Mai Uhn Wa looked to the agent, shrugged, and climbed into the helicopter transport as well. He coughed long and hard, and then said quickly behind his cupped hand, “You play a dangerous game, Evan. Do not underestimate this man.” He then distanced himself from the Conservatory cadet, as if Evan’s minor theft did not touch upon him as well.
Evan licked his lips, returned the agent’s distracted gaze with one of his own. “In or out, sir. We can’t wait much longer.”
Michael Yung-Te smiled. It wasn’t exactly a gesture of respect, but close. A gamesman’s smile, conceding the coin toss, if not an opening move well played. “We are not through, you and I,” he promised. With a final look of apprehension at the secured barrels and crates, he jumped up as the VTOL lifted off the ground.
Evan simply rolled the heavy door shut.
“Welcome to Liao.”
24
Dropped Ship
Mercenary forces in Capellan employ have struck at Buchlau and are being used to support “Styk Independence” as well as several other world campaigns. We consider this a positive sign that the Confederation may be running short on troops. If this is so, it should not take much more to dislodge them.
—Lord Governor Marion Hidic, Liao, 20 July 3134
LianChang Military Reserve
Qinghai Province, Liao
24 July 3134
His name was Daniel Peterson.
He was born October 7, 3089 in the Chang-an suburb of SuiCha to proud citizens Michael and Celia Peterson. His entire life, Daniel studied the confusion around him as Capellan residents and Republic citizens struggled with who they were—and to whom the world of Liao truly belonged—with either side rarely at peace. It was a question with no answer, or so Daniel thought then.
He attended the Conservatory for his academy years, courting a local girl during his senior year, though they decided not to marry before graduation. His appointment as a lieutenant serving the Liao militia kept him home and gave them a chance to proceed slowly.
Then an alumni of his alma mater, Conservatory Class of 3097, approached him on “a delicate matter.” And going slowly was no longer an option.
Now Daniel Peterson had returned to the LianChang Military Reserve—still in his guise as Major Ritter Michaelson—to watch history repeat itself. Legate Ruskoff had appointed him a senior aide for the intelligence he’d volunteered on the Bannson Universal vessel and for his supposed experience as a major in the Hastati Sentinels.
A nervous cup of coffee held in a trembling hand, Daniel sipped the hot beverage without tasting it as he followed in the Legate’s wake. Ruskoff was always moving, always checking and rechecking what workstation computers and on-duty personnel told him. The Planetary Defense Center was located two levels underground beneath a low, bunker-style building of gray ferrocrete. Daniel doubted the PDC, normally manned with a skeleton crew. had seen anything less than full duty schedules over the past month.
Tonight was even worse as Ruskoff ordered backups to stand ready and admitted several political liaisons, most of whom crowded the back wall and tried to stay out of the way. Lady Eve Kincaid waited among them, present for her own purposes as well as to represent Lord Governor Hidic at his direct request.
There was also Gerald Tsung, always ready with another question. “The Astral Prize. It is still off course and refusing communication?”
Daniel shuffled aside as the Legate’s junior aide, Lieutenant Nguyen, brought Ruskoff a noteputer with the latest reports from the Lianyungang DropPort Authority. The Legate looked a question at his aide, who shook his head. “Nothing,” the lieutenant said. “No expected arrival. No JumpShip passage.”
“Tracking?” Ruskoff growled.
“Sir.” A captain at a nearby console. “The Astral Prize is still over the western oceans at six kilometers elevation. They will be over Beilù in five minutes on final approach, passing directly over Chang-an and then the Reserve fifteen minutes later. It looks like they’re heading for the eastern DropPort of Hussan, and that will still take a serious course correction.”
“There is your answer, Mr. Tsung. Chang-an is restricted airspace and we do not allow civilian flights over LianChang either. All indications are that this is an attack run.”
“From six kilometers up?”
Lady Kincaid volunteered that answer. “If you are launching aerospace fighters and BattleMechs in drop packs, yes.”
