pulled one tome from the shelves and thumbed through it. “At that point you made yourself my partner. And if you doubt me, ask yourself why I stayed on Terra for so many weeks after I learned you had returned to Tikonov.”
“You nearly got me killed.”
“And you neatly subverted two of my most loyal intelligence officers. If I wanted you dead, Erik, I’d shoot you now with the hold-out needler I’ve holstered at the small of my back.”
The casual threat of death instantly convinced Erik of his “uncle’s” seriousness. He steeled himself against any rash movement. Swallowed dryly against the knot scratching at the back of his raw throat.
Too late to reach for the intercom panel, to call for help or at least berate the guards at the door to his personal apartment for admitting anyone without announcement or warning. He made a mental note to have the men assigned to front-line infantry duty at once.
“You’ll leave them where they are,” Aaron said, as if reading his mind.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you know one or both of them belong to me. And the Davion you know . . .”
“Beats the Davion you don’t,” Erik finished. True, by keeping them around, he had a pipeline back to his uncle’s side of the Swordsworn camp. That might come in handy.
Aaron snapped the historical volume closed, replaced it on the shelf. The dry, musty scent of aging paper and warm leather breezed past Erik. “Never, never assume I have nothing left to teach you, cousin. It’s a dangerous assumption to make.”
Point. But hardly game. “All right, then. Why did you stay on Terra? You saw the reports. Tikonov is being pressed harder than the exarch knows. It’s like an infestation. I stamp out one threat, one nest, and another pops up elsewhere. Fast.”
But Aaron ignored him, stepping close to the desk, bending at the waist to lean in towards Erik’s floating screen of text and numbers. Force estimates and recent partisan activity reports from all across Tikonov. Cost estimates of the fighting for the next six months. The next twelve. Force depletion and economic impact reports should the Swordsworn involve itself in the escalating feud between the exarch and the disaffected Senate.
And the private correspondence Erik had left intentionally for Aaron to find. Brisham Vicore, Count Caselton and Republic Senator. Aaron saw the iconic crest of Caselton and thumbed the panel to the front of the holographic screen without so much as an apologetic glance to be reading through Erik’s files.
“Is this confirmed?” Aaron asked. “Erik? Count Vicore has pledged his resources to the Swordsworn?”
“And the quiet support of two other worlds,” Erik said. “If we agree to stand for them against any military option Exarch Levin may choose to use against them. Vicore would prefer not to stand noble’s court.”
“Faith defend, who would? You’ve done well, brokering this arrangement. I had hoped to meet again with Harrison Davion. I did spend more time with Julian.”
Erik could not shift gears so quickly, and took an extra moment to separate out the two conversations. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the praise. And, the prince’s champion? “Not Caleb?”
Aaron shifted some of the open panels around on Erik’s screen, never coming close to the dangerous files hidden right in front of him. He rubbed one hand along his fringe of golden-blond beard. Tapped the side of his nose in thought.
“No. Well, once. Just long enough to pass along condolences on Harrison’s accident.”
He stopped, as if tripping over an idea, then shook his head.
“Caleb has been reclusive. Not exactly approachable. And not someone I’m sure we can easily deal with.”
“He’s family,” Erik reminded his uncle. “If not with him . . .” It was as far as he was willing to push. Not yet wanting to admit that he had made overtures to Caleb Hasek Sandoval Davion at Victor’s viewing.
“I’m telling you, Erik, there is—was—something more going on in that family. Prince Harrison pushed me off towards Julian more than once. And you recall the simulated honor battle between Julian and Yori Kurita.”
“Caleb was absent,” Erik said, remembering. “You remarked on it then, too. But what does it mean?”
Then Aaron said something that had to be hard for him to admit. “I don’t know.”
Neither did Erik. Yet. But he had resources now that Duke Aaron Sandoval could not tap.
And if knowledge was power, then secrets were the currency of position.
10
And why shouldn’t the Senators stand forth against Exarch Levin’s excesses? His haphazard leadership? Prefecture V is afforded a better defense against House Liao, which has fallen quiet, than Prefecture II against House Kurita. Denebola is slowly turning into an armed camp . . . with no aggressors in sight, mind you . . . while Irian is stripped of its garrison. We must demand answers! We must demand a change!
—Senator Michael Riktofven, Augustine, an address, 4 July 3135
Annemasse, Terra
Republic of the Sphere
9 July 3165
A bright, summer sun blazed directly overhead, assaulting Annemasse’s Interplanetary DropPort with relentless determination. Baking the landing field until temperatures pushed upwards of forty points Celsius and the air shimmered with sixty percent humidity.
Julian Davion paced the black, sweltering tarmac outside of the gold-and-black painted security post, grinding his mounting frustration beneath the heels of his dress boots. His sweat-damp uniform stuck to his skin. Circling Sandra Fenlon, who waited with hands clasped in front of her in a greater display of outward calm, he divided his attention between the armed soldiers nearby—the ones with the Roman profile crest of the Principes Guards stitched to their shoulders and safeties on their laser rifles thumbed off—and the nearest skyscraper-sized vessel nested within a shallow, ferrocrete bunker.
When he moved too near the security gate, or any of the armed soldiers, the Guards stiffened to greater attention and shifted their grips on the rifle stocks.
“Perhaps you should practice a bit of that diplomacy Prince Harrison often remarked on,” Sandra whispered as he stomped by her again.
Perhaps he should. The guards grew more agitated with each passing moment. But despite any implied threat the DropShip still pulled at him most. An Overlord some forty stories high, it towered above the “city block” of smaller Union- and Seeker-class vessels to either side. Light gray trimmed heavily in dark green (nearly black) around the upthrust bow, there could be no doubt about the First Sun’s nationality. Slashed across the upper hull, in a corona of reds and golds, was the sword-and-starburst crest of House Davion.
And swirling about the base, seeping up out of the shallow blast-trenches, was steam used to warm thrust nozzles and expandable joints in preparation for the fusion-hot thrust.
