The Last Charge

by Jason M. Hardy

  “Wait, wait, wait,” said Leutnant Porter Mann, a veteran artillerist. “You won’t believe this. We’ve been moved.”

  “Again?” asked Leutnant-Colonel Maria Schellendorf. “Where to now?”

  “Same place we were last week! Back to that same damn ledge! What do you think of that?”

  “Maybe the spotters saw something,” ventured Leutnant Andrew Cjell.

  “The spotters didn’t see anything,” Mann said with a dismissive wave. “I mean, they didn’t see anything different. The Silver Hawks are right where they want to be, they’re not moving. We’re just shifting from position to position so we have something to do.”

  “That seems pointless,” Cjell said.

  Klaus smiled to himself. Cjell was the youngest in the group and hadn’t yet become accustomed to the pointlessness that was at the heart of so much military downtime.

  “Tactically, yes, it’s pointless,” Schellendorf said. “But it keeps people busy. The more troops just sit around, the more lax they become. Better to be futile than lazy.”

  “I’ve never had a problem with a little laziness,” Mann said.

  “That’s why you’re only a leutnant,” Schellendorf said.

  “That’s where I want to be,” Mann replied. “The right balance of high pension and low authority.”

  Schellendorf smiled. She had a face that might have been kind in her youth, but years had made her cheeks hollow, her eyes wrinkled and her brow creased, making her seem more severe than she really was. She had been in the Lyran military for thirty years and wore her experience like a skin.

  “Didn’t one of your people almost fall off that ledge last time?” Klaus asked. He took a sip of the beer everyone was drinking. It was dark and bitter, which suited Klaus’ tastes just fine.

  “I think all of them almost fell off it at one time or another,” Mann said. “Once we have the guns set up, there are a few spots where we’ve got less than a meter between the equipment and the edge. When the wind kicks up, walking’s not easy.”

  “At least you already have your distances measured,” Cjell said. “You can get the angles reestablished right away.”

  “Yeah, but they’d be better if I could actually lob a few shots down on them,” Mann said, light coming into his blue eyes. “Nothing gives you the right measurements like a few live rounds.”

  “Then shoot a few,” Schellendorf said. “Who’s going to complain about a few shots being taken at the enemy?”

  “Duke Vedet Brewster, that’s who,” Mann said. “Every single order we get comes with the same line—You are not to discharge weapons fire at enemy troops. Hell, I’m practically required to tell the troops that every time they go to take a piss. Because as any soldier knows, the last thing you want to do in a war is fire at the enemy.”

  “The duke probably doesn’t want to provoke a counterattack,” Klaus said.

  Mann snorted and thumped his glass on the table. “You’re right, but not in the way you think. No one’s worried about a Silver Hawk counterattack—they’ve got two armies pinning them down, and they’ll be hard-pressed to defend the territory they’ve got, let alone move against us. No, the army the duke’s really worried about is the one on the other side of the city.”

  “The Clanners?” Cjell said. “But they’re on our side!”

  Even Cjell laughed at his words. The youngster might be naïve, but not naïve enough to believe Clanners were ever on any side but their own.

  “The question right now isn’t whether the Silver Hawks can hold on to Marik,” Mann said. “They can’t. I’ve even heard rumors that they’ve been drawing down their lines, shuttling troops off-planet so they can fight another day.”

  “You’re planted up in the damned mountains!” Schellendorf said. “How are you hearing rumors?”

  “None of your business. But the thing is, if we weaken the Silver Hawks too much, then the battle for Helmdown, when it comes, will be too easy. The duke doesn’t want the Clan forces to get to the capital clean. Because if they’re feeling healthy enough when they’re done with the Silver Hawks, the smart money says they’ll go right on to fight with us.”

  “Why would they do that?” Cjell asked.

  “Because they can,” Mann said. “They’re Clanners!”

  “That might not be enough to make them risk a war,” Schellendorf said dryly.

  “Then how about the fact that their commander hates the duke? The duke screwed him over, you know. Told him to land in the wrong place. You don’t think he wants the duke’s head for that?”

  “Not enough to start a war with us, no.”

  Mann leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what. When we get back to our ledge, since we don’t have to take new measurements to the Silver Hawks, I’m going to take some time to see what it would take to get a few shots into the Clan Wolf troops. Because when it comes down to it, I think we’d be well advised to take them on before we rub out the Silver Hawks.”

  Klaus had heard enough. He stayed a while longer and finished his drink for decorum’s sake, then left, hoping that Leutnant Mann’s sentiments were unique to him.

  They weren’t. Days went on, Klaus had more conversations, and the idea kept coming up. The Silver Hawk Irregulars were retreating and would not pose a real threat. The true danger came from the lurking forces of Clan Wolf. That was who should be attacked first.

  He brought word to Trillian, who spoke to Duke Vedet. As soon as that conversation was over, Trillian emerged from the duke’s quarters, walking briskly, face tight.

  “We’re going back to talk to Alaric,” she told Klaus.

  He didn’t say anything, just followed her into a jeep and back over the rocky road to the other side of Helmdown. And back into the presence of Alaric Wolf.