A different approach this time. Daniel Peterson thought back to 3111, when the Overlord had landed. One DropShip. That was what the cabal had promised. Look the other way for five minutes. Daniel had envisioned a single battalion landing to honorably challenge the standing militia. The citizens and Capellan residents would finally know to whom Liao belonged.
But the Capellans had double berthed—maybe even triple berthed—the vessel. Confederation troops came marching out, rank upon rank, forming up into organized death squads and moving on Chang-an. So many… There would be no even matching of forces, no cathartic moment for Liao. The Confederation brought more than enough to smash the local militia. Then everything fell apart as the fires spread and the death toll rose.
The cabal had been “most pleased” with Daniel Peterson. They had paid him a bonus of one Republic bill for every dead citizen.
“One DropShip,” Daniel whispered aloud. “That is where it starts.”
He hadn’t meant to be overheard, but Lady Kincaid caught it. “And you are certain that this is the one?”
Daniel nodded vacantly, his eyes on a nearby panel that showed the incoming DropShip as a small, green blip on the screen. “Bannson Universal. January Twenty-fourth. Astral Prize.” He recited the data mechanically.
“But how do you know?” Tsung asked.
Careful. “Because the Second McCarron’s Armored Cavalry knows, the Ijori Dè Guāng knows, and the student militia at the Conservatory knows. They are expecting the Dynasty Guard to support the Confederation’s drive to take Liao.” That much was true. He turned the ruined side of his face toward Tsung. “This is the vessel I was warned about.” Also true, if from another source.
A comms technician interrupted with a stuttering, “Sir… sir! Our pilots are about to make another high-speed pass.”
Aerospace fighters. TR-10 Transits. Ruskoff had dispatched a full wing of the fighters—Beilù’s full contingent. Their first pass moments before had been at supersonic speeds, shaking the DropShip with their sonic wake. No response.
“Tell them to proceed,” Ruskoff ordered, voice tight.
Another technician waved Lieutenant Nguyen over, quickly handing him a headset. Daniel watched with growing apprehension, waiting for the chaos always certain in a military operation to erupt. Nguyen turned to Ruskoff. “DropShip Astral Prize is contacting Lianyungang! Civilian frequencies. Sporadic contact. They report minor electronics failure due to damage, and say they are being chased by Confederation fighter craft.”
“Our fighters,” Daniel voiced first. “They are talking about our fighters. Trying to buy time.”
Ruskoff wasn’t playing. “Find that frequency and order them back into orbit, and prepare to be boarded for inspection. Or get them on our channels. Partial comms failure, my ass.”
“They are ignoring our calls,” a tech reported seconds later, “or cannot receive them.”
“If they can reach Lianyungang, they can hear us.” Ruskoff glanced over at Daniel. “Major. Is all this keeping with what you expected?”
Play by play, so similar to the night of the Massacre. The Night of Screams. “Only the beginning,” Daniel said, just as the Tracking Station reported that the DropShip was now off the ocean and over Beilù’s coastal range. Elevation, four kilometers. Time to Chang-an, fifteen minutes.
Tsung still looked unconvinced. “This is one of the vessels on the list of those lent to MedCross activities on Gan Singh.”
Ruskoff backed up his new aide. “Then it should be on Gan Singh, not sneaking into the Liao system from a nonstandard
jump point under communications blackout. The Astral Prize is a merchant-converted Fortress. Six thousand tons, and originally capable of transporting a mixed-arms battalion. I will not allow that vessel to overfly Chang-an or LianChang.”
“God help you if you’re wrong,” Tsung argued back.
The Governor’s Aide almost did not get to finish his statement, though, as several workstations erupted in a buzz of excited conversation. “Legate. Aerospace fighters report taking fire from the DropShip. Astral Prize has opened up with weapons.”
“Legate Ruskoff! Liao Defense Wing requesting permission to go weapons-free.”
“Legate. Legate!” Lieutenant Nguyen, now taking over the workstation that kept LianChang in touch with local DropPort Authority. “DropShip Astral Prize reports that it has opened fire on Confederation fighter craft. They are pleading for help… on civilian channels.”
