“But I am loyal. He’s done a lot for me over the years.”
“From what I can see, you’ve done a lot for him, too. Family is irrelevant to that. You deserve respect for your accomplishments. Hell, Erik, you’re not just an officer or a noble, you’re a MechWarrior. We sit in the high seat. People should give us respect. Even dukes. Even uncles.”
She was silent for a minute. Finally, she said, “Why do you even care what he thinks, Erik? What is he to you?”
Erik licked his lips. “I don’t know. He practically raised me, or more exactly, I was raised in his house. He helped earn my citizenship, taught me to be a man, how to carry myself like a noble.”
“So you owe him? Fair enough, but what about you? What do you want? Power? Riches? Glory? A title of your own?”
Erik sighed. “All of that, and none of it. What I really want. . . . I-I want to be my own man. I want to steer my own destiny. That’s all, really.”
Angie chuckled. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Morning, Clete.” The guard at the spaceport maintenance facility barely looked at Cletus Wyoming’s security pass as she waved it under the scanner and handed it back to him. Why should she? It was just the same as it had been, five days a week, for the last three years.
It was strange, he thought, as he hung the ID lanyard back around his neck, that it was the last time he’d ever go through this little ritual. Cletus Wyoming was exactly one day away from a very early, and rich, retirement.
It had been no surprise when, an hour before, a text message calling him in to work early had arrived on his ’puter. He’d been sitting at the kitchen table in his small apartment, dressed and waiting impatiently for it, since before dawn.
The people who had hired him had told him when he’d be called, where he’d be going, what he’d be doing. They’d given him the lunchbox that he carried in his left hand, externally identical to the one he’d carried to work every day of those three years. Internally it was the same too, except for the fake vacuum bottle packed with a powerful high-explosive charge. A built-in detonator could be armed by twisting the cap.
As Clete walked across the asphalt toward the waiting maintenance truck, he knew it would be taking him to the Union-class DropShip looming on the pad a mile beyond the maintenance building. He knew exactly what last-minute adjustment would be his excuse for going aboard, and he knew just how he’d route himself through the ship’s engineering compartments to pass near the fuel-expansion couplings. He knew precisely where he’d plant the bomb from his lunch kit—a place that would guarantee a secondary fuel explosion that would cripple the ship, if not destroy it outright.
He jumped into the passenger seat of the electric truck and nodded at the driver. The truck accelerated quickly down into a service tunnel leading to the Union’s pad. They’d be there in less than two minutes. He would be in and out in five.
Then Clete would feel a flu bug coming on—one that would require him to leave early and never come back. When thirty-five hundred tons of fully loaded DropShip came crashing back down, he didn’t want to be anywhere close by, and he certainly didn’t want to be anywhere he could be found.
The greenish lights of the tunnel flashed past, and the whir of the truck’s motors bounced off the walls. The air was pungent with oil, paint, and solvents. Most days it smelled like hell. This morning, it smelled like perfume.
Clete pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes and leaned back in his seat. “Drive faster,” he said.
3
This is the emergency hatch release. This is the harness quick-release. Most importantly, this is the eject lever. They’ll be different in every ’Mech cockpit, so get to know where yours are and how to use them.
Know how to find and use them automatically, in smoke or darkness or underwater. Know how to find and use them with the noise of combat blasting through your earphones. Know how to find and use them with either hand, just in case one gets blown off.
Most of all, know when to ignore your pride and use them. All warriors eventually find themselves on the losing side of a battle, where they can do nothing more for anyone but themselves, and their cockpits suddenly stop being the safest places on the battlefield.
That’s the time to get out. No MechWarrior ever won a battle by standing still and getting hacked to pieces with his dead ’Mech.
