Fortress of Lies

by J. Steven York

  “Commander, I’ve got incoming IFF signals. SwordSworn! SwordSworn!”

  The first wave of ’Mechs was landing: Black Hawks, Pack Hunters, Catapults, Hatchetmen, all wearing the sword/planet/sun of the SwordSworn. They formed a circle and began spreading out, clearing the landing zone.

  Erik realized that Aaron must have called in virtually every ’Mech in their inventory, stripping their forces elsewhere to the bone. It was a desperate, dangerous move, but it would provide a good show for the Cappies, perhaps giving them an inflated impression of SwordSworn forces. If they decided to test the defenses of other SwordSworn-held worlds, it could backfire, but if they were too intimidated, or at least too uncertain—

  The command circuit crackled, then a voice boomed through on such high gain that Erik’s ears stung. “This is Duke Aaron Sandoval! I have arrived, joined by reinforcements from many worlds. We have already taken Liao blood, and we will take more. Ravensglade is SwordSworn territory! We will fight until not one soldier of Liao stands on our soil! For Davion!”

  As though an electric charge had gone through them, the exhausted defenders showed new energy. They joined in with the new arrivals—armor, ’Mechs, infantry, shoulder-to-shoulder, fighting back the invaders.

  Another wave of ’Mechs landed, among them a Black Hawk freshly painted sparkling white and trimmed in gold.

  The Duke had returned.

  “SwordSworn! I am here! For Davion!”

  Erik managed to coax his slowly cooling ’Mech into motion. He limped in with the others in the circle, his hatchet rising and falling, doing what he could. The circle widened, even as the four spherical DropShips landed in the middle of the site, each bristling with its own weapons, each carrying more forces, infantry, light armor, and massed IndustrialMechs from the coalition worlds. What they lacked in brute force, they made up for in numbers. Just as importantly, they were fresh to the fight.

  Overwhelmed and demoralized, the Liao troops were no longer fighting. They were simply trying to get away.

  Erik croaked into his radio. “Block the East Tunnel! Bottle them in! Tear them apart!”

  The ’Mechs and armored infantry with jump jets went over the cliff, fleeing back to the sea. The other vehicles and the regular infantry that had made it through the tunnel were trapped.

  Some surrendered.

  Most died.

  In time, the frenzy calmed. The smoke began to clear.

  Erik slumped in his cockpit, exhausted, spent. In his headset, he heard the chanting begin.

  For Davion! For Davion! For Davion!

  And then it changed.

  For the Duke! For the Duke! For the Duke!

  “Commander.” It took Erik several seconds to realize that the voice in his earphones was talking to him, and a few more seconds before he realized who it was.

  “Sortek?”

  “Yes, sir. Hell of a way to spend Christmas, isn’t it?”

  20

  POLL SHOWS MANY DOUBT THE REPUBLIC’S FUTURE—With the results of the scheduled Exarchal election still unknown in the outlying areas of The Republic, an INN poll conducted on three randomly selected worlds in Prefecture V shows that just over fifty-one percent doubt The Republic will survive another five years. Only twenty-seven percent of respondents expressed “complete confidence” in the future of The Republic. Another seventeen percent believed that the elections “would not or should not proceed.” Dr. Ozmund Banzai of Pleione said it this way: “It’s the wrong time for a change of leadership. If The Republic is going to survive, what we need right now is stability. If we can’t have that, then we might as well look around and see what the various factions have to offer.”

  —AP Courier News Services

  St. Michael Station, St. Michael

  St. Andre system

  Prefecture V, The Republic

  25 December 3134

  A second wave of DropShips followed the first—mostly aerodynes, bringing with them not just more reinforcements, but supplies. The last ship to land was the Tyrannos Rex herself, coming in just before sunset, gleaming in the last rays of the day.

  With practiced efficiency, the blast doors over the formal entry retracted and the decorative wood doors dropped into place. Crewmembers immediately emerged, attaching the rest of the decorative portico, and the steps leading to the door. A cheer went up as the red carpet was rolled out. The Duke’s Black Hawk walked up and stopped next to the entrance, turning outward before shutting down, standing like a sentry in front of the ship.