  Klaus wasn’t sure, through the entire journey to the Wolf Camp, if Alaric would see them or not, and what leverage they might use to get his attention. When they arrived in Alaric’s quarters, both Alaric and Star Commander Xeno were waiting for them. Trillian had been doing some work, playing the two off each other. Whatever she had done had worked.

  Klaus guessed the addition of Xeno to the meeting accounted for his presence inside the room, instead of being forced to wait outside. When you were dealing with Clanners, it was never a good idea to be outnumbered.

  Alaric sat at his desk, tense and poised as always, his hands clasped in front of him. “Trillian Steiner,” he said. “The fact that I am here talking with you more often than I am in my Mad Cat is one of the larger frustrations of the current situation. What do you want?”

  “I want to break the stalemate. I want you to move forward.”

  Alaric spread his hands. “Then we want the same thing. However, it has become more difficult to advance on my main front when I need to keep watching my right flank.”

  “Do you honestly think the duke wants to start a war with you while he is in the middle of Marik territory?”

  Klaus watched Alaric’s face carefully. Any change in the Clanner’s expression was minuscule; his emotions were all written in small print. But if he knew anything, it was how to watch faces. He saw the slight raise of Alaric’s eyebrows, the brief widening of the eyes. Something about what Trillian was doing was surprising Alaric.

  “The duke honestly believes I may attack him here. It would make sense, if he truly believes me to be a threat, to preemptively strike, to fight us before we fight him. I have to defend myself.”

  Trillian, to Klaus’ surprise, strode forward until she was practically leaning over Alaric. “You two are guarding against phantom threats instead of dealing with the one in front of you! This is war! Attack the damn enemy!”

  Alaric paused before responding. Klaus thought he saw one eyebrow arc slightly.

  “You are unusually direct today,” he finally said. “I find it refreshing.”

  “I’m absolutely delighted to hear that,” Trillian said. “Can you move your troops forward now?”

  Alaric smiled. Klaus a
lmost drew back. It was not a friendly expression.

  “If the threat from the Lyrans—and my threat to them—is really an illusion, then we should be rid of it.” He stood. “I will give a message to your duke. Record me. I will promise not to attack his forces on this campaign. That should set his mind at ease. Then we can move forward.”

  Trillian nodded. Klaus saw an exchange, a fraction of a second where Alaric looked at Xeno. It was a strong glance he gave his subordinate, and it was not a look that sought approval. Rather than asking “Is that enough?” it was a look that said, firmly “This will be enough.” And Klaus then understood the relationship between the Clan commander and his officers.

  The recording was made quickly, and as soon as it was done Alaric dismissed Trillian and Klaus with a wave. They hurried back to the Lyran camp to deliver the message to Duke Vedet, hopefully to convince him it was time for Helmdown to fall.

  New Edinburgh, Stewart

  Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

  It was a hell of a thing when a leader could not go out among the people. Anson was under no illusion that he was beloved, or even liked, but he didn’t care. He ruled his way, and some people would like it and other people wouldn’t, which was the same for every leader throughout the history of all humanity. It wasn’t important to be liked; it was important to be respected. And, barring that, feared. That had always been enough so that he could speak and be listened to, so that he could walk among them and watch them give way.

  Not that he ever walked the streets as an ordinary man, but now he could not even show his face. The populace was that angry.

  Well, they should be angry. They just shouldn’t be angry at him. That could work to his advantage, since as he well knew, it was much easier to redirect anger than to calm it.

  He was going to talk directly to the people, even though every adviser was against the idea. There was no way to guarantee his safety, they said, over and over. Then they proposed he just deliver a broadcast message from his office.

  But that would not be enough. He could not be isolated when he said what he wanted to say. He needed a crowd to play off of, so he could feel their rage and mold it with his words.

  This was why he’d brought the members of Parliament to Stewart with him, along with their staffs and other hangers-on. They might not like him, but they’d be obedient and listen when he spoke. They would be the core of his audience. The rest would be local politicos—as long as they promised to behave themselves—along with security personnel and members of Anson’s staff, people who would give him what he wanted.

  Plans for the address came together quickly. Two weeks after he landed on Stewart, Anson stood to address his entire realm, which seemed to be shrinking daily.

  Stewart had its own parliamentary hall, which was used by the local government. It reminded Anson of a football stadium, with its U-shaped rows of plush seats being capped by the lines of chairs holding the members of the current administration. When a solo speaker addressed the entire body, he stood about where one of the goalposts would be, right at the level of the playing field.

  Anson was in a back room, watching a closed-circuit television that showed him the crowd arriving. Their faces, for the most part, were calm and comfortable. Those already sitting in the comfortable bleachers looked like they were about to nod off.

  He would change that. He’d give them a speech that would put a charge into the room, and those damn MPs would leave thinking they actually had some sort of power. That they could play a useful role in this fight.

  It was time to go. Anson walked from his back room with long strides, taking heavy steps that he imagined could be heard inside the hall. The sergeant-at-arms started his introduction as Anson approached, and he entered the hall at the bottom of the U. The audience stood, a slow, wavering motion rather than the crisp military jump that Anson would have preferred. There was a smattering of dutiful applause, but Anson didn’t care. By the end, the applause would be genuine.

