Surrender Your Dreams

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  It got harder. Deliberate betrayal was like that. People tended to think that once you started it got easier, but not for Cheryl. "My source also was able to inform me of when Sir Erbe plans to deploy, and where."

  The governor seemed suddenly cautious. "Such good luck seems impossible, Cheryl. I must insist that you tell me how you managed this."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't say."

  All at once, Stewart seemed very pleased with herself. "I think I know."

  Oh, God—I hope you don't. Before Cheryl could speak, the governor continued.

  "Traitor. For you to have an understanding of the knight's battle plans, you must have a traitor on the inside of his force. Someone who is sympathetic to Calli- son's plight. I'm right, aren't I? It's a traitor."

  Cheryl held her breath; her blood sounded loud in her ears. Governor Stewart was right; someone on the inside was revealing secrets—just not whom she suspected. "It would be best if you refrained from speculating on this topic, Governor. I would hate to place anyone's life in danger as a result of our work. Let's just say that not everyone fully supports the exarch's Fortress Republic plans and leave it at that."

  "But if we were to point out that even those in the military consider that Exarch Levin's course of action is wrong, it could be a public relations coup for Callison." Stewart was always thinking of the public, always finding ways to get them to see the universe the way she did: with her in the center.

  "To reveal this now would place lives in jeopardy needlessly and tip our hand too early. Maybe when the dust from this affair settles, we can let people know that even The Republic military doesn't agree with the exarch. For the moment, our source should remain completely unknown."

  "You are a valuable and resourceful asset, my dear," Stewart said, placing her hand on Cheryl's shoulder.

  It was now or never. "I appreciate that, ma'am. You know that I have never asked for anything for myself. My duty has always been to Callison first." Those hints should be broad enough for even the dimmest politician, which Stewart certainly was not.

  "But now you'd like to ask for something?"

  "If I may."

  "Go ahead."

  "As shown in my personnel file, I served in the militia myself for a few years—junior officers training program. When we make the move against Sir Erbe, I would like to be there—with the militia, if you will allow it." Her words were sincere, practically dripping with patriotic fervor. She didn't want to overplay her hand, but she wanted the governor to think bigger, broader.

  Stewart pondered the request for a moment, turning to quietly study another flowering bush before she responded. Cheryl thought she could read the older woman's thoughts. The governor would be looking for a way to turn this into something that she could use, something that she could leverage to her own advantage. "Cheryl, I know you are loyal, and I deeply appreciate that. But I cannot have you serving in the militia when the Light

  Horse must defend our homeland. I'm afraid that wouldn't be right."

  That wasn't the answer she had expected. Maybe I overacted. Governor Stewart continued. "Simply being there with them is not enough. For your service, I will turn over command of this operation to Internal Affairs. You will not simply observe or participate: You will command the operation against this knight errant."

  Cheryl felt her face turn red, though she knew the governor would misinterpret the reason. "Thank you. ma'am. I won't let you down."

  "I know you won't." Stewart plucked one of the flowers from a bush and drew a long breath. Then she casually tossed the flower onto the path for someone else to clean up. "Now then. Let's plan how you will crush this knight."

  * * *

  Her apartment was dark when Cheryl Gunson walked in. As soon as the door closed she dropped her bag and flopped onto the couch. It had been a long day. She had betrayed a man she barely knew and the people who served him. It hurt to think of it that way, but she knew it was the truth. The only thing that allowed her to stay the course was one thought: What I'm doing is in the long-term best interests of The Republic. In the darkness of her tiny flat, the thought offered little solace.

  She was proud of one thing. Cheryl had not revealed everything she knew. Part of her training as a ghost knight had been learning that it was never wise to lay down all your cards. It was better to keep back something for the future. She was particularly proud that she did not reveal the last bit of information she knew because it would have shattered Kristoff Erbe—not as a knight errant, but as a man.