  The troops began appearing from every tunnel, barrack, and bunker, cheering as the Duke emerged from the cockpit of his towering ’Mech, waving and smiling. As Erik watched from the shoulder of his Hatchetman, it seemed the Duke wasn’t even sweating, and not a hair was out of place.

  A JI100 Field Recovery Unit pulled up to the Duke’s ’Mech. The JI100’s boom arm raised up until it was even with the Black Hawk’s cockpit, and the Duke hopped across the narrow gap to the arm, waving as it lowered him slowly to the pavement of the landing apron.

  The men rushed in, and the Duke was lifted onto their shoulders. They carried him in a circle, completely around the hundred-meter-wide DropShip, chanting:

  Hail, Duke Sandoval!

  Hail the Flying Duke!

  Hail, Duke Sandoval!

  Hail the Flying Duke!

  Finally, they put him down, and the troops cheered as he climbed the steps to the false porch of the Tyrannos Rex. He turned and waved his arm over his head, a final broad gesture before vanishing through the doors.

  Even then, the troops rallied, singing and dancing, around the huge SwordSworn shields painted on the sides of the ships. Someone located a stash of beer in the basement of a ruined warehouse in Port Archangel, and it came up through the West Tunnel, which had the advantage of not being filled with the charred hulks of House Liao vehicles and the half-cremated bodies of House Liao troops.

  The bottles were passed through the throngs, hand-to-hand, and the singing grew louder. As the sun faded, people started pulling fire-starters from their survival kits, waving the little flames over their heads as they sang and chanted.

  Weary of it all, Erik Sandoval-Groell slid back into the cockpit of his ’Mech. As he activated it and coaxed it into reluctant motion, the battered machine seemed to moan in pain. He staggered down the ramp into the tunnels, past ruined hulks of IndustrialMechs and ambushed Liao ’Mechs, until he found his alcove and backed the ’Mech into its support structure.

  He shut the machine down, and heard it make a sound somewhere between a sigh and a cry of pain, like a wounded soldier, grateful for the sting of death. He knew it would be a long time before this particular ’Mech saw battle again.

  The interior of the base was quiet, as most everyone not engaged in other duties was outside joining the spontaneous celebration.

  Erik staggered into the mess hall, where crates of supplies were being broken open. There was no hot food yet, but Erik got a cup of fresh coffee and a bologna sandwich—a refreshing change from the meager B-level field rations they’d all been eating for days. He found a quiet table in the back of the hall. But he need not have bothered, he thought. I’m invisible now that the Duke has returned.

  He leaned back against the wall after doing nothing more than smelling the coffee. He pushed the sandwich away, no longer feeling hungry. He closed his eyes, and perhaps he dozed for a moment.

  “Commander?”

  He looked up as Justin Sortek slid into the chair across the table from him.

  “You fought well. I wish I could have been at your side.”

  He nodded. “Thanks for noticing.” He closed his eyes again.

  “They rally around the light, Commander, not the man. The light is drawn to spectacle and ceremony, but without you, it would have been extinguished. The troops haven’t forgotten you. They’re merely . . . distracted.”

  Erik looked at him through heavy, half-opened lids, saying nothing.

  “The
light knows nothing of pride, but it knows those who wield it well. It returns to them again and again. Your day will come, Commander.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Sortek leaned his elbows on the table and sighed. “I bring a message from the Duke. You’re invited to dine with him in the Tyrannos Rex, and to take the hospitality of its guest rooms while it is here.”

  Erik felt his empty stomach twist into a tight knot. “The Duke can take his hospitality straight to hell, and the devil can have my dinner.”

  Sortek half-smiled. “Well then, can I have your sandwich?”

  Erik pushed the plate across the table to him. Sortek grabbed it and dug in as though famished.

