Surrender Your Dreams

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  The park was a brilliant burst of color, greens, yellows and light browns shining in the middle of the urban grays and blacks. He found himself smiling when he saw the park. Only a few dozen meters more and he would be to the DropShips. He lifted his wrist as if to check his chronometer as he walked. A low rumble in the distance caught his attention for a moment—artillery fire. Got to be ours; the Falcons are not big fans of artillery.

  Toggling a button on his watch, he spoke in a low tone that the miniaturized comm system would pick up.

  "Mongoose, this is Greene. I'm at the park, heading north to the Excelsior. You can begin to fall back."

  There was a hiss and the sound of battle from the tiny earpiece he wore. Also miniaturized, the earpiece was camouflaged as an earring. He heard stress in her voice. "Understood. You've implicated our friends?"

  "Affirmative."

  "See you aboard the ship," she managed, as a cracking sound filled his ear. Whatever was happening a few blocks away, it was intense, that much was for sure. Jay- son Greene realized that he was very much on his own.

  * * *

  Lady Synd saw the Stalking Spider loom in front of her. Its jump jets had been reduced to twisted metal by her last salvo, but the Spider was still in the fight. She wished she could say the same of her Templar. The last blast of laser energy from the Spider had taken out the remaining armor on her 'Mech's chest. Strands of seared myomer flopped up and hit her windshield, sparking where they had been burned free. Her cockpit was now more like an oven than a control center. The Templar moved sluggishly, fighting her commands. She wanted to shift to the right, to try for the Spider"s flank, but each step was slow and ponderous, as if she were trying to move through a swamp.

  The Stalking Spider had taken some damage. Some of her Fidelis troops had peppered its legs with short-range missiles from reconfigured ATVs. Republic troops in a Pegasus hovercraft had made a skirting pass, blasting away at the body of the Spider. They had paid a price for their bravery when a laser blast had melted their turret into a permanent position.

  The fight wasn't over. The Jade Falcons' push to the park had been stalled by a fierce defense. Her tactical display showed that the Falcons had stopped moving forward and were beginning to entrench into the city, shifting into structures for defense. Not this Stalking Spider, though—it was hanging on.

  She still had a pair of BlazeFire extended-range medium lasers, which meant she still had a chance of doing some damage. As the Spider turned to bring its massive laser to bear, she brought her targeting reticle onto the massive 'Mech and fired a snap shot. One of the lasers missed completely, and she realized that it must have been damaged earlier but had not shown up on her damage display. The other shot, a searing green beam, hit the cocked leg that was closest to her and ran up to the knee actuator.

  At that instant, the Jade Falcon fired. The shot grazed her 'Mech's shoulder just enough to jar her. The majority of the energy missed, searing the front of a nearby building. She heard the rumble of the front fa9ade of the building caving in from the savaging it had received, pouring rocks and steel into the street behind her. Her hit must have been enough to throw off the Falcon's shot.

  A quick glance at her damage display revealed a harsh truth. One of her remaining two lasers was off-line. The glancing blow must have damaged the power feed in her 'Mech's shoulder. She leaned forward and looked to her left at the shoulder of the Templar, which was sizzling hot. The armor was gone there, as it was everywhere.

  On the ground she could see Fidelis troops fanning out, assuming defensive positions, firing at the Spider. She knew that if she went down before the Stalking Spider, it would tear into what was left of her troops. And there had been too much death already. As the Spider continued its turn and its laser recharged, she resolved to end the fight then and there.

  She urged her Templar into a lumbering run—really more of a controlled fall than a full-blown charge. The legs of the 'Mech were slow to respond to her, but she fought the control pedals. Leaning forward, she gritted her teeth and tensed every muscle against the impact. Sweat stung at the corners of her eyes.

  The Templar hit the front leg of the Spider precisely where her lasers had hit it earlier in the battle. Her ears rang, the sound fighting against the metallic grinding of the impact. Her body slammed forward against command couch restraints and she heard her cockpit canopy crack. The abrupt end of forward movement shoved her back into her seat, and her head slammed back hard.

