But the thing that was most disturbing of all, the thing that had placed the knot in his stomach, was the little self-satisfied smirk on Sebhat’s face. It was a smirk he’d only seen hinted at before—a small, private expression quickly quelled, but now openly and brazenly displayed. Sebhat no longer cared what Aaron thought of him—there would be no more pretense of talk.
Aaron regretted allowing himself to be convinced that the palace security would protect him, that his usual full retinue was neither necessary nor welcome. It was a chip played in the cause of diplomacy, and obviously a misstep on his part.
Aaron sensed a movement behind him, as someone stepped close to the right of his chair. He glanced up to see the muscular figure of Ulysses Paxton, his personal bodyguard and chief of security—at least Aaron had insisted that Ulysses be permitted to stay as a driver. Aaron drew some comfort in his presence. The bodyguard was very good at what he did, and Aaron wondered if he might have use of his skills very soon.
“There will be no talks today,” announced Sebhat, unable to hide the glee in his voice. “There will be no talks at all.”
Like a skilled actor, Aaron kept absolute control of his public self—every gesture, every expression. He leaned back, giving the appearance of being calm, and placed the fingertips of both hands together in front of him. He waited. Sebhat smiled. Obviously, Aaron was expected to make the next move.
“May I ask why?”
“We will not be joining your coalition, if indeed any such entity comes to pass, as Lord Governor Golan has just signed a nonaggression pact with House Liao.”
Sebhat seemed startled when Aaron began to laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but an honest belly laugh that had him slapping his thigh. A minute or more passed before the laughter faded, and Aaron wiped a bit of moisture from his right eye. “A nonaggression pact? And what concessions did you make in order to secure this valuable piece of paper?”
Sebhat’s smile was gone. He looked down his nose at Aaron, seeming, if anything, slightly offended. “There were no concessions.”
Aaron laughed again, but in a more controlled manner this time. “House Liao agreed to bypass your fat, juicy, under-defended little Prefecture out of the goodness of their hearts? I don’t believe for a second they’d even pretend to make such an agreement without some major tribute thrown their way.
“What was it? Bases on New Canton? Maybe”—he grinned in a manner calculated to provoke—“the Lord Governor’s virgin daughter?”
“That’s enough.” Sebhat was close to shouting as he stood, pushing his heavy chair back so that it almost toppled over. His hands flared out at his sides, like a fictional frontiersman reaching for his pistols. Aaron wondered if the nickel-plated monstrosity of an automatic in his holster was even loaded, and if Sebhat could hit the broad side of a DropShip if it was.
“I was just asking,” said Aaron, his voice even.
Sebhat’s eye twitched. He let out a deep breath, air whistling through his nose. “If you must know, the Lord Governor has gifted the Capellans with the worlds of Second Try and Yunnah, a small concession to avoid open warfare on the capital world.”
Aaron snorted. “If you met a wolf, Sebhat, would you try to placate him by hacking off pieces of your own flesh? You’re only delaying the inevitable, and saving Chancellor Daoshen the trouble of crushing your inferior forces before rolling past. They’ll be back, and you’ll be licking the Chancellor’s boots by December.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Sandoval. House Liao has won battle after battle, world after world. You expect us to rally round the banner of House Davion, or whoever you really serve, after one victory?”
Aaron maintained his best poker face when Sebhat mentioned House Davion, but he was surprised. If Sebhat knew, or even suspected, that Aaron was no longer loyal to The Republic, so might others. It was inevitable that it would eventually become common knowledge, but Aaron had hoped to control that. Perhaps he had waited too long.
Sebhat sneered. “You’re a fool, Sandoval. You’re finished, and you don’t even know it yet.” He drew himself up to his full height, tugging at his uniform coat to straighten it. “You have one hour’s safe passage to have your DropShip clear of New Canton soil. After that time, you will be considered an unwelcome hostile and held for collection by House Liao.”
It was Aaron’s turn to look indignant. He stood and leaned forward on the table with both hands, feeling a slight slick of sweat between his palms and the cool glass. “That’s barely time to get through traffic to the spaceport, much less pack.”
