"We should give the order to jump. There's nothing more to be gained by monitoring the situation from here," his fellow knight suggested.
"I agree."
"I've been watching the newscasts from the planet."
He kicked off again. When his boots clicked onto the deck wall, he stayed. "I stopped. Redburn and Levin got what they wanted. They got their war."
The man near the box laughed. "They got more than that, my little knight."
"Shut up," he muttered.
"What?"
"Not you," he replied to Hunter.
"I'm afraid our actions will lead to more than mere war."
The man in the corner offered his opinion. "More than that, Sir Mannheim. Your actions will bring death and destruction to millions." Jeremy ignored him, and hoped that Hunter wouldn't respond to his taunts.
"Yes," he said, his voice strained. "The Duchy will suffer economic issues from the disaster. They want blood. The Protectorate believes they were simply protecting their borders from future incursion. They'll be on the defensive. House Liao will offer aid to the Duchy to gain a political advantage. And every C-bill they spend to prop up the Duchy is one they aren't spending to wage war with The Republic. This war will strain their relationship." He didn't look at Mannheim when he spoke.
Hunter stepped farther into the bay. "That box . . . What's in it? You can tell me now that the mission's over."
Hunter walked closer to the box. Marik moved off to one side, standing nearer to Chin. "Go ahead, tell him. Tell him what you did. Tell him about the best part of your mission."
Jeremy walked down the wall to the deck and over to the box. "Devlin Stone was smart. By the end of the Jihad, he had collected all the dirty secrets of every government. Everyone wondered what happened to the real Thomas Marik after the final battle. He was supposed to have died in an epic last stand, but no body was ever found. I'm sure you've seen the documentaries, heard the speculations that he somehow survived and lived out his final years somewhere secret."
Hunter glanced at the box as if it contained poisonous snakes. "You mean?"
"Meet Thomas Marik. The Butcher of Blake. The Master. The greatest killer of all time."
"Ta-da!" the figure declaimed, swept them an elegant bow, then paused to adjust his mask.
"He did escape the final battle, then?"
Jeremy shrugged slowly. "Stone's notes didn't say. He may have died in the final battle and his remains were smuggled out to the monastery I raided on Kwamashu. It could be he escaped and lived to be an old man like all of the conspiracy theorists say. Maybe the Duchy took him in and hid him—I don't know. He had a lot of secrets that would have been worth extracting, I'm sure. Who can tell what happened? What I do know is this; we have his remains now, and since they were stolen during the battle, it will be assumed that the Oriente Protectorate took them."
Thomas Marik grinned, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. "Everyone wants a part of me." "My God."
Jeremy nodded once, slowly. "No one knew, other than Stone. If word got out, the Duchy of Andurien would be treated like a criminal state for keeping this secret, and it would make it hard for House Liao to publicly provide them support. More importantly, if they think that the Protectorate has these remains, they will be compelled to try to recover them."
"What will you do with them?"
Chin shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Redburn didn't give me any direction. Until he does, I have to hold onto them."
"That's right," the shadowed figure said. "Keep me close. We wouldn't want anyone cloning me, would we?"
"So you have his remains, and we have . . ."
"The war. The war I started."
"We," corrected Mannheim.
"Yes, all three of us," the figure added. "Isn't it grand? What shall we do next, my little knight? I was thinking of nuking Geneve. Doesn't that sound fun? Jerome Blake would be proud. Let's put some of your newfound experience to work."
"I told you, shut up!" Chin snapped.
Mannheim stared at him. "Are you feeling okay, Chin?"
"I'm fine," he replied curtly. "He just won't shut his freaking mouth."
Mannheim followed the direction of his gaze. "Who?"
"Marik."
"Wonderful! While we're on the subject, you should tell him who knew about the toxic chemicals and biohaz- ards stored in the industrial plant, and how they got wired to blow. Tell him who knew about the radioactive wastes, too. Tell him everything, Jeremy. You've already spilled the beans on me. I'm sure he'd be pleased to know what really happened."
"I won't tell him, damn it!"
Mannheim rested his hand on Chin's shoulder. "Jeremy, you need to relax. You're under a lot of stress. We both have a lot to think about—a lot to atone for."
"Maybe we should kill him," Thomas Marik suggested. "Think it over. Kill him, and you can create your own story for Redburn and the others. We could say he destroyed Breezewood. I know you have the skills to pull it off, but do you have the balls to do it?"
"I'm done killing!"
Chin shrugged off the older man's gesture. He didn't want to be comforted. He didn't want to ease his pain. Mannheim didn't know the full truth—and hopefully never would.
"You know you want to tell him," Thomas Marik said encouragingly. "Do it. I want to see the look on his face when you shatter what few dreams he clings to. It will be fun!"
"He's better off not knowing. I did what I had to."
"Son . . ." Mannheim reached out to him again, but Chin stepped back. He had to keep distance between them.
Jeremy closed his eyes to silence them both. A conflict between the Oriente Protectorate and the Duchy of Andurien was good for The Republic. The two of them focused on each other would buy The Republic time and offer hope. Drawing resources from the Capellan Confederation would preserve The Republic. Jeremy clung to those thoughts. They were the only thing that seemed to silence the man in the shadows.