  For a moment, she thought nothing had happened. She looked at her tactical display through the mist of the heat that steamed her neurohelmet shield and saw a glare of red. Her fusion reactor and gyro were showing as damaged. Two of her heat sinks had failed. In a daze, she reached forward to the display and felt the Templar groan as it moved forward. The leg she had hit was giving way, weakened by the assault and crumpling under the crushing weight of her 'Mech. It collapsed and she fell forward, under the Stalking Spider, which dropped down on top of her. The drop to the street below was nothing compared to the impact upon landing. The lights in her cockpit flickered out and were replaced by the emergency lights.

  Her Templar was dead.

  She heard a metallic moan above her, and knew that the Stalking Spider was down for the count as well. Lady Synd allowed herself a satisfied half-grin. She disengaged her restraints and grappled her way to the hatch. With any luck it wouldn't be blocked.

  * * *

  Boyne bent over Morella in the rubble of what had been a small corner store only moments before. A searing blast of laser energy had gutted the entire facade of the building, collapsing it onto the first floor. Survivors stirred under the ferrocrete dust and splintered wood of a destroyed piece of furniture. The infantryman should have been dead, judging by the pile of debris he crawled out from under. Instead, he hoisted his weapon to cover Boyne and Morella. Another trooper crawled from the debris as well.

  Morella was not so lucky. She looked pale; he could tell she was dying. Boyne ignored the gunfire behind him and leaned over her. Was she already dead? Her eyelids flickered, then half opened. One eye was horribly red and bulging from the shattered blood vessel behind it. Boyne reached for the medical kit on his web belt, but she lifted her hand to stop him.

  "Dying," she whispered through dust-covered lips. Now he could see the blood in her mouth. Her words sounded wet as blood seeped into her lungs.

  He heard the titanic metallic shriek of BattleMechs falling, but he didn't look away. "I can give you something for the pain."

  Her eyes closed. "Tell my children ... I died well."

  Boyne understood. "I will, Morella. I will tell them how you fought the Jade Falcons and honored us all. You will be remembered on the Rocks of Fate." His eyes stung from unshed tears.

  She coughed, and for a moment he thought she was gone. It seemed to take forever for her eyes to reopen, and he reached down and took her hand. Her words were weaker now, harder to hear over the bursts of gunfire and SRM launches raging outside. "You know what you must do. I cannot reach it."

  He stared at her left shoulder. The armor of her suit was torn open to her bare skin. Her skin was gray with dust except for the scratches where blood pooled in the film of dirt. Her left arm was broken; he could see the bone poking up just under the skin and knew she must be in agony. She couldn't reach it. He could.

  Boyne rested his hand against her skin. He made eye contact with her one more time. Morella nodded and closed her eyes, smiling weakly. He pinched the tiny tube implanted under her skin until he felt it crack between his fingers.

  * * *

  Synd jogged into the destroyed shop and was immediately flanked by three of the Fidelis. She dropped her neurohelmet and stepped down into the rubble of the building. Boyne was bent over one of the Fidelis infantry commanders—she thought her name was Morella. She looked dead, or very close to it.

  Synd watched as Boyne squeezed Morella's shoulder.

  Suddenly the woman stiffened, going rigid like s
he was having a seizure. She shook for a moment, then seemed to slump. All at once, her pale, dust-covered skin seemed to collapse. It looked as if she were withering, aging at superspeed. Her skin tightened as if every bit of moisture were being sucked from it. What was happening to her?

  Whatever Boyne had used on Morella's body, it was not a simple suicide device. He must have released something into her bloodstream.

  There was a roar from behind her. Her world suddenly turned orange, and she was in the air, heading right at Bqyne. Her back was hot, no, on fire. The ground hit her fast and hard. Agony stabbed at her as hundreds of rocks ground into her skin. Hands turned her over. There was a coppery taste in her mouth.

  There had been an explosion. The ringing in her ears became a low roar, like running water. She tried to focus her eyes, but it was a struggle. She could make out a face—Boyne was leaning over her. He touched her face.

