Blood of the Isle

by Loren L. Coleman

  Only the driving rain applauded, for which Tara was thankful. She also could have done without the honoraries and titles, but she accepted them, moving forward with a brisk military step and waiting a moment while a few reporters flashed stills of her. Part and parcel of her role as The Republic’s media darling, she knew.

  “I will be brief,” she promised, swallowing against the cotton taste of nerves, “because today should be a day of reflection. When I came to Skye, I nearly despaired. Faced with an impossible choice, I asked for volunteers to fill out the ranks of the Himmelsfahrtkommando. These I received.”

  These she had watched charge a military line in cars and old jeeps and battered trucks, mounting the smallest of weapons or packing along shoulder-weight short-range-missile launchers. The slaughter had been horrendous, but their action bought the military defenders the time they needed.

  “Your Exarch can ask nothing more of you, and neither can I. I hope to say that Skye will ask nothing more from you as well.”

  She scanned the collection of faces. Doubtful journalists and sorrowful relatives stared back. And one that did not belong: hard eyes in an aged, weathered face. “While this remains to be seen,” she continued, “we can thank the sacrifice of your fellow citizens for the freedoms you still enjoy today.”

  He stood several ranks back, in the break between families and media. Elderly, but with squared shoulders and a gaze that could score ferrosteel. Tara guessed his age at eighty. Perhaps older. He stood just behind a still-camera journalist, whom she saw tear the wrapper off a new disk for his camera.

  The journalist tossed the wrapper to the ground.

  “It was my honor,” she said in closing, cutting her remarks short, “to serve with these brave men and women.”

  She took no questions and the media did not seem interested in asking any. They would take their video and their stills and sound bites back to the office and decide what to make of the news today. Better than average, she was willing to bet. The Republic was still getting a fair shake in light of Skye’s defense. The calm, temporary eye inside a hurricane.

  Duke Gregory thanked the families for attending while Tara stepped down from the stage and approached the man she had spotted in the crowd. A few mourners pressed forward to offer her their hands and take her condolences.

  The photojournalist took her proximity as his chance to slip in one cheap shot.

  “Countess. Do you find it appropriate to politicize such events as this memorial service?”

  Staring over the journalist’s shoulder, she met the gaze of the older man. He had dark eyes and snow-white hair cut very close to his skull. Something familiar nagged at her memory, but she felt certain that she had never met him. He wore a simple, fleece-lined poncho. Warm, and totally appropriate for the wet, winter weather.

  “Countess?”

  More cameras swung her way, anticipating a reply. Tara had dealt with Skye’s media divisions often enough to know that little good could come from answering. But the man’s crude manners begged a response.

  “That is an interesting question,” she said, dragging her gaze back to the journalist, “coming from the man who just littered on the graves of so many citizens of Skye.”

  The journalist paled as cameras now turned on him, as well as the basilisk stares of nearby parents, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives—all of whom had lost someone in the battle. Tara leaned forward ever so slightly. The muscles in her shoulders tightened with new tension.

  “Pick it up,” she ordered him softly.

  He set his chin, and stared blankly ahead. For a moment she thought the man might actually defy her for the sake of his brethren of the press. And he might have, except that the hard-eyed man moved to stand behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Avuncular. Supportive. Then he leaned in to whisper something that Tara did not catch, his mouth hidden behind the journalist’s neck.

  The journalist winced, nodded once. When the stranger removed his hand, the reporter bent down to pick up his discarded wrapper, tucked it into his pocket, and quickly walked away, rubbing his shoulder.

  No confrontation, no story. The media drifted back to the main event, and Tara’s ally tipped her a slow wink. “That was well-done,” he said. His voice wasn’t exactly warm, but there was energy to it that most men his age had already lost. “I see where you get your reputation.”

  “Media,” she said, dismissing the recent event and her own sensational reputation all at once. “Once you’ve dealt with Herrmanns, you’ve had your fill.”

