Instead, he nibbled a few crackers, and caught a nap in a hammock someone had hung in an equipment room behind the bridge. It was the sleeping-bag type, with a zip-up cover to keep the occupant from floating out in zero-G, or being thrown out by the maneuvering thrusters. As a MechWarrior, he prided himself on his ability to sleep anywhere, but he still woke several times after dreams of falling.
The captain didn’t wake him until they’d already dispatched an S7A Bus to the surface. Though Erik protested that he would have preferred to go along, the captain wasn’t having any of it. “No offense, Commander, but working in microgravity like this is a lot harder than it looks. You could almost jump into orbit, but if you found a crevasse, you could still fall far enough to kill yourself. My guys have been doing this half their lives, so you’d only slow them down.”
They returned to the bridge to supervise the mission. “The distress call is just automatic now. There are actually two fighters down there. Our instruments show one of them as registering a temperature of about 120 degrees below zero. It’s dead, and so is whoever was inside. We’re showing residue of reactor plasma and life-support gases that probably vented from one or both vehicles. There’s another one plowed in next to it, but we’re getting energy readings that tell us it has a barely functioning reactor. Of course, that just may mean we’ll find a warm corpse instead of a frozen one.”
These weren’t just lost ships that were hiding. They’d obviously taken severe battle damage, and had barely made it away from the planet. “Well,” said Erik, “looks like the Shensi did manage to get a few licks in, even if I didn’t see it.”
There was a crackle from the radio. “Captain, Brinks here. We’ve got one survivor, but he’s unconscious and in bad shape. I think a missile peeled most of his radiation shielding off, and solar flare activity is high right now. Poor bastards were limping back to their ship while the flare was cooking them from the inside out. They must have tried to land here and use the moon as a radiation shelter, but by then it was too late.”
The captain looked a little pale. Radiation: one of a spacer’s greatest enemies. “Get him back as soon as you can, Brinks. You know the drill.”
“Yes, sir. Strip the ships of any intelligence materials, pull the computer cores for analysis, plant a thermal charge and melt the rest to slag.” There was a pause. “And sir?”
“Yes, Brinks.”
“Should we bring back the other body?”
She glanced at Erik. Then her jaw clenched and she shook her head. “Burn it.”
As soon as the shuttle was aboard and secure, the Mercury went to a one-G thrust. Not only did it get them away from the prying eyes of the Shensi, it made handling the survivor easier.
The Mercury was a large ship, but nominally had a crew of only twelve. She had a well-equipped infirmary, but no doctor. Sergeant Brinks had the most medical training of anyone aboard, but the survivor, if he could properly be called that, needed far better care.
Erik and Captain Yung stood outside the plastic bubble that had been inflated around the pilot’s bed. A drip IV depended on the reliability of a planet’s gravity; therefore, Brinks hooked the patient up to a number of electronic IV pumps. The man’s eyes were clouded white, his gums bled profusely, and his skin was turning a mulberry color. Exposure to heavy radiation was a horrible way to die.
Brinks emerged through a simple airlock that closed with zippers. He was wearing a full surgical garment and mask. His face was gray. This was every spacer’s nightmare, and he was getting to see it closer than anyone. “I’ve done what I could. I’m pumping him full of the antiradiation cocktail they supply us with, and loads of painkillers, but he’s way beyond my help.”
Yung looked at Erik. “We could turn back to Shensi.”
Brinks shook his head. “No point. He’ll be dead before we get there. We might make it to the jump point, and possibly one of the ships there has a real doctor. But—” He shook his head again.
Erik looked at the man in the bubble. “Can he talk?”
“He’s in and out of consciousness. Keeps talking about Sergi. I think that’s the pilot of the other fighter. Maybe his wingman.”
“I want to talk to him.”
Brinks shrugged. “Put on a mask and gloves. He’s got no immune system left to speak of—not that I think he’ll live long enough for infection to be an issue. And don’t expect much.”
