Sword of Sedition mda-15

by Loren L. Coleman

Gerald Monroe had given up arguing his own case. He stared through the paladin, eyes unseeing.

  Conner stepped forward and laid a hand on his father’s arm, steering the senator aside. “That’s the legal case. But is it right?”

  “What’s right in this case would be the Senate owning up to its mistake and allowing us to properly investigate such that we can differentiate between those who went along, those who engineered, and those who plotted and carried out Victor’s murder. We believe your father may be innocent of these latter charges, which is why he is one of two senators who will be offered a deal.”

  Senator Monroe found his voice. “What kind of deal?”

  Having played out his bad cop routine, Conner watched as Gareth took on the good cop role with equal ability. Suddenly, he was understanding and helpful, if not sympathetic to Gerald Monroe’s plight.

  “Sir. Viscount. You are finished as a senator. You might very well be stripped of all lands and titles before this is all over, but that depends on who you have left for friends. The exarch is in the position to be generous to the first senator who stands by him.”

  Conner nodded his understanding. “You want him to roll over on the others.”

  “Want? We expect him to. And just so you know, Maya Avellar is putting the same deal in front of our other choice this morning. First one to agree gets the exarch’s full support in return.”

  All wrapped up in a neat little package. Neat and tidy for the exarch, anyway. For the Monroe family, this spelled ruin. Conner’s father could resign his post, certainly, but the scandal would never be wiped away. Seventeen years of direct service to The Republic, five generations of the family’s honor, all abruptly ended. That, more than anything, he later believed, was what finally got to the senator.

  “If you will excuse me,” Gerald Monroe whispered. Shoulders slumped, eyes down, he stepped past Gareth Sinclair and slipped through the door to his office suite.

  “The offer stays on the table until I get a call from Maya,” Gareth said, a little compassion creeping into his voice now that Gerald had left them alone.

  Compassion for the senator? Or for Conner?

  “Did you enjoy that?” he asked, not bothering to hide his own fury. “It was completely uncalled for, you realize.”

  “You think so?” Gareth rescinded his brief pity, turning cold as if with the flip of a switch. “Which part?”

  “All of it. You could have come to the senator with your offer first rather than put him through the wringer like that. Stone’s blood, man, you could have brought it to me. I might have sold him on it without a fight.”

  Gareth Sinclair considered that a moment. A slight flash of pain behind his eyes promised that he might have pursued his target with ruthless efficiency, but he hadn’t enjoyed it. In the end, though, the young paladin simply shook his head.

  “Couldn’t take the chance. A soft sell might have convinced the senators we’re weak, and wouldn’t follow through. They have to know we’re serious, Conner.” Gareth’s face pinched closed, his eyes turning hard like malachite. “And so do you. I know how hard it is at times to walk that line between family and exarch. I made my decision. I’m sorry to have to put you to yours.”

  “We’re going to be sorry for a lot of things before this is over,” Conner snapped back.

  “Maybe. But I’ll sleep well at night.” And Gareth Sinclair left with a curt nod and squared shoulders. A man bearing up under an unpleasant but (he thought) necessary duty.

  Conner wasn’t so certain. Did Gareth truly appreciate the destruction he’d wrought today? He should—the man was a lord in his own right, with family estates in the Isle of Skye region. Did he understand that the Viscount holdings on Marduk would be curtailed, or stripped away by more powerful nobles in the feeding frenzy following a public trial?

  And Asai Rhys, Conner’s mother. Business ventures would fall through, and she would face the shame of this every day for the rest of her life—if she did not embrace her samurai heritage and retire her dishonor with seppuku.

  As for Conner, his chances for advancement were nil, but that mattered little to him. As a Knight of the Sphere he already served the exarch at a level few dared even to dream of. Paladinship had always been a distant thought, at best.

  Pacing the hall outside his father’s offices, Conner wrestled with his options, coming to grips with what was expected of him now. The family or The Republic. He had sworn an oath. And while he’d known that such conflicts could arise, he’d never truly thought they would.