  He walked up to the podium, a brushed metal stand that was cold to the touch. His speech was displayed on a small screen set into the podium, as well as on prompters placed at strategic locations. He wouldn’t need them. For the first time in ages, he had written the entire speech himself, the words storming out of his head. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, and he could have given the speech perfectly in a blackout.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Fellow citizens,” he said, in a loud voice that echoed off the wood-paneled walls. He let the echoes die down, let the MPs understand just how forceful he intended to be throughout the speech. Let them wake up a bit.

  “We have returned to Stewart, a magnificent accomplishment in the midst of our present difficulties. We bask in the warmth and good graces of its native citizens.” That’s complete bullshit, Anson thought. But useful bullshit.

  He continued. “Though our arrival on Stewart is positive news, we are still faced with the worst crisis in the history of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. The Lyrans, whose thirst for power and gain cannot be quenched, are driving into our realm. Their desperation, their thirst for victory is such that they have even turned to the enemies of the Inner Sphere, the Clans, for aid. Their combined forces are strong and have scored many victories. Their troops show no sign of slowing their advance, and I believe they will press the issue until they cut out the heart of our Commonwealth.”

  A few mutters ran through the crowd. They knew all this already and weren’t thrilled to hear it again. But Anson was just laying the groundwork.

  “In crises like these we ask ourselves, what will we be? How will we respond? How will we fight?

  “Fear is natural. Their armies are strong, their reinforcements keep coming. But do we give in to fear? Do we shake in the face of enemies who time and time again have tried to conquer us, and time and time again have failed? Or do we stand again, confront them head on, and tell them they will go no further into Marik territory?”

  He thought there would be a response to that line, possibly a muted roar of some sort. But he only heard muttering.

  Damn them, he thought. They’re more castrated than I thought.

  “Our people have been battered. They have lost homes, family—and too many have lost their lives. They are angry. I have heard the people speak. They are angry about this war, and damn it, so am I!”

  His advisers always warned him against profanity in public addresses, but this was his speech, and he would put in the words he wanted to say.

  “We are the defenders here. The Lyrans, the Wolves, the Falcons, even our former Free Worlds League neighbors, are the aggressors. Everything we have suffered can be laid at their feet. So let’s turn it back on them! Let’s make them pay! Every drop of blood shed by our people should be paid twice over by the Lyrans! I will wring the last drops of the payment out of the archon with my bare hands if I need to!

  “I need your passion. I need your anger. I need you to never forget what the archon is doing to us, and to never rest until her debt is paid. This may be our darkest moment, but it’s not our last. We will continue forward, and the road ahead will take us over the bodies of the entire Lyran army!”

  He paused. There should be a roar. Or applause. Or something. But there was silence. He looked out at the faces of the crowd and saw frown after frown after frown. Heads shaking and heads bowed. What was wrong with them? Where was their fight?

  Then one of them stood. Edward Murlock of Lancaster. One of the biggest toadies in Parliament and a principle reason Anson had been so happy to strip away as many of their powers as he could. Well, screw him. He didn’t say anything about taking questions. Murlock could stand as long as he wanted, but he wasn’t going to talk.

  Anson had to ad-lib. He had planned to have everyone in his corner by now, but they weren’t. Rather than launching into a description of his next actions, he’d have to do a little more work to win them over.

  “The reasons for the Lyran attack are clear—they are cowards. They have seen
how we have been beset, seen how those who pretend to carry the Marik name have attacked us. They know we are under pressure, so they come after us like a pack of weak hyenas after a wounded lion. Or vultures waiting for the fall of an injured eagle.

  “We cannot yield. We will not yield! The archon will feel our vengeance, and then we will turn to the pretender of Oriente and teach her what the Marik name really means!”

  Then Murlock said something. Anson didn’t hear what it was—Murlock’s voice couldn’t compete with the amplified echo of Anson’s—but he heard the traces of words floating through the air. It didn’t matter. Murlock could talk all he wanted. Anson would finish his speech.

  “We are the true heirs of the Free Worlds legacy! If the League is to be reestablished, it will be through us! Our first step to reclaiming that legacy is to grind the archon’s army under our feet!”

  Murlock’s mouth was still moving, and Anson was hearing other sounds. Other people were speaking. It sounded like the hum of passing electricity.

  “Rally the people! Tell them to fight! Tell them to stand with me as we prepare to deliver pain to the archon!”

  It was louder now. It was voices, voices throughout the hall, talking simultaneously, some of them yelling. He had the microphone, but they had the numbers. He spoke a few more words, but they were lost in the growing din.

  It was a roar now, shapeless and coarse, rumbling around the hall in waves. More people were on their feet, and a few of them were throwing wads of paper across the hall. Some security personnel were attempting to control the crowd, but it was too large. There was too much anger. Anson’s grand assembly had turned into a disorderly fourth-grade classroom.

  Anson waited. He yelled a few calls for order into his microphone, but nothing happened. The shouting continued, and the supposedly powerless MPs and the leaders of Stewart looked at the captain-general with faces contorted in anger and hate.