"Sumptin wong. Wha . . . happen? Wha'ya do t'me?"
"I did my duty," Cheryl replied sadly. "You have been poisoned. Tiny prick of a thin needle when I touched your shoulder. It's a chemical compound recovered from the Word of Blake during the Jihad. Nasty stuff, really. It attacks your motor control centers and suppresses your neurofeedback. Your body right now is shutting down, starting with your extremities. I know you want to yell for your guards, but you'll find your vocal cords are constricted. There are a few things you have to give the Word of Blake; one was, they knew how to torture people."
The governor began to drool. Cheryl did nothing to help her. "I know you have a question burning in your brain, so I'll answer it for you. I am not Cheryl Gunson. She was a plant, a cover identity. I am Ceresco Hancock, Ghost Knight of the Republic. Loyal knight, I might add."
There—the governor's eyes flashed slightly at those words. Her body seemed to stiffen. "I was given a mission here on Callison, and I've been working on it for months. Your greed pushed matters to a head, I'm afraid. You have managed to turn some of the population against The Republic, but that is just for the short term. With your death, I will be able to counter the lies you've propagated. It will take some work, but I have learned a great deal about public relations from you."
Allison Stewart's face lost all color and a few beads of sweat began to form. Cheryl ignored them. "I appreciate your making me the director of internal affairs. That makes me third in line for succession to the governorship. I have already made arrangements for dealing with the lieutenant governor. Your death will be most tragic, as will his. As you draw your last few breaths, know this; you have been played like a cheap fiddle. Putting me in command of the militia was a great media stunt for you, but in the end it allowed me to seize power on Callison. I will hold it for years to come."
Governor Stewart moaned, feebly. "What was that? I won't get away with it?" She filled in the words she thought the governor would say—if she could speak. "I tend to think differently, ma'am. You see, your unfortunate death will be blamed on the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. If the people need an enemy to unite them, I will give them an enemy. The Republic was not the enemy of these people. You were the true enemy."
Cheryl rose and lifted her kit bag to the desk. "I would recommend that you replace your security team for missing the explosives I wove into the seams of this bag, but that won't be necessary. Most of them will be killed in the blast. Your remains will be reduced to such tiny particles that no one will find any traces of the poison. All in all, a tidy way to wrap up this entire affair."
"Wha . . ." the governor's question was a mere whisper.
"Why?" Cheryl repeated. She had to admit—she was impressed that the governor had managed to form any sort of word at this point. It testified as to just how tough the woman really was. "You want to know why. Fair enough. You deserve that much.
"I was following orders. Orders from the exarch, delivered by the former exarch. Redburn gave me orders that required me to take extraordinary steps. He asked me to do this. It wasn't until today that I realized this was the mission I had been trained for my entire life. It took the punch of an honorable man to show me how to interpret the orders I had been given."
She activated the tiny digital timer sewn inside the satchel. "I'll let the guards know that you asked not to be disturbed. Governor Stewart, wherever you end up, whatever afterlife you have, know this—Stone's Republic will exist as long as loyal sons and daughters are willing to follow the orders of their hearts."
Cheryl pushed the explosive charge closer to her former boss. "Adieu," she said, "bitch."
Price of Service 6
Breezewood, Kwamashu
Duchy of Andurien
Fortress Republic (+860 days)
The battle for Breezewood was not unfolding as Hunter Mannheim had planned. The Oriente Protectorate troops had obliged him at first by landing on the flat plains to the west of Breezewood. Once the attackers had collapsed the planetary militia, however, instead of heading straight across the open plains to the industrial complex rigged with explosives, which was masquerading as a BattleMech assembly plant, they had veered off into the city limits. This practically assured there would be civilian casualties, something Mannheim's plan was designed to avoid—or at least minimize.
Now all he had to do was regain the initiative and convince the attackers to play along.
His Shockwave was still in the fight. It had taken minimal damage so far, though it was running hotter than normal—an indication that a heat sink or two had been disabled. The cockpit damage display said there was no problem, but his own internal thermometer told him a different story.
