For too long, the people of the Lyran Commonwealth have only reacted to attacks by their enemies. Now, Archon Melissa Steiner launches an intricate gambit that will secure the safety of her subjects—and secure her own power against those who wish to take it...
FIRE AT WILL
“Sir, we have incoming bogies crossing the inner marker. Savage One is in the lead,” came the voice of one of the infantry squads on his command channel. Savage One—that was Kroff. Roderick checked his chronometer; she was a little later than expected, but other than that she had matched his predictions.
“You’re going down, sir,” said Kroff. To emphasize her point she throttled power to her Violator’s drill. It whirred menacingly at him as she moved forward.
Roderick signaled his own unit. “Fire for effect on target Alpha One.”
She closed the gap at the top of the flattened hill to almost within striking distance when suddenly puffs of white went off everywhere around the two of them. Artillery. His artillery. His battle computer recorded damage as he backed the Rifleman away from her. Kroff lunged her Violator forward as she realized that the barrage was coming down on both of them. Their battle computers logged the damage as the top of the hill was enveloped in white.
He heard her ’Mech but couldn’t see it. His sensors told him the story. Things had gone just as planned. “Cease fire,” he ordered. It took two minutes for the powder to clear enough for him to see the Violator lying flat on its front torso in front of him. It had shut down as she leapt at him.
“Are you okay, Leutnant?”
“You stinking bastard,” she replied. “You dropped artillery on both of us.”
“Damn it,” she spat. “No one would bring down an artillery barrage on themselves.”
“Apparently they would.”
FIRE AT WILL
A BATTLETECH NOVEL
Blaine Lee Pardoe
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Copyright © WizKids, Inc., 2007
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To my family—Cyndi, Alex and Victoria
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Jean Armstrong, Tim King and Andy Parks and a spectacular weekend at the Lafayette Foundation in Colorado. My gentle nod to Central Michigan University—my alma mater—as well as Ernst & Young LLP, a constant source of good personalities and potential characters.
Special thanks to Sharon, the unsung hero who corralled the writers of the BattleTech/MechWarrior universe. Without her it wouldn’t be possible to bring you some of these stories or any of these characters.
BOOK I
A Matter of When, Not If
“Hard pressed on my right. My center is yielding. Impossible to maneuver. Situation excellent. I am attacking.”
—French General Ferdinand Foch, The Great War, Terra, early twentieth century
Algorab
Republic of the Sphere
Eight Months Earlier
“Somebody want to tell me what in the hell is going on?” asked Hauptmann Roderick Frost as his Clan-manufactured Rifleman IIC jogged along the dirt road, kicking up a massive cloud of dust that floated behind him. There was a hint of rain on the horizon, dark purple storm clouds billowing up, now and then flaring with a white burst of lightning.
“I got a message from our Republic liaison, Hauptmann. Sounded like something was going on—not exactly the training script we agreed to.”
Roderick checked his long-range sensors. He was picking up some anomalous readings to the north that kept appearing and disappearing. Could be the storm, but he had to admit that was wishful thinking. “Chancy, what exactly do you mean?”
“She said something about a raiding force. It should be part of the joint exercise, but I thought we had agreed to a different set of objectives.”
We did. “Ice Wind to Ramrod,” he said into the commlink. “Colonel, I am picking up unexpected readings in your area. Is that our Republic opponent?”
The crackle of static sounded loud. Jamming. Shit. “Ice Wind . . . Jade Falcons. Republic forces . . . and routed. Need to fall back to . . . Hill twenty-nine. Repeat, concentrate on Hill twenty-nine.” Colonel Quentin’s voice was filled with panic. If they were facing Jade Falcons, panic was appropriate. Damn! He had been raised on his grandfather’s stories of facing the Jade Falcons on Somerset; even a chance that they really were on-planet tightened his nerves to the breaking point. He wondered if he was genetically programmed to hate what they represented.
He pulled his attention back to the situation and checked the map. Hill 29? Roderick shook his head. Drew Quentin’s lack of tactical knowledge was showing. Quentin had received his commission based on political connections; this situation called for true military understanding. Hill 29 was a small, exposed hill surrounded by other hills of approximately the same height. We get onto that hill, they’ll flank us and pummel us on the open ground. “Ramrod, come in. Recommend we fall back to sector one-five. The swamps and forest are better ground for us against the Falcons.”
