Daggert nodded.
“Take a look at troop positions, then get back here in an hour. We’ll talk.”
Daggert left without a word.
Anson picked up a glass as Daggert went through the office door. As the door swung shut, Anson cocked his arm and aimed the glass at the heavy door.
Then he stopped, dropped his arm and put the glass back on his desk. He’d handled Daggert okay, but, damn it, he still didn’t feel right.
2
Breckenridge Heights, Danais
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
15 February 3138
“I think that covers everything. We’ll deploy according to your instructions.” Hauptmann Denis paused. “Are there any standing orders of which my troops should be aware?”
Duke Vedet Brewster snarled and deep, familiar grooves furrowed across his face. “Yes. Stay the hell out of my way.”
Denis saluted briskly, then left the duke’s quarters as soon as his salute was returned. Vedet did not bother to stand. He wouldn’t stand for his next visitor either.
There was a list of names on the screen in front of him, a list continually updated by his aide-de-camp sitting on the other side of the metal door that helped keep the duke separate from the rabble and their annoyances. None of the names on the list were people Vedet had any real desire to talk to.
The business of war, he’d discovered, had even more administration than the business of ’Mech production, especially when it involved occupying hostile territory. The Silver Hawk Irregulars, who were operating more as a guerilla force than as a real army, caused him enough trouble; the bullheaded citizens of Breckenridge, who were either too dumb or too stubborn to acknowledge that they were now Lyrans, were almost as bad. He generally ended his days by wondering aloud why he and his forces didn’t just raze the whole town to the ground, which meant he had to listen to halting lectures from a collection of aides about why such an action might not be a good idea.
Each day, Vedet thought their explanations sounded weaker and weaker.
The door to his office had not opened, even though Vedet saw a long list of names on his screen. Someone was wasting his time.
“Krieg!” he bellowed into his intercom. “Next!”
The door opened. Krieg worked hard to keep the duke appeased.
Holden Barnes walked in, spine straight, uniform pressed, eyes firm. But he had a tell. Vedet always looked at his knees the minute his security chief walked into the office. Whenever Barnes had bad news, he always went a little weak in the knees. It was barely perceptible—unless you were used to looking for such things.
Vedet was talking before Barnes was done saluting.
“Barnes, I assume you’re here to tell me that you’ve made no progress rounding up the dead-enders.”
Barnes’ long face did not change, but Vedet noticed an additional small tremor in the left knee.
“Sir, as I’ve mentioned before, the task you’ve assigned me is significantly more complicated than a normal criminal—or even military—operation. It’s possible we might arrest the people behind the bombings and attacks, but doing so wouldn’t change anything.”
“Judging by the fact that you’ve made well over a hundred arrests and nothing in this damn town has changed, I’m inclined to agree.”
“Yes, sir,” Barnes said. “What this means is that making headway is difficult. Unless we start arresting virtually every townsperson…”
“Right. Do that.”
Barnes faltered. The shaking in his knee was now visible. “Sir?”
“Do that. Arrest them all.”
“Sir, we don’t have the capacity—”
“Then develop it. Build some camps, lock people down in their homes, I don’t care. I want the bombings to stop! If it means locking up all these people, lock them up!”
Barnes fumbled for words, but Vedet silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“Go. Put a plan together. The curfew didn’t work. Martial law didn’t work. So take it one step further. I’m done trying to send these people messages. Just keep them away from me, and maybe I won’t be forced to blow up the whole town.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to see your plan in six hours.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnes saluted with clear relief, then darted out of the room.
Vedet watched the door close, knowing it would open again soon. There was a book—an old book, ancient Terran—that told the story of an officer who snuck out his window to avoid meeting with his subordinates. Vedet had never read the book, but he’d heard people talk about that story when he was at Defiance Industries. He’d always broken into those conversations to assure his workers that his door was always open, and he’d always be sitting in front of that open door. Here in Breckenridge was the first time Vedet had ever been tempted to not be where he was supposed to be.
Which meant he was more determined than ever to stay.
He turned on his intercom. “Next, damn it,” he said. “Next!”
Breckenridge proved to be a refiner’s fire, the sort of test that melts lesser men but from which a true leader emerges, purified and hardened.
* * *
No. No, no, no. It wasn’t an original metaphor to begin with, and he was straining it far beyond the breaking point. It would never do.
Vedet erased the sentence on his screen. He could do better than that. He turned his mic on, then off, then on again. Then he spoke, taking long, firm strides across his office as he did.
“The best leaders are individuals. A committee never led any group, any nation, to greatness. True leadership is solitary, which also makes it lonely. A leader must make his own decisions, make his own mistakes—which only paves the way for his greatest triumphs.”
He stopped and leaned over his screen to read the transcription. No. Still not right. That part about loneliness sounded self-pitying, and the rest of it just went on and on.
He looked out the window. Gray mist, a regular sight in this mountain town, hung low in the night sky. For once, though, the mist was not illuminated by flashes of explosives, and Vedet had not heard the crack of gunfire all night. That didn’t mean the new crackdown was going to be a complete success, but it was a good start.