“One hour. This is more courtesy than you deserve. Your DropShip has already been notified to make ready for takeoff upon your arrival.”
The Duke felt Paxton’s powerful hand on his shoulder. “My Lord, we should leave.”
Aaron turned and nodded to his bodyguard, then glanced back at Sebhat. “You’re the Capellans’ lapdog now, Sebhat. I hope they at least feed you well.”
Paxton’s hand tightened slightly, giving the distinct impression that its full force could break bones. “My Lord.”
“Fifty-nine minutes, Sandoval.”
Aaron allowed Paxton to push him toward the door. He noticed that Paxton shielded him with his body from behind, then at the moment they reached the door, brushed past him to move through first. Suddenly clarity returned, and he remembered why he’d hired Paxton, and why he dreaded the thought of losing such a skilled protector.
They rushed down the palace’s corridors, Aaron close to the wall, Paxton looming over him like an umbrella, whispering instructions into a hidden microphone in his sleeve, watching every doorway and potential hiding place with professional suspicion.
Aaron felt himself relax, becoming no more than a parcel in Paxton’s capable care. Whatever happened next, it was out of his hands. That realization freed part of his mind to review those last moments in the meeting room.
He cursed his own weakness. He’d allowed emotion to get the best of him, lost control in his desire to get the last word. It was beneath him to covet such a meaningless gesture. Sebhat’s day would come very soon, he knew. He’d make sure of it.
They turned a corner, and Deena Onan fell in with them, a small leather overnight bag clutched in her hands. Doubtless she had scooped up a few of his personal belongings from the palace guest suite, those items with some sentimental or historic value that could not easily be replaced. To Aaron’s recollection, he had arrived at the palace with two steamer trunks, four suitcases, and probably a half-dozen smaller cases and portable items, not counting Onan’s or Paxton’s personal luggage. He added those items to the mental ledger sheet that he was tallying against New Canton.
Paxton pushed him firmly through the two-story lobby attached to the side entrance. A ground limousine waited outside. Paxton pushed Aaron against a door pillar before stepping outside briefly to assess the situation. Then he pulled them out into the open air. Aaron could smell apple blossoms and hear motor traffic beyond the palace walls. The sky was a cloudless blue-green, and New Canton’s largest moon was a ghostly crescent just above the gates.
Paxton put his hand on Aaron’s head, pushing him down into the car. Paxton was next, holding Deena’s hand as he pulled her in after him. She slipped into the seat next to Aaron, and Paxton lighted—he wasn’t settled enough to call it sitting—on the jump seat across from Aaron. He half-turned and tapped on the ferro-glass that separated them from the driver. The ground car lurched out of the portico with a screech of rubber, whipped up the curved drive, and rushed through the gates while they were still opening.
The car merged into heavy morning traffic, moving rapidly, but boxed in on all sides. Paxton glanced at his watch, then gestured at the seat belts. “Fasten yourselves in. This could get exciting.”
Brakes squealed as they cut off another car getting on the expressway. There was a crunch and the sound of breaking glass behind them as the swerving car struck another in the next lane. Their limousine smoothly accelerated a
way from the accident.
“Do tell,” said Aaron.
The glacial lake was breathtakingly beautiful, surrounded by towering walls of striated rock as raw and jagged as though they had been thrown out of the ground only yesterday. The water was still and dark—a mirror that reflected the cloudless sky, making the ’Mech-sized icebergs look as if they were floating in air.
Erik Sandoval was not here to sightsee. Recon patrols had found fresh ’Mech tracks in the high mountain valley below here. There was reason to believe a few isolated Capellan units, separated from their column during the previous day’s fighting in the pass a thousand feet below them, had retreated into this frigid wasteland.
Erik would have loved to appreciate the lake for its own sake, and perhaps someday he’d return here for just that reason. But today he saw the lake only in strategic terms: a potential heat sink, a place where he could plant his ’Mech and empty his weapons with no fear of overheating.