  Rubbing her temples, she kicked off her shoes and lifted her legs onto the couch. Revealing his secret to Governor Stewart would have given the governor a dramatic edge, especially if she in turn made it known to the public. She felt sure that Kristoff Erbe's true past was known in very few circles. The ghost paladin had provided the information to her only because she might need to leverage it in order to complete her assignment. Cheryl was glad it hadn't been necessary.

  It could be argued that the Jihad represented mankind's darkest time. Some worlds and cities were laid waste, others were terrorized. Erbe's homeworld of Towne had been occupied by the Word of Blake, and their reign of terror included both death camps and reeducation facilities established to break the hearts, minds and wills of the local population.

  On no planet did the Word of Blake operate alone. On every world there were those who helped them, who simply saw them as a new government, a new flag in the wind over their capitols. Those with violent or sadistic tendencies joined the Word of Blake, committing atrocities and war crimes; others served as minor functionaries and administrators under their regime. Not until Devlin Stone took up the war against the Word of Blake and shattered their core, driving them from world to world until they were crushed, was it possible to consider the guilt or innocence of the collaborators.

  Kristoff Erbe's secret was tied to those events. His father, Jacob, was an Education Minister on Towne before the Jihad. When the Word of Blake seized control of Towne, they placed him in charge of a reeducation camp. He did everything in his power to behave humanely and to maintain humane conditions, but people still died in his camp. Jacob Erbe could not stop the baser instincts of the oppressors.

  Transcripts of his trial showed that he did what he had to do to save the lives of his family. The Word of Blake threatened to kill them all if he didn't accept the assignment. Kristoff was four at the time. Ceresco didn't know how much he remembered of his father. She didn't want to know.

  When the Jihad ended, Jacob had been rounded up along with all the others who had cooperated with the Word of Blake. In every case, the citizens called for a quick trial and an even quicker verdict, which was always death, painful and public. But it was an inescapable fact that Jacob was a minor official performing a minor job for the oppressors. His critics—malcontents all, looking for someone, anyone, to pay a price for their own inactivity during the occupation—claimed that he actively supported the Word of Blake administration. Jacob Erbe faced a board of inquiry and gave his testimony. He hid his family during that time, facing his accusers alone. Ceresco knew firsthand that such measures truly were necessary: Her own mother spoke of those times, but rarely.

  Jacob Erbe never was formally charged with any crime associated with the occupation, but the damage had been done. He carried a mark on his name and soul. It became impossible for him to get a job; he had no hope of survival. He never left Towne; she assumed it was because he felt he had done nothing wrong. She considered his attitude admirable but stupid. She would have left. If he had gone somewhere else, he would have had a chance at a new life.

  Three years after the inquiry, Jacob Erbe committed suicide. It was barely mentioned in the papers. His funeral was private. He was survived by Kristoff and his wife, who killed herself two years later. Ten-year-old Kristoff was adopted by an aunt and uncle who were not named Erbe, but Kristoff never changed his last name. He didn't hide who he was. Ceresco admired that, and cursed it: It meant he would be stubbo
rn, determined not to do what his father had done.

  Yes, Cheryl Gunson was glad she had held back this nugget of information. One betrayal a day is enough for me; should be enough for anyone. She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep that never came.

  Interpretation of Duty 10

  Brandenburg, Callison

  Former Prefecture VIII

  Fortress Republic (+36 days)

  The staccato of fire off to the west told Kristoff that his attack force had reached its objective. The Po tank on Bagley Avenue had done an admirable job of keeping his Republic forces bottled up. Every time he attempted to shift his troops, the tank would appear at the exact worst moment and make its presence known. He had suffered four casualties so far from the Po, not to mention a sabot round that had almost penetrated his Morgan assault tank's turret. The impact had been so violent that two of the crew had been knocked unconscious. The gunnery officer had held things together enough to force the Po back into hiding, but it was frustrating Sir Erbe enough that he decided to take more drastic action.