  Erik stood. “Justin, you’re a good soldier, and a good friend. My anger is with the Duke. I would never betray you.”

  Sortek put down the sandwich and looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. “Of course not, my Lord.”

  But Erik was already walking away. Then he stopped and turned back. “Justin, wait. Scratch what I just said. If the Duke is willing to dine late, after I take care of some pressing business, I’d be happy to take dinner with him.”

  Sortek seemed relieved. “You’re sure?”

  “What kind of fool would I be to sleep in a hovel, when I can have a palace?” They both shared a chuckle. “I’ll sleep in the Duke’s soft bed, I’ll eat his fine food, and I’ll drink his best wine. After all, I am a Sandoval. Aren’t these all my things as well?”

  Sortek smiled, assuming he was joking. “I’m not sure the Duke would see it that way, Commander.”

  “How the Duke sees things is less important than how I see them. I’m starting to understand that now.”

  His “business” finished, Erik managed to find a dress uniform and an operable shower before heading for the Duke’s ship. He showered, shaved, and groomed himself as though headed for an affair of state, which, in a way, he was. He checked himself in the cracked mirror, adjusting his collar and the ceremonial dagger on his belt

  He emerged from the barracks to find his uncle’s limousine waiting for him. Ulysses Paxton was at the wheel of the otherwise unoccupied car.

  He entered without a word and sat down.

  The short drive to the Tyrannos Rex took only a few minutes, and Erik would have been content to pass it in silence. It was not to be.

  Paxton looked at him in the mirror. “I’ve been reviewing the events before our landing, Commander. I compliment you on a brilliantly fought defense against overwhelming forces. One for the textbooks.”

  “They write books about generals who claim victories, Paxton, not soldiers who fight wars.”

  “For the masses, perhaps. But the warriors will hear about this one. They’ll know.”

  He leaned back in his seat and nodded. “They will, and for now, that’s all that’s important to me. For now.”

  Paxton looked at him but did not respond. The car pulled to a halt. “We’re here,” he said.

  Erik waited as Paxton came around and opened his door. He walked up the red-carpeted steps, past the guards and through the grand entrance. But instead of proceeding into his Duke’s quarters, he took a side service door out of the lobby, leaving the theatrical façade behind.

  He took a lift to the upper decks and wandered the corridors aimlessly, not even sure himself what he was doing. Until he saw Captain Clancy, and Clancy saw him.

  They were alone in the corridor, one deck below officers’ country, in an area dominated by mechanical gear for one of the weapon turrets.

  Clancy gave him a sour smile as he walked past. “Guess we pulled your fat out of the fire, eh, pup?”

  Erik spun, one hand grabbing the front of the captain’s shirt, the other reaching for the dagger at his belt. Erik was more than a head taller than Clancy and far heavier. He slammed the little man against a row of power conduits, pinning him, and put the knife against his Adam’s apple. He leaned in close to Clancy, until their eyes were inches apart.

  “Listen to me, Clancy. I don’t care how you treat my uncle, and I don’t care what you think about me. But understand this. If you ever call me ‘pup’ again, I will kill you. I don’t care if the Duke is standing behind me, I don’t care if he’s standing between us. I don’t care if the ship is plunging into a star and you’re the only person alive who can save us. I—will—kill you.”

  Clancy looked at him, licked his lips, and to Erik’s surprise, smiled. “Well, well, the young Sandoval shows some backbone after all. Bravo . . . Commander.” He said the honorific slowly, and precisely. “I was beginning to wonder if you had it in you.”

  “Do we understand each other, Captain?”

  “Oh, I understand very well, Commander. Since you feel so strongly about it and all.”

  Erik released the captain who, his feet still off the floor, dropped as Erik stepped back and sheathed the blade.

  The captain just grinned at him and nodded. “Now this,” he said, “could make things interesting.”

  Erik turned and walked for the nearest lift. It could, indeed.

