“It’s a shame,” she said, “how plotting against the archon can put a stain on your reputation, isn’t it?”
“Out!” Vedet thundered. With her same casual stride, Trillian left.
Outside his office, her pace quickened. She felt better than she had since the battle had ended. While she hadn’t done anything to win Vedet’s affection for the Steiner family, she had successfully checked him. And since she didn’t care much for the duke anyway, the fact that he didn’t like her carried no sting whatsoever.
The streets of Helmdown were still gray, still empty, but for some reason that wasn’t bothering Trillian now, and the compulsion she had been feeling for the past two weeks to get indoors and stay there had vanished. It was liberating—she was free to go anywhere she wanted, see any part of the city.
It was a shame, then, that Helmdown did not contain any places for her to go.
And even though she felt more confident, it was probably not a good idea for a Steiner to casually go strolling around on a planet that her nation had just conquered. There were a few safe places for her, and for the time being she should stay in them.
She ran through the list of those spots. She didn’t want to go back to her quarters—she’d spent enough time there. It also didn’t seem to be a good idea to stay with the First Hesperus Guards, as Vedet would not want to see her again today and his subordinates weren’t too friendly either. Since she had no desire to be around Clanners, that narrowed her options even more.
There was only one choice, really. So she climbed in her vehicle and went there.
* * *
“I’ve never seen a line give like that when it wasn’t a trap. We tore through them, and fast. I mean, we were moving so quick we almost ran right into the Hesperus Guards. That wasn’t a defensive line they had—that was a speed bump.”
Jamie Kroff had a full mug of beer sitting next to her. She had ordered it about half an hour ago, taken one sip when it arrived and hadn’t touched it again. Trillian had asked her about her experience on Helmdown, and Kroff had been talking ever since. As she spoke, her hands darted this way and that, trying to duplicate the movement of each ’Mech in the battle. Trace Decker sat at a small round table with the two women, smiling and not saying much.
“And they’ve done that sort of thing before, from what I’ve heard,” Kroff said. “I’ve talked to some of the Hesperus Guards who were chasing the Silver Hawks all over Danais, and they said they love that sort of thing. They bait you into charging too hard, into overcommitting your forces. They let the first groups through, then harden their lines and all of a sudden, whoops, your fastest ’Mechs are cut off. I hear Vedet eventually told them to stop all charges—he had them slogging around the planet like the whole thing was covered in three meters of water.”
“That doesn’t seem very imaginative,” Trillian said. She was more than ready to join in on some criticism of the duke.
But Kroff only tilted her head. “Maybe. But sometimes imagination can be overrated. You can get too caught up in your own brilliance when you’d be better off just grinding it out and wearing down the enemy.”
“Good hell, Kroff, we’ve been serving together too long,” Decker said. “I’m starting to rub off on you.”
“No, you’re not,” Kroff said. “I said sometimes imagination is overrated. I didn’t say imagination is not allowed—that’s your line.”
“Turtle and the hare,” Decker said. “Besides, the only reason you need imagination is because you don’t know what actual victory looks like, so you have to guess.” He took a long drink, then pounded his mug to the table. “I’ve been there. All I have to do is remember.”
Kroff smiled and lifted her mug. “To plodding our way to victory!”
Decker lifted his in response. “To dreaming up harebrained tactics so we can have them named after us in military textbooks!”
Kroff lowered her mug. “Hey, I was nice to plodding. Now you have to be nice to creativity.”
Decker rolled his eyes. “Fine. Here’s to taking insane risks and getting away with them!”
“Now, that I can drink to!” Kroff said. They slammed their mugs together so hard that Trillian thought they would break; then both soldiers drank deeply.
“I’ve always wondered how the two of you came up with your tactics,” said a voice behind Trillian. “Now I know—you do it when you’re drinking. Suddenly, your strategies make a whole lot more sense.”
Trillian didn’t need to turn around to know it was Roderick. Running into him was the risk she took by coming to the First Steiner Strikers’ camp. She couldn’t avoid him forever, and at least now she could face him when she was feeling pretty good. When she finally turned, she was able to smile and have it look natural.
“Hello, Roderick.”
He nodded. “Hi, Trillian. Good to see you out of the office.”
“Can you join us?”
“For a minute,” he said, and sat at the table with them. He waved off a server before he came to their table, then looked at Trillian.
“Have you heard from the archon?” he asked.
“Yes. She congratulates you on a well-earned victory, and says that your efforts will contribute to the safety and security of the Lyran Commonwealth for years to come.”
“That’s very kind,” he said, then paused. “Did she have a clerk write that, or did she just copy and paste a standard form?”
Decker and Kroff both chuckled, and Trillian smiled crookedly.
“If you conquer a few more planets, I’m sure you can get a commendation with a genuine autograph from the archon,” she said.
“Will it have an embossed seal?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
Trillian could hear a slight catch in Roderick’s voice, and she knew his banter had an edge to it. But he was trying to be jocular, and she was in no mood to provoke a confrontation. So she played along.
