But what made the final decision was this: a few weeks ago, Vedet could not have been confident that the planet would remain Lyran territory if he took the bulk of his forces off the world. Now he could. The citizens and guerillas of the planet had not been completely cowed. But they had been cowed enough.
He had reviewed several times the wording of his message announcing his victory to the archon. He had gone through many drafts of grandiose and wordy announcements, efforts that attempted to demonstrate to the archon the importance of his conquest. Despising himself for seeming to beg for her approval, he then went through several drafts that came close to saying, “Today, Danais. Tomorrow, the throne.” His better sense prevailed, and all those messages were completely and thoroughly destroyed.
He could be patient. The message could be simple, a declaratory statement of victory. The rest—the triumph, the grandiose gestures—could wait. There would be time. In the end, the message Vedet sent to the archon was simple: “Danais is ours. We will be moving deeper into Marik-Stewart territory.” For the time being, that was all the archon needed to know. It might be good for her to worry about why he wasn’t providing more details.
He didn’t need her input at the moment. He already had too many people offering their opinions, and there was no need to add one more voice to the choir. Besides, before he planned for the future, he needed to bask in the present. The planet was his. He was a conqueror. It was time to enjoy the spoils of war—in a civilized way, of course.
He had arranged for a guide. On any border world, it usually was not too difficult to find someone who had at least a bit of sympathy for their neighboring nation. When conquest came, as it tended to do to worlds like Danais, these people were often employed as liaisons and transition officials, spreading the message to their fellow conquered citizens that what had just happened to them was not all that bad.
Vedet had a certain distaste for these people. True, in his current situation they would prove useful, but in general they were not his sort. They were dissenters, layabouts—political rabble, really, the kind of people who, unable to generate a power base of their own, ease their frustrations by nipping at the heels of those more successful than they. While often happy to see the new government at first, these people often ended up becoming just as discontented with their new government as their old, generating ever-longer lists of complaints and grievances. Some people, Vedet believed, were simply constitutionally unable to be satisfied.
Thankfully, he had an excuse to keep his tour guide at a distance. The way things had gone on this planet, he was quite justified in not letting any native near him, because there was no way of knowing who was an innocent citizen and who was a bomb waiting to go off. Thus it had been explained to the tour guide, a man named Piotr Brunson, that all of his contact with the duke would be through a comm and not in person.
Duke Vedet was in one vehicle, a long hovercraft with a small personal cabin for himself in the rear, and his tour guide was planted in one of the eight or so vehicles that made up the duke’s procession. When the duke wanted to know what he was looking at, he could press a button and ask. When he had no desire to listen to the droning of a tour guide who thought his world was more interesting than it truly was, he could turn the comm off. He had the best of both worlds.
At the moment, Vedet didn’t think the planet was much to look at. A broad ferrocrete road, a few evergreens pushing through rocks and some admittedly pretty cottages on the outskirts of Breckenridge. But the comm crackled to life as Brunson found something to talk about.
“The road you’re currently traveling on is part of a long, snakelike road called Philippa’s Highway. Like many other border planets, Danais suffered greatly in the Second Succession War, and not long after the Free Worlds League reclaimed the planet, Philippa Marik embarked on a significant effort to rebuild Danais’ industrial base. This road connected several of the crucial industries, including Breckenridge’s lumber mills and copper mines.”
The road. God almighty, Brunson was talking about the road. Vedet reached for the switch on the comm, but then thought perhaps it was too early to give up on his guide. And though it did not make for the most spectacular view, this road was something he should know about as his forces worked to ramp up Danais’ industrial production.
“Two days before his demise, William Marik led his troops past Breckenridge. Not on this exact road, of course, but he traveled near here, crossing the rough terrain in an ultimately successful effort to outflank the Lyran army.”
Vedet drummed his fingers. Why did Brunson think he would want to hear anything about a Lyran defeat? He was not a historian—he was here to take advantage of this planet’s assets, not study it.
Almost on cue, Brunson suddenly became useful.
“We’re now passing the entrance to the Coldcross Copper Mine, the largest copper production facility on the planet,” Brunson said. Vedet looked at the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of the facilities, but there was a road, a fence and more road. The mine was a ways off. He was disappointed—seeing the size of the pit might help him guess its production capacity. But Brunson kept talking and made guessing unnecessary.
“This is one of the largest copper mines in the Commonwealth, putting out well over 300,000 tons a year. A fair amount of it is used on-planet, thanks to Philippa Marik’s efforts, but plenty flies off-world too.”
Vedet leaned back. Just like that, the military façade he’d built up since the archon commissioned him to fight in Free Worlds space melted away, and he was a businessman again. He had conquered this planet, and he was entitled to some of the spoils, and a few thousand tons of copper at below-market prices would be a good start. Danais wasn’t that much farther away than some of the other suppliers that brought materials to Hesperus, and he could make sure that receiving copper shipments from here would be well worth his while. It didn’t have quite the visceral satisfaction of leaving town carrying chests stuffed with gold and gems, but in the long run he would stand to gain much, much more than a few coins.
