Ghost War mda-1

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “Agreed, so we can’t let that happen.” I smiled. “We won’t.”

  Janella’s eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking, Sam?”

  “Colonel, Public Safety arrested Emblyn, so he’s nominally in your control, right? You could move him if you thought there was a safety issue, couldn’t you?”

  The big man slowly nodded. “It would take a little doing, but it could be done.”

  “Good. We know they’ll be coming for him one way or another, so we have to minimize collateral damage. I have an idea about how to do that and, just perhaps, get everyone and everything right where we want it.” I glanced at Janella. “Did you bring a ride?”

  “Two, and a delivery system.”

  “Two’s not much, but we might let them rip each other up for a bit before we have to intervene.”

  Niemeyer frowned. “I thought you said you’re going to minimize collateral damage. Letting Emblyn’s people chew on the militia and Bernard’s private corps doesn’t sound like it will stop them from laying waste to Basalt.”

  “Oh, the battle will be sloppy, so we’ll just have to get them to fight it in a place where neatness doesn’t count.” I gave him a smile. “In a tourist book on Basalt I ran across a mention of a place that I think would be perfect: Obsidian Island.”

  Janella’s eyebrows rose questioningly, but Niemeyer just smiled. “Yeah, that will work perfectly. And, you know what? I think I might just be able to help you even the odds.”

  Obsidian Island is one of those weird, storied places that every world has. They are just tailor-made to be haunted, absent hideous murders being carried out inside or battles fought around them. The place’s complete and utter isolation helps, likewise the fact that virtually no one visits and only the bravest of hearts spend the night.

  And those who do tell alarming tales of the experience.

  Sure, it’s likely ninety-nine percent tourist hype, promoted by a service that for five hundred stones would run you out there and, for three times as much, arrange for a night’s stay. Not the sort of rates or place that would bring any but the most weird from off-world to visit.

  Technically speaking, it’s not an island and isn’t made of obsidian. Located south and west of Manville, in the heart of a huge rain forest preserve, Obsidian Island is a barren platform of rock in the heart of a small, black-water lake reputed to be the home of monsters. A small curved causeway connects the island to the shore, though the roadway is overgrown with weeds. The shore is also rocky and provides a dark crescent between the lake and the rain forest. While some hearty plants have tried to colonize the rock, their efforts are several centuries shy of success.

  The island itself boasts a huge castle made of basalt and trimmed in obsidian. While styled after Terran medieval fortresses, this one has none of the weathering. The two centuries that have passed since its construction have not been especially kind to it, but those who created it meant for it to withstand anything this side of a nuclear blast. Unlike the knights of yore, however, they were not concerned with keeping people out as much as they intended to keep one man in.

  Tacitus Germayne is not much mentioned in the histories of Basalt, and really is little more than a footnote in a grand family’s history. The second son of the ruling count, he just was never quite right. Stories of petty cruelties were hushed up, payments were made, witnesses suppressed. It’s hard to judge what the family was thinking at the time, but realizing that a child of yours has grown into a homicidal sociopath can’t be easy to accept. They denied it and, while they got help for him, when that failed they just hired more and more.

  Tacitus had developed an unhealthy affection for Gilles de Rais, a French nobleman and friend of Joan of Arc. De Rais, who had a nearly inexhaustible treasury and enough power that governmental forces were unable to stop him, delved into demonology. He murdered countless boys—peasants by and large, so as to escape notice—and it was not until he defied both the Church and the Crown that societal forces combined to crush him.

  Tacitus only notched up five victims before he was caught. He was tried and convicted in two cases of murder and in the other three was judged innocent by reason of mental defect. The net result was that he was to be institutionalized until cured, then his consecutive life sentences for the other murders would go into effect. He would never walk free.

  His family, however, still loved him and created for him Obsidian Island. They paid for its construction themselves, then ceded it to the government, where it was registered as both a mental institution for the criminally insane and a penitentiary. It is said that Tacitus took to wearing the same sort of clothes Gilles de Rais did: fabulous robes of scarlet and gold. He would only speak ancient French and would use no commercially produced product. He fled into his psychosis completely and died there at the age of 108 after seventy-five years of incarceration.