He found the mist oddly comforting. He couldn’t see the stars. He could tell himself that the quagmire he was in here couldn’t be seen, that the curtain on this operation wouldn’t pull back until he was good and ready to have outside observers look in, when everything would be clean and orderly.
He could also ignore the fact that one of those stars was the system where Clan Wolf troops would be carrying out the archon’s bidding.
He hadn’t meant to think about that. He turned back to the screen—his memoirs-in-progress were something worth paying attention to. He decided to give the opening of his Danais occupation chapter a final try. He took a deep breath and a long step.
“Danais was tougher than expected, defended by Marik-Stewart forces who did not have enough honor to fight like a real army. It would be dishonest of me to pretend there were not dark days on that planet—I would not be human if the slow pace of conquest did not drag on my soul. It was a trial, though, that proved instrumental to the events that followed, and Anson Marik, the self-appointed captain-general of his small Commonwealth, would eventually personally repay every drop of blood shed by his forces.”
He leaned over his screen again. There. That was it. That felt right. It had, of course, the slight handicap of not yet being true, but that mattered little. What he knew of memoirs told him that the intended truth of one’s life—the truth that should have been, if not the truth that actually was—played a vital role in shaping the life of the writer, and thus needed to be told. Vedet was completely dedicated to making sure that paragraph would eventually be true, right up to and including the moment he wrapped his hands around Anson Marik’s neck and extracted his revenge.
He could almost feel Anson’s flesh, pliable and warm, under his
fingers as he reread the sentence. It was a keeper.
3
Scripps, Gannett
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
15 February 3138
Alaric Wolf could feel the other ’Mechs even though he couldn’t see them. He did not have to look at his scanner to know where they were. They were his, and they were following orders. He could sense their movement the same way he could sense the weapons on his ’Mech. He did not need to touch them to know what they could do and how he could use them. They were his natural extensions, his tools. His hands.
He moved forward slowly. He was the solid base of a circle that stretched up and out from him. A circle that was tightening.
“Alpha One, report,” he said.
“We have subdued their fire,” Star Commander Zuzanna said. “The breakout attempt has been quashed. They are pulling together.”
“They will make another attempt soon. Close the circle slowly.”
He could afford to be patient. The outcome of the battle had already been decided, the fate of the planetary militia ’Mechs was already determined. The only matter left in doubt was how much this victory would cost Alaric, and he was confident the price would be low.
They would be checking their scanners now, watching the Wolf forces approaching, looking for a weak spot—and finding nothing.
They were not going to escape. They had come at night, making a quick strike on Bravo Trinary and hoping for the quick hit-and-run attack that weak, tactically deficient forces often employ. Though the progress on Gannett was not rapid, Alaric took a certain enjoyment in rooting out these guerilla troops. They had survived too long through their cowardly tactics, and they needed to understand that their constant running and hiding would bring them down just as surely as if they had stood and fought.
“Striker One, what are your scouts telling you?”
“The enemy is edging to the northeast, but the scouts expect that to be a feint, since most of their heavies are toward the front of that formation. I would expect them to make a move to the northeast, then charge southeast.”
Alaric shook his head. Pathetic spheroid subterfuge, obvious and ineffectual. “The surats can move in whatever direction they please. Every unit should hold their position until I say otherwise, no matter what the enemy is doing.”
“Yes, sir.”
The noose was tightening. With each step his Mad Cat took forward, Alaric’s heart rate seemed to drop a notch. The red and green lines of his HUD were clear and sharp, and the colors of the landscape were equally vivid: the crisp blue green of the leaves on the trees that pushed their way through the sharp-edged, rocky ground. The washed-out blue of the sky. And most of all, the browns and grays and whites of the ’Mechs around him. As he piloted his machine forward, Alaric could almost feel the rocky ground beneath his Mad Cat’s feet and hear the brittle stones snapping each time he stepped down. He shaped the planet with each footstep; each meter forward made the planet his own.
“They are making their first feint, Star Colonel,” came the report. “The move south will follow right after.”
“Alpha and Bravo Trinaries, prepare your long-range weapons. Take a shot in the middle of the militia troops as soon as they shift away from the feint. Striker Trinary, send a few units forward as soon as the long-range volley is complete. Make it fast, though—do not leave any holes in the circle.”
The assorted commanders indicated their assent, and soon autocannon and gauss rounds were flying toward the center of the circle. The militia troops would compress a bit as soon as they abandoned their feint—it was inevitable whenever anything bigger than a Star tried to make a rapid shift in direction. And as the militia units bunched together, they would find hot metal raining down on their heads.