He got no response on the channel but the jamming static. Colonel Quentin’s Identify Friend or Foe transponder faded from the tactical display—meaning he was either completely jammed or dead. If the CO is down or incapacitated, I’m the ranking officer. It’s my call. He switched to the Lyran command frequency. “Rangers, we need to get a handle on this situation. Concentrate at the following coordinates.” He stabbed in the location so that it would appear on the general tactical map
.
“Sir, what about the command lance?” Forrester asked.
“You have your orders,” he said, angling his massive Rifleman in a running arc to get a better bearing on the signals racing toward him. “On my authority, execute.” If he was still alive, Colonel Quentin would show up to take over running this disaster. In the meantime, this is my disaster. . . .
Prologue
The Royal Stables and Arena
Tharkad, Lyran Commonwealth
10 November 3136
Trillian Steiner pulled on the hooks to tug her tall riding boot into place. She would have to have her boots cleaned today. They had watered the indoor arena to knock down the dust, and that, combined with the usual barn debris, guaranteed that they would need cleaning.
The royal stables and exercise arena had been a sanctuary for her and members of her family for years. The press didn’t come here, and the massive domed facility kept out the often bitterly cold Tharkad weather. It was posh, isolated, free from prying eyes and ears. The steeplechase facilities were the epitome of opulence, a luxury few outside House Steiner would even imagine. Trillian loved coming here, choosing her ride from one of the two dozen or so Thoroughbreds in the stable. Here she was not the personal adviser to the archon: on the back of a horse, she was simply another rider, testing her will against the will of the horse.
In the massive arena, she seemed insignificant, and there was something about that feeling that pleased her. From an early age she had been in the limelight. The press hounded her like a pack of wolves, taking pictures everywhere she went. There was no private life except in this place. There was no place else she could simply be herself. Thanks to the press, the whole population of the Lyran Commonwealth thought they knew her. When she dated, they ferreted out the man’s background; they knew where they went and what they ate. Her choice of clothing set trends.
They don’t know me at all. She approached the horse she had chosen for today, a deep brown animal standing seventeen hands tall, and stroked his long neck. I’m not sure I know myself that well anymore.
Unlike her riding partner, she preferred to saddle her own horse. She mounted, tossing her long slender leg over the pommel. Shifting slightly in the English saddle, she glanced at the door to the barn and saw the members of the security detail watching her with just a hint more than professional interest. There were more of them than usual in the stables today, but she understood.
As soon as she cleared the door under the massive dome, she wound her way into the artificially created countryside. Lush green grasses and dense clusters of trees and brush were separated by the occasional low stone or wood fence. A low, shallow wash crossed the field. More than twenty acres of domed land provided plenty of space to ride. “All right, Big Ben, let’s see what you’ve got today. Trot, trot!” As if he were as anxious as she to start moving, Ben broke into a trot. After a few seconds Trillian leaned forward and tightened her stance to canter, ducking low under a limb.
Trillian smiled. For a moment she could forget about her job and even the rest of the Inner Sphere. Here, if for only a minute or two, she was free from obligations, her duty, her family name, the people who admired her and those who hated her. She enjoyed the sweet smell of the air as she turned Big Ben around a low clump of cedar trees. In the distance, on a slow rise, she saw her riding partner. Riding a large white mare named Golden Charm was Melissa Steiner, archon of the Lyran Commonwealth and her cousin. At the moment, she looked more like a practicing dressage rider than the leader of a Great House. She raised her riding crop and touched her helmet at the sight of Trillian. Trillian angled Big Ben toward her superior and came to a stop a respectful distance away.
“You chose Ben today? I’m surprised, after he threw you last time,” Melissa said.
Trillian said nothing for a second. She hadn’t told Melissa about Big Ben throwing her. Does she have people watching me? She knew the answer to that question and regretted even thinking it—of course she had people watching her. One did not remain archon of the Commonwealth without monitoring people in positions of authority. “I can’t let him get away with that. If he tosses me and I don’t ride him again, he’ll think he’s in charge.”
The archon gave her a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, Trillian.”
“And you, Your Highness.” They had been friends their entire lives, even though the archon was a few years older. She automatically glanced around, looking for the guards who would be shadowing the archon, even in here. The ventilation system pushed a warm breeze through the air. Outside the dome, the snow had stopped.
“You can drop the formality, Trillian,” Melissa chided her, angling her own steed in a slow walk to the right. “You know that—we’re not at court.”