—“Flight to Victory,” Mech Warrior Training Video #13
Capital Spaceport
Merrick City, New Canton
Prefecture VI, The Republic
9 October 3134
The limousine spent five agonizing minutes at the spaceport gate, while a pair of scowling, black-uniformed security guards with automatic rifles scrutinized their paperwork. Crosstown traffic had been heavy, as expected, and time was short. It galled Aaron to run like a scared rabbit, but he’d be a fool to put himself in danger over false pride. He sensed the Prefect was up to something, and Aaron didn’t want to give those intentions even a hint of legitimacy by overstaying his welcome.
Ulysses Paxton was listening to his headphone. He turned to Aaron. “They just had somebody do a last-second swap-out of a balky guidance module, but they’re fueled, preflighted, and ready to lift off as soon as we’re aboard.”
One of the guards finally passed back their clearances. “This looks to be in order. Have a nice trip.”
Paxton nearly growled as he snatched the papers back and signaled the driver to move on. The tires squealed as they headed across the apron toward their waiting DropShip. It was a Union-class, an eighty-meter-plus sphere sitting on four massive landing legs. She wasn’t a luxury craft—her quarters small and unpleasant for such an important passenger—but her hull was heavily armored, and weapons bristled from turrets around her waist and on her nose. Huge sliding doors covered two loaded ’Mech bays, including the Duke’s personal ’Mech, and a third bay that could hold a pair of escort fighters.
Once aboard, they would be well protected, which was why the last kilometer seemed to take forever. At the base of the ship, a squad of Davion Guards in winged Kage battle armor covered their approach. The car slid to a stop, and the troops surrounded the door. Paxton pushed Aaron and Deena out of the car and into the protective circle, then into the elevator that lifted them into the belly of the ship.
The driver of the car, one of Paxton’s men, followed, climbing into the lift with them. The car was abandoned on the vast concrete blast-deflector beneath the ship’s immense fusion thrusters. That made Aaron grin. The car had been provided for them by the New Canton government. Knowing it would be blasted into wreckage didn’t do much to balance the scales, but it made him feel better.
He lost sight of the car as the lift ascended into the ship and continued up another forty meters. It passed through the smaller ’Mech bay where his personal gold-and-white Black Hawk was stored. It quickly passed through the roof of the bay and stopped on the crew deck above. Paxton pushed them out of the car and into a nearby emergency crash-couch. There would be no time to get to the Duke’s quarters.
Paxton didn’t seat himself. He simply locked his legs, feet apart, and held onto an overhead support with one muscular arm. He lifted his other arm and barked into his sleeve. “The Duke is secure.”
The captain’s answering voice came from an overhead speaker, as well as Paxton’s hidden earphone. “Davion Guards are aboard and secure. Hatches sealed. Core preheat cycle is complete. Ready to lift off.”
“Lift off,” said Paxton.
The deck under their feet shuddered and began to vibrate. There was the whine of turbo-pumps spooling up, followed by a rumble, like a vast waterfall, then a clap of thunder as the huge engines reached temperatures as hot as hellfire. Plasma erupted from the engine bells, and the huge craft began to move.
Aaron wondered about the car. Did it melt? Was it vaporized? Pulverized? Or just tossed away like a leaf in a gale? He wished he could have seen it.
Acceleration pushed them gently into their seats as
the ship lifted off. Paxton’s knees flexed slightly with the G-forces, and he seemed intently focused on the sounds of the launch.
The engines dulled to a roar as they gained altitude, the sound no longer echoing back from the ground to pound against their armored hull. After a few seconds, the deck groaned again, then shuddered as the landing legs retracted into the ship’s lower skirt.
Thirty meters below them and fifty meters over in the direction of the number two landing leg, an accelerometer in the detonator of Clete Wyoming’s “retirement-fund” triggered a solid-state relay. A timer began, its settings based on the typical launch profile of a Union-class DropShip and the designated departure pattern of the Capital Spaceport.
The ship climbed out at 1.5 gravities, moving eastward over the snow-white dunes of the shoreline and the Gulf of Emeralds beyond. By now, its course would have taken it five kilometers out to sea, to an altitude of six thousand feet.
That was far enough. That was high enough.
It would be a darned shame about the fish, though.