  Gareth had been right about that much, at least. Conner was being put to the question. The line he walked was narrow, drawing out to a hair’s breadth where it suspended a sword above him.

  A hair that snapped in the next moment, with a pistol’s muffled report.

  9

  Swordsworn soldiers participated in the failed attempt to retake St. Andre, suffering what Lord Governor Aaron Sandoval called “appreciable losses.”

  This was the first attempt to recapture the planet since losing it to a combined assault of the Capellan military machine supported by heavy mercenary forces. At the time, Lord Governor Sandoval was almost himself a casualty of war. His fortunate escape and bolstering of Republic positions is credited with keeping alive the defense of Prefecture V.

  —In the News!, New Aragon, 26 February 3135

  New Hessen

  Federated Suns

  9 March 3135

  Julian Davion fought back another series of sneezes, strangling the first one in its infancy and breathing shallowly until the tickling sensation passed.

  His sinuses ached and he felt half a lung short as he labored to breathe New Hessen’s thick atmosphere. Airborne pollen left a feathered coating on his tongue. It tasted of warm grass and tree blossoms. And beneath that, something more. Some dank and rotting thing that never went away. He wiped constantly at his eyes and carried several handkerchiefs. His nose was red and painfully raw.

  The Capellan forces on New Hessen might not kill the prince’s champion, but his allergies certainly could.

  “You get used to it,” Colonel Palos Torris said. The two men rode in a military jeep, the old-fashioned kind with good, knobby wheels and no shocks, and a cab completely open to the atmosphere. “Only takes about two years.”

  Julian gave himself two weeks. Longer than that, and his lungs might never forgive him.

  The jeep hit a pothole and jumped hard. Julian resettled his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Wish I had that kind of time,” he lied.

  “Sure you do,” Torris said, and laughed at the courtesy. The colonel was horse-faced and had a whinnying laugh as well, but sharp eyes and, as Julian had learned, a sharp tongue. “MechWarriors’ve got no reason to be subtle.”

  The prince’s champion smiled, enjoying the garrison commander’s breezy style. “All right. Would you believe my DropShip is already prepped for departure?”

  The colonel laughed some more, obviously believing Julian exaggerated for effect. He didn’t.

  The trouble with New Hessen, in Julian’s mind, began with its pale sun. He didn’t care for it at all. And with the planet rotating through an eighteen-hour day, the cream-colored ball rose too early, set too soon, and washed out most of the world in flat, dull tones.

  In fact, life under such a sun was improbable. Would have been impossible except for the small planet’s thick atmosphere. Putting the greenhouse effect to good use, New Hessen trapped enough solar radiation to drive local daytime temperatures into the tropical range, and it hung onto the warmth with greedy fingers. The air was close and humid, wringing sweat from the body but unable to evaporate it. It also reeked of moist earth and rotting vegetation, like a giant compost heap.

  “What is that stuff?” Julian finally asked as they raced alongside a city park. Piles of black-leafed vine squatted near the street, and the odor of rotting vegetation was stronger than ever.

  “Black creeper. Got anything on New Avalon you just can’t g
et rid of, no matter how much you cut, spray, or fusion-burn?”

  “Kudzu,” Julian said. “Pretty standard variety.”

  “Well, we got the superstrength version. Iron rich, which gives it that blackish-green color. And it’s constantly sloughing off its outer husk, like snake skin.”

  “So it’s growing and rotting at the same time. Nice.” He made a mental note to requisition a Fox armored car with an enclosed cab for the remainder of his mission.

  Fortunately, the drive through Jarman City was a short one, and they would meet The Republic’s representative at the private home of Lord David Faust, featuring air conditioning and the best filters a nobleman could buy. Julian breathed easy for the first time in three days as soon as the foyer doors—serving as a kind of air lock—shut behind them. New Hessen’s point-nine standard gravity put a bit of spring in his step as well.

  Lord Faust received them in his drawing room, already pouring a dark purple wine into tall blue-crystal chalices. The steward of New Hessen was whipcord thin, had oiled mustaches weighted on each end by a small silver bead, brown, almond-shaped eyes, and a round face. Capellan heritage, without a doubt. Julian was on his guard at once.

