Fire at Will

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Roderick identified the rear ranks of the First Regulars force on his long-range sensors as he debarked the DropShip. The Lyrans and Duchy alike had written off his force—prematurely, as they were about to find out. “Rush forward, flank speed. Split them down the middle and link up with the Third Lyrans.”

  His troops moved forward silently for a moment, then broke into a run, howling at the top of their lungs. Roderick was yelling too. He had enough ammunition for nine volleys. After that, he was going to have to go at it the old-fashioned way—brawling. He looked out his right cockpit viewscreen and considered his autocannon. It would make an excellent club.

  A pesky Bellona hovertank was pulling back from the battle raging down by the river. Roderick watched as Kroff fired a salvo of long-range missiles at it. It was the first indication to the Duchy forces that they were being hit from the rear. The Bellona, already damaged from the fighting, erupted in flames and ground to a halt. Its crew bailed out and fled.

  The rear of the First Regulars’ line turned to face the new threat. The momentum of their attack suddenly was spent. A familiar Mad Cat II turned at the waist and seemed to stare straight at Roderick. He locked on his autocannons and fired. Some of the shells went wild, cutting through the sandy dunes in the distance. The others hit the Mad Cat right in the waist, rocking it backward as it fired.

  He switched to the Lyran command channel. “This is Roderick Steiner, commanding officer of the Broken Swords, to all Lyran units. We are hitting the Duchy forces in the rear. Meet us in the center. Let’s split these guys up and end this.”

  Cheers went up on the comm channel. The wavering line in the distance suddenly seemed closer. Roderick throttled his Rifleman to a full charge and headed into the center of the line, right at the Mad Cat II. At his side, Jamie Kroff in her battered Violator joined him, howling louder than anyone.

  Bernard felt his entire body go tense at the words on the command channel. Roderick Steiner? Suddenly it made sense to him. Melissa had put him on Tamarind to ensure a Steiner victory. His stomach clenched at his next thought. I have hung out a member of the archon’s family to die. There would be no rope large enough for his noose when this was over. As his forces pushed out from the Zanzibe, they roared with cheers. The only person, other than the commanding officer of the Duchy forces, who was not happy about the arrival of Roderick’s force was him.

  He was tempted to send his forces at Roderick. Perhaps he could convince them it was a ploy, that they should fire on the Broken Swords. No. That would never work. These were professional soldiers; they would never follow such a command. His chest felt heavy at the thought of what he had been a part of. What really ate at him was that Duke Vedet was not here to see his plans fall apart.

  A gauss rifle round hit his Xanthos in the rear hip, smashing the actuator. The ’Mech fought him, trying to let gravity take its natural course. His arms ached as he tried to keep it upright. It staggered to the side and he finally got his footing. The damaged leg was frozen; it wouldn’t move no matter how much he rocked and played with the throttle to change directions. This would slow him down considerably. He would miss out on the battle that now was flowing away from the river’s edge where he stood.

  In the distance he saw a pair of DI Morgan tanks unleash a hellish barrage of particle cannon fire on an old-model Apollo, a leftover from when the Free Worlds League last was unified. The brilliant white-blue beams of charged energy stabbed at the Apollo and seemed to coil around the ’Mech like snakes when they hit, tossing arcs of raw energy off in every direction. The Apollo staggered, hitting one of the tanks with a salvo of thirty long-range missiles. The explosions left the front portion of one tank gutted down to the chassis. If the Apollo pilot survived the assault from the PPCs, the heat would slowly roast him. That was the true beauty of the Morgans.

  The plight of the Apollo mirrored Bernard’s own situation. He surveyed the area, and an idea formed in his mind—rough, dangerous, but possibly the best course of action. It might just work. He looked at the river and knew that mere kilometers away on the other side were his DropShips. There were JumpShips in-system right now recharging. He eyed the long, deep, murky brown river. Beyond it lay salvation. This isn’t the course I intended to take.

