Raul Ortega waited outside the briefing room door for Captain Jeffrey McDaniels to catch up. The newly promoted armor officer had opted for dress uniform, making Raul’s utility greens look shabby by comparison. The other man tsked at Raul’s casual dress, brushed some imaginary lint off his own shoulder. Raul smiled and gave his friend a familiar wave—having been recently promoted himself.
“They don’t enforce much discipline among you ’Mech-jocks, do they?” McDaniels had an easy smile and a sharp tongue, two traits that complemented his thick shock of red hair. His pale blue eyes were shot through with red, evidence of another hard night out with the guys. When the going got tough, the Irish went drinking. “Colonel’s pet.”
The wintergreen scent of several breath mints barely covered the whiskey-tinge on McDaniel’s breath. Raul smiled thinly, and then nodded at the other man’s captain’s bars. “Is that what Colonel Blaire told you at the O-club last night? You’re only one step out from major, gotta start showing time with the old man, right?”
McDaniels nodded, but slowly. “Yeah. We’re making new officers pretty fast out there.”
The thought sobered both men; each had moved up—Raul from the reserves, in fact—due to battlefield attrition. The MechWarrior ushered his friend into the briefing room ahead of him, trailing after with an additional concern on his mind this morning. If rumors were to be believed Raul might actually be on his way back down, and he wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about that. If they were true.
They were.
Or, at least, partly true. Halfway to the bank of coffee urns, the silver-armored sentinels standing guard over trays of morning pastries, Raul saw that Charal DePriest had indeed returned to active duty. She sat at the round table on Colonel Blaire’s left, shuffling some papers into order. Her once long brown hair had been cut back during her sickbed time, and a shorn patch behind her left temple still did not hide the suture scars. Charal had the same gray hospital pallor Raul had seen on her during a visit while she was still unconscious. Her sapphire eyes looked a bit unfocused, but she nodded with confidence when Colonel Blaire turned to her for a question.
“Ouch,” McDaniels offered in sympathy as he grabbed a glazed doughnut. “Hope they left a chair for you.” He slipped away to find his spot next to Major Chautec, Achernar’s ranking officer for conventional forces.
Raul had already begun a survey of the room. After Charal DePriest, and the possible demotion waiting for him, Sir Kyle Powers drew his gaze next. He sat next to Colonel Blaire. A bona fide Knight of the Sphere, Powers was tall, pushing one hundred eighty centimeters but slender with wiry strength. There was a kind of intensity about him, too, about how he wore a Knight’s white uniform with religious attention to sharp military creases and the set of his cape of rank, the crisp edges to his platinum flattop, and the way he focused himself forward as if alert for the slightest detail which might escape him.
Powers sat in serious conversation with Legate Brion Stempres on his right and Erik Sandoval-Groell one seat further down. Stempres had pushed his own chair back so the three men could talk evenly. Following the table around Raul found Captain Norgales, Major Chautec and Jeffrey McDaniels, what looked like two empty seats and then MechWarriors Clark Diago and Charal DePriest and finally Colonel Blaire on Powers’ left.
Raul peeled a caff-tab out of its protective shell, then swallowed it down with a jolt of bitter coffee. Carrying a refilled mug to the table, he slipped in next to Captain Diago, leaving a single open seat in between himself and McDaniels.
He had wanted to be unobtrusive—an errant student slipping in late for his lessons—but as he took his seat Raul saw two pairs of eyes glance his direction. The first was Erik Sandoval, his amber gaze registering Raul’s arrival with a touch of recognition and confusion. The other glance belonged to Kyle Powers, whose piercing, flinty gray eyes stared out from beneath sharp, platinum brows. They held Raul for a long second, measuring him. The Knight-Errant allowed him a single nod of greeting, as if Raul had passed some kind of test, and slipped back into his conversation with Stempres and Sandoval as though nothing had ever distracted him.