Interpretation of Duty 9
Brandenburg, Callison
Former Prefecture VIII
Fortress Republic (+36 days)
The media ate up the opportunity to film the brave governor of Callison arriving on the front lines to meet the hero who had driven the oppressive Republic forces to ground. Cheryl refused to seek out the cameras, while Governor Stewart waved to them as if she personally was waving to every person watching the event. Cheryl was happy to let it unfold this way. She looked humble and unassuming, which would be useful later. By the time the footage was edited for the evening news, Cheryl was confident it would make a good patriotic documentary.
Of course, they were not actually on the front lines. She had drawn off her Hellion and a squad of infantry a good six blocks from the perimeter established around the warehouse district. Light Horse techs swarmed across her 'Mech, slapping on replacement armor patches and welding them into place. She could smell the ozone from their work; the clanging of their tools added to the image of immediacy that the governor wanted. The infantry squad was missing three of its personnel, casualties of the fighting, and two of them were injured, which played well. Their blood-soaked bandages added to the impression that Governor Stewart was right in the fight with them.
Cheryl shook her head.
She stepped forward to meet the governor, and the contrast between them hit her like a slap in the face. She was wearing her piloting shorts and a sweat-soaked T-shirt under her coolant vest. The vest made it look like she was wearing a coiled-up rubber novelty snake on her chest. Her neurohelmet hung in her hand like a dead weight. In contrast, the governor was wearing a dignified dress in a defiant red, as if she were challenging Sir Erbe. The camera crews filmed her every move as she stepped forward and shook Cheryl's hand, flashed the reporters a quick smile and nodded to her personal security. The media was ushered out of view. They had their story, their images, her spin. Now Cheryl and the governor could talk bluntly.
"Governor, forgive my appearance." Not exact
ly what she wanted to say, but it always helped to be polite.
Stewart waved her hand as if to dismiss the comment. "What is our situation?"
"Sir Erbe surprised me. I expected our push to press him back to the spaceport, but he went for the warehouse instead."
"Pushing him back to the spaceport was our plan, as I recall." She sounded disappointed.
"Ma'am, it is unfortunately true that no plan survives contact with the enemy," Cheryl said, then let it drop. The governor had no military experience, so there was no way to make her understand that adage. "Sir Erbe caught me off guard, but it won't do him much good. He's holed up in the warehouse district and has established a three-block perimeter. I have a variety of Light Horse units formed up around him, concentrated to the south. If he attempts to break out, that's where he'll go."
"What makes you so sure?"
"He's on a planet where the local population does not support his efforts or even his presence. He needs his DropShips, which are to the south at the spaceport."
"His effort is short-lived, then."
"Not necessarily," Cheryl answered honestly, then immediately regretted it. Governor Stewart was not a military person with a military background. She was a politician. She wanted facts. A battle was an ever- changing thing. As if to emphasize her thought, a rumble of autocannon fire echoed off the buildings several blocks away. "It's possible his force might punch through. The troops under Sir Erbe's command seem very proficient. But even if he does break through and reach his DropShips, we have still handed him a defeat." The last sentence gave Stewart what she wanted to hear.
"Things have changed," Stewart replied. "He is trapped away from his ships. Perhaps we should rethink our strategy."
The original strategy had been to force the knight to negotiate. Cheryl had no doubt that the governor now had something darker in mind. "What do you suggest, ma'am?"
"You have him holed up in the warehouse district. You can tighten that noose. Shell the building he is in. Destroy his defenses. You can destroy this knight and his force entirely."
Cheryl gathered her thoughts. What the governor was suggesting was possible but would be difficult. "In my opinion, it is not necessary to destroy the Republic force. Polls have shown that a significant percentage of the population still has some faith in The Republic, and a move like this might turn those civilians against us. Chasing the knight away with his tail between his legs gives us a sizable victory that does not gain us any enemies." Cheryl focused on the politics involved.
"Forcing a knight errant to flee is a good public relations coup. Destroying him will show everyone that The Republic is really dead. It drives the point home," Governor Stewart insisted.
Cheryl hated to admit it, but the governor was right. She tried again. "What about forcing him to surrender?"
"Surrender is messy. It leaves us with survivors—or worse, hostages that invite rescue missions. If we destroy this Republic force, we alone remain to craft the history of the event. We are left to explain how The Republic acted as an aggressor. No. Surrender isn't desirable, I'm afraid."
Cheryl knew there were no more options. "You want me to destroy Sir Erbe and his entire force."
"Cheryl," the governor said smoothly, "I want you to know that I will fully support your actions, even if the natural course of events results in the destruction of these invaders. I will be the first to hail you as a hero when the smoke clears." The governor had established complete plausible deniability. She would not order the destruction of the Republic force; she would simply take advantage of the results of that event. The blood of her own people would be on the hands of Cheryl Gunson, on the hands of Ceresco Hancock.
"I don't want to be a hero," she said, the plea coming straight from her heart.
"Of course you don't, my dear. Heroes have glory thrust upon them by circumstances. In this case, circumstance has delivered you an easy victory."
