When he stood up, Ardan almost fell. His head began its interior rocking, like a vessel on a stormy sea. But he was determined to stand, to walk. To get away while his attendant was gone.
Even as he made his legs cooperate, Ardan wondered about his situation. He was a captive. Surely the MedTechs knew what their medications could do. Why had they left him alone just when he would be regaining consciousness?
He shook his errant mind back into order. Whatever the reason, he had to get out. Find his unit again. There was so much to do...and he had no idea how the attack had gone.
Beyond the curtain was an empty hallway. At the end of it, behind a closed door, he could hear voices. He crept into the corridor and turned in the opposite direction. Doors lined the way, some open into empty chambers like the one he had left, some closed. Pushing one open, Ardan found himself staring at a bandaged shape spreadeagled on an orthopedic rack.
He moved on, trying a door from time to time. At last, he found one that led into another passageway. This was dark, as if little used. Glass-windowed doors on either side let dim light into the corridor, and he stepped to the one on his left and peered through into the room beyond.
It was a big chamber, filled with unusual and somehow disturbing equipment. Glass-fronted cubicles lined the side wall, and there was the throb of motors, as if compressors were operating beneath the floor.
The sound was echoed faintly from one of the cubicles. He turned awkwardly, trying to see through the faint frost that covered the glass.
Someone was inside. Someone...familiar...? He moved closer, pressed his hands to the glass, and set his face between them, peering hard at the dim shape. As if summoned by his attention, the light intensified around the body inside.
"Hanse!" he whimpered, scrabbling at the glass with his numbed fingers. "Hanse, what have they done to you?"
BATTLETECH
08602
THE SWORD AND THE DAGGER
Ardath Mayhar
To Jordan Weisman, Margaret Weis, and Tracy Hickman… sine qua non
Battlefield technical writing by: William H. Keith
This book is published by FASA Corporation P.O Box 6930 Chicago, IL 60680
Cover Art by:David R. Dietrick
Illustrations by:Duane Loose
David R. Dietrick
Maps by:Dana Knutson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Copyright © 1987 FASA Corporation. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America.
BATTLETECH is a Trademark of FASA Corporation.
PROLOGUE
It is the year 3025. Man now inhabits the stars, but has taken his warlike nature with him. The thousands of worlds radiating out from Sol, first sun of the human race, were once bound together in a Star League that fostered technology, expansion, and prosperity for all. With the fall of the League in 2781, a Dark Age descended, as each of the five surviving star empires began warring for dominion. To this day, more than 200 years later, none of the five Successor Lords has been able to triumph decisively to become supreme Lord over the others.
The leaders of these five great star empires are known today as the Successor Lords of Houses Davion, Kurita, Steiner, Liao, and Marik. The devastating battles they have been fighting among themselves almost continuously for over two centuries have come to be called simply the Succession Wars.
To fight their wars, the Successor Lords have armies of BattleMechs, vaguely humanoid but gigantic battle machines bristling with lasers, particle projection cannons, long- and short-range missile launchers, autocannon, and machine guns. Though these walking tanks rule the battlefields, intrigue and plots rule the courts of the Inner Sphere, as each ruler seeks to win by deceit what he cannot achieve through force.
For a time, the endless Succession Wars brought death and destruction to civilization and to nearly all the learning and high technology of the Star League era. Better days may lie ahead, however, because the Successor Lords are now seeking to reestablish universities and to recover the scientific knowledge and technology long believed lost.
Most powerful among the five Successor States is House Davion, ruler of the Federated Suns. Since the start of the Succession Wars, House Davion has managed, through skillfully conducted military campaigns and subtle diplomacy, to double the number of star systems under its control. The current Prince of the Federated Suns is Hanse Davion, who ascended the throne unexpectedly in 3013 when his older brother Ian was killed in battle.
