Surrender Your Dreams

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  "Really," the Protectorate spy replied. "I heard there were some jobs up in Breezewood, but figured it was just the usual rumor mill."

  Chin took a small sip of his whiskey and licked his lips with mock satisfaction. "You heard the truth, bud. They paid me four times the going wages for just a week's worth of work, cleaning out parts of the old industrial plant up there. They told a bunch of us to come back in three weeks and we can apply for jobs."

  "Sounds like a sweet deal." Kaff figured that he was the one doing the fishing and had just got a tug on his line. That was the part that made Jeremy feel so great.

  "It is at that." He practically beamed with pride. No need to rush and spill the beans early. Let him work for it.

  "I thought that old factory complex was being used to store industrial wastes?"

  "Ah, that was just rumors. In fact, they've moved in some heavy equipment that came by special DropShip."

  "What are they going to be building there—holovid units?"

  There it was. He had him. Chin was practically sweating with pride. His fish had been caught and had no idea. "The supervisor up there said it was some sort of military assembly plant. From what I saw of the military units that arrived when we finished up, I think he was on the up-and-up."

  "Wow. I wonder why they're building a tank assembly plant here?" Chin knew this ploy well, he had used it many a time: Jeremy hadn't mentioned tanks at all. Secret Agent Kaff was tossing his line a little farther out, hoping for a nibble.

  "I don't know anything about tanks. What I heard was BattleMechs—that's one thing for sure I know they're planning on putting together there. I saw the gantry parts in crates myself."

  "A 'Mech factory, huh?" Kaff pressed. "If they told you there'd be jobs, they must have some idea when they want it to go operational."

  Badly overplayed, but Jeremy Chin didn't mind. "Yeah, as a matter of fact, they did say when they expected to go live." He finished his drink and clacked the glass on the bar. The whiskey burned as it went down. "You know, bartender, another round just might be in order."

  The Protectorate spy threw back his own whiskey and emptied his glass. "I'll get this round, one for both of us." Jeremy figured he was good for a few more drinks before the dance was over, but the hard part was already done. He loved this part of his job. Given what he was going to have to do in Breezewood—no, to Breezewood— he relished this moment. This might be the last fun thing he got to do.

  * * *

  Sir Mannheim studied the layout of the factory complex and contemplated the task he faced. The old chair he sat in squeaked as he leaned over the former plant- manager's desk. Outside, he heard the beep-honk of a hovercar and the sounds of the ever-present wind whipping paper and trash up against the chain-link fence. Breezewood may have had charm, but it was decades in the past. The city, like the factory, had been left to rot. The locals he had met took their cue from his uniform and the colors of his 'Mech and assumed he led a Duchy military unit. They didn't offer him any particular respect. Some panhandled from his sentries while others attempted to apply for jobs that didn't exist. They were turned away. One tossed a bottle at the guards.

  None of those things meant they deserved to have war brought to them.

  If all went as planned, he would be blowing up this city within the city when the Oriente Protectorate landed and made its move on Breezewood. His command was going to have to make a good fight of it despite their intention to fall back and blow up the mock plant.

  Even defending the abandoned factory was going to take some doing, if only for a short time. Urban combat was the worst kind of combat, and since he needed to keep attackers out of the plant until he could evacuate it and blow it up, he needed special defenses. His combat engineers from the Fidelis had begun to construct roadblocks to restrict movement into the plant grounds. Bunkers were being put up to provide defense. Mannheim ordered a few key roadways open so that he could get his troops out—but without knowing from which way the attack was going to come, setting effective defenses was going to be difficult.

  The door to the office opened, and within a second the night breeze cut the room's temperature in half. Jeremy Chin stepped through the door. Mannheim could tell instantly that he had been drinking. His eyes were half-closed and his cheeks were red. and not from the wind. He caught a faint scent of whiskey as Chin swayed into the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

  "Out celebrating. Sir Chin?" He was fiercely glad for his opportunity to be sarcastic.