He didn’t pay attention to much of Brunson’s monologue after that, though he caught some bits and pieces. There was plenty of Marik trivia, and Vedet heard the name of that house far more times than he would have liked. He couldn’t help noticing that Brunson had a particular affection for the story of William Marik’s death. He supposed he could understand that—the man gave his life for the planet, even if he was fighting on the wrong side of things—but Vedet had no real interest in the details of his fate. William had tried to get power and failed, making him part of a very large group of people in Inner Sphere history in whom Vedet had very little interest.
For the most part he tuned out Brunson and instead looked out the window and watched the rocks and the trees and thought of victory.
* * *
His good mood lasted until he got back. Two pieces of news were waiting for him; one a minor annoyance, one an ever-growing reminder of the weakness of the archon and her half-witted methods of shoring up her own power while undermining those people in her realm who could truly do something significant if she would only have the grace and common sense to get out of their way.
He dealt with the minor annoyance first.
A Loki report detailed how the Silver Hawk Irregulars—that benighted unit that had been afflicting Danais like a cancer ever since Vedet landed—had a secret supply line that could be traced all the way back to Savannah. Secret no longer, Vedet thought, and threw together an order to send some troops to take care of the problem. I’ll cut those Silver Hawks off until they can’t do anything but throw rocks at us. Which they’ll probably do until they’re dead.
The second item wasn’t going to be resolved as quickly. Gannett, it seemed, had fallen before Vedet had managed to secure Danais. Vedet had not been able to take Gannett himself, mainly because his orders from the archon left him spread far too thin for viable action (a claim he had already vowed to stick to until he died). Then, instead of doing
the sensible thing and placing more troops under Vedet’s command, the blasted archon had brought in Alaric Wolf and his Clanners.
At least the move showed desperation, and where there was desperation there generally was weakness. Allying with Clanners was bound to be unpopular with certain segments back home, segments Vedet might be able to cultivate once he was done tearing through Marik space.
Those, however, were the only good aspects of the situation. In all other respects, bringing in Alaric Wolf was a disaster waiting to happen.
Not that Vedet knew much about this particular Clanner, but how could that matter? Clanners were Clanners. Their sense of superiority, their ridiculous reliance on elaborate combat rituals and their utter failure to understand the delicate diplomatic arts were threads that ran through all of them, as far as Vedet was concerned. They were all cut from the same cloth, and it was a weave for which the duke had little use.
One thing Vedet knew for sure was that the Clanner had ambitions beyond conquering Marik-Stewart planets. He didn’t know what sort of deal the archon had cut, but he had to assume that it involved Clan Wolf looking beyond this small collection of planets. The Clanner would be after something more, and there was an awfully good chance that whatever that something was, it would eventually interfere with what Vedet wanted. And that couldn’t be allowed.
He had to plan, and the first step would be getting on the move. That much was clear—if the Wolves were already pressing forward, Vedet needed to pick up the pace. His troops needed to move double time until they were off Danais and headed for Helm.
He already had planned to send the bulk of his troops there, gathered from other, nearby planets—it made sense as a waypoint to larger glories—and the news that Clan Wolf was going there as well only increased his resolve. He couldn’t let them get ahead of him.
He needed two things: a pretext and a plan. Why should he link up with Alaric when they’d been quite successful going their separate ways to this point?
He walked around his office a few times. He sat down, stood up, then sat down. He glanced at a map, skimmed some intel reports, then stood up again. Then he smiled.
He knew this. He knew how to do this. He had a feeling, and it was familiar from his days on Hesperus. It was planning. It was deal-making. The fighting part of this was important, but now, in his office, with the information spread out in front of him, he was in his element. And it wasn’t long before he had his answer.
The pretext was actually quite simple. Loki reports showed the Silver Hawk Irregulars pulling back and consolidating on Helm. He and Alaric could conceivably take a few more planets around Helm while the Silver Hawks got themselves together, but why put off the inevitable? If the Silver Hawks wanted to make a last stand, he intended to let them, and in that situation it only made sense to go at them with everything he had and everything Clan Wolf had. In all truth, he could easily make it seem like it would be a dereliction of duty if he didn’t go to Helm.
The other part, the strategy once he was there, was where, in his opinion, Vedet the diplomat, Vedet the businessman really came through. If he was going to work with this Clanner, it would be on his terms, not the Clanner’s, and those terms didn’t say anything about conceding any of the glory of victory to anyone.
It would begin with a simple gesture of magnanimity. He would reply to Alaric Wolf’s message of victory with a dignified congratulations and a packet of intel. Vedet would show his team spirit, his willingness to cooperate, by providing Alaric with some hard-earned intelligence about where to land on Helm and why.
At least, he thought, some of the intel. What kind of fool shows his full hand all at once?
Then he would see how well this Clanner fought in battles in which he couldn’t use his ’Mech.