Then a fast Star from Striker Trinary made its move, running forward under cover of the cascading shells and blasting at the militia troops before the enemy could form a proper front line. The militia units themselves were still out of Alaric’s sight—he had to follow the battle by looking at blips on his scanner. But he knew what was happening, he would know even if he was blind. The militia units were panicking. They were trying to get into formation but stepping over fallen units, trying to hold position while getting fired on from multiple directions. The length of the chaos would depend largely on the skill of the militia unit’s commander, but even a brief period of confusion would be enough for Alaric to win the battle. He could send the bulk of Striker Trinary forward, smashing into the disorganized militia units and routing them—if that was all he wanted.
But that would leave a hole in his circle, meaning there was a chance some of the militia troops would escape. That was not going to happen. None of them would get away.
If they were wise, they would surrender now. They should have already realized what the outcome of this battle was going to be, and they should soon understand just how badly Alaric intended to beat them. The militia troops, however, had been quite stubborn, and Alaric was fully prepared for them to fight to the end. Which, if all went appropriately, was not far off.
The Star from Striker was already pulling back. Good, Alaric thought. Let them think they beat back some of our units. Let them believe they have found a weak spot.
Sure enough, the militia units surged forward after the retreating Wolves. Maybe they thought they could overwhelm the light ’Mechs closest to them, then break through whatever was behind those frontline units. Maybe they were just eager to move forward after being hemmed in by Alaric’s slowly tightening circle. In the end, it didn’t matter what they thought. They were behaving as Alaric expected, and he was ready.
“Artillery, open fire. Pin them down, keep them from engaging Striker too closely. Alpha, Bravo, take the flanks. I will back up Striker.”
Artillery units, which had been waiting patiently behind Striker Trinary’s arc, roared to life, and the ground shook. Striker, the fastest Trinary and so the lightest armed, had been assigned the strongest artillery support. Rocks splintered, throwing dust into the air, and many of the blue-green leaves were coated in gray. The fire was damaging, but not so thick that the militia troops were stopped in their tracks. They were slowed, prevented from engaging Striker Trinary in close range but still moving forward. Striker gave ground slowly, its ’Mechs taking careful steps backward while strafing the Gannett militia units.
Then Alpha and Beta arrived. No longer arcs in a circle, they were a backward arrow point. The rearward units, heavies and assaults, kept the militia from retreating while bombarding their rear with long-range weapons. The faster units outflanked the militia on either side, crashing into them even as the Gannett troops were hesitating in the wake of the artillery fire.
The trickiest part of this maneuver was keeping damage from friendly fire to a minimum. As the circle closed, it became far too easy for troops to fire straight through the enemy and hit their allies. The adjusted formation, along with orders to Alpha and Beta to keep their fire to a minimum, should help. The great majority of the fire should land on the head of the trapped militia troops.
Surely they must know what was happening now. They must understand how Alaric intended this to end. He gave them thirty seconds to choose to surrender. When no such offer came over the comm, Alaric pushed the Mad Cat into a run and entered the fray.
The rock dust had only gotten thicker, making visibility poor. But that was only a problem for pilots who couldn’t see the fight in their head, who hadn’t planned every move of the fight before it started. Alaric knew exactly where he was heading.
He did not run. The smoke, the dust, the fast movements of the smaller ’Mechs, the general chaos of the battle—all of that would do more to protect him from his opponents’ fire than would speed. And he had enough armor for whatever rounds made it through the fog of war.
He chose his targets carefully, firing the PPCs at a Phoenix Hawk that was harassing some of Striker’s smaller units, aiming a double blast of his lasers at a Vulture trying to rally t
roops around its position. His shots sowed chaos, preserving the disorder his troops had created.
The battle followed the course Alaric had planned, with the militia troops flailing here and there, desperately hoping for a breakdown that would allow them to exit the circle and escape. The breakdown never came.
We are Clan Wolf, Alaric thought. You will die waiting for our discipline to fail.
* * *
Verena helped where she could. She made sure people knew she was available, she tried to demonstrate her skills and abilities, but it seemed most of the time she was scrubbing and polishing rather than doing any technical work.
She knew ’Mechs better than she knew practically anything else. But her knowledge was mostly about how to employ them, how to throw them into battle and when to hold them back, how to turn and pivot faster than anyone would expect and how to barrel forward in a straight line and throw everyone out of your way. She knew everything about how to use this tool—but not enough, apparently, to fix it when it was broken.
She could go so far as to say what was wrong—the gyro system was a little off, or the firing system had lost some of its redundancies and was not responding as fast as it should. She could point out on some machines the exact spot where techs should start working. But she couldn’t do the work. The technicalities of replacing parts, of putting certain wires in the right places, of making the entire machine like new instead of held together with chewing gum and baling wire—all of that was beyond her. She’d tried pointing, offering helpful advice to the technicians, and the first few times they nodded at her and smiled politely. But before too long they started ignoring her, and now when she made suggestions they shot her resentful looks. The techs, like just about everyone else in the universe, didn’t like being told how to do their job.
If she could have been useful, if she could have lent a hand while they worked, that would have been different. But she couldn’t, so the techs viewed her as bordering on useless.
The Last Charge Page 2