  "Can you hear me?"

  The best she could manage was a strangled-sounding, "Unnh."

  "Can you move your limbs?"

  She tried, but as with her Templar a few minutes earlier, her arms and legs seemed to struggle against her commands. Her right leg seemed to be badly hurt; something throbbed there every time she tried to move it, and involuntary tears leaked from her eyes.

  "You've been wounded. I'm going to get you back to the DropShip," Boyne said. He seemed to be motioning to others, then there was more pain as three or four sets of hands hoisted the fallen knight.

  "Tell Major Greene he's in command," she whispered. "My orders and the rendezvous coordinates are in my stateroom. Tell him to complete the mission." The mission always came first. The mission has to succeed no matter what happens to me. Respect for those who had died on this mission demanded it.

  Boyne slipped under her arm and gripped her around the waist. "You can tell him yourself when we reach the ship." He turned his head and shouted orders. "Fall back by sections. Contact Vasserman and tell him to pull back his vehicles to cover us. Keep up the fire on those Falcons." He activated his wrist comm. "Captain Paulis, I'm at

  Maple Drive

  , two blocks north and west of the park. Mongoose is down. Say again. Mongoose is down. I have her and need you here to cover our retreat."

  "Crap!" replied Paulis, strain cracking his voice. Somehow it reassured her. It meant he was still alive.

  Nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and she tasted bile mixed with the blood in her mouth. "Forget me. Get the troops out of here, Captain," she wheezed. The words seemed to take away what little energy she had remaining.

  "You are in no condition to give orders, and I have no intention of taking them now," Boyne replied. "I have ordered a retreat to the ships, and we're taking you with us." He held up his comm unit again. "Stormcloud, this is Iron Will. Drop smoke for cover on my coordinates. No spotting round. Lock onto my signal and fire for effect, full dispersal."

  "What about Morella?" she asked. That was not what she meant to say, but the words were what surfaced from her foggy mind.

  "She is released," Boyne said, lifting her into the smoke-filled street with the aid of another trooper. The air stung her eyes. "We leave no blood on the field of battle. I simply honored that vow." He pulled his service automatic and pumped off two rounds at a target down the street. She couldn't see his target. She no longer wanted to. Too many have died. It's time to get out of this place. Through a haze of pain she saw the smoke rounds hit the street. They hissed and blasted particles in every direction. In a matter of seconds the entire street was thick with smoke. That wouldn't prevent targeting and tracking systems from finding targets, but it made line-of-sight fire impossible. I warned Redburn this would happen. Damn him. Damn me for being right.

  The image of Morella's body, laying in the rubble, oddly and prematurely decayed, floated in her mind's eye. "What did you do to her?" She stumbled, and Boyne and the other trooper simply dragged her along. Her feet skidded on the ferrocrete pavement.

  "Now is not the time."

  "Tell me!" she demanded.

  "I fulfilled her honor. If it had been me, she would have done the same. It is our way. No blood"—he fired off another round into the smoke that was now behind them—"no DNA. No way for them to know who we really are."

  At that moment, Lady Synd lifted her head and saw the yellow-green grass of VeteransPark. Only a hundred meters more . . .

  She passed out long before they had traveled that distance.

  Overture 1

  Coos Bay, Oregon, Terra

  Prefecture X, Republic of the Sphere

  Fortress Republic (-188 days)

  Damien Redburn sat in the deep, plush red chair, his feet up on the ottoman. The evening chill had started to set in. He and Sasha had chosen to live in the Pacific Northwest because it reminded him of the planet North- wind, where he had been raised, and offered the prospect of fishing. Before retirement, he had thought he'd enjoy fishing. That seemed like years ago. He had gone fishing six times in the nearly three months since he had stepped down as exarch of the Republic of the Sphere, and now he was willing to admit that he found it boring and cold. Redburn was disappointed that his retirement was not what he'd hoped for. Truth be told, being retired was dull.