  The other man in the room hardly needed an introduction. His uniform said it all. Gray tunic and dark trousers, chased with scarlet and gold piping. Name monogrammed over his left breast. Raul Ortega.

  Knight of the Sphere.

  Actually, knight-errant, since he lacked the cape of rank allowed a full knight. Still, as much an ambassador from The Republic as any military man. Lord Faust obviously hoped to keep things on an easy footing. With armies on the march and The Republic showing political stress fractures, now was not the time to make an enemy.

  “Sir Raul,” Julian greeted the other warrior with a firm handshake and the proper address by The Republic’s manner. First name with the honorary, not last.

  Raul Ortega returned the grip, and the courtesy. “Lord Davion.”

  “Sir. Has The Republic received a request from the First Prince or the Duke Sandoval inviting your presence in the Federated Suns?”

  That brought the room’s general bonhomie to a sudden, frosty standstill. Raul Ortega froze, still shaking hands with the prince’s champion. Colonel Torris winced and Lord Faust spilled a splash of wine onto the red table linen spread over the sideboard. Only Julian remained animated, with a warm smile on his face.

  And he had to sneeze again. He felt the explosion growing at the back of his throat.

  “In the interests of keeping peace along our common border,” Ortega released Julian’s hand, carefully treading along diplomatic lines for a good way to save face. “We thought it expedient—”

  “Ah, so it is on your exarch’s orders that you violate our soil.”

  The knight-errant wasn’t about to commit that kind of political faux pas. “No,” he said, taking responsibility. “That was on my… interpretation of my orders.”

  Faust set aside the dust-covered wine bottle, recovered his footing and stepped in to the knight’s aid. He offered a glass to Ortega. “Certainly some allowances can be made, given the circumstances.”

  “Two years ago,” Julian said quickly, racing the sneeze he knew was coming, “before House Liao invaded The Republic, I believe the duke of our Draconis March offered to send peacekeeping forces to stabilize the border. Do you happen to know the exarch’s answer?”

  Ortega surprised him, both in leaving Faust’s offer unaccepted and in knowing the answer. “I do. Exarch Damien Redburn said no.”

  “Actually, his reply was more formal. ‘When assistance is required, it will be requested.’”

  Then he sneezed. Dammit.

  But Ortega acted as if the conversation had not been interrupted. “Yes. That sounds right.” He nodded. “I am from Achernar. We heard about the offer, and the exarch’s reply.”

  Then the knight took a careful step forward. “In fact, even with the flare-up of fighting between neomilitary factions, most of us agreed with that decision.”

  This peace token offered, Raul Ortega finally accepted the glass being offered by Lord Faust. Julian accepted one as well, but did not drink. The dark, plum-flavored wine was sweet and strong—it filled his sinuses with a pleasant, warm scent totally alien to the pollen-and-rotting-weed odor. But he simply cradled it easily in his right hand.

  “May I ask what changed your mind?” he asked.

  “As you said. Two years of war. House Liao came at us, and then the Jade Falcons. We cannot even control our own military. Katana Tormark runs wild along the Combine border, inciting pro-Kurita fever. Jasek Kelswa-Steiner gutted Prefecture IX when he formed his Stormhammers.”

  Ortega drank, considered. “Perhaps if we’d showed greater foresight, accepting the offer of your Duke Sandoval to our Lord Governor Sandoval, we could have prevented some of these catastrophes.”

  Now it was time to extend his own olive branch. “Or perhaps,” Julian offered, “the March Lords inside the Federated Suns would have used it as an excuse to annex the border worlds for their own. And now The Republic and Federated Suns would be at war.”

  Lord Faust swallowed his next sip of wine with great difficulty. Colonel Torris had waved aside his chalice, intent on the discussion.

  “That has also occurred to us,” the knight-errant admitted. “Lady Janella Lakewood and I discussed the problem at some length before she dispatched me here on The Republic’s business. We both believe, in fact, that Aaron Sandoval’s long-range plans involve just such an idea.”