The captain patted the sergeant’s shoulder. “If there’s nothing else you can do here, take a break.” She turned back to Erik. “Commander, I’ve got my engineer poking around those computer cores we salvaged. The radiation didn’t do them any good, either, but he thinks he can extract some data. I’m going to go see how he’s doing.” She looked into the bubble and shuddered. It was obvious that she had her own reasons for leaving.
Erik nodded. “I’ll stay here till Brinks comes back. I’ll call for help if I need it.”
Reluctantly he put on the mask and gloves, and zipped himself inside the bubble. The air had the nasty smell of stale vomit and decay. If the man wasn’t a corpse already, he was starting to smell like one. His cracked lips were moving, like he was trying to talk, but he made no sound other than his raspy breathing.
Erik glanced at the IV pumps. The drug canister on one apparently was the all-purpose antiradiation cocktail Brinks had mentioned. The other was Morpidine, a powerful painkiller that was in every combat medical kit. Every soldier knew about it. It was the stuff you administered to comfort the dying, or, through overdose, to end their suffering. There were dozens of oft-circulated jokes about Morpidine, and yet the sight of the stuff made anyone in uniform squirm.
Erik forced himself to lean closer to the doomed pilot. “Can you hear me?”
The man flinched, his blind eyes turned toward Erik’s voice. “Who? Sergi?”
“My name is Erik Sandoval.”
To Erik’s surprise, the man managed a little smile. “Sandoval. I told Sergi you would come. Help us.” He swallowed. “Didn’t believe me. Told him.”
Erik frowned. “Why did you think the Sandovals would help you?”
He smiled, showing his blood-reddened teeth, and Erik averted his eyes. “Wasn’t supposed to know. Lady, hired us to attack. Didn’t say who she worked for, but I knew. Lady . . .” He seemed to lose focus. He coughed wetly.
“What lady?”
“I—used to be Republic—army. Guarded Duke Sandoval once at—meeting. This lady was with him—all the time. Pretty—Hired us—Told Sergi was Sandoval hired us—Didn’t believe—”
Erik straightened. His gut knotted. Could it be true? The man had no reason to lie, and his description, crude though it was, fit Deena Onan. He remembered their encounter as they’d met at the Tyrannos Rex vehicle bay, and now it all seemed clear. He didn’t know whose betrayal stung him more, the Duke’s or hers.
What now? This information was like a grenade with the pin pulled. One radio call back to Shensi would break the accord, derail the Duke’s plans for a coalition, and perhaps bring his quest for power right down on top of his head. Was that what Erik wanted?
No. Not yet. But if this information was to be of any value to him, he had to control it. Exclusively. This pilot would die, certainly, but perhaps not soon enough.
Erik glanced up at the IV pump. Simple buttons with UP-DOWN arrows controlled the flow rate.
It would be a mercy.
He stared at the pump for what seemed like hours. This man was an enemy. In combat, he would have killed him without hesitation or remorse. Why was this so different?
It just was.
Erik reached up to where the pump hung next to the bag, held it in his hand, and started pressing the UP arrow. He kept pressing, until the numbers reached maximum and stopped.
He looked at the pilot, and realized he’d never learned the man’s name. There was only one name he did know. “Say hello to Sergi for me.”
13
Rampant speculation continues concerning the symbols
seen painted in Duke Aaron Sandoval’s flagship as it departed Azha—symbols that are rumored to be associated with the splinter group known as the SwordSworn, a militant faction reportedly loyal to House Davion. Duke Sandoval is Lord Governor of Prefecture IV, and his presence, along with a sizable military force, in Prefecture V is as yet unexplained.
Reports indicate that the symbols were painted on the ship at the Cushman Coating Works facility in Casella shortly before the ship’s departure. Officials at Cushman have declined to comment. The Duke’s forces have had several skirmishes with advancing House Liao forces, and dealt them a major setback on New Aragon. One Senator, who asked not to be identified, is quoted as saying, “I don’t care who he’s loyal to, if he stands between us and the Cappies, he’s a friend of mine.”