I don't want this victory. I want to complete my mission. "The citizens might not understand how this happened."
"This is bigger than Callison, Cheryl. I have been talking to nearby worlds about alliances. If you crush this knight and his force, it will send a clear message about how powerful we are, and how easily The Republic can be defeated. Your victory will be the cement in the foundation of my new leadership. The days of The Republic are gone, and those who resist that message must change their view. Callison will lead the way."
Another distant rumble went off. Missiles this time, and the sound reminded her that the battle was still being fought. It reminded her of her other obligations. "I believe I understand, ma'am."
"I believe you do."
As Cheryl turned to walk away, she hoisted her neuro- helmet and stared into the blank faceplate. I do understand. I understand that I have to create my own solution to my mission. Inwardly, Cheryl cringed at the realization of what victory might require, even though it was something she had trained for, something she had come to take for granted.
They don't call us ghosts for nothing. . . .
* * *
The Light Horse Yasha aligned itself over the street and pivoted the turbojets forward to accelerate. It came straight at the warehouse complex with its chainguns blazing. The shells stitched the street and the side of the building, turning windows into shrapnel and bricks to dust as the shells impacted. It was the third such pass, and the stubby fighter was starting to get on Kristoff Erbe's nerves. The good news was that the VTOL did only minimal damage and had to take off every few minutes to reload. The bad news was that it remained unmolested except by returning small-arms fire. Its speed and altitude made it a difficult and highly frustrating target. Like a damn fly that I can't manage to kill.
The DropShip engines were loaded on the prime hauler transports, but getting them to the spaceport was almost impossible at the moment. The Callison Light Horse had bottled them up pretty efficiently. Every move he made was quickly countered. He knew that they might not be able to mass enough firepower to overwhelm the militia and break out. If he did manage it, it would be costly.
For now, the warehouse district was safe. He preferred being trapped there to making a running retreat to the DropShips. Governor Stewart would have loved that—a Knight of the Sphere sent into a full rout by a planetary militia. Nothing would rally dissent on Callison and other worlds like defeating The Republic in a straight- up battle.
He felt proud that he had messed up her plans by not retreating. He might not have the firepower to break out, but he was confident that the Light Horse lacked enough manpower and machines to break him. My father would choose the path of least resistance. I can't.
So now he was under siege. It was messy, it would wear him down, but he would find a way to turn this to his advantage. He had to. Kristoff Erbe saw no other choice than surrender—which was not an option—or death. And he had to believe that no matter how heartless the governor was, she would not seek the total destruction of his force.
Then again, even if she did, who would seek retribution? Would Damien Redburn come to Callison and set matters straight? Was there a Republic out there for Kristoff Erbe to serve? For the first time in his life, he found himself wondering if he was fighting for the right cause. Almost immediately, he suppressed those feelings, pushing them down right next to his true feelings about his father. It was best that such thoughts not reach the light of day.
"Squirrel. Harbinger on secured channel." Adamans' voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Squirrel here," Kristoff replied, switching to the crypto-circuit controls on the comm board and activating his scrambler. "You are in the clear on secure channel one."
"My intelligence team has been reviewing data from our first encounter, profiling the TO&E of the Light Horse and their warriors, detecting patterns of action and tactics based on our battlerom footage. We have some preliminary results, which I am transmitting to you."
Erbe was impressed. The list that scrolled across his secondary display listed every p
iece of hardware the militia had in the field, and confirmed casualties and percent of damage for the Callison militia. RegularRepublic troops generally achieved this level of detail in their analysis, but only with a mobile headquarters and a team of experts crunching the numbers. For him, three men in the Fidelis dedicated to security as a secondary duty had performed the task.
"Outstanding, Harbinger. This is incredible data."
"There is more. I am sending you a secured image."
The monitor flickered as the image appeared on the display. It was the cockpit of a Hellion BattleMech. He studied the digital image captured by the Fidelis camera, and zoomed in to see the face of the MechWarrior. It looked like . . . but that was impossible. He zoomed in again. The warrior wearing the neurohelmet in the cockpit of the Hellion had stern features, gritted teeth and a familiar face.
Ceresco Hancock.
Adamans' voice seemed loud in the earpieces of his neurohelmet. "It is our visitor from the other night. Based on the patterns of the communications traffic, she was in command of the enemy forces. She was leading the attack against us."
"The traitor . . ." he breathed, every muscle in his body clenched at the realization.
"Say again, Squirrel."
Kristoff Erbe gathered his senses. He closed his eyes to avoid the image on the display. "Good work, Colonel. Don't share this image with anyone else. I will handle this on my own when the time is right."
Altar of Freedom 5
New Dearborn, Ryde
Jade Falcon Occupation Zone
Fortress Republic (-18 days)
Greene walked along the sidewalk toward VeteransPark. He had shed his military jumpsuit in favor of the civilian clothing he had worn underneath. This was more his style anyway, after years of being a ghost knight; being out of uniform offered a great deal of comfort. To most observers he would look like a common laborer- confused by the sound of gunfire and artillery, but still required to get to work. He moved cautiously, but normally enough not to attract the attention of any local law enforcement or Jade Falcon security.
Surrender Your Dreams Page 2