  Niemeyer did a great job of convincing Bernard’s people that moving Emblyn to Obsidian Island—which technically was still a prison—was just the thing to do. Not only did it isolate him from communications, but his imprisonment there would cast him as the new Tacitus. This would be particularly damning in the court of public opinion, or so Bernard’s people were led to conclude. Niemeyer added that the lack of distractions would make it easier for his people to fend off attackers, provided, of course, they weren’t coming in ’Mechs.

  He was told, in no uncertain terms, that would not be a problem.

  Bernard immediately deployed a mixed company of Basalt Militia and a light lance of his private security troops to the Obsidian Island area. This was a tactical error, since he knew that FfW commanded a much larger force. To a certain extent, however, it was forced on him, because if he pulled all his resources from Manville, FfW would have a field day tearing the city apart and he’d be left looking like a fool.

  Things got coordinated pretty well so that FfW wouldn’t hit too early. Niemeyer announced that, “for his safety,” Aldrington Emblyn would be moved to Obsidian Island very soon. He further avowed that media would be allowed to cover the transfer, but on a pool feed basis. The media fought over who would actually be the pool reporters, and backed things up by positioning themselves all over the area of the jail to catch things. That just turned the jail into a chaotic arena where no commander would want to put troops.

  The transfer occurred on the twenty-ninth, which meant Catford and Bernard had two days to plan their attacks and marshal their forces. Niemeyer stationed the best of his troops in the fortress, but aside from mounting some short-range missile launchers on the battlements, they and their Hauberk armor would be toys against what was coming. Janella and I were set to go in the ’Mechs she’d brought—including my new ride, Ghost. I thought it was rather appropriate to be in a ’Mech with that name at that place. When the time came, the Leopard–class DropShip would drop us into the fray.

  The reason she’d come to Basalt ready for war was because of some back-checking done against the message sent to recruit Sam. Republic researchers had uncovered a lot of messages going out, and load factors for ships traveling to Basalt spiked when compared to those leaving, both in sheer numbers and pilot demographics. When warriors are coming in and families are going away, trouble is brewing. She actually got my first couple of reports in a bunch when she reached Fletcher, which is why she went to Niemeyer when she arrived.

  The only complication to the plan to minimize collateral damage came when Bernard decided that Gavin Prin, the youth who had shot his father, should likewise be sent there. It actually was a smart move on Bernard’s part, because it strengthened the linkage between the young man and Emblyn. Any rescue attempt on Emblyn would seem like one for Prin. Prin actually had no connection to Emblyn. He’d lived in Manville for a while after dropping out of the university. Earlier on the day when he’d shot the Count, he’d been informed that his father had been killed in a riot-suppression action up north, so he struck out while angry. While that story was known at the time, Bernard’s spokespeople
spun it into a tale of evil where Emblyn had used the tragedy to twist the young man into a monster.

  Gypsy and Catford waited until the afternoon of the thirtieth to strike. The FfW forces came in two groups, with my command being given over to Siwek, as expected. That wing, made up of a heavy ’Mech lance and two wings of light and medium vehicles came in from the west, then angled down sharply to the south, while Catford’s force had started from the south, then turned almost due west. It sported two lances of ’Mechs, one heavy, the other light, with vehicles to round out the company. This gave FfW half again as many ’Mechs and far more vehicles.

  Bernard had invited disaster, and he was going to get it in huge handfuls. The FfW made no attempt to hide what they were doing: little drones that Niemeyer flew from Obsidian Island were able to track the heat signatures coming in. He relayed the information to Bernard and to us, back in Manville. Bernard seemed unconcerned, which made him as mad as Tacitus in my book.

  Janella glanced through the holographic projection in the Valiant’s main cabin. “Time to target from here is twenty minutes. We’ll have clearance to leave as soon as we request it.”