  Chin frowned. "No. I was out doing my job."

  "Ah. Your job must include getting drunk, then."

  "It is part of the job when you are planting information," Chin replied, flopping into an old office chair. The back on the chair was only loosely attached; he tipped dramatically backward but caught himself at the last minute.

  "The life of a ghost knight is obviously more difficult than I imagined."

  Chin contented himself with an evil-sounding chuckle in response. The drunken happiness faded to a grim expression. "Trust me. Sir Mannheim, you don't know the half of it. What are you doing up, anyway?"

  "Going over the plant layout, double-checking where I've posted sentries."

  "Just like a good Boy Scout," Chin replied curtly. "I'm sure that Devlin Stone would be proud of you."

  "Don't talk ill of Stone. If it wasn't for him, we wouldn't be here."

  Chin didn't seem impressed. "True enough. And it was his vision that brought us to Breezewood, the fat flapping hairy-ass armpit of the Duchy of Andurien. Damn wannabe government. Another freaking Marik- in-the-closet."

  "You would be wise to hold your tongue. We're bringing war to these people. Whatever you think of this planet and the Duchy, no one deserves that."

  Chin's face clouded with anger. "Don't lecture me. I'm not one of your kids. I know what we're doing. I know a lot more about what we're doing than you do."

  Chin made a mistake by mentioning Mannheim's children. Hunter rose to his feet. "Watch your mouth, boy. You may be a knight, but that doesn't mean you're exempt from good manners. I turned my back on my family, my children, to be here."

  There was an awkward pause as the two men glared at each other. Jeremy Chin looked away first. "Forget it, Sir Mannheim. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just been stressful. I haven't been in the field in more than two years."

  There was something more eating at the younger knight, that much Hunter could see. Something even the alcohol couldn't pry out of him, though it had come close. "I'm tired, too. I have to admit that I'm not enjoying this mission myself."

  "You'd better try to enjoy it now. It's going to get much, much worse." Chin rose and waved his hand. "I'm outta here. See you in the morning." He flung open the door and another ice-cold breeze cut into the office until the door closed on the night.

  "What in hell do you mean by that?" Hunter Mannheim asked the closed door.

  Interpretation of Duty 4

  Light Horse Barracks

  Brandenburg, Callison

  Former Prefecture VIII

  Fortress Republic (+16 days)

  Riots are ugly things that rarely start out as a raging mob. They usually start as a peaceful gathering that cascades out of control. The riot outside the Brandenburg barracks of the Callison Militia started as a peaceful protest, with a few picketers carrying signs that said betrayers! and traitors! There were verbal taunts of the Light Horse infantry who protected the garrison in the middle of the city. One of the protesters had simply mooned the guards, to a roaring laugh from the crowd.

  The barracks was a small city within the city covering ten blocks near the center of the planetary capital. It was walled off by a thick battlement that seemed more suited to an earlier time; a determined Mech Warrior taking well-placed shots could blast through the wall in a matter of minutes. The buildings beyond the wall, redbrick construction with metallic roofs painted dark green, were very old, most dating back to the Star League era. Ivy grew up the walls of the
structures and on the white pillars of some of the buildings. There were five gates leading into the complex, each of which gathered more infantry as the mob outside grew. Cheryl had visited the complex once during her rapid rise in the Directorate and had come away with the impression that she had visited a living museum.

  The crowd continued to grow. Cheryl knew that some of the people joining the protest were being paid by the government—unofficially, of course. She knew this because she had organized the covert payments herself. The people she had hired were mostly criminals or police, both groups prone to violence. They mingled with the ordinary citizens gathering outside of the barracks, slyly escalating the crowd's anger and frustration. Some planted rumors that Legate Leif was planning a coup now that The Republic had collapsed. Someone brought an effigy of the legate hoisted on a tall pole so that the crowd could see it. The life-size mannequin was lighted on fire to the rising cheers of the audience.