—FreeNews Azha
Capital Spaceport, Ningbo
Liampo continent, Ningpo
Prefecture V, The Republic
28 November 3134
It was a landing like Ningpo’s Capital Spaceport had never seen. The huge Excalibur DropShip came out of a north-south polar orbit, rather than the normal west-east orbit. This brought it down across the landmass of the Liampo continent, and nearly over the capital city of Ningbo, rather than across the ocean. This was not only unusual, it was a violation of half a dozen flight rules.
The ship came in steeply, necessitating a hard burn directly over the city that rattled windows well out into the suburbs. Those who came outside to see what the noise was looked up to see a blue sky, dappled with wispy white clouds. Moving from north to south was a huge silver egg, gleaming in the sun, with the blue glare of four mighty fusion thrusters shining from its base.
A diplomatic vessel arriving at the spaceport could be counted on to land in one of the more isolated landing pads, far from prying eyes, but this ship was different. It came in over the pad closest to the crowded terminal so that thousands of eyes were drawn to its glittering, freshly painted beauty.
The ship lined up over the pad and began to lower, tail first. Three hundred meters above the reinforced thermocrete of the pad, it once again did something extraordinary. The ship stopped, and hovered motionless—not only a violation of regulations, but an enormous waste of fuel.
There it paused just long enough for everyone’s attention to focus on the ship. Four thrusters around its midsection began to fire, and the DropShip began to turn gracefully on its axis, like a 16,000-ton ballet dancer. In the terminal, there was a collective gasp, an intake of breath, as they watched the silver egg slowly revolve in front of them, displaying the seventy-meter SwordSworn symbols painted on two sides—an amber disk surrounded by a white circle, representing a dark planet with the burst of a rising sun around it, and in front of it all an upward-pointing sword, its blade overlaid with some mirrorlike material that flashed in the sunlight as the ship turned.
Then, one final flourish. Two of the main thrusters in the base of the great ship, an opposing pair, throttled up. As they did, the two other opposing thrusters throttled down to almost nothing so that there was no net change in thrust and the ship remained perfectly suspended. Then, after a moment, the first two thrusters throttled down, and the other two throttled up to compensate. This continued, back and forth, perfectly timed so that it happened twice per revolution. It was a breathtaking display of piloting skill, which turned the ship into an inverted fountain of dancing fire.
Then, and only then, did the ship settle to the apron, which was now glowing from the sustained heat. Just short of the ground, the mighty landing legs unfolded from its base, just in time to gently kiss the ground.
Those who were there would still talk about it years later, and the holovids would be shown again and again. No one would ever forget they were there the day Tyrannos Rex arrived on Ningpo.
On the bridge, Captain Clancy took his hands off the controls and clapped them together with childish glee. “I always wanted to do that, Duck! Always!” He looked up at Duke Aaron Sandoval, who stood behind him. “Now, you’re sure I’m not gonna get my license yanked for this?”
Aaron smiled. “One way or the other, I assure you, it will all be taken care of. Any bribes or fines I have to pay will be well worth it. But actually, I don’t think it will come to that.” He grinned slightly. “A Republic-issued Master’s license may be of limited value to you after this, anyway.” He glanced over at Maxton, the first officer, and noticed that she was still clutching the arms of her chair, and looking a little ashen. “Is there a problem, Mate?”
“Low-altitude hover is the most dangerous thing a spherical DropShip can do. If we’d had a thruster problem at that altitude, there would have been no time to recover.”
Clancy made a hissing sound. “Those engines are solid as rock. Anyways, it was worth the risk. If our numbers got called up—well—what a way to go!”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t the first reference that Clancy had made to wanting a suitably spectacular death. He wasn’t sure if it was anything to be concerned about. Probably it was just gallows humor, but Clancy was getting on in years. There was some cause to worry that, if an opportunity presented itself, Clancy might be tempted to go out in a blaze of glory, and take anyone else on the ship along for the ride. Still, Aaron would trade this small worry for more typical political duplicity any day.
Clancy unbuckled his straps and climbed out of his seat. He slapped Maxton on her shoulder as he went past. “Relax, Mate. This is one you can tell your grandkids about.”