  I flipped the display over to a tactical map that calculated the time to contact between the forces. “The eastern force will arrive first and engage, then the northern force will hit the Militia flank. Forty minutes to contact. We leave in fifteen?”

  “Twenty, I think. Catford will want to go at it immediately, but if they don’t start shooting right away, we aren’t going to be able to tip the balance.”

  “This isn’t going to be pretty, and it isn’t going to take long.” I sighed. “I just hope we can tip the balance, because the alternative is having the whole thing come crashing down on us.”

  She reached through the holograph and stroked my hand. “I know, lover, so we’ll just have to be especially good. We might not be able to trip the giant up but, with any luck and a good push, we can determine where he lands when he falls.”

  38

  He who bears the brand of Cain shall rule the earth.

  —George Bernard Shaw

  Obsidian Island, Blacklake District

  Basalt

  Prefecture IV, Republic of the Sphere

  2 March 3133

  The battle started while we were en route, but Niemeyer’s drone and Tri-Vid-cam feeds gave us more of the battle than we really wanted. I kept the image from Obsidian Island on my secondary monitor, then channeled the feeds from drones to my auxiliary monitors. Once I’d done all my system checks on Ghost, I flipped the Obsidian Island view onto my holographic combat display. Despite my being tucked away in the DropShip’s hold, I felt as if I was in the middle of the fight.

  Unlike Teyte, however, I did not let my hands stray to the targeting joysticks. I’d have more than enough work for them soon, and pulling a trigger in the hold was not a good idea.

  Bernard had arrayed his forces somewhat poorly. From Obsidian Island we had the Basalt Militia company on the left, then a small gap and Bernard along with his mercenaries. They stood with their backs to the lake, which was not a tactical disadvantage by any means, but the gap between the two units could be exploited. Only a hundred meters separated them, but that was enough for an enemy wedge to split them. Once that was done, so were they.

  The Militia had one of the two largest forces entering the battle, though two of their ’Mechs were modified ForestryMechs that were grossly underarmored and undergunned. A Panther and a Centurion rounded out their ’Mech lance, but both of those machines were antiques. Such a force was certainly a sign of the times—resources were in short supply and improvisation was the order of the day. The other two lances they supplied consisted of vehicles. The Shandra Scout Vehicles made up their northern flank, and were fast enough to be tough targets to hit. Four Demons made up the center of their position and would be nasty in the fight. If their love for their homeworld made up for their lack of combat experience, they could be key to the battle’s resolution.

  The Militia would face Siwek’s force, which had been arrayed rather oddly. The two lances of vehicles—mixed Scimitars and Condors—formed the right and center of her front respectively. This placed her duo of ’Mechs—her Ryoken II and a Pack Hunter–closest to Catford’s formation and left the vehicles to harry the Militia from the north. Her ’Mechs were positioned to drive into that gap and against Militia troops, a move that would likely demoralize them and could even spark a retreat. A pair of SM1 Tank Destroyers backed her ’Mechs with serious firepower.

  Catford let his vehicle lance take up his left wing. He’d chosen four JES Tactical Missile Carriers, which bristled with SRM launchers. In close combat, the quick hovercraft could be devastating. Given that they’d skirmish with Bernard’s lance of Scimitars, there would be a lot of carnage at the south end of the battlefield.

  Catford’s ’Mech lance would make up the center of the FfW line once it joined up with Siwek’s force. In addition to his Jupiter and the Catapult from the Palace, he added a Black Hawk and an Arbalest. His ’Mech lance was the heaviest in the battle, and well suited to blasting enemies at range, or wading right into things—which I had no doubt he would do.

  Bernard’s ’Mech lance did not boast as much power, but could still be very effective. He piloted his Catapult, and also had an Arbalest to help with long-range missile attacks. A Legionnaire and a Hatchetman made up in accuracy what they lacked in firepower. Whether or not that would turn the battle’s tide, I didn’t want to hazard a guess, but the way the forces were arrayed, the FfW troops had the edge and, I expected, would win the day if fate or other forces did not intervene to ruin things.