The outskirts of Breezewood consisted of little more than a string of shantytowns, wooden shacks cobbled together by people too poor to afford housing. Most were abandoned ruins, though some were occupied by squatters. As the Protectorate forces plowed into the ramshackle structures, he saw dust, dirt and debris rise into the air. A pack of dogs fled in front of the Protectorate 'Mechs blasting their way through to the more prosperous sections of the city.
The Hawk Moth attached to Mannheim's lance swept in alongside him. A string of burn holes and laser scars covered the side of the VTOL gunship, and a viscous black fluid oozed from several places. Like him, it was staying in the fight. Moving out in front of his trotting Shockwave, it approached a Protectorate Hatchetman that was turning to fight a rear-guard action. The Hatchetman lifted its deadly axe as if to protect its head, holding it like a sword.
The Hawk Moth juked to the right and Mannheim moved to the left of the 'Mech. The Hatchetman focused on the Hawk Moth, firing its Imperator Ultra autocan- non at the VTOL as the flyer turned to bring its weapons pod to bear. It was a tricky shot, but the Protectorate MechWarrior was equal to the task. The autocannon rounds caught the VTOL almost square on, and the tiny gunship quaked under the rattling impact. Smoke whipped out from the starboard turbine, and the Hawk Moth spiraled toward the ground, the pilot regaining control just before the VTOL slapped into the shanty- town. The turbo fans kicked up dirt and shards of wood as the pilot fought to keep his gunship alive.
Mannheim switched each of his weapons systems to a separate circuit and began to work the triggers one at a time in an effort to get the attention of the Hatchetman. His own autocannon rounds hit the right side of the 'Mech, including the arm that held the hatchet. The Protectorate 'Mech took a step forward as Mannheim heard the tone of his own missile lock. His long-range missile rack hissed as the salvo went downrange. Half the missiles missed, blasting the shanties around the feet of the enemy 'Mech. The others struck near the recessed head of the Hatchetman, leaving craterlike marks on the armor.
The Protectorate Mech Warrior chose a more direct assault. He charged at Mannheim. This was the second time in the fight that a 'Mech had rushed him, and he thought again how dangerous these Protectorate forces were. The Hawk Moth rose slightly, fighting gravity, and fired a blast with its pulse laser pod. It caught the Hatchetman, but very nearly slipped off-target and hit him in the process. Hunter sidestepped and dropped his targeting reticle onto the approaching 'Mech.
This time he didn't get the shot.
The Hatchetman fired its medium laser, sending a searing blast into his already injured legs. This time the damage display flickered from yellow to red, and he could feel his Shockwave resist his attempt to keep moving. The three heat sinks he suspected were damaged suddenly showed up red on the display. But the biggest threat was that the Hatchetman was preparing to swing the huge hand weapon from which it got its name.
He fired. His large laser hit dead center of the 'Mech's torso, pouring its green beam of energy right into the chest and drilling deep. Mannheim hoped the shot had hit the engine. The 'Mech hesitated for a half-beat, then half-fell forward a step.
From his left he saw short-range missiles arc up from the ground into the 'Mech. Two shots landed on the cockpit, the rest hit in the same spot on the torso as his
large laser. He could hear the patter of the shrapnel on his own ferroglass cockpit as the powerful warheads exploded. The Hatchetman closed in a single step and swung its axe.
The weapon hit the Shockwave's right arm just below the elbow. His 'Mech reeled under the assault, tipping hard back and to the side. Mannheim tried to regain his balance by shoving his arms forward until they hurt. The damage display showed no color where the hatchet had hit: It was simply black.
Stepping back two staggering strides, he saw that the arm of his Shockwave was gone, severed below the actuator. Exposed myomer muscle bundles sparked as they touched each other, fibers whipping wildly as they contracted and released. Leaking coolant sizzled on the damaged area. The Shockwave felt lopsided, and he had to work hard to compensate for the weight lost with the arm.