“Aye, Captain.” She grinned at him weakly. “Just don’t make a habit of it, or you’ll make a landlubber out of me.”
Aaron had left instructions for a call to be put through to the Governor as soon as they landed. The operator looked up, nodded, and pointed to a nearby communications screen. Aaron stepped up to the screen.
In a moment, the Governor’s face appeared. He looked slightly flustered. “Duke Sandoval, was that air show truly necessary?”
Aaron smiled. “I apologize, Governor. But, as you may have heard, an attempt was made on my life mere weeks ago. The unorthodox approach was part of my security precautions. I would have secured advance authorization, but announcing one’s plans does tend to defeat the purpose.”
The Governor frowned. “Well, I suppose that’s justifiable.”
“I hope this doesn’t get us off on the wrong foot, Governor. I’m here to make a very important proposal to your government—one that will affect the safety and independence of your world. I’d like to discuss it as soon as possible. Perhaps over dinner?”
“I’ve got a dinner meeting scheduled with key members of the Congress.”
“I’ve got no problem including them in our meeting, Governor, if you don’t. In fact, the more the merrier.”
The Governor hesitated. “Well, it’s short notice, but I suppose I can have the chef make room for one more at the table—”
Aaron chuckled and shook his head. “No, Governor, you don’t understand. I wasn’t trying to crash your dinner. I was inviting you to mine. I’d like you and your guests to dine with me here tonight. Have them bring their spouses as well, if you wish. We can slip aside and discuss our business after dessert.”
The Governor was puzzled. “Dinner there? Where? At the spaceport?”
“On my ship, Governor. I’d like you to accept my hospitality on the Tyrannos Rex.”
The Governor blinked back his surprise. “Really, Lord Governor. If you think I’m going to trade my palace chef for some . . . mess hall, then—”
“It’s not like that at all, Governor. Let’s see.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Chef Bellwood has given me a menu. We’ll begin with a Foie Gras Sauté au Framboises and a Tarte d’Escargots de Tomate et l’Estragon. The main course will be Thai Saumon Oriental in a sweet cream ginger sauce—”
The Governor’s eyes widened, and he waved for Aaron to stop. “I apologize, Lord Governor. I would be . . . fascinated to see what you have to offer.”
>
Aaron smiled broadly. “Very well, Governor. Would seven, local time, be agreeable?”
“But of course. I look forward to it. Until tonight.”
The screen blanked, and Aaron’s smile became even broader, and perceptibly more genuine. “The opening salvo of our campaign has landed squarely on target.” He turned to Clancy. “I’m headed below. Call Ulysses and tell him I’m ready to meet the press at any time.”
The press conference had been ordered up, catalog-style, by downlink as they were approaching Ningpo. A semicircle of modular risers and seats had been set up near the base of Tyrannos Rex. In the middle of the seating was a raised dais with a podium, positioned so that the speaker would be just, and only just, above the eye level of most of the reporters. A silk SwordSworn banner was draped over the front of the podium, and a larger one was draped from a backdrop behind the speaker. Both were dwarfed by the Tyrannos Rex, with its gigantic version of the symbol looming over everything. Any symbols of The Republic were conspicuously absent.
The orientation of the seating was such that the reporters would be near, but not in, the shadow of the ship. It would be back-lit in a spectacular way that would show off its silver paint to best effect. It was what the press people like to call “good holo.” Aaron fully expected the image to be on almost every home Tri-Vid screen on the planet that night.
Even the reporters had been “ordered” after a fashion, press releases going out to all those news sources likely to be most favorable to the SwordSworns’ proposal, and to only a few who wouldn’t be friendly at all. A few hostile questions would place the Duke in a sympathetic light, while giving the whole thing a stamp of legitimacy.
Aaron stood just inside the Tyrannos Rex, looking through a small window of one-way glass at the jammed seats, and at the podium, which was surrounded by holocams and microphones. The window was located in a small security room off the grand lobby that was the formal entrance to the ship.
Fortress of Lies Page 17