“Embossed certificates, colored ribbons and shiny medals,” she said. “The substance of glory.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Decker said, and he and Kroff both took a few more swallows.
“But no medals for Decker,” Kroff said. “Unless there’s an award for running around in circles while everyone else is fighting.”
Decker held up an index finger. “One circle,” he said. “I ran in one big circle. And I was so scary when I did it that the Silver Hawks could only watch me instead of paying attention to your dainty, ladylike charge.”
“Yeah, and I’ll charge my ladylike boot right up…”
The two company commanders jawed at each other for a while, smiling broadly and ordering more drinks the whole time. Roderick sat back in his chair and smiled, clearly enjoying the chance to just sit back and do nothing. After sitting quietly for a while, Trillian leaned over to him.
“Your people have honor,” she said, “no matter what else is going on around them.”
He nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s why I worry about what they get thrown into.” But he smiled a little and patted her shoulder and didn’t get up to leave, so she figured this counted as progress.
19
Marik Palace
New Edinburgh, Stewart
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
20 May 3138
The common consensus around the palace was that the new Anson Marik was an improvement. Servants brought him his food and kept his quarters orderly, secretaries took care of his personal affairs and staff disturbed him for long enough to get his signature on various items. Through all of this no one had to endure a single outburst of temper. In fact, for the most part, no one heard the captain-general say anything at all. He grunted occasionally and offered simple answers to straightforward questions, but other than that he remained silent. Often, people who were in his presence said they had the impression that the captain-general didn’t know they were there.
Daggert didn’t like this state of aff
airs one bit. The Lyran armies were preparing for invasion, and no matter what he did to help the Silver Hawk Irregulars and the Stewart militia prepare for the coming attack, it didn’t feel like it was enough. He tried to think in terms of victory, not in terms of holding on as long as possible, but a scenario for victory was elusive. He did not want to say that victory was inconceivable, but since he hadn’t yet conceived a path to victory, that description seemed apt.
After a week of seeing and hearing stories about the subdued, withdrawn Anson, Daggert decided it was time to see what could be done to bring the captain-general back to life. He had to check five different rooms before he found Pavel Krist sipping a mug of tea in the private palace library. The room held few books—most of the walls were covered with original art, including a photo from the 2-D revival of the 3080s that Daggert liked. It was a picture of a street market, a lively collection of temporary booths and tents along New Edinburgh’s Edwards Street. The street had been completely redeveloped after the Jihad and was now a series of faceless apartment buildings that was far quieter and allegedly safer than the open-air market. But whenever Daggert looked at the picture, he found himself wishing the market was still there, and that he could be anonymous enough to walk freely in it.
Most of the library’s holdings could be accessed via a series of terminals spread around the room, which connected to a tremendous bank of servers in an underground bunker. The terminals were built into couches and overstuffed chairs, and the room was free of the bold, harsh lines prevalent in much of the rest of the palace. And, since most members of the staff had tasks other than reading to occupy their time, the room was usually empty—except for a few researchers, who were easily ignored.
Krist did not look at Daggert when he walked into the library. He didn’t even look at Daggert when he sat down next to him, or gently cleared his throat. Daggert didn’t bother to get irritated, as this sort of treatment had been consistent since he had first submitted his resignation. No one was supposed to know about that besides Daggert and Anson, but information had a way of getting out.
“Pavel,” he said.
Krist looked up, his wide-set eyes crinkling in surprise. “Cole! I’m sorry, I had no idea you were here. I’m afraid I was a little wrapped up in my work.”
Pavel Krist could listen to three conversations simultaneously and not miss a word of any of them, but again, Daggert decided not to make an issue of it. If being on Anson Marik’s staff taught you anything, it was to not rise to every bit of provocation.
“I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time,” Daggert said.
“Of course,” Krist said, though his eyes returned to his terminal screen.
“I’m concerned about the captain-general.”
“Really? Why?”
“Hasn’t he seemed different to you?”
Krist touched his screen briefly, and Daggert could see he was just turning a page, not closing anything.
“He’s seemed unusually focused,” Krist said. “Is that what you mean?”
“Unusually focused?” Daggert said. “Is that what you call it?”
“Of course. What do you call it?”
“Clinically depressed.”
“Oh, no no no,” Krist said, shaking his head. “Not at all. Listen, Cole, you know as well as I do that there are a lot of trivialities that take up a good amount of any ruler’s time. I believe all you are seeing is that the captain-general has focused on the existing emergency to an extent that the attention he might give to other, less important matters has diminished. That’s all.”
“But, Pavel, I’m the one trying to address this crisis! He should at least talk to me!”
“With all due respect, Cole, we are all focused on the crisis. Your tactical knowledge is vital, but you are hardly the only person dealing with the problem.”
Daggert sighed quietly. It was the nature of so many conversations with people in politics—conversations all too quickly shifted to matters of credit and blame. But power tended to be held by the people who want it, and they knew the mechanics of getting and keeping it. They couldn’t change their nature just because Daggert wanted them to, so he had to put up with their quirks—while remembering that some of those quirks were his quirks too.