“Old habits die hard.” She smirked. She liked giving her cousin a hard time occasionally. The two had been raised like sisters after the death of Trillian’s parents in that horrible accident. Unconsciously, she reached up and touched the symbol that hung on the necklace she wore under her skintight top. It was a Cameron star—a symbol of the old Star League. The necklace had been a gift from her father to her mother. Touching it somehow relaxed her.
“Yes,” Melissa agreed. “Old habits for nations die hard as well, and that’s what I want to talk about.” There was a tone in her voice that Trillian recognized, and she knew her cousin was choosing her words carefully.
“You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
Melissa Steiner tossed her a quick grin, and then her expression became serious again. “The collapse of The Republic and the formation of ‘Fortress Republic’ places the Lyran Commonwealth at risk. Simply stated, I want to avert that risk.”
They had spoken before of the risks posed by the demise of The Republic, and had grimly noted that the list was long. “You’re afraid that other nations will see us as weak if we don’t join in feasting on the corpse of The Republic.” Trillian was just restating the concerns Melissa had shared since reports of the consolidation of Fortress Republic. The Republic worlds outside the Fortress had been left to fend for themselves, and the other governments were greedily devouring them.
The archon nodded once. “With the Jade Falcons sitting in Skye, there is little that I can reclaim from The Republic, even if that were my inclination. Even the little Marik-doms are carving out parcels of the old Republic. You’re the family historian, Trillian— you know what happens when we are seen as weak.”
“We are attacked.”
Melissa Steiner’s face seemed to narrow at the word. “Yes. There have been exceptions, of course— the Fourth Succession War was sparked by Hanse Davion on behalf of our combined realms. But even during the Jihad—when we did not act aggressively, our neighbors tried to take advantage of our apparently passive behavior.”
Trillian could have debated the issue. The Jihad-period attack against the Commonwealth that had been perceived as House Marik aggression was proven to be the Word of Blake’s doing. But arguing such points with her cousin never accomplished anything, so she held her tongue. Anyway, Trillian agreed with her cousin’s general conclusion. “I agree with you on that point.”
“Good,” Melissa replied, shifting with her horse. “For weeks now I have been considering how to deal with this state of affairs, and I’ve decided to implement a policy change, one that will require your special talents.”
“Yes?”
“We will not wait for our inferiors to attack us and force us to react. We will take an aggressive stance. We will strike at those nations that we know will one day come for us, those who have shown a historical pattern of attacking our realm. The exarch’s Fortress Republic plan has both long- and short-term dangers. Rather than feed on the carcasses of the isolated worlds left outside Fortress Republic, we will move first to ensure that our borders remain safe.” Her voice was stern, and Trillian knew there would be no compromise—no wavering.
The mention of Fortress Republic always affected Trillian. She believed in the ideals of De
vlin Stone, and the implementation of the Fortress tested her belief. She could see the brilliance of the plan, but also the very real risks. She knew that Melissa was firmly focused on the long-term implications of the exarch’s plan. In the archon’s words, “We are not going to take rash action that will incur the wrath of the exarch when he or his successors finally emerge.” Melissa knew that the consolidation of The Republic’s borders would allow The Republic to rebuild, rearm and one day pose a deadly threat.
Trillian thought for a moment. She thought she knew the target of this new policy. Over the centuries, there was one House that had proven itself to be a dangerous foe time and time again. “House Marik?”
“At first,” the archon replied. That left room for interpretation.
Big Ben tugged at his reins with a toss of his head, straining to move. A good horse is meant to be ridden—they hate to stand idle. “The former Free Worlds League nations are not a serious threat to us, Melissa. Anson Marik is the most dangerous of their rulers only because he seems to have the greatest ambition. The Duchy of Tamarind-Abby is governed by an old man apparently stuck in the last century. The rest of the former League worlds are broken into little fiefdoms all run by pretenders to the captain-generalcy.
“In fact, you’ve said that Jessica Marik would ultimately come out on top—not Anson.”
Melissa tightened her reins. “I believe Jessica stands the best chance of reuniting the League—all things being equal. I have a strong belief in female rulers.” She arched her eyebrows sardonically. “All things are not remaining equal. Anson is a threat on my border now, and keeping him destabilized or even crippled fits my long-term plans.”
“I understand,” Trillian replied. She did understand. Melissa Steiner was not looking a year or two out into the future. She was looking down the road decades into the future, an ability Trillian admired in her cousin. “It is hard to see the little kingdoms of the former Free Worlds League as a threat right now, especially for the ordinary citizen.”
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