  “Herrmanns AG is the media conglomerate that controls a decent portion of Skye’s press, and has been giving Duke Gregory, and you, a hard time until late. Very pro-Lyran. I’m surprised you’ve managed a cease-fire with them at all, quite frankly.”

  Something told her that this man was not a local, but he clearly was well versed in local politics and the corporate media even so. “Have we met?” she asked, still feeling a sense of familiarity.

  “No.” He offered her a withered hand full of surprising strength. “David McKinnon. At your service, Countess.”

  McKinnon! Tara recognized at once the name of one of The Republic’s oldest active-duty Paladins, and now saw his rank in his time-weathered face as well. Only four years younger than Sire Victor Steiner-Davion, this man was almost as large a living legend. She froze in midclasp. “Sire McKinnon.” Her throat felt tight, and she swallowed dryly. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Keeping her hand, McKinnon tucked it into the crook of his elbow and pulled her farther away from the news junkies and crowds. “None of that if we’re going to be working together,” he admonished her.

  “Working together? You’re staying on Skye?” Coming back to her senses, she had assumed that McKinnon had new orders for her from Exarch Damien Redburn. The Paladin stayed one jump ahead of her, though.

  “Let’s just say that you’re still getting heavy press coverage back on Terra.”

  She blew out an exasperated sigh. “Exarch Redburn doesn’t trust me,” she said.

  “You turned down a paladinship,” McKinnon reminded her, speaking more freely as they approached one edge of the small covered park. The smell of rain-churned mud was stronger here. “Exarch Redburn understood, but you have to realize that there are forces in The Republic who aren’t too happy with your popularity and status as a ‘freewheeling faction leader.” ’ He said this last as if quoting from some source. “Despite,” he added, “any claim of yours to support The Republic. Your Highlanders—”

  “My Highlanders,” she interrupted, pulling her hand free, “have bled for Terra. And for Skye and for a dozen other worlds around The Republic these last several months. Impugning their honor is a slap in the face of many good men and women.”

  “But will they be enough?” McKinnon asked.

  “Enough? Enough for what?”

  “Skye. Exarch Redburn asked me to evaluate the chances that Skye can hold. I wanted your word, unvarnished or undistorted by any lines of communication it would have passed through on the way to Terra. Which is why he allowed me to come here and ask you directly.” So he did. “Can we save Skye?”

  Tara sighed, her anger spent. Could Skye hold? That was the question.

  “At what cost?” she asked. “The Jade Falcons have taken a half dozen worlds already, and it’s only a matter of when, not if, they will return. And we’re not ready.” She let that thought rest with McKinnon for a moment. “My Highlanders continue to trickle in, called from action spots all across Prefectures III, IV, X . . . but they’re bloodied and they’re tired. And we both know what kind of force readiness the local military was at even before the Lord Governor split with his son.”

  McKinnon’s face was impassive, not about to comment on the wisdom of an understrength garrison force. Still, he knew. “If you can brace up your people, I might be able to help with materiel readiness. Get some supplies—maybe even a few new vehicles—flowing this way. And Skye has good resources as wel
l.”

  “Aerospace, mostly. DropShip yards and fighter craft.” She ran fingers through her hair. Despite her initial reaction of irritation and anger, she was warming to the venerable warrior. With half a year, eight months, we might—”

  “Twelve weeks,” McKinnon interrupted. He did not cite his source, and Tara did not ask. “You’ll get no more than twelve weeks.”

  People were leaving now, ducking under umbrellas or dashing for their vehicles. Tara waited while a few of them strolled by, including the photojournalist from the encounter earlier. He stopped and snapped another holopic of her standing off to one side with McKinnon. Then hurried off. The two Republic warriors watched him retreat to a news van.

  “If three months is the best we have,” she said, “we had better make the most of them. I don’t suppose you brought a BattleMech company with you?” He shook his head. “Well, we’ll get by, I guess. Tell me, what did you say to him?”

  For once she left him behind. “Pardon?”

  “The journalist.” She nodded after the van. “You seem to have a knack for getting people to go along with you fairly quickly.” Or Tara was simply developing a knack for being handled. “You certainly convinced him to cooperate. What was it you said?”