  Julian nodded. Satisfied for the moment. It had to have been a hard admission, that last part. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

  Faust seemed more than happy to lead the small party to a waiting set of matching suede sofas facing each other over a low table. The sofas were large and overstuffed, and all four men chose to perch on the forward edge of their cushions. Torris was the only one who did not carry over a wineglass. The rest all grabbed marble coasters from a small stack at one end of the table.

  At the other end, a chessboard stood ready with pieces carved to represent forces of House Davion and House Liao. The white king had long, drooping mustaches the same as the New Hessen noble, and wore a long, sweeping robe of the kind Capellan nobles usually favored. It could only be Maximillian Liao, who ruled the Confederation before and during the Fourth Succession War. And the bishops were his daughters, Romano and Candace. Liao always had had a thing for divinity.

  The knights were men unknown to Julian, and the rooks fashioned as BattleMechs. Vindicator s. Pawns dressed in House Liao uniform and carried dao broadswords. They faced off against black, with smaller infantry bearing sabers and the royalty looking suspiciously like Hanse Davion and his brood. This was an old set. And the disposition of colors confirmed what Julian already suspected of Faust’s family origins.

  Regardless, the noble seemed very eager to please the knight. A good sign.

  “Perhaps,” New Hessen’s steward began. “Perhaps we should discuss joining forces against the Liao interlopers.” He toyed with one of the silver beads weighting his mustache. “They are, after all, a common enemy. And we do share a border with The Republic.”

  Julian shrugged. He set his glass aside, untouched. “We share a much longer border with House Liao’s Confederation.”

  Raul nodded, but slowly. “You share a very checkered history with the Capellan state, as well. In the Fourth Succession War, House Davion decimated the Confederation. Then there was the Marik-Liao offensive of 3057. And the more recent flare-up in which your Capellan March seized Victoria. Hardly a history of peaceful coexistence.”

  “Besides which,” Faust said with a small toast in the knight’s direction, “it is New Hessen with which we are concerned. We border The Republic.”

  “Give it little more time,” Julian offered. “If things keep going the way they have been, very soon New Hessen will be facing a stretch of space belonging to the Capellan Confederation.”

  Ortega offered
a tight smile, totally without humor. “I’d like to prevent that.”

  Truth be told, so would Julian. But he would not bargain from a position of weakness. The Federated Suns would be at war with the Capellan Confederation soon enough. His job was to push that out for as long as possible.

  The tension in the drawing room had not exactly abated, but Julian was fairly satisfied where things stood. The knight had neither apologized nor bridled at the champion’s behavior. He had retreated, tactfully, but not surrendered the battlefield.

  “According to the reports I’ve read”—and with this, Julian nodded to Colonel Torris—“House Liao has landed irregular troops on New Hessen. Mercenaries. Possibly privateers.”

  Raul Ortega shook his head. “If so, they are very well organized and ordered. My squad skirmished with some of them eight days ago. The Capellan forces behaved well under fire.”

  Torris accepted the knight’s appraisal. “So veteran mercs, or Confederation troops masquerading as same.” He shrugged. All the same to him. “They’ve seized the mountain area west of Mei-ling. Hard ground. Difficult to pry them out of there.”

  “But not impossible.” Julian reached down to the chessboard, and advanced a pawn from the Liao side. He toyed with both sides of the board a moment, thinking, spreading out the pieces into classic attack and defense strategies. “Conventional strategies suggest we don’t have enough forces to hit the Capellans where they are strongest. Not without serious losses of our own. And if we do not strike them soon, we allow them to stage for new raids deep over the border into Republic territory.”

  Or deeper into the Federated Suns.

  Ortega leaned over Julian’s solo play, studying it. His dark eyes followed the rapid movements carefully. “My squad is more of a reconnaissance in force,” he said. “But it puts a few extra pieces on the board. I can turn over a Legionnaire and a strong assault lance.”

  “Not a lot of good without the manpower.” Julian put the black king into check. “Which I suppose means you are putting you and your men into the game as well?”