At 42 years of age, Hanse Davion is the youngest of the current Successor Lords. Based on his accomplishments so far, the accident of fate that made him Prince Davion twelve years ago may have been one of the great turning points in the history of the Successor States. Under his leadership, the Federated Suns have reached new heights of power, with Hanse becoming known as The Fox by both enemies and friends. He is, of course, a brilliant military strategist and a skilled negotiator, but his nickname also stems from Hanse's skill in playing the deadly games of intrigue and power that are the order of the day. For example, it is believed that Davion's agents provocateurs are responsible for fomenting unrest among the Free Worlds League, which has tied up House Marik's best military units trying to suppress the rebellions.
The Lyran Commonwealth, formed in 2341, is ruled by Katrina Steiner, Archon of the Commonwealth and Duchess of Tharkad. A woman of middle age, Katrina is a strong and determined leader who once trained as a MechWarrior, and who has since proven herself a canny strategist both militarily and politically. Realizing that Hanse Davion would make a potent ally, she negotiated ceaselessly to bring about a peace treaty with the Federated Suns. Steiner and Davion have also signed a secret treaty betrothing Hanse Davion in marriage to Melissa, Katrina's daughter and the Archon-Designate.
At this point in history, the border world of Stein's Folly, belonging to the Federated Suns, has been overrun by the forces of the Capellan Confederation, ruled by Chancellor Maximilian Liao. This is just the latest in a series of moves and countermoves toward worlds belonging to the other that has brought Davion and Liao into open conflict
Though the Capellan Confederation is the weakest of the five Successor States, Maximilian Liao is nevertheless a shrewd and crafty leader who is currently engineering a plot to unseat Hanse Davion and undermine the power of the Federated Suns. Liao's allies against Davion are House Kurita and House Marik. Though neither of these is actively involved in the current plot, both would benefit by anything that weakens the Federated Suns. Takashi Kurita, descendant of a long line of ruthless forbears, rules the highly military Draconis Combine with an iron hand. Janos Marik is leader of the Free Worlds League, which is slowly coming apart at the seams because of internal strife.
Even Michael Hasek-Davion, Duke of New Syrtis, might take an interest in the plot against his brother-in-law Hanse. Though he is the appointed ruler of the Capellan March, the ambitious Michael dreams of one day becoming the undisputed head of the Federated Suns. Prince Davion has no heir, and so the Duke would ascend the throne if anything were to happen to him. Hanse Davion publicly expresses only the greatest confidence in his relative, but Michael believes some of the Prince's recent military moves against the Draconis Combine were aimed at reducing his own influence and power. Not only did Hasek-Davion resist requests to reinforce the Davion offensive against Kurita, but it is rumored that agents of Maximilian Liao have paid several visits to the palace at New Syrtis.
All these interests are focused on Stein's Folly, an unimportant world located near the Davion/Liao border in the Capellan March sector of Davion space.
1
With the fall of Redfield, the
Davion commanders knew that it wouldn't be long before Liao came gunning for the nearby world of Stein's Folly. They were expecting it, the troops were expecting it, and even the battle computers were predicting a 73 percent chance of an attack within ten days. But the clever Duke of Sian managed to take them by surprise after all.
First came a lightning strike by a squad of Liao Death Commandos who planted explosives at the huge radar communications station at the system's zenith jump point. By crippling the microwave relay dish aimed at Stein's Folly 1 AU away, no warning of the attack could get through to the Davion forces onworld. At the same time, an unmarked Liao freighter popped in from less than 8,000 klicks away. Even before unfurling its sail or engaging its station-keeping thrusters, the ship disgorged a quartet of Union Class DropShips, which headed straight for the two Davion Invader Class JumpShips parked at the station, jamming the JumpShips' communication signals as they went.
The JumpShip crewmen repeatedly ordered the Drop-Ships to change course, but the four vessels just kept on coming. Then they began frantically radioing the jump station for further instructions, but the only reply they got was electronic noise. How could those Davion crewmen have known that Liao saboteurs had just transformed the jump station's communications gear into wreckage and debris and that a furious firefight was raging in the comm center at that very moment?