7
Helmdown, Helm
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
28 March 3138
AgroMechs waded through fields of high wheat. It was early—winter takes a long time to end on Helm—but there was always soil preparation that needed to be done once the ground was no longer frozen solid. There were more ’Mechs in the field than might be expected, but many hands, metal or otherwise, make light work.
Zeke Carleton had trouble focusing on his work. Not that it demanded much concentration, as the ’Mech could turn the ground and loosen the soil pretty thoroughly without much input from its pilot. Carleton kept looking up at the sky, mainly because it was blue. Winters on Helm were long and gray, so a day when the sun actually shone and rose high enough in the sky to generate some warmth was something to be appreciated. The moist earth churning under his machine’s left arm, sunlight glinting off the other ’Mechs in the field and the lively strains of the Mercy Mountain Pipers playing over his ’Mech’s speakers all combined to give Carleton a pleasant sense of well-being.
That made it all the more of a shame, then, that Carleton knew the pleasantness wouldn’t last long.
He looked at the sky again. There was nothing in it except the distant sun. Nothing yet.
* * *
The temptation had been to land right on top of Helmdown. Alaric had little patience for battlefield theatrics performed simply for the sake of showing off, but he knew the value of intimidation. Few things broke the spirit of a planet like landing right in a capital city and stomping through it, and Helmdown was a perfect candidate for that tactic. There was no real center to the city—it was essentially a collection of adjacent villages. According to the information from the Lyrans, the defenses were similarly spread out, thinly scattered across the city. A hard landing followed by a fierce charge could put those forces back on their heels and never let them recover, making the battle a rout before it began.
But some Silver Hawk units had arrived here before Alaric could make his landing, and Alaric had no doubt they had been active their entire time on the planet, shoring up the defenses and looking for ways to surprise the invaders. There was no reason to walk into whatever traps they had set up. A landing away from the capital might be less impressive, and victory might be slower in coming, but it was a question of priorities. The triumphs to come in the future required a certain amount of caution in the present.
It was almost time. Alaric sat on a black metal stool, staring at nothing. He had no terminals, noteputers or even paper in front of him. Nothing to look at aside from what he carried in his head.
He was watching the battle in his mind. Not every possible move, of course—any veteran of war knows the role of chance and randomness in fighting—but the general sweep of the coming battle, the punches he planned to land and the counterpunches he expected the defenders to throw. He reviewed the land, the fields flanking the city, the mountains enclosing Helmdown and its surrounding farms in a gigantic bowl. He saw the spots he would want to seize first, and the locations he would expect the Silver Hawk Irregulars to have well fortified. He watched the battle, then watched it again and saw how it would be won. No matter what the defenders did, no matter what bad fortune came his way, he saw how he would respond and eventually be victorious.
In his mind, victory took anywhere from three days to six months. He hoped for the former.
Then it was done. All the information about the battle and its various contingencies was stored in his mind, and all that was left was to actually fight it.
He called in Verena to help him with his preparations.
She came in promptly, looking oddly nervous. She put his battle gear on his bed, then helped him put it on.
She wanted to say something. He could see it plainly—her lips kept twitching, and she kept having the small inhalations that generally precede speech, only to let the air out again and say nothing.
Feeling uncharacteristically generous, Alaric showed her mercy. After all, she was a bondservant, and if she was hesitating to speak her mind to him, that only meant she was conscious of her place. Which she should be. He spoke to give her the chance to respond.
“You wish you were fighting,” he sai
d.
She pulled his cooling vest over his torso and began fastening it. “Of course,” she said dismissively, as if the point was too obvious for discussion.
He looked at her face again. He had misread her. He thought her nervousness was just the blood rush of battle, but there was something else. He did not have time to guess what it was.
“If there is something you want to say, you should say it now.”
Verena kept her face impassive—almost. Her cheeks hollowed just a touch in irritation, but that was the only sign she displayed. “Do you know where Vedet is landing?”
“No.”
“Have you coordinated your plan of attack with him?”
“No.”
“But you are using the information he sent, quiaff?”
“Aff. To a degree.” He was ready. He took the neurohelmet from her and tucked it under his arm. “You are now out of time.”
She followed him as he drifted out of his cabin. “When you land,” she said, now speaking quickly, “when you are watching the people in front of you, keep your eye on Vedet and his troops. Watch what he is doing. He should not be trusted.”
He grabbed a handrail in the corridor and let his legs swing beneath him as he twisted around. “If all you can tell me is to not trust spheroids, then I clearly overestimated the value of your counsel.”
He turned and continued down the corridor. Verena did not follow.
* * *
Carleton sniffed. It was a good idea, he always thought, to have your ’Mech pull in air from the outside (provided, of course, that it was safely filtered). Smells could tell you a lot about the quality of the ground, and what was carrying on the breeze. If you were going to work the land, you should never be completely cut off from it.
He smelled damp earth, freshly scrubbed air and…something. The something was too distant, too faint, to be recognizable. It might have just been a trace of distant fire from the house of a farmer who already had finished his work. But it was enough to finally take Carleton’s concentration off the skies.
The Last Charge Page 5