  “Ah. Well. Each circumstance requires its own approach, of course.” The Paladin’s mouth twitched up into a lopsided smile, but his dark eyes remained granite hard. “I explained to him that he would look very silly on the evening news being fed that camera.”

  “That would help my relations with the local media,” she said.

  McKinnon chuckled dryly, reached out, and patted Tara on the arm in a very reassuring manner. “Ah, my dear, dear Tara,” he said, shaking his head. “I never said that you’d get the privilege of doing it at all.”

  4

  Cheops

  Seventh District, Nusakan

  14 September 3134

  Jasek Kelswa-Steiner sat in the highest chair of the three-man tribunal, presiding over the court-martial along with Colonels Joss Vandel and Antonio Petrucci. A slight blush warmed the back of his neck every time he glanced in the direction of Tamara Duke, who rarely took her eyes off him, but fortunately the dusky skin he’d inherited from his mother hid it well. It was the only relief he expected today. His freshly starched uniform chafed at the neck and wrists. The weight of so many stares pressed against him with credible force, shoving him into the padded backrest.

  Dozens of military uniforms packed the tiny auditorium, which usually served as a presentation room in the GioAvanti, Inc., administrative building. Officers reserved themselves a chair in the short rows of flip-down seating while enlisted personnel and some civilian contractors crowded along the walls. The heavy press of bodies raised the room’s temperature several uncomfortable degrees. Some men and women fanned themselves with their military caps. Others silently sweated it out as Hauptmann Vic Parkins entered the room without counsel or military escort and came to attention in front of the three-man court.

  Jasek nodded his own salute. “Stand easy,” he ordered Parkins, who tucked himself into a stiff parade rest.

  The entire room held its breath. Jasek let them stew a moment.

  By toting up unit insignia, the Landgrave saw that Colonel Petrucci’s Lyran Rangers counted for more than half of the assembled audience. That was expected, since the Rangers were as large as the Stormhammers’ other two combat groups combined. Most of the militia and standing-army soldiers who had followed Jasek into exile filled out Ranger billets, in fact. Hastati Sentinels and Principes Guards. Triarii Protectors. He had kept them together as much as possible. They were a tight-knit group.

  They would also be the hardest affected by today’s judgment, and he meant to save as many of them as he could.

  Alexia Wolf’s Tharkan Strikers were the next most prevalent unit. Green troops, mostly, drawn from volunteers and militia castoffs, or recruited directly by Alexia from a few scattered academies, making up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience.

  Very few of Joss Vandel’s elite Archon’s Shield battalion had bothered to attend. Those who did, Jasek recognized as men and women who had also come with him from Skye or from other “heritage worlds” of the old Isle. The Lyran Commonwealth recruits and the Lohengrin agents “loaned” Jasek by his distant cousin, the Commonwealth’s Archon, had better things to do than sit through more Republic squabbling.

  As did Jasek himself.

  “The charge of treason is a delicate and dangerous matter,” the Landgrave began in his best stage voice. “It should never be brought lightly, or with personal animosity, and the investigation never colored by politics, by personal ambition, or by emotion. This tribunal has acted in the best interests of all true citizens of Skye, the Stormhammers, and Hauptmann Vic Emanual Parkins to ensure a fair and impartial judgment.”

  He spoke slowly and with deliberate enunciation. Jasek’s father had taught him the value of ceremonial speaking, among other things.

  Weighted words carry farther than the ears. They settle into the minds and the hearts of all who hear them.

  Which was why Jasek had named “all true citizens of Skye” first and foremost, referring to the grand Isle of Skye rather than Skye as a lone world lost among a census. It was one of his rallying cries, after all, to point out how Devlin Stone had in effect disenfranchised so many citizens of the Isle during The Republic’s creation, and it would be good to see something useful come from this delay. Sitting court was not how he had hoped to spend his final days on Nusakan. The necessity of listening to depositions and reviewing evidence had interrupted preparations to fully mobilize, costing the Stormhammers precious time. He’d had to be certain, though, that one act of treachery was not an indication of a deeper conspiracy within his most steadfast troops. And he had owed Tamara a chance to prove her case.