“We just… Zāo gāo! We just lost two fighters. Two down, that’s two down.”
So fast? Even if the merchant-converted DropShip had remounted many of its old weapons, Daniel would have expected a longer fight out of the Transits. But aerospace control answered that in the next breath.
“One may have clipped the second, sir. Midair collision. Other four are outside of the Fortress’s reach now, but circling back around.”
“Position unchanged. DropShip, twelve minutes—one, two—from Chang-an.”
Legate Ruskoff glanced at Tsung and then Kincaid. So did Daniel. He read a similar conviction on both faces. The Legate nodded. “Weapons-free,” he ordered calmly. “Force down that DropShip. And get me comms on that civilian channel and our fighters’ channel both.”
It took only a few seconds for a tech to route the different frequencies into a common broadcast, with the aerospace pilot chatter bleeding through first in a wash of static.
“Bravo-one, I have good tone. Firing.”
“DropShip continues to track us with lasers. Some are firing blindly as if—”
“Lifeboat! Lifeboat! One lifeboat away, dropping fast at four o’clock low.”
The Astral Prize’s broadcast was much fainter, but full of desperation. “Lianyungang, please respond. We are taking heavy fire, power systems failing, guidance… we are ordering passengers and crew to abandon this vessel. Please respond. We are suffering under heavy attack…” The message repeated itself in a variety of different ways. DropPort Authority tried several times to interrupt their pleading, but the Astral Prize could not—or would not—acknowledge.
And then, suddenly, a burst of white static and silence. Daniel counted six heartbeats pounding at the wall of his chest.
“DropShip is tumbling,” one of the fighter pilots finally broke back in. Her voice was soft, almost casual. “DropShip is out of control, heading down. Breaking off attack runs.” No one inside the PDC spoke, everyone straining to hear the next report. “DropShip has impacted. Minimal fire. Survivors possible… but not probable. Two lifeboats on course toward Chang-an, we are riding guard.”
Ruskoff nodded at the tech, and cut a hand over his throat. Comms were silenced and an adrenaline slump washed over the entire room. Daniel tried to imagine what a Fortress–class vessel looked like, broken and scattered over however many kilometers. How many crew? How many military? Better this way than striking at Chang-an.
“Get our security squads on site,” the Legate ordered. “Lieutenant Nguyen, bring me news once we have on-site verification that no military forces managed to deploy. Mr. Tsung. Lady Kincaid.” He gathered Michaelson in with a nod, and the four of them left the room as a team, a sense of solidarity between military and government that lasted four paces into the brightly lit and empty corridor.
“Governor Lu Pohl expects me to call in with a report,” Tsung said then. “I will use your adjutant’s office.”
“I should inform the Lord Governor as well,” Kincaid agreed.
Ruskoff shrugged. “Join us when you can.” He led Daniel farther along the tiled hall, into his private retreat at the PDC. A well-appointed office, cold and indifferent with lack of use, but Daniel knew that would change as the Confederation pushed harder for Liao.
The Legate did not ask and forgot Daniel’s aversion to drinking, pouring them brandies at a small cupboard bar kept to the left of his desk. He set one on the desk corner, next to a visitor’s chair. He cradled his own in a large hand, swirled it around, and then sipped at the smoky liquid. “They truly thought they could run that play again. They think we do not learn from our mistakes?”
Daniel sat stiffly in the offered chair. He didn’t so much as sniff the elegant liquor. The thought of the cabal’s laughter still haunted him. To the Betrayer of Liao…
“Some of us do not learn,” he spoke without meaning to, thinking of his own mistakes.
“Speaking from personal experience?” Ruskoff asked, settling back into his high-back executive chair with a creak of leather and a sigh of pleasure as the brandy burned down his throat. “Well, I hope that I do. The only thing worse than suffering the consequences of the same mistake twice… is when others suffer in your place.”
Startled, Daniel nearly elbowed the brandy glass off the corner of Ruskoff’s desk. “Officers are often put in that position,” he said, speaking through a tight throat and a tongue suddenly grown thick. “Now it sounds like you are speaking from personal experience.”