Meanwhile, the DropShips had begun spearing the Invaders with high-energy lasers, crippling them. By the time the JumpShip crews had gotten to the weapons lockers, or had even realized that they were under attack, space-armored invaders had already boarded the ships and were turning the passageways into slaughter pens.
Only now did the first of the Liao warships materialize at the jump point. As grapples swung back and restraining bolts exploded in silent rushes of vapor in the vacuum of space, the warships freed the huge Overlord Class Dropships they carried. Next came specially rigged and fitted freighters that disgorged hosts of AeroSpace Fighters strapped with fuel tanks more massive than themselves.
Even before the last Davion crewman lay dead amid the victory shouts that rang through the corridors of the Jump-Ships, the invaders were on their way to Stein's Folly, their drive flares creating an awesome display of light and power.
Phase One of the Liao assault had lasted sixteen minutes, ten seconds from the moment the first plastique charge exploded at the jump station, but the groundside defenders were still not even aware that they were under attack.
* * * *
Steindown lay deep within Stein's Folly's night hemisphere when the emergency call came through from DESTra, the Deep Space Tracking station in an elongated polar orbit about the planet. Colonel Winters was asleep when the orderly entered his chambers.
"Snuh-huh?" Winters tried to focus on the young face looking down into his own old and bleary-eyed one. "Whazit, Lieutenant?"
"DESTra reports a DropShip fleet inbound, Colonel, pushing at three Gs. They do not respond to our signals. Combat Intelligence believes they are hostiles, sir."
Winters closed his eyes again. "Relay it to Fleet Captain Vandenburg."
"Colonel...please! The jump station does not respond! Not one ship at the jump point responds! Colonel, wake up! Please!"
"What time is..." He came wide awake, eyes staring. "How many Gs?"
"Three Gs, Colonel. And they're already well past turnover and decelerating. ComInt estimates they'll be here within four hours."
"My...God..." Winters shook himself, rolled from his bed. The lieutenant helped steady him as he stood. "Go man ...go! Scramble the defenses! Sound Red Alert! Good lord, man, don't just stand there! If they catch us asleep on the ground...!"
But the mournful keening of the base siren was already sounding across Steindown. The lieutenant of the watch had shown rare initiative in sounding a full Red Alert without an order from his commanding officer. That might have been grounds for a courtmartial, but any military court would probably excuse the extraordinary circumstances of the offense. Besides, within five hours, whether or not the lieutenant might face courtmartial was no longer in question. He would not survive the Liao invasion of Stein's Folly.
* * * *
Uchita Tucker shrugged her shoulders against the cockpit harness that held her secure against the seat of her TR-7 Thrush AeroSpace Fighter. She hurt, and every muscle in her body shrieked for release. Her squadron was still decelerating at three Gs, and after ten hours of sitting wedged into her narrow cockpit with the equivalent of two people seated in her lap, the stress of high-G boost was wearing her down. Normally, fighters ferried from jump point to world in the bowels of Union or Overlord Class DropShips, but the Overlords that trailed her squadron this time carried the assault force reserves. The fighters of Dagger Squadron had begun the passage with extra tanks of reaction mass strapped above and below their squat, disk-shaped bodies. Those tanks, empty now and discarded, preceded the squadron toward Stein's Folly at nearly 1000 kps, the speed they'd retained when jettisoned. The fighters had slowed now to a few hundred kilometers per second.
The drive flares of the six Thrush fighters continued to slow them by thirty meters per second, leaving Uchita with the feeling that her lithe body's usual 57 kilos had massed to over 170 kilos. She was very tired.
Unconsciously flexing her right hand, Uchita knew she had one advantage over her squadron mates. Both of her legs and her right arm were bionic grafts, the result of a bad crashlanding in another Thrush that was now scrap and memories. All that had happened on a world far from the mottled green sphere whose image was now appearing in her aft camera viewscreen, beyond the dazzle of the drive flare. Her left arm was numb with strain and each breath was painful, but the mechanical parts of her body still functioned effortlessly, painlessly.