  He stared intently at the hard-copy book in his hands, as if it could give him solace. Since he had stepped down as exarch, his den looked more like an office; sitting in a comfortable chair and reading late into the night made it feel like a place of rest and relaxation again, rather than a place of work.

  Work. It wasn't like in the days when he was leading the entire Republic. Now work consisted of publicity visits to schools and factory openings, to military bases and factories. Cutting ribbons, shaking hands with schoolchildren, these were the jobs performed by a former exarch. There was his book deal; mounds of paper associated with compiling his notes covered his desk. Thinking of it prompted him to look away from his reading and stare at his dark walnut desk. In the falling evening darkness, the mounds of paper, scribbles of notes from meetings long past, seemed to cast odd shadows on the wall near his workstation monitor. The things I call work now don't make a difference in the universe. There was a time when the decisions I made were important. . . .

  It was the past that truly bothered him. He'd hoped that reading his great-grandfather Thelos Auburn's book, A Study of Empires: The Third Succession War, would give him insight, inspiration enough to sit down in front of the pile of papers and begin work on his memoirs. His publisher assured him that people wanted to hear his opinions and views. He frowned, closing the book as carefully as if it were a bible. No one wants to hear from a washed-up leader. Especially one who made mistakes like I did.

  Damien knew that he was not personally responsible for the current state of The Republic. Knowing that and accepting it, however, were two different things. What Jonah Levin had inherited was a bomb with a burning fuse. Redburn had been duped by Ezekiel Crow, one of his own trusted paladins. Terra had faced invasion by the Steel Wolves. The Jade Falcons had crossed into Republic space and had carved out a chunk for themselves. Then there were the actions of the Capellan Confederation, which saw the peace of Stone's Republic as a weakness to be exploited.

  He laid the book on the small table next to his easy chair and felt his face tighten as he thought of the Liao incursion into The Republic. Damien was a veteran of the CapCom war; he had cut his military teeth on the

  Capellans in that conflict. I trusted them all .. . maybe not the Capellans so much, but I trusted the other governments. 1 assumed, like Stone did, that everyone wanted peace. Now he saw the governments of the Inner Sphere for what they were, albeit too late. They did not scent sweet peace on the wind, but rather the bitter smell of conquest. That smell sparked their hunger for power, and they rushed forward to consume The Republic like a starving man turned loose at a buffet.

  In the past, he had always been able to turn to his stalwart paladins—but even that changed. Victor Steiner-Davion, more icon than man, wa
s dead. Victor offered a unique perspective on Inner Sphere politics that was impossible to replace, and his loss created a void that The Republic leadership would be hard- pressed to adequately fill. Even as he transferred the authority of his office to Jonah—Exarch Levin—the Senate had proven itself another disease seeking to feast on The Republic, and its actions started a civil war in Europe.

  Damien Redburn had never said the words out loud, but he felt responsible for the events that had unfolded.

  A flicker of light from his desk caught his attention. His monitor came to life. He thought that was odd, because he was certain he hadn't left any applications running. Perhaps it was a late-night communication from his publisher, asking for a progress update on his memoirs. As he rose from his chair, he looked at the antique clock on the mantle, saw it was almost midnight and decided that the message was not from his publisher. As he walked to his desk, he wondered if it was a family emergency, if one of the kids had a problem.

  He slid into his desk chair, and the leather groaned as he sat. The monitor displayed the logo of The Republic: Ad Securitas Per Unitas. He inserted the tiny earpiece in his right ear to listen to the message. So, not the kids. The Republic logo was reserved for official communications. His heart beat slightly faster. Perhaps it was Jonah contacting him.

  The image on the screen faded and another came into focus. He was looking at a face he hadn't seen in years; he felt like he was seeing a ghost. Fear and excitement widened his eyes. It's not possible . . . not him! He opened his mouth to respond to the man on the screen, but the head continued to speak. He stared at the features of the man who had forged The Republic, drinking in his words as if they were life-giving water. After a few moments data being transmitted from Geneve flickered on the screen. He leaned in, studying the details as they flowed past.