  “Third Lyrans, advance on the center. Link up with the Swords and finish these bastards off,” he commanded. “I have taken damage and will be falling back to the DropShips for repairs.” The wounded beast of his BattleMech limped toward the fast-moving waters.

  The last of the Tamarind Regulars to fall was taken down by Jamie Kroff. Her Violator was missing its clawlike left arm at the elbow and was moving with a limp. Her long-range missile rack was peeled back as if a can opener had been used to rip the armored hide off her ’Mech near the head. Her foe was the Mad Cat II that had been slugging it out with several of the Broken Swords and had taken down Roderick’s Rifleman.

  She had run past the Mad Cat in search of other targets, turned and hit it from behind. She used her drill to pierce the thinner rear armor of the ’Mech. Her drill shredded the shielding around the Mad Cat’s fusion reactor. When she wrenched it free, the momentum sent her toppling to the ground. The Mad Cat staggered two steps and fell down beside her. Slick green coolant sprayed from her drill as she shut it off.

  A message calling for an immediate cease-fire came from Colonel Chamlin, the Duchy commander. The fighting stopped as the forces of the Third Lyran Regulars linked up with the remnants of the Broken Swords. Roderick managed to get his Rifleman back on its feet, uttering a silent prayer of thanks. There was no armor left on his ’Mech. His right autocannon was crumpled, worthless. His unit consisted of a ragtag group of survivors, more than MechWarriors.

  Roderick Steiner smiled.

  Reaching down to his comm unit, he squibbed a simple numeric code to Trillian to let her know that they had succeeded—and to let her know that he was still alive. “Where is your CO?” he asked on the Lyran command channel.

  “General Nordhoff has fallen back with damage, I’m afraid. Several other MechWarriors went back with him. We took pretty heavy damage until you showed up.”

  The First Tamarind Regulars were tough customers—that much he had to give them. They were not mere militia; they fought with zeal. Now that they were gone, Zanzibar—no, Tamarind—actually, the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey, was wide open for the taking. “Tell General Nordhoff I need to meet with him immediately.”

  The response came back a minute later. “Sir, I can’t reach the general. His DropShip apparently departed a few minutes ago.”

  Departed? Roderick understood suddenly. They had been hung out to dry by Nordhoff and Duke Vedet. The general knew it could be proven, and had run to avoid the charge. He fled like a coward. On Algorab, I could have done the same, but I faced the music. Roderick closed his eyes and sighed. Politics was always the downfall of military men such as him. His grandfather had taught him that. Now he had learned the lesson for himself.

  “That makes me the ranking unit commander on the field,” he said solemnly. “Send the word to your battalion and company commanders. We need to regroup and refit before we move into Zanzibar.”

  He toggled a channel to Trace Decker. “Trace, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Go get my cousin. It’s time to end this damn war.”

  There was a chuckle. “With pleasure, sir!”

  30

  The Marik Palace

  Zanzibar, Lyran Commonwealth

  14 December 3137

  The first time Trillian had entered the Marik winter palace, she had thought the room to be gaudy and overdone. Now there was a noticeable element missing in the posh throne room. In the center of the room was a dais, but the throne of the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey was missing.

  Entering Zanzibar had proven easier than expected. The local police put up some resistance at a few barricades, but they were no match for BattleMechs and armored infantry. Roderick had insisted on a qui
ck move into the city, before sabotage or more organized defense could be made, and it was a good call, even though all the troops were weary of the fight. The barricades the government had thrown up had proven more effective for citizen morale than actual defense, and the local population was more interested in random acts of looting than mounting a defense. The Third Lyran Regulars pushed into the city with little resistance and quickly seized the palace. The Broken Swords, what was left of them, marched in with the Regulars.

  They had not seized Fontaine Marik and his court.

  Grand Vizier Sha Renkin waited in the throne room alone. The man was roughly the same age as Fontaine but much skinnier, almost frail-looking. He wore long flowing robes and a look of pure hate that seemed the exclusive purview of old men. Trillian regarded him carefully as the security detachment from the Third Lyran swept the room for any unwanted devices.