  Ask any soldier, and they would tell you that urban combat was the worst kind of fighting. Cover was everywhere, and if you needed more, with a few well-placed shots you could create your own. He would not have chosen to fight in the city, but rarely in his career had he been given the choice of battlefield.

  Colonel Adamans led the attack force of two squads of infantry: shock troops and PAL-suited troops. Using the maps Ceresco had provided, they navigated the sewer system as skillfully as rats. The tunnels were dank, dark and foul beyond description, but the Fidelis troopers said nothing and simply accepted their duty.

  Their route was not quick or direct. They had to snake through the ankle-deep ooze of rotting human excrement some four blocks out of their way to reach the rear of the militia, and would exit the sewers into a small sewage-pumping facility. If the sewer plans and their intel were accurate, they would exit just to the rear of the Po's area of operation and hit it when the crew's guard was down—hopefully when they were breaking for dinner. Kristoff checked his chronometer again and saw that the optimal window was an hour gone: Either the team had run into delays or was simply biding its time. He had given complete control of the mission to Adamans, so he had no way of knowing the reason.

  "Squirrel, this is Harbinger," Adamans signaled. "Target has been neutralized. We have recovered two crates of expendables and are returning. Please inform the sentries."

  "Good work, Harbinger. Pickets will be informed." He sent word down to the defense perimeter that their troops would be returning in a captured tank. It was a small success, but one of the few in the mission so far.

  The image of Ghost Knight Ceresco Hancock, Knight of the Sphere, defender of The Republic, sitting in a cockpit and firing on Republic troops was etched into his brain. He wanted to come up with a good reason for her behavior, but couldn't—other than her mysterious mission objectives. What kind of mission could require her to turn on her own people? He knew that as a ghost knight she lived in a world of backstabbing and betrayal. Perhaps she was running her own game—perhaps her orders had nothing to do with her actions. Had she turned rogue, and begun carving out a position of power for herself? No! He suppressed that thinking. Knights, even ghost knights, answered to a higher calling. They defended the vision of Devlin Stone.

  None of this explained her opening tire on the people she was supposed to defend. Kristoff realized that the only person who could answer his questions was Lady Hancock, and she was currently at the other end of a barrel aimed at him and his troops.

  * * *

  "Identification sequence initiated," the computer voice stated.

  "We're running with the shadows of the night." Cheryl lifted the right arm of the Hellion and performed several twisting gestures that the computer would recognize as her code. Combined with her voice it was what unlocked the BattleMech to her sole control.

  "Voiceprint and move sequence authorized. Welcome aboard," the battlecomputer replied. The fusion reactor under her cockpit throttled up automatically and the rest of the cockpit controls came online. The muscles in her jaw ached inside the neurohelmet; tensing them was a nervous habit, and she was plenty nervous lately.

  She had thought things through. The next two days were going to be quite busy, and she knew that she was going to be hard-pressed to pull off everything she had planned. Certain supplies had to be secured and hidden away for later use; that had been easy, given that she had nominal control of the Callison Light Horse militia. The explosives had been much easier to secure than the ingredients she needed for her other planned operation.

  Cheryl knew that it was critical that she ieach Sir Erbe—which was now going to be quite difficult, with her forces laying siege to his position. At this point, both sides were doing little more than sniping at each other. The most significant event of the day had come in the early evening. Somehow Erbe had gotten a force behind the lines and had taken out the Po tank she had posted to the west. She added "sneaky" to her long list of Fi- delis traits; they had an urban infiltration finesse matched only by the elite troops of the Federated Suns. She had augmented the cordon with ad hoc militia— police units and volunteers armed with everything from small arms to shoulder-launched short-range missiles. These were the kind of units that would drive Kristoff Erbe crazy. He wouldn't want to fire on them since they represented civilians.