  Janella’s voice came in over the neurohelmet’s speakers. “I want us dropped to the north, so we can support the Militia.”

  I agreed. “Check. We take the vehicles and roll up the ’Mech flank.”

  “You’re reading my mind.”

  I smiled. “I just hope doing it is as easy as thinking it.” She did not reply, but the two of us knew it wouldn’t be. One very real possibility was that we dropped into the fight and both sides blasted us. Bernard had showed no compunction against shooting up Niemeyer’s people, and he’d be even less well disposed against us. We were dropping into a situation that could get very bad, very quickly.

  But, then, we really had no alternative.

  On the big display, with five minutes yet to target, the first of the hovertanks that had come in from the north assembled to attack the Militia. Over on the far right, Catford’s Missile Carriers emerged onto the plain. The Jessies arrayed themselves in a screen before pulling back to form the left flank. Then, like warriors emerging from the forest, the ’Mechs began appearing. Some looked very human, like the Jupiter and Arbalest–and strode forth as if they were hunters returning from an expedition. Others, like the Catapult in Catford’s force, emerged like mechanical beasts preparing to invade the battlefield.

  Bernard’s combined force turned its fury on Catford’s battalion. Clouds of long-range missiles arced across the battlefield. The targeting choices almost seemed planned out well as salvos pounded the Catapult and Arbalest, which had long-range fire capabilities. Why he didn’t go after Catford I couldn’t imagine. I thought at the time it might have been some misplaced sense of honor, but subsequent events proved that assumption wrong on several grounds.

  Vehicles from all sides came in fast to harry and nip at the flanks. They launched missiles and fired lasers. Their attacks shattered some armor, bubbled it up in other places. One of the Militia’s Scout Cars fell victim to a coordinated assault by Siwek’s Condors. It exploded spectacularly. One burning wheel flew and bounced over the battlefield in an omen of what awaited the combatants. On that side of the field, however, only the Militia advanced. Bernard held his troops back, even his Scimitars, letting Catford’s troops draw closer for reasons I could not fathom.

  The scene in my cockpit shifted as Valiant’s pilot gave us a direct feed from his nose cameras. We swept over Obsidia
n Island, passing just beyond Bernard’s right flank. Flights of missiles launched from both sides, scarring the air with vapor trails, then wreathing ’Mechs with fire. Catford’s ’Mechs had moved out ahead of the FfW line. Siwek’s ’Mechs and SM1s were slow to deploy. Her vehicles continued the attacks on the Militia, wreaking yet more havoc. Siwek’s hovertanks weathered the counterattacks and continued to close to point-blank range, where their fire would be murderous.

  The view shifted to other cameras on the DropShip as we came about. A tone sounded through the cockpit, quickly followed by staccato piping. When those trilled sounds ended…

  The drop bay snapped open and Ghost slipped into the air. My holoview shifted to that supplied by the Mad Cat III’s own sensors, and a timer in the lower right corner counted down until landfall. I braced myself in the command couch and at five seconds I hit the landing rockets. They roared beneath the cockpit and slowed my descent just enough that, when I hit, the jolt merely loosened teeth in my head, but didn’t rattle them free.

  “Down and full green.” I hit a button on the left joystick, jettisoning the landing rockets, then turned left and pointed myself at the battle. My display lit up with dozens of targets as Janella’s Tundra Wolf stalked up on my right. Our ’Mechs were resplendent in the red and gold of Republic armed forces, and there wasn’t a combatant down there that didn’t realize that the banner and silver star at the Tundra Wolf’s throat meant a Knight of The Republic had just entered the battle.

  Our intent had been to lay into the vehicles attacking the Basalt Militia. During our drop, they’d closed and unleashed another attack, which had crushed two more of the Shandras. One burned where it stood, a blackened skeleton, while the other cartwheeled back into the lake to disappear in a cloud of steam. A concentrated set of salvos from Catford’s ’Mechs and I was fairly certain the Militia’s inexperienced pilots would break, leaving Bernard and us to be overwhelmed by FfW’s superior numbers.