“Of course. I know it’s consumed us all. I suppose that’s why I’m worried about the captain-general. We’re all doing everything we can to head off the coming crisis, and he seems rather…inert.”
“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” Krist said. “Think of it as the calm before the storm. Before you know it, the captain-general will erupt into a positive riot of activity.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Krist smiled reassuringly, but he still wasn’t looking at Daggert. “I am. If you knew Anson Marik as well as I did, you would understand.”
And with that small poke at Daggert, the conversation was over.
* * *
After Daggert left the library, his day became a blur. He was walking to this place, talking to that person, looking at one terminal screen and then another, analyzing updated estimates of the strength of the Lyran and Clan Wolf forces, reading through the latest intelligence on the battle tactics of the commanders and their likely approaches to Stewart, conferring with multiple generals and often speaking authoritatively on topics even though he didn’t feel like he had a grasp on anything that was going on.
He wasn’t sure how he found himself back in Anson Marik’s presence. His conversations with Anson had become as frequent as they were one-sided—Daggert would find himself walking briskly into the captain-general’s office, sharing a bit of information, waiting for a response, getting none, then leaving, wondering why he had bothered to come. That had happened somewhere between ten and twenty times over the last week.
And here he was again. Anson still sat motionless behind his desk, staring at nothing. His jowls hung heavy, pulling his entire head down with their weight. Daggert could not immediately recall what he was supposed to say while he was there, but it must have been important or he would not have bothered to come. He looked at his noteputer to jog his memory.
Oh.
He couldn’t start with that piece of information. The first thing he saw on his noteputer was the type of news that, in ancient Terran days, tended to get a messenger’s head separated from his shoulders, no matter how uninterested a ruler appeared. He had to build up to that, find some sort of cushion, any cushion.
No other items appeared on his noteputer. So he quickly reviewed the events of the day to this point and threw out something he hoped would seem interesting.
“The supply JumpShip from Keystone is preparing to leave the Bedeque system,” he said. “We anticipate its arrival in about a week. It does not have all of the supplies we requested, of course, but every bit helps, and its landing will help shore up our defenses. Since we have not detected any invaders arriving in-system, the supply ship should arrive well before they do.”
Unsurprisingly, Anson said nothing. He continued to stare into empty space. Daggert, as had become his habit, glanced down at the captain-general’s chest to make sure he was still breathing. He detected a gradual rise and fall, so he continued with his briefing.
“Other news from rimward territories is not as good,” he said, then took a deep breath. “We have intercepted a message from the planetary government of Ariel. They have asked Jessica Marik to help them defend their planet from possible harm.”
He waited. No reaction. His first instinct was to relax, since the expected explosion didn’t erupt from Anson, but then he immediately became even more tense. This was the type of news that should send even a mild-mannered ruler into a rage. If Anson could not bring himself to react to it, something was truly wrong.
He went ahead with the rest of the news from Ariel. “We have not received any declarations—or any communications at all—from the Ariel government, and there is no record that they have taken an official position. However,
it is worth noting that, in their message, they refer to Jessica as ‘Captain-General Jessica Marik.’”
He stood silent again. Anson did not so much as blink.
“That’s all I have for the moment. You can always summon me if I am needed.” He turned and took three steps toward the door.
“Say that last part again.”
Daggert stopped in his tracks. The voice rumbled like Anson’s, but with a creak, either from age or from disuse. He slowly turned. Anson looked like he had not moved, but then Daggert looked closely and saw his eyes had shifted a bit to the left. Instead of looking at nothing, Anson Marik was gazing squarely at him.
“What was that, my lord?”
“Say that last part again,” Anson repeated.
“I said that that is all I have for the moment, and you can always—”
“No. Not that. The part before it.”
Daggert reflexively took a step backward. “In their message, the leaders of Ariel call Jessica ‘Captain-General Jessica Marik.’”
For a moment, Daggert thought he had lost the captain-general again. There was no movement, no more words. He stared at Anson, waiting for a sign of life, but he didn’t see anything.
Then there was a crack, sharp and loud. Daggert jumped backward, shielding his head with his arms. But nothing hit him. He lowered his arms and looked around to see what had happened.
A strip of Anson’s desk, a piece of wood about a meter long, had snapped off in Anson’s hand. It left a gaping wound in the desk near Anson’s stomach. The captain-general was still for a moment longer; then he abruptly pushed himself backward, his chair rolling quickly and hitting the wall behind him. As it did, Anson lowered the piece of wood he was holding to his knee and snapped it in half with another loud crack. His chair bucked with the impact against the wall, and when it settled back on the floor Anson leaned forward, then stood. He pulled himself to his full height, raised the pieces of the desk he held in his hands above his head and threw both of them across the room. The one from his right hand passed within a half meter of Daggert’s head, whistling quickly, then slamming into the opposite wall. One of the pieces hit a screen that showed a rotating series of images, and the screen shattered. The piece of the desk thudded to the floor as glass fragments showered on top of it.
The Last Charge Page 18