Out in front of him, a Spider trotted, wings glinting in the sun, jump jets occasionally flaring just long enough for it to bounce over a stream or crevasse. To his right and left, slightly behind him, a pair of Hatchetmen, their mighty namesake in time with their steps, paced his Centurion. In his rear camera, he could see a recently captured Thor bouncing over the caramel-colored rocks, its shoulder-mounted missile canister ready to back them up with ranged fire.
It was exciting to have the rare opportunity to field a brace of ’Mechs, leaving their conventional forces to hold rearward positions. Erik could almost imagine they were in the glory days before The Republic, and the flexibility of the ’Mechs, unencumbered by conventional forces, made it easier to do what had to be done.
Though final victory had been slow in coming, the last stronghold of House Liao on New Aragon had been broken. All that was left were scattered pockets of resistance, isolated forces that had to be eliminated before Erik’s forces could move on. He knew that was the real strategy here: a delaying action. It had worked for a while, but they were almost done.
“Commander! Twelve o’clock high!”
The voice in his headset was Angie Chelsy, commander of the Ghost Legion, pilot of the Hatchetman to his right.
He raised his eyes to find himself looking right down the tubes of a seventy-five-ton Tundra Wolf’s blazing jump jets.
Erik staggered his Centurion to the side so rapidly that he nearly toppled into the lake, the gyros whining as the ’Mech struggled to stay upright. The Tundra Wolf landed with a thunderous report, almost within ’Mecharm’s reach. Erik backpedaled, his brain running as fast as a computer to assess the situation.
The Tundra Wolf was primarily a long-range fighter with terrible heat efficiency—not the sort of ’Mech that wanted to be caught alone. The heat issue explained why the pilot had sought out mountain lakes. But why hadn’t he attacked from a distance?
The answer had to be that he was low on missiles, perhaps even out. That left him with a good suite of lasers, but not enough to deal with a brace of ’Mechs. He had jumped to the high walls surrounding the lake, hoping to take out Erik with his “death from above” attack. Then he could wade into the lake and put his lasers to work on the rest, perhaps scatter them.
It hadn’t worked. What, Erik wondered, was plan B?
He smiled grimly. There was no plan B. It was an act of desperation by an outgunned ’Mech. Though the Tundra Wolf’s original Clan-designed weapons had no minimum range, Erik knew that in many of that model, if not most, those weapons had been replaced for lack of parts. Assuming this was the case, Erik was now inside his enemy’s minimum firing range. It was a calculated risk, but a good one.
Erik spun his ’Mech’s torso, bringing his own light Gauss rifle to bear. Even at this range, it wouldn’t do much against the heavily armored ’Wolf except keep him off balance.
That was the point. The two Hatchetmen moved in from either side, their massive weapons raised high. They crashed into the ’Wolf in a shower of sparks; their deadly blades fell again and again, sending chunks of armor flying in all directions. Erik stepped in close to join the fray. He smashed his ’Mech’s fist into the ’Wolf’s already mangled left arm. It ripped off with a shriek and tumbled into a snow bank, trailing sparks.
Past the ’Wolf, Erik could see the Thor in the distance, lining up for a shot. He shouted, “Clear!”
All three of his ’Mechs stepped back at once, and for a moment the Tundra Wolf stood alone. Then a pair of missiles from the Thor ripped into its back, and pulse lasers from the Spider raked across its front armor and cockpit. There was a flash of escaping plasma before the ’Wolf’s damaged reactor detonated its remaining ammunition.
Erik instinctively turned his cockpit away as pieces of the shattered ’Mech slammed into his right-side armor. He heard Angie’s victory whoop in his headphones as her ’Mech trotted in front of him, hatchet held high, shreds of armor still dangling from the top of its blade. “Look at that baby burn!”
He turned back to see the shattered hulk of the defeated ’Mech, engulfed in flames and glowing plasma.
“One down,” she said, “and none to go.”