The bomb exploded.
The explosion tossed Aaron painfully against his harness. The whole compartment seemed to buckle around them, decking and bulkheads rippling like cardboard.
Paxton was tossed off his feet and, for a moment, hung by his hands from the overhead support. Aaron watched with horror as the angle of Paxton’s body shifted dramatically, a human plumb bob defining a “down” that changed moment by moment.
It was like being in a building that was slowly falling over on its side.
There was another explosion, louder than the first, and something ripped through their compartment. Aaron looked over to see the car driver slump over in his seat. His upper harness was severed by a wrist-thick shaft of steel that had been driven through the back of his seat and straight through his chest. Aaron watched the light of life fade from his eyes, his expression not one of pain or fear, but surprise.
Aaron felt . . . nothing. Or perhaps a perverse kind of relief, releasing the tension that had been building since his confrontation with Sebhat back at the palace. There was no more waiting. Now what happened would happen.
“All hands to crash stations,” the captain’s voice came, muted, from down the corridor, the speaker over their head having been silenced. “We’ve lost the turbopumps on the number six thruster. Number five has shut down from secondary damage!”
The sound of the motors changed. Aaron’s stomach lurched as though he were in a falling elevator.
“Shutting down two and three to balance thrust!” The falling slowed, and the floor seemed to pitch back toward level.
Aaron barely was aware, lost in a fugue state. It was the same feeling he’d had when he committed himself to battle, when the cockpit of his ’Mech sealed and the warrior took over for the diplomat.
He saw Deena’s face, white with fear. He’d seen her confront mortal danger before without flinching, but the circumstances had been different, more under her control. This was different.
He smiled at her. How could he make her understand? In danger there was clarity. These were the moments when one was most alive, facing death, fighting fate for every moment of life.
He glanced over at Paxton, thinking he at least would understand, but Paxton was looking around like a caged animal. This was not the kind of threat he could fight. He could protect his Duke against bullets, but not gravity. He looked like a man who had just realized he was about to fail.
Deena looked at Paxton desperately. “Escape pods?”
Aaron answered for him. “They’re unreliable in the atmosphere, and we’re not going up anymore. Lifeboats would work, but a Union doesn’t carry any.”
“Can we land?”
The captain’s voice came from the speaker again, sounding almost as desperate as Deena’s, as defeated as Paxton’s expression. “Number two landing leg is jammed. Negative deployment on two. We’re going to come down hard.”
Paxton looked at Deena and shook his head sadly.
Aaron blinked and looked at the elevator, which now stood with doors ajar. The elevator car was visible, jammed halfway down to the lower deck. Next to it was an open shaft with a ladder in it. He reached up to his chest and twisted the buckle to release his harness. “If you want to live,” he said, “follow me.”
He ran to the shaft, glanced in to make sure it was clear, then started climbing down as fast as he could. He looked up to see Deena, then Paxton, following him. He counted steps and calculated. Forty meters give or take. Maybe two rungs per meter.
Half a dozen steps and they emerged through the roof of the ’Mech bay. The far end of the bay was a shambles, the bulkhead blasted open to expose twisted metal trusses that were probably part of the crippled landing leg. The farthest ’Mech was twisted and melted almost beyond recognition. The next, a Centurion, was heavily damaged, a ceiling crane having fallen and wrapped itself around the ’Mech’s shoulders.
But the two ’Mechs on their end were intact, including his Black Hawk.
He glanced down. Just below them, the ladder passed through a maintenance catwalk and ran next to the Black Hawk at shoulder height. Good. They wouldn’t have to go all the way to the bay floor and climb back up.
He dropped to the grating of the catwalk. He smelled hot metal and burning plastic. A stream of smoke came from somewhere in the wreckage and whistled out through a breach in the bay door. He reached up to help Deena down as Paxton dropped the last two meters and landed lightly on his feet.