“I don’t think you were on planet,” Ruskoff glanced around his empty desk, as if he’d just mislaid Ritter Michaelson’s service record. “I was Senior Colonel for Beilù, and you must have been with the Tenth Hastati four… no, five years ago.” Daniel said nothing. “That was when the Conservatory had its first uprising.”
“Second.”
Ruskoff blinked. “Sorry, Major?”
Daniel pushed the brandy snifter away from him. “My apologies, Legate. I did not mean to interrupt. I only recently learned that 3128 was the Conservatory’s second student uprising.” And he told Ruskoff the same story Evan Kurst had relayed to him. Daniel wasn’t sure why he did, but it seemed that the Legate would benefit from knowing. It also prevented him from lying again, as he had been here for the student troubles in 3128. Or, at least, Ezekiel Crow had.
“Is that true?”
“I looked it up. Wasn’t easy,” Daniel admitted, “but the event is documented if you know where to look.”
“We haven’t done well here on Liao. Not as well as Devlin Stone would hope.” Viktor Ruskoff finished his brandy, set the glass on his desk. “I’ve been wondering if it’s too late to fix things. Wondering if I’m going to end up like Kang Lo Den.”
Legate Kang. The man had suffered every commander’s nightmare during the uprising of 3128, bringing force against a civilian target. But he let the situation get out of hand, applying a military solution before diplomatic possibilities were exhausted. During a “show of force,” a cadet crew rammed their Pegasus into a militia Joust, trying to keep it from breaking through the wall onto Conservatory grounds. A Schmitt went weapons-free and blasted the smaller vehicle into burning scrap.
The affair played so badly in The Republic media, in no small part because Daniel (as Ezekiel Crow) withheld evidence of Confederation involvement, that Kang was later “encouraged” to resign. That was the price of peace. And Kang had acted with inappropriate force. Daniel said so out loud.
Ruskoff winced. “Except Kang never did give an order to use force against the Conservatory.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I talked him out of it. Kang wanted to use quick and decisive force, and I suggested a token display of strength to give the students something to think on. I didn’t think their heart was truly up for a fight. They acted out under pressure, not out of malicious intent.”
Do not be so certain of that, Daniel wanted to say, but didn’t. There was definitely Confederation involvement, though never enough to convict, only to convince. Maybe he should have brought it all out into the open. Maybe that was the time for an ope
n and frank confrontation between Republic and Capellan interests.
“So Kang was innocent?” he asked.
“No, he was guilty of the charges admitted to. Kang’s only error was trusting the show of strength to Major Thom Greggs, a die-hard citizen who reviled Capellan ways. Thom was court-martialed for disobeying orders and using excessive force. I believe he was allowed to resign without pension rather than face imprisonment.”
Daniel cast back for the final decision on Legate Kang. Crow had already left Liao, moving on to a new assignment, but, “Kang admitted to authorizing the use of force,” he said, thinking aloud. Then, “No. He took responsibility for the men under his command and their actions.” That wasn’t quite the same thing, though it had played so in the public spotlight. Amazing what a simple turn of phrase could do to you, and to your memory of events.
Ruskoff nodded. “He took the brunt of responsibility. My name never came up in the scandal, and I was confirmed as the new Legate six months later.”
And had worried ever since that his inaction, his counsel for caution, was a root cause of the entire conflagration. Daniel wanted to tell him that it wasn’t. But he couldn’t. Ezekiel Crow was dead, and that was where the Black Paladin had to remain.
It was a decision barely made when a sharp knock rattled the office door and both Lieutenant Nguyen and Gerald Tsung entered behind it. Tsung looked ashen faced, walking with his arms held stiffly down at his sides as if he did not know what to do with them. Nguyen carried his noteputer in two hands, almost afraid he would drop it. Ruskoff sat forward sharply, as concern took over.
“What? Did the Dynasty Guard land forces before the crash?” He sounded prepared to mobilize the entire military reserve on a moment’s notice, ready to defend Chang-an.
By Temptations and By War mda-7 Page 20