  Now he owed Hauptmann Parkins an apology.

  Jasek stood, leaning forward on the rail that separated the tribunal from the accused man. Parkins pulled himself up to strict attention.

  “It is the finding of this tribunal that no evidence of conspiracy exists to place Hauptmann Vic Parkins in collusion with the personnel who did, with malicious intent, fire on their commander in the recent mission on Towne.”

  Vic Parkins had already been informed of the judgment in private. Even so, his shoulders slumped with relief to hear it announced.

  Several officers surged to their feet, applauding the tribunal’s findings. Along the wall, many Lyran Rangers cheered. Not exactly for Parkins, they cheered with him. Their relief was obvious. No soldier wanted to suspect treachery within his or her own ranks.

  Jasek waved down the excitement. He saw Kommandant Duke rise to her feet as well, holding a stiff military bearing. She also had comrades along the wall, brooding, fearing another shot in the back. The Landgrave had to repair the potential damage if he hoped to salvage both officers.

  “At worst,” he continued, “Hauptmann Parkins’ actions might be considered overzealous and could have encouraged such a rogue action.” The implied rebuke was just enough to silence the cheers, and offer Tamara Duke a salve that she had not brought charges without cause. “But the hauptmann’s interrogation by machine testing and voluntary administration of truth serum has more than convinced this panel of his lack of guilt. All charges are dropped with the court’s apology. Hauptmann Parkins is returned to full, active duty immediately.”

  More applause, though less strident than before. Parkins stepped forward and traded hand clasps with Colonel Petrucci and Colonel Vandel. He caught Jasek’s hand as the Stormhammers’ leader came down from the high chair.

  “Thank you, Landgrave.”

  The armor commander had a crushing grip, which at another time might have been a test of strength. Now there was no mistaking the flush of goodwill that colored his cheeks.

  “No thanks necessary, Hauptmann. I will, of course, consider any request for a transfer if you feel it is truly needed.” He said this as Tamara
Duke approached, letting her pick up on the offer.

  “Shaking up your lines right before battle is never a good idea, sir.” Parkins turned to face Tamara as she joined them. “I believe I can still work within Kommandant Duke’s company, if she’ll have me. No hard feelings. In her place, I might have done the same.”

  “And in your place, I’d hope to be as gracious,” Tamara said, shaking his hand once, formally. Apology accepted, and given. But it strained the borders of camaraderie.

  More work to be done here, Jasek noted, but left it alone for now. “Hauptmann, please see to your unit while I borrow your commander for a time.”

  Parkins nodded, traded salutes, and moved for the rear of the auditorium. Several officers and enlisted waited there, and accepted him warmly into their company. They moved out in a large group.

  Alexia Wolf replaced Parkins, nodding shortly to Tamara as an apology for the intrusion. “They are ready for us,” she said. If she said it slightly possessively, Jasek couldn’t really blame her.

  Or Tamara, for the way the junior officer bristled at the implied dismissal.

  Gathered by Niccolò, Petrucci and Vandel were already stealing out a side door of the small auditorium, the only door guarded by a sentry with a sidearm. “I’ll be along in a moment, Alex.” The familiar address didn’t help the escalating level of tension.

  With a warm smile the leutnant-colonel preceded them out the side door. It led to a short, wide hallway that ran through a network of executive offices. The faint aroma of gourmet coffee seemed to ooze from the paneled walls and thick carpet. Empty secretarial desks competed in size for prestige. The doors behind them ran contests for the longest, most boldfaced title.

  Senior Executive Vice President for Managing Operations was Jasek’s favorite.

  “I would rather this had been handled quietly, Tamara,” he said once the two of them had a moment alone in the hall. It was as close as he wanted to come to a formal rebuke. No press had been allowed into the closed deliberations or for the judgment today, but the story would leak soon enough. Niccolò had promised that it would not break before the Stormhammers left Nusakan. That was something.