Erik nodded to himself. They hadn’t seen any other tracks in hours. “That’s a good day’s work, people. Let’s get back to base.” He pushed his throttle to CRUISE, set a way point for their waiting DropShip, and settled back to enjoy the ride. He surveyed his damage display. The explosion had cost him some armor, and he’d damaged his ’Mech’s left leg slightly avoiding the Tundra Wolf’s attack, but nothing more serious.
Angie’s Hatchetman fell in at his left shoulder. “Well fought, Commander. It took courage to go toe-to-toe with the ’Wolf the way you did. Or to time the Thor’s attack as you did.”
“It was nothing, really.”
“You take risks, Commander. Not that you’re foolhardy—far from it. But you have a warrior’s heart, and you don’t lead from the rear. I appreciate it. The troops who serve under you appreciate it. I wanted you to know that.”
“Thank you, Angie. That means a lot, perhaps coming from you more than one of the Davion Guard.” Erik liked Angie. Her Ghost Legion was full of tenacious fighters whose loyalty to the Duke was far more tenuous than the Davion Guards Erik more often fought alongside.
The Ghost Legionnaires said what was on their minds, Angie most of all. Erik found it refreshing. “Angie, go to a private channel.” He switched channels and activated a scrambler to keep their conversation private.
“What’s up, Commander?”
“This is warrior to warrior. Call me Erik.”
“Erik, then. What’s up?”
He took a deep breath, held it for a moment while he thought, then let it out slowly through his nose. “What do you think of my uncle?”
“The Duke? That’s a very loaded question, you know. You could get a girl in a lot of trouble.”
“This is just between us. Soldier to soldier—what do you think?”
She chuckled. “I’m not sure how well I know him. My direct contact with the Duke has been brief and rather—intense.”
Something about the way she said that made Erik wonder if he’d put his trust in the wrong person, but she quickly allayed that fear.
“In some ways, I don’t think I know him at all, and yet, I probably know him much better than you realized.” She chuckled again. “You don’t have to worry, Commander; I said this was between us, and no matter what might happen in the future, it will remain that way.
“Actually, when you ask what I think of the Duke, I have to ask which Duke. He’s like a fine diamond, different from every angle, in every light. It’s a quality he shares with other members of the Sandoval family.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hope this isn’t too impertinent, Commander, but you aren’t at your best around him, and he seems to be at his worst around you. You’re a warrior, a leader, a man of many talents, yet the Duke fails to treat you with the respect that you deserve. The troops speak of it in whisp
ers.
“Don’t get me wrong. They’re loyal to the Duke, of course. He’s a dynamic leader, and he treats us well. But those who have served with you are loyal to you, too. When they see the Duke dressing you down like a buck private, it distresses them. It’s as though he’s belittling them personally.”
Then it isn’t just me. Nor is it just a personal matter. It’s hurting troop morale. Yet still Erik felt the need to apologize for Aaron. “The Duke holds me to very high standards.”
“He holds everybody to high standards, but most people under his command get the carrot. You just get the stick. My opinion.”
“I’m not just somebody under his command. I’m a Sandoval.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Commander. You’re both Sandovals, and your conflict is a family conflict. But it’s spilled over into your professional conduct. If you had a junior officer whose family problems intruded into their battlefield performance, would you allow it to continue?”
“No, of course not. I’d insist that they resolve it, keep it outside their duty hours, or I’d reassign them.”
“Well, there you go.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.”
“I can’t ‘reassign’ my uncle, and I can’t resolve this problem, either.”
“But you reassign yourself every chance you get.”
He considered. It was true, he’d long welcomed assignments that took him out of his uncle’s direct sphere of influence, spending as much time away from the capital on Tikonov as possible. He’d been avoiding confrontation with the Duke. And when he couldn’t avoid it—
“I’ve allowed this to go on, haven’t I?”
“As I said, you’re not at your best around him, either.” She laughed. “Look, the Sandovals are big players—money, power, position in The Republic, ties to the Davion crown and all that. But family loyalty doesn’t seem to be a strong suit. Seems like the Sandovals spend more time fighting each other than they do fighting their enemies. And it seems to me that he shouldn’t expect your loyalty just because you have the same last name.”
Fortress of Lies Page 4