  She had dealt with Sha Renkin several times during her initial talks with Fontaine. He had mostly remained quiet and aloof, looking to Duke Marik for his lead. Now he stood here alone.

  “So, the archon’s tool emerges at last,” Sha Renkin said coolly.

  “Where is Duke Marik? We have much to discuss.” Her words were a deliberate understatement of the obvious.

  The grand vizier glared at her with pale gray eyes. “His Highness and the rest of his advisers and staff departed hours ago for Padaron City and from there to an undisclosed world. He did not wish to become a bargaining chip for the safety of his nation. He has given me instructions in regards to terms for an armistice.”

  His anger was understandable, but hers was justified. “I only wish the duke had shown the same consideration for my security when he stormed our consulate and tried to take me hostage.”

  Sha Renkin smiled thinly. “He was only attempting to ensure your own safety, milady. Nothing more, nothing less. At least he didn’t kill a man in cold blood. Tell me, do you have nightmares about your crime?” He was enjoying this.

  Trillian knew her face was red with anger, but refused to acknowledge the verbal barb. “So now that Tamarind has fallen, the duke wishes to discuss peace terms?”

  “He does not,” the grand vizier replied. “Peace with the Lyran people is not something he will seek until the worlds you have illegally taken are once again part of his Grand Duchy. He has empowered me to discuss terms of a cease-fire, an armistice. Though we cannot have peace while you occupy our worlds, we do seek to end further bloodshed at the hands of the Lyran people.”

  The missing throne was a clear message to her and Melissa. The loss of Tamarind was not going to take the fight out of Fontaine Marik. He was holding on to the throne to let House Steiner know that while they held his capital world, they didn’t hold the Duchy. As long as Fontaine Marik lived, the Duchy survived.

  Armistice, not peace. She had hoped for much more, but acknowledged that what she had was a victory. While a cease-fire in the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey did not win the war, it would allow resources to be shifted to the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth as well as the Skye incursion. It was a good first step down the long road to peace.

  She had been surprised by how nimble Fontaine Marik had proven to be. He had always seemed like an old man, lost in the wrong era. She, and the archon, had underestimated him. The loss of his capital world was significant, but by staying alive and keeping an operational government, Fontaine did not allow the rest of the Duchy to collapse.

  Trillian stared at the grand vizier while she thought. Their intention all along had been only to cripple the Duchy. That goal had been achieved both militarily and politically. It was much better to live with a weak neighbor than a new enemy deeper in the Free Worlds League.

  “Sha Renkin,” she said calmly, “I believe the archon would welcome an opportunity to extend peace between our people.”

  The grand vizier chuckled. “Of course she would. I am no fool, nor is Duke Marik. We both know how Anson Marik is handling your forces in his realm. I know that the Lyran Commonwealth has more problems than solutions right now. You need peace almost as much as we do, so stop acting so benevolent, my dear.” His words were filled with contempt, but Trillian ignored the provocation. There was no point in arguing with the man—especially when he was right.

  She bowed to the tall, elderly man. “Let us adjourn, Sha Renkin, and draft a document that stops this killing.”

  Breckenridge Heights

  Danais, Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

  The shock wave of the explosion cracked every bit of mortar in the brick wall near Duke Vedet and tossed him and his aide across the room. His chest and lungs ached as he tried to get his breath. Coughing, he opened his eyes and saw the dust covering the entryway to his headquarters like a dull gray fog.

  When he moved, his joints protested. The tall black man got up and two members of his security detachment moved to his side, checking him for signs of injury. Frustrated and angry, he pushed them aside. A fine film of dust rose as he brushed off the sleeves of his uniform.

  His ears rang with a high-pitched tone that he noticed only when he couldn’t hear the words of his guards. Shaking his head didn’t help. He rubbed his ears, but his hearing came back slowly.