  Erik and Aaron sat at opposite ends of the long mahogany dining table. Music from a string quartet played softly through hidden speakers, buffering the silence between them. There might have been a time when Erik would have found such a silence awkward—a sign of some disapproval on Aaron’s part. There might have been a time when he would have felt compelled to inject himself into that silence, seeking some sign of validation or approval from the Duke.

  Not today. Not ever again. The Duke was no longer the center of Erik’s world, the focus of his attention. Aaron was merely a force to be reckoned with—one that could not be ignored, but which, when taken into account, could easily be maneuvered around, as a DropShip maneuvers around a star.

  A pair of stewards entered the dining room bearing plates with the main course. Though both stewards seemed to move in timed unison, Erik noticed that Aaron’s plate was placed just a second or so before his. Erik glanced at his plate. Palm-sized circles of thinly sliced red meat in a dark sauce, surrounded by intricately carved steamed potatoes, radishes, and carrots.

  Aaron picked up a knife and fork, and began to slice his meat. He glanced up at Erik. “Rare medallions of Geef in a burgundy sauce. Delicious, and all the more so as spoils of war.”

  Erik considered his plate for a moment. It did smell delicious, but he was determined not to be like a loyal dog, diving immediately when his food was presented. Taking his time, he reached for his utensils, cut a small bite, and tasted. He chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. “It’s excellent.”

  He took a sip of wine, a fine Tikonov vintage. Marvelous stuff. Erik made a mental note to remove a case from the Duke’s cellars before they parted company. He did not intend to ask permission. “What news from the rest of the front?”

  Aaron put down his fork carefully and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a lace-trimmed napkin. “We believe that House Liao stripped many of their forward units of ’Mechs in order to build up the invasion force here. They took heavy losses at Ravensglade and at Georama, and we were able to destroy one of their departing DropShips. Though they’ve advanced past St. Andre on two flanks, my hope is that we’ve stemmed that advance, and that they may even have to withdraw and regroup. That will give us time to build on our momentum, to extend our coalition, and use the resources we’ve gained to expand our forces.”

  “It will also give House Liao time to rebuild their forces,” said Erik. “When we next face them, they’ll be stronger than ever.”

  Aaron looked it him, seeming to sense that something was different. “That can’t be helped.”

  “No, it can’t. You’d best focus your efforts on building the coalition. We desperately need allies, and clearly you’re the better diplomat. But our forces will need to be honed to a razor’s edge—coalition units trained to mesh with our SwordSworn troops. You can leave that to me.”

  Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “It’s where my skill
s can best be put to use. You already know that. And there’s another matter.”

  “Which would be?”

  “We’ve captured or salvaged a good deal of House Liao hardware, between here and the main continent. I think that by the end of this operation, we may be able to put together a full brace of assorted ’Mechs. It’s not going to be top-grade equipment, but it would be a good starting point for an independent combat group under my direct command. It would be the first step to building a second army. Liao is already advancing on multiple fronts. We need to be able to fight on multiple fronts as well.”

  Aaron took another bite of food, but he seemed to be too distracted to taste it.

  “You know I’m right,” said Erik firmly.

  Aaron swallowed. Sniffed. “Good ideas. I was thinking along similar lines myself. Only I was thinking Justin Sortek would command the second army.”

  “I was thinking he would be my second in command.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Aaron sipped his wine, then the corners of his mouth twitched up just a little. “I’ll consider it,” he said.

  “You do that,” said Erik. He watched Aaron, imagined the wheels turning inside his head. There’s something else, Uncle—something else you’re waiting to drag out. What is it?

  “I’ve heard some curious reports,” he said finally, “about a woman. That this woman had somehow followed you halfway across the Prefecture, and that you have her locked in an isolation cell here somewhere.”

  Erik smiled slightly. There it is, then. “Not anymore,” he said. “I don’t have her in a cell anymore.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was a Cappie operative. I played her for a while and extracted what information I could from her.”

  “So where is she now?”

  “I personally eliminated her as a threat,” he said, just before popping a piece of Geef into his mouth, “and cast her into the sea.”