The Hatchetman pilot took advantage of Mannheim's scramble to stay upright to vent some heat before attacking again. In the chaos swirling around them, no one but Mannheim noticed the trike squad of Fidelis rush the Hatchetman and scramble up the access ladders on the front legs and torso of the 'Mech. Hunter held his fire, instead moving to break away.
The Hatchetman was tracking him, but the slight hesitation before attacking again would cost him. One Fidelis warrior fell to the ground as the Hatchetman twisted his torso. The other two reached the cockpit and blew the side hatch with a satchel charge. Now Hunter hesitated, watching in awe as the Fidelis pulled the enemy pilot out of the cockpit.
He locked onto the 'Mech and brought all of his weapons online. If that thing so much as farts I'm going to pump it full of cannon rounds. There was a crackle in his earpiece, then he heard, "This is Sweep Two. We have the Hatchetman under control. Please disengage your target lock while we change our transponder frequency."
Hunter let out a long sigh. "Good work. Sweep Two."
"Awaiting your orders."
"We've got to link up with Victory Lance and try to keep the Protectorate forces out of the city." What remained of his Shockwave lumbered forward, followed by the captured Hatchetman.
* * *
Chin entered the monastery with the Fidelis squad. They were methodically clearing the narrow hallways and tiny rooms and securing the egress out of the complex.
The Fidelis had only one question upon hearing their assignment. "Do we kill or incapacitate?" Jeremy knew the interior of the monastery was going to be a room- by-room fight. He made the only decision that made sense: "Kill." Using sniper rifles and unarmed combat in a coordinated attack, they had taken out four monks and five guards in the opening three seconds of the assault, eliminating everyone outside the carved-stone complex.
The rooms were literally carved from the stone cliff and furnished with little more than a single narrow bed. The monks put up a fight but were no match for the Fidelis. Two guards inside the monastery tried to hold out, but the Fidelis were in no mood for a dangerous gunfight at close quarters. Two grenades quickly—and messily—ended the fight.
Chin rounded a corner and saw a hallway that ended in a door that was not the usual rough-hewn wood. In the dim yellowish interior light, the polished bronze doorway looked like gold. This had to be it. He turned to his Fidelis squad. "Secure that room. Do not destroy anything inside."
The troopers leapfrogged down the hall, hugging each nook, cranny and doorway along the way. They reached the door in a mere few seconds and burst through it. Chin heard a single shot, then the last man through the door signaled the all-clear.
The room on the other side of the heavy door was a small chamber with a single altarlike pillar in the center.
It was draped in a cloth embroidered with words he couldn't read. A half-dozen candles burned in the room, and two small white lights shined on the pillar. The air was stuffy. Lying on the floor was an old man wearing a simple white robe, now marred by a red-brown stain of blood. His hand clutched some sort of ceremonial knife. Even against armed troopers this man had tried to defend this room.
On the pillar was a small wooden box, three quarters of a meter long and tapered at the ends. It resembled a small coffin. The wood was quite ordinary, decorated only by small brass fittings on the corners and a discreet plaque where he would have expected a lock. Chin motioned for the troopers to remain where they were. He approached the pillar.
"Exactly how Stone described it in his notes," he muttered. Leaning close to the box, he examined the tiny plaque and saw that it displayed only one character: the symbol of the Word of Blake. Almost reverently, he lifted the box and tucked it under his arm.
"You sick bastard. I hope you're worth it."
"Sir?" one of the troopers asked, unsure of what he had heard.
"We got what we came for," he replied, regaining his composure. "Let's get back to Breezewood and help out Sir Mannheim." He stepped over the dead monk, leaving a bloody footprint as he walked away.
* * *
The fighting near the perimeter of the industrial complex was ferocious. The Protectorate forces had rushed the main gate and been stopped by the fortifications. They had pulled back, circled around one block and probed until they found one of Sir Mannheim's exit routes. They pushed through to the outer edge of the complex, where Victory Lance and a handful of militia infantry held firm. Mannheim couldn't guess how long they would hold. And the garrison force under Colonel Daum was nowhere to be seen.