  She angled her Hellion out into an open street that led to the west and the warehouse district. The Hellion had made several forays into the battle. She had fired on the Republic troops, usually misdirecting her shots and doing what she could to minimize damage to the "enemy." These people were not her enemies. If Erbe had done what he was supposed to do, he would be at the spaceport right now, peacefully negotiating terms for his safe passage off Callison.

  But he hadn't. She had miscalculated; she had been wrong. That line of thinking irritated her like a nasty, unreachable itch, so she avoided it. Erbe's choice to hole up in the warehouse district had forced her to accelerate her plans, but it had also brought Governor Stewart's real plans to the surface. Matters were quickly coming to a head, and she needed to make sure that Kristoff Erbe was working with her. The time for killing—killing in the streets, at least—was coming to an end.

  She moved along the right side of the street, keeping close to the buildings for cover. Officially, she was on patrol, keeping the pressure on The Republic forces. Unofficially, her mission was to reach Sir Erbe and secure his cooperation.

  Her tactical display blared a warning. She saw the foe two blocks ahead and winced; she had hoped for something less imposing and deadly than a Mars assault tank. She needed to give observers a good fight but avoid being killed. Locking onto the tank, she fired her medium lasers. The green beams stabbed the narrow rear profile of the tank near the missile racks. Armor seared and peeled back from the hit. One of the warheads in the racks went off in a sympathetic explosion. Otherwise, the Mars shook off the attack as if it was an annoyance.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  The Mars mounted three Crossbow long-range missile racks, fifteen missiles each. With plumes of orange and red, the forty-four surviving missiles rose from the racks in a unified wave of carnage, all headed right at her. The gauss rifle fired at the same instant. She could see the co-mounted laser had been stripped off and the caliber of the gauss beefed up. Another mark in the Fidelis win column.

  Most of the missiles found their mark on some part of the tiny Light Horse BattleMech, and the Hellion was not designed to take this kind of punishment. It rocked under the missile impacts, pushing her torso around just in time to see a silvery slug from the gauss hit her missile rack. Warning lights flared as she twisted and stumbled back, fighting to keep her footing. She recovered her balance and glanced out of her cockpit at the missile rack; it was half gone. The damage diagram indicated that it was semi-operational. That was like saying someone was 'sort of pregnant.' It either worked or it didn't. She locked her tar
geting reticle onto the Mars and fired the launcher.

  One missile slid out of the tube and dropped to the ground, sputtering somewhere off to the side of the Hellion. The remaining five missiles found the Mars tank's front glacial plate, rattling the tank and kicking up chunks of the ferrocrete road. It wasn't a killing blow, but to anyone observing, it was clear she was putting up a fight.

  She moved diagonally across the street to close the distance between her and the Mars tank. The tank had other ideas—as she was sure it would. This time the missiles came flying at her in a sputtering stream of twos and threes. Some missed and hit buildings in the distance. Others blasted into her already-torn armor. The Hellion rocked and quaked with each thudding blast.

  Smoke, black and gray, wrapped around her cockpit. Her hand swerved across the control panels to the handle. It was time. Red warning lights screamed for her attention, but her focus was elsewhere.

  Cheryl leaned the Hellion forward at the waist just as the Mars fired its gauss rifle a second time. She pulled the handle. There was a flash, and her cockpit canopy blew up and outward. A rush of cool air enveloped her, and she felt a grinding pain in her back and buttocks as the ejection seat fired. Something hit her neurohelmet hard, jerking her neck and head to the side. She felt as if she were in a thunderstorm of noise and light. A wave of dizziness came over her, and she went limp as the parachute deployed. She had to concentrate to open her eyes, and the moment they did, her seat slammed onto the street only thirty meters from the Mars.

  The infantry was on top of her before she could move. Four or five pairs of hands jerked her free of the seat. Someone pulled off her neurohelmet and she saw the source of the impact she had felt; a shard of armor plating had lodged in her neurohelmet. Another few pounds of force and it would have cut into her brain and killed her. She looked back at the fallen Hellion.