  Cheryl cringed. This had not been part of her instructions. Someone in the audience had taken initiative and it was working, whipping the crowd into a full-fledged angry mob. She stood across from Gate Three of the complex on M Street and adjusted her sunglasses. With a scarf pulled over her head and the largish sunglasses, no one would identify her as anything other than an ordinary bystander. She looked like anyone else on the street. Only she knew that looks were where that ended.

  She heard the BattleMech stir inside the barracks before she saw it. She was intimately familiar with the sound of a 'Mech's metal feet on ferrocrete, the low rumble of each step. At first, the crowd didn't hear it. By the time they realized what they were hearing, it was already in full view. Cheryl knew that under typical circumstances, the crowd would back off at the sight of the Hellion stepping into view. There was a moment's hesitation. Then a hail of bottles and rocks flew through the gate and fell on the infantry on the other side.

  The infantry produced riot shields and pulled back a meter or two. Glass shattered as bottles hit the ground and the shields, but they held their ground. A handful of citizens stepped forward, grabbed the steel gate and began shaking it. Soon there was a mass of humanity pressed up against the gate.

  A prime hauler, a flatbed truck used to transport 'Mechs, rumbled out next to the Hellion and stopped. High in the truck bed stood several infantry, rifles at the ready, and Legate Leif. He wore his full dress uniform and carried a bullhorn to address the crowd. "Please step away from the gate. This is a Republic military installation. Disburse immediately." His sentences were to the point.

  They did nothing to mollify the crowd.

  Boos roared as he spoke, drowning out his final comment. The legate was far enough back that the thrown bottles, rocks and other debris didn't reach him, but it was obvious his appearance and orders would do nothing to dispel the mob. The crowd continued to rock Gate Three, and she heard a metallic grinding noise; they had damaged the gate's control mechanism.

  From her position kitty-corner across from the gate, Cheryl watched. The riot would reach a crescendo soon. She could feel it. More people showed up as the news media broadcast the event. Most simply showed up to see what was happening. Some got caught up in the emotional reaction and were suddenly part of the yelling and throwing. Others who wanted to leave couldn't. She watched a media VTOL sweep along the street from several hundred feet up, filming the event as it unfolded. She adjusted her scarf over her head. Anonymity was important.

  Cheryl didn't see where it came from, but caught a glimpse of flame in mid-flight. A Molotov cocktail. The wine bottle with its flaming cloth wick flew over Gate Three and shattered in front of the line of infantry, followed by four more. Wine splashed onto riot shields and they were momentarily sheeted with flames. The infantry reflexively dropped them and retreated a few steps, seeking cover behind their comrades. The entire line of infantry took a coordinated step back as the flames ran along the ground and black smoke swirled upward. The shouts of the mob increased at the sight of the smoke and glimmer of fire.

  Someone in the militia pulled out a high-power hose and hit the fire then sprayed the protestors at the gate. There was no follow-through, and she assumed it was just one soldier who thought that the hose would solve the problem. For a moment, it seemed to have an effect. The gathered wall of humanity at the gate reeled back. Some people fell. There was screaming. Others who couldn't see jumped to the conclusion that the infantry was opening fire on the protestors. Cheryl's heart began to race. Using the fire hose on the crowd would definitely make things worse.

  "I order you to disburse immediately," boomed the voice of the legate.

  Cheryl saw a club drift past her field of vision, then another. Someone was bringing in the material necessary to turn the mob into a full-on riot. She wasn't surprised: she only wondered why she hadn't seen them earlier, given the mood of the crowd. Larger objects were shuffled forward. The hose was shut off as a new wave of rocks and bottles rained down on the infantry.

  "I call on you as loyal citizens of The Republic to please leave this area now." Cheryl heard the worry in his voice, though she wondered if anyone else recognized the change in his tone.

  A battering ram made out of a lamppost appeared out of nowhere. She saw the back end of it through the throng and heard the metallic clang of it hitting the fence. Cheryl could see the top of Gate Three and watched it rock under the impact. Each strike rocked it farther away from its hinges. A continuing onslaught of thrown rocks kept the infantry from reinforcing the gate on the inside.