Aaron glanced at the ’Mech and considered his options. A ’Mech was a one-person vehicle. He should be able to squeeze Deena into the cramped cockpit in the space behind his command couch, but there’d be no room for Paxton. The Black Hawk had been left in midservice, cockpit hatch open, missile bays empty, the missile loading hatch on the right arm open. Down the catwalk, the crate for a replacement gyro sat open and empty, having been hastily tied down to the metal grating before liftoff. Draped over the edge of the crate were blue padded packing blankets.
He pointed. “Paxton, grab those and get down to that missile hatch. Climb inside, slam the hatch, and try to wrap yourself in padding. It’s going to be a rough ride. Deena, you come with me.”
Her eyes went wide. “What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to jump,” he said calmly.
“You’re insane!”
“Then stay here and die.” He climbed over the railing and dropped down next to the open hatch. “I’ll miss you. You’re the best valet I’ve ever had.”
She hesitated only a moment before climbing down after him. He was already in the cockpit, strapping himself in. He fitted the neurohelmet over his head with one hand, flipping switches to initiate an emergency startup sequence with the other. It was a risk, cold-starting the ’Mech’s fusion reactor like this, but there was no choice. If it didn’t work, they’d only be as dead as if he hadn’t tried.
He glanced over to see Paxton, a huge bundle of blankets under one arm, climbing into the missile hatch. He reached down into a compartment next to his seat and pulled out one of the headsets sometimes used to communicate with ground crew in the field.
“Deena, throw this down to Ulysses.” He tossed the headset over his shoulder and heard Deena grab it, then throw it down. Ulysses caught it one-handed, then ducked down and shut himself inside the ’Mech’s arm.
Deena squeezed in behind Aaron.
“Dog that for me,” he snapped, then heard the door cycle shut, and Deena grunt in the tight space.
The ’Mech started to come alive around them. The computer lit up. “Voice authorization required.”
“Duke Aaron Sandoval,” he said, followed by his code-phrase, “The hand is the sword; the sword is the hand.”
“Authorization recognized. ’Mech systems on-line.”
The ’Mech shifted around them, hard-points clunking against the restraining clamps. There was no ground crew to release them. He pushed the throttle forward and wiggled the st
ick. There was a whine, followed by a series of reports as the clamps snapped one by one.
“Captain, this is Duke Sandoval. Open ’Mech launch chute one.”
“Damn,” was the only reply, except for another muttered curse he couldn’t understand. The bay lurched around them, and he could feel the DropShip descending again, more rapidly this time.
“Captain, this is the Duke! Open that launch chute!”
“We’re . . . busy up here.”
“Open the chute!”
No answer.
He jockeyed the ’Mech’s controls to move them forward. He could see cracks in the main bay door in front of them, sunlight streaming through some of them. Meters above, he could see the main door actuators, one broken loose and waving as the ship rocked.
He activated the twin lasers on either side of the cockpit. He aimed manually and fired. The actuators began to glow red, then white.
They snapped, and abruptly the entire bay door peeled away, leaving them standing in front of a gaping hole in the hull. Hurricane-force winds ripped around them, sucking out anything that wasn’t tied down, with the exception of the fifty-ton Black Hawk.
He could see the gulf below them, the shallows dappled with patches of pale green, the deeper water in blues ranging from pale to indigo. The water looked perilously close.
He hated to land in the water. The ’Mech would survive, if he could land softly enough, but he wasn’t sure Paxton’s compartment would be watertight under the circumstances. He doubted it. The bodyguard could drown before they reached land, and that would be a regrettable loss.
The ship rolled on its axis, and on the horizon Aaron could see a large island, one shore ringed with high-rises, the other with warehouses and docks. In the middle, another spaceport sprawled, dotted with huge freighter ships.
Aaron tried to remember the maps he’d seen of New Canton. What was that island called? Barosa? It was the planet’s major transfer point for bulk space freight, as cargo was transferred to and from oceangoing ships and barges that serviced the rest of the planet. The island looked far away. Then Aaron noticed a light-colored finger extending out from the island in their direction.
Fortress of Lies Page 5