The facts were inescapable. The Oriente Protectorate had invaded with a full battalion, which had stacked the deck against them from the start. The Fidelis troops had inflicted a disproportionate number of casualties, which had improved the odds, but the defeat of his force was still only a matter of time. Worse yet, he could not disengage from the enemy and flee the plant, because they held the key roadway he needed to use to withdraw.
A miracle was needed, and it would have to be a manmade one. He fired a stream of autocannon rounds into a building where infantry laser fire was sputtering out of the upper-floor windows. His assault blasted the entire side of the structure and set it on fire.
"Victory One, this is Rook."
"Rook, this is Victory One."
"Lieutenant Carver, we've got to drive these troops back enough to open our exit lines."
"Understood, sir. We will handle this."
"Victory One, the odds are against you."
"My people have faced much worse odds. We will succeed."
"I can't order you to do this," Mannheim said.
"We are volunteering. Service! Victory One out."
As if on cue, the lance rushed forward, reinforced by several militia squads. They did not advance to engage the Protectorate forces, but rather charged through them. Carver's Panther fired its jump jets and went over two tanks. He landed behind them and continued on up the street. The tanks wheeled around to meet that threat as battle-armored troops dropped on top of them, savaging the thin top armor with their metallic claws.
The Panther charged deep into the rear of the Protectorate force, targeting a Thumper artillery piece. Under an umbrella of fire, the artillery tank tried to get away, but a blast from the Panther's Lord's Light particle projection cannon seared off its barrel at a lopsided angle and sent globs of melted armor splattering onto the ground.
The assault confused the Protectorate force; as they turned to face the threat at their rear, Mannheim's lance pressed them from the opposite direction. Their frontline troops were squeezed between two hostile forces. The captured Hatchetman rushed a Demon wheeled tank and buried the hatchet deep into its side armor. With black smoke billowing from the resulting hole, the Demon attempted to speed away, but the Hatchetman followed up with a crushing kick.
In that two-block stretch of road, both sides fired every weapon available. In the eruption of carnage he saw a Fidelis trike squad take a blast of PPC fire that disintegrated one man and trike. He damaged a Po tank making a break for a side street with a salvo of long- range missiles. When the smoke cleared, the tank was gone, but he could see pieces of tread on the street and knew that it was either
immobile or limping.
The fury of the assault was indescribable. He caught only glimpses of the action as he kept up a steady rhythm of moving and firing: seemingly fearless Fidelis troops charging the Protectorate forces, attacking at dangerous ranges regardless of losses. One squad landed at the feet of an enemy Arbalest; the 'Mech raked their formation with its medium lasers, throwing up huge chunks of ferrocrete as the squad was cut down. A ruptured water main sprayed a fountain in the air. His large laser blasted the Arbalest, forcing it to break and run. Through the smoke, steam and raining water, he saw one of the surviving Fidelis move to each of her fallen comrades. She quickly knelt at their side and gripped their shoulder, each the same way. What is she doing— what is this ritual?
He suddenly realized that the hurricane had stopped. Parts of 'Mechs and burning vehicles lay everywhere. Carver's assault had taken out the Thumper, but his Panther was reduced to a shell. It was blackened from top to bottom, and only a few torn and twisted fragments of armor remained on its legs. At least three squads' worth of dead infantry in Gnome battle armor littered the field. The Hatchetman would not fight again today. The Fidelis MechWarrior who had captured the 'Mech had ejected, and so the entire head of the 'Mech was missing.
Their counterassault had shattered the Protectorate forces, if only temporarily.
A Fox armored hovercraft slid into view, covered with a squad of shock troops. It slowed as it entered the battle zone, and the squad debarked and moved for cover. Mannheim's comm unit activated. "Foil to Rook. Mission accomplished."
Mannheim stared at the undamaged Fox. It would be needed against the next wave, and he was glad it was back. Still, he gritted out, "Took your time, didn't you?"
"Orders are orders."
"You mind telling me where you went?"
"Trust me, you don't want to know. What's our situation?"
Surrender Your Dreams Page 26