  She heard the distinctive cracking noise of a gunshot. The crowd must have thought it was the gate breaking, because no one appeared to panic. With a metallic thud the gate dropped, and she heard more shots ring out. The mass of humanity at the gate flooded through like liquid when a bottle is uncorked. People rushed the squad of troopers; the protestors who tried to turn around when they heard the gunfire were caught in the mass of people pushing forward. She heard cheers and saw puffs of smoke rising from the area near the gate.

  The Hellion stepped backward, probably the last time it would be able to move without risk of crushing the protestors. The crowd began shouting. Clubs were raised. She saw one man with a pistol in his hand charge forward.

  The Brandenburg barracks had been breached. She lost track of the legate in the chaos, but saw people scrambling onto the prime hauler. The Republic flag dropped nearly to the bottom of the flagpole, then was sent back to half-mast in flames. Ash flew away in the afternoon breeze; when the remains fell, a cluster of enraged protestors stomped them into the dust. It tore at her. Was this what was happening across the rest of The Republic? How could people so easily turn against Stone's vision? She turned away to avoid looking at the charred remains of the flag on the ferrocrete.

  The shooting stopped when the crowd spread out as it rushed into the barracks complex. The sound of windows breaking accompanied screams of rage. Cheryl repeated to herself that all this was necessary for the survival of The Republic. She clung to that fact. What was occurring at this moment would pass.

  A body dropped to the ground in front of the destroyed gate. The mob milled around it, hitting it with clubs, kicking it, spitting on it. The dark green uniform was soaked with blood. Cheryl didn't need to step forward to see who it was. The hostility of the rioters told her that Legate Leif was dead. It didn't matter whether he had been shot in the rush on the gate or bludgeoned to death by the mob. The riot had accomplished its heinous goal, the public murder of an official leader of The Republic. Guilt roiled in her stomach.

  Turning away from the carnage, Cheryl melted into the press of bystanders on the edge of the mob. She heard the rotors of the media VTOL thumping above the scene as she walked away. They would have what they wanted, a story, an image for the news. Events here today would shock some, but others would cheer. For a moment Cheryl Gunson, ghost knight of The Republic, despised herself.

  * * *

  She tossed her scarf into a public trash container on the way back to her office. She d
iscarded her sunglasses on a public bench; she knew someone would pick them up and take them. Her coat went into the donation box for the local branch of the Common Relief Agency. Nothing remained to tie her to any image that might surface from the riot.

  The agency was swamped with calls. The riot was being shown on all of the public-area monitors. The police had managed to contain the crowd, and had broken up the riot once word spread of the legate's death. Two of the larger barracks buildings had been set on fire, but the Republic troops already had the situation under control. No deaths other than the legate had been reported, though many rioters were being treated for minor injuries. She personally contacted the precinct captain nearest the barracks to help ensure that the military hardware stayed with the Republic troops. The last thing they needed was a petty robber using a shoulder- launched SRM to commit his crimes.

  She assigned two of her top infiltration experts to begin reviewing footage of the riot, demanding that they come up with the names of those responsible for inciting the peaceful protest to become a mob. This was a necessary lie. In reality, Cheryl had no need to be told the names of those responsible for the riot, because she was one of them. She wouldn't have been surprised to learn the governor herself had made arrangements regarding the mob. The fact that the protestors were provided with clubs, guns and a battering ram indicated a certain level of organization typical of managed riots: She had coordinated these types of events herself in her work as a ghost knight, and so she knew that the necessary equipment would always show up, even if she didn't arrange for it herself.

  What had she expected? She slumped into her chair and closed her eyes. She had paid for people to prod the crowd into a riot. A part of her had hoped that it would be the Light Horse militia that overreacted: If they opened fire on the crowd and massacred innocent citizens, the media would have a field day. Cheryl couldn't be sure at what point matters had taken on a life of their own.