  “What happened?” He knew he was yelling but couldn’t help it. People rushed past him out into the street. The duke was supposed to be getting into his limousine. From the smoke and the people running in the street, he could tell that was not going to be happening any time soon.

  One of the guards got right up to his ear and yelled a response. “Car bomb,” he bellowed.

  The duke moved to the door and looked out. His hoverlimo was twisted in the middle lengthwise. A crater extended from the opposite side of the street where half of a building had collapsed into a mound of rubble. The crater was not deep, but every window that Duke Vedet could see from where he was standing had been taken out by the concussion of the blast. There were a few people too—or parts of people, a leg and an arm, lying on the sidewalk along with hundreds of thousands of pieces of building.

  He moved back into his HQ. The ringing in his ears had diminished to an annoying muffle. Vedet Brewster knew who was responsible for this outrage—the Silver Hawk Irregulars. They had been like ghosts on Danais. Only a handful of them had been killed in actual combat. The rest of the time they were training the locals in a nasty insurrection against the Lyran forces. They refused to fight a stand-up battle against his forces, instead making these kinds of attacks. Bombings, assassinations, sabotage—all bore the mark of the silver and purple eagle.

  “I will spit on Anson Marik’s grave!” he said.

  “Sir?” one of his aides asked.

  “Never mind,” he spat back, rubbing his ears again. The Silver Hawks’ movement was more dangerous than ever. He could not kill this enemy, the belief in resistance to the occupation forces. You could not kill an idea. Anson had provided a rallying point for his people while at the same time managing to tie down a lot of troops.

  He motioned for an aide. “We need to get a message out immediately.”

  The aide took out his noteputer and stylus. “Go, sir.”

  “We need to pull back a battalion of troops from Gannett.” He glanced nervously at the doorway. “We’re going to need additional security.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide said, flashing a salute.

  This was not the kind of war he had planned on fighting. At least Bernard was on Tamarind, taking care of matters there. And from Tamarind, he could not make any mischief on Hesperus II. Once Tamarind fell, so would the rest of the Duchy. Duke Vedet would go there personally and declare victory. Then he could leave behind these Silver Hawk Irregulars and their guerrilla tactics. The other professionals in the military could handle the cleanup here. He would bask in the glory of crushing the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey. Even Melissa Steiner would have to acknowledge his role, which would truly make his victory complete. For a moment, thinking of this future glory made the loss of his limousine almost tolerable.

  He wo
uld be glad after all of this to return to Defiance Industries. Running a megacorporation was much easier than waging war. In business, politics did not come with blood as a price tag. Bombs did not explode in boardrooms, and when they did, they were public relations problems, not picking up pieces of human beings. He did not understand or appreciate the military mind-set. It seemed inefficient, cumbersome and downright duplicitous. Duke Vedet knew that the other officers resented him because of his title and assignment, but none of them had the courage to say anything.

  Then, once the gratitude of the Lyran people was showered on him, he would be a contender against Melissa or any other Steiner for the archonship.

  It was only a matter of time. Vedet Brewster forced himself to smile.

  31

  The Royal Palace

  Tharkad, Lyran Commonwealth

  28 March 3138

  She could feel the flesh in her hands, the thick meat around his neck. She pushed the cord in deeper, deeper. It dug a trench in his throat, cutting through the skin. His eyes bulged. Trillian opened her mouth to scream, but could not inhale. Her stomach roiled.

  Trillian sat up. Her body was clammy, covered in a sheen of sweat that made her silk sheets stick to her lithe frame. Air rushed into her mouth, and her eyes stared into the darkness of her bedroom. Where am I? The palace. It came back to her. She rubbed her hands against the sheets as if to check to see if the bed was real. The nightmare again. She had endured it every few nights since the incident on Tamarind. Peeling the sheet away from her skin, she slowly lay back and stared up at the dark ceiling.

  I killed a man, killed him with my bare hands. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t even know his name. He was going to attack her, and she took his life. In her mind, it was justified. If it was justified, if she’d only been protecting herself, then why was she still having the nightmares?