If only I can keep my mind clear and functioning, too, she thought.
Less than three hours remained until they reached atmosphere—even less than that until they tangled with the local Davion space defenses. When it was time for combat and adrenalin was pouring through her system, Uchita would be fully alert and at a fighting pitch, despite the strain of the past ten hours. That's how it always was. She checked her instruments again and peered past her drive flare at Stein's Folly. The surface was a patchwork of green land and deeper green seas, except where the local sun reflected gold and orange from cloud tops and water.
Some would think that sight pretty, she thought. The smile that touched her lips was bitter, and there was winter's ice in her eyes. But not me. Not the 'Mech-woman ... the Automaton of Destruction...Old Iron Pants...
She closed her eyes, her jaw muscles tensing. It might be that Uchita had won the respect of the other pilots in her squadron, but she had never won their friendship nor enjoyed the special camaraderie of the wardroom. She had long since stopped caring about the people around her, though, to the point where she'd been disciplined several times for disregarding battle tactics and squadron coordination. She had a reputation as a loner, a combat ace who cared more for upping her tally of twelve kills than for her comrades to port or to starboard.
The bastards. She would show them. She would show them all. She didn't care what they thought...and if she was half-machine, she was a machine with purpose—a killing machine.
The names they called her still hurt, but that was deep down where she could keep the pain and never let it show.
* * * *
The flight of Davion Sparrowhawks cleared the cloud-tops, contrails streaking aft from their wing and tailtips in the thin, icy stratosphere of the Folly. The rising sun tinted the cloud layer orange-gold and edged the fighters in red.
Lieutenant Adam Valasquez greeted the sun with a shout and laughter. "Yo! Red Flight! This is Red Flight Leader! Are y'all with me?"
A chorus of voices sounded in his earphones, and his combat screen showed green lights for each of the six ships in his command. This was the day he'd been waiting for, ever since he'd heard that the Liao bastards had taken Redfield. He'd known then that he would get to
lead the Hellraisers against the best pilots the Capellan Confederation could throw at them...and a beautiful day it was for it, too.
The SPR Sparrowhawk was an ideal first-response space defense fighter. With its high rate of thrust, the craft could clear the planet and meet the enemy well out in space while heavier fighters were still being readied on the ground. Valasquez harbored no illusions about the place his Red Squadron would hold this day. They would take the whole first brunt of the Liao fighter attack on themselves, hoping to blunt that attack, to turn it aside, to so delay the enemy's approach that heavier line fighters could reach the enemy formation before it had a chance to reform.
Such challenges required a special temperament, a special cast of mind. Many of Valasquez's friends thought he was crazy. The rest were certain of it Valasquez himself would be the last to deny the charge. It was part of an image he cherished and went out of his way to foster.
"Let's haul it, Hellraisers!" he shouted over the com circuit. "We got some tail to kick!"
There was a volley of rebel yells and cheers as he shoved his stick to full throttle forward. Savage acceleration kicked him back into his seat, and the SPR-HS clawed into the darkling sky. Then, one by one, the other ships of Red Squadron spewed white flame as they leapt skyward after their leader.
* * * *
Pilot Uchita Tucker was the first to spot the oncoming flight of Davion spacecraft.
"Dagger Leader, this is Dagger Two. Bogies at one-eight-zero, straight in line with objective. Range seventy-five thousand, closing." She kept her voice glacially level, coldly precise.
"Dagger Squadron, Dagger Leader. Look alive, boys and girls. The long ride's over, and the fun is about to start Arm your weapons." There was a snap and a hiss as Dagger Leader shifted from the general combat frequency to a private ship-to-ship channel. "Tucker, this is Captain Chen. A warning: stay tight and close, no hotdogging, no lone-wolf berserker tactics, got it? You stay with the flight, and hold tight to my wing. If you sideslip or lead me by more than ten meters from my port wingman position, I will personally burn you down—got me?"
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