Raul had time for half his coffee and a few whispered words with Clark Diago before the room’s clock finally ticked its way up to seven a.m. and Kyle Powers’ immediate transformation from private conversation to command of the morning briefing. It was nothing more than laying his hands flat on the table and slowly pushing himself into an easy stance. Other talk died away and a corporal who had slipped into the room to refill the urns finished with haste and shut the door behind him as he left. The room suddenly felt a great deal closer to Raul, who realized that it was Sir Powers who simply took up more of the space now.
“Thank you all for being here. We’re short one person, though. Does anyone know when we can expect MechWarrior Tassa Kay?”
Raul hadn’t even known that she’d been invited. Talking to the civilian MechWarrior had apparently fallen to Diago, who nodded. “No offense, Sir Powers, but Tassa Kay claimed to have better things to do this morning than rehash old news. If we want to find her later, she said that she’d be seeing after repairs to her Ryoken II or interrogating her prisoner.”
Her prisoner. That would be the Blackhawk pilot recovered from the wreckage of his BattleMech.
Kyle Powers took Diago’s news with a raised eyebrow and a tight smile. Raul thought that he read more than professional courtesy there. Amusement? Powers had been on-planet less than four hours, and already he seemed to know something more of Tassa Kay than Raul himself.
“Well. I’m certain that we’ll bump into her sooner or later.” Powers’ voice was dry, but in no way suggested insult. He retook his seat with the same, slow grace in which he had stood. “In the meantime, let’s get started.
“First, let me say that my presence in no way reflects poorly on your performance. You have all done an incredible job, given the situation you were handed. Working together, True Republic and Swordsworn, in the face of the Steel Wolf assault shows a remarkable depth of duty in all of you. If the sporadic fighting on Ronel hadn’t looked to be tapering off, and if Lady Lakewood had not been inbound, I would still be there, in fact, counseling you via the HPG. And we all know how reliable that is now considered.”
Powers left the opening, and Brion Stempres stepped in with the question. “Has there been any confirmation yet about the Blackout? How far it reaches, and to what extent we’ve lost the hyperpulse web?”
“ComStar is researching the problem.” A venerable agency, with its founding at the fall of the original Star League, ComStar was responsible for the majority of HPG operations within The Republic, although they quite often relied on private subcontractors. “The latest reports I’ve seen show better than eighty-five percent blackout. Not just within The Republic, but reaching into every Inner Sphere nation around us. Some cases look like sabotage. Others like hard-wired viruses that didn’t get purged after the Jihad. And then there are stations which appear to be working fine, but simply cannot bridge space as they once did.”
Over eighty-five percent failure. In Prefecture IV, that meant Ronel and Achernar might have the only two working HPG stations. Was it any wonder the Steel Wolves were here? And if so, what about—
“Regardless,” Knight-Errant Powers interrupted Raul’s train of thought, “what we have to deal with is right in front of us. The Steel Wolves are making aggressive moves, cloaked under Kal Radick’s questionable authority as Prefect, and we have to deal with that accordingly. Lord Erik Sandoval is here at my request, representing Republic forces who have swung their nominal allegiance over to his uncle, the Lord-Governor.” He raised a hand. “That is not under debate at the moment. We all have a vested interest in keeping Achernar under local authority.
“We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately,” Powers said.
“Benjamin Franklin.” Erik Sandoval was quick to identify Powers’ quote. “At the signing of a Declaration on ancient Terra
.” He smiled. “All in all, a fitting maxim.”
Raul bit down on his tongue until it throbbed, staying his own opinion on making any deal with Erik Sandoval and the Swordsworn. He trusted that Kyle Powers knew what he was doing. The Knight-Errant’s not so subtle warning in the ancient quotation, and the terms of the alliance which he put forward to the entire group over the next two hours, proved that he did. He placed Erik in the chain of command, on par with Colonel Blaire and under the jurisdiction of Legate Stempres. Kyle Powers himself retained the Exarch’s authority on all matters military, placing himself as a watchdog over the entire operation.
“My Swordsworn will carry our end,” Erik Sandoval promised. “And I can offer more than a dozen tanks and my own Hatchetman. We have converted several of our IndustrialMechs over for military use—six of them, to be exact.” That number more than doubled what anyone else in the room had thought, and Raul noticed the way a few eyebrows raised at the claim. “We lost one of those recently, coming to the aid of a Republic patrol, but even so an extra lance of converted MiningMechs thrown into a battle can do a lot of good.”
Hanging out there, unfinished, Erik seemed to be saying, Trust me, I know.
Sandoval kept far too many secrets for Raul to completely trust him. Still, Powers seemed to have the young noble’s measure and Raul doubted the Knight-Errant would get caught unawares.
“Excellent,” Powers agreed. “And on the militia’s side, I understand we are welcoming back a MechWarrior?”
Isaac Blaire nodded. “Captain Charal DePriest is returning to active duty as my adjutant and will oversee BattleMech logistics. Raul Ortega will continue to pilot the Legionnaire, however. Charal has been assigned our one converted ForestryMech to pilot as necessary.”
Raul saw the wince of memory on Erik Sandoval’s face, wondered where the noble had run into a converted ForestryMech before. A flush warmed his own neck, of pride and embarrassment both. Charal should have moved back to her position above him, taking the Legionnaire. Part of him had hoped that she would, he realized, saving him from the burdens that seemed to add to the pile with each day of conflict. A stronger part did not want to give up the BattleMech. Everything he had ever dreamt of . . . thought that he had wanted . . . it was still there for the taking.
Wasn’t it?
Morning marched steadily toward noon as Powers turned the meeting to recent battles fought with the Steel Wolves. Raul spoke up to direct questions, but otherwise felt content to sit back, observe and learn. The room smelled heavily of stale coffee and melting doughnuts by the time Colonel Blaire queued up gun-cam footage from the most recent battle, where Raul and Tassa had taken down the Blackhawk. Raul swallowed back the bitter aftertaste of his coffee and narrated his own footage, trying to give the Sphere Knight an idea of the larger battle not shown on the video.
“This Steel Wolf MechWarrior,” Powers asked after the footage had run through again showing Tassa Kay stomping the Blackhawk’s cockpit into ruin, “what was his name?”
“Yulri,” Charal DePriest answered, consulting a file on her noteputer, “of the Carns redname. I’ve been rereviewing his secret.”
Legate Stempres leaned in. “His what?”
“Codex.” It was Powers who answered. “Clan-descended warriors still follow the tradition of carrying some kind of data crystal on their person—a complete record of their personal victories and awarded honors.”
Charal pulled up a new screen. “Yulri’s secret proves that he is from a promising red-redname, and has risen slowly but certainly through the Steel Wolf ranks. Most of his greatest trophies have come on the coattails of Star Colonel Torrent, though. He’s a follower.” She frowned. “Although that doesn’t debate his offers to stab his former commander.”
“What’s that?” Powers asked.
“It seems that Star Commander Yulri is making repeated offers to bolt sides and d-dance for The Republic.” Charal huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Is very insistent on it, in fact.”
Powers frowned, his eyes glossing over as if looking inward through mental files for some explanation of the Steel Wolf’s behavior. “Maybe it’s time I met with this prisoner,” he finally said. “Colonel Blaire, if you would accompany me?” To everyone else he said, “We’ll meet again after lunch, and discuss plans for a stronger defense of Achernar. Thank you.”
Raul rose with the others, waited for the Knight-Errant to pass behind him before stepping away from the table intent on Charal DePriest. He had just laid a hand on her arm when Kyle Powers called from the doorway, “Mr. Ortega? I’d like you to accompany us as well.” Powers was out the door before Raul responded.
He nodded at the Knight’s back, but did not follow immediately. He met Charal’s unsteady gaze with concern. “Are you okay with this?” he asked.
“Okay with what, Raul?” Charal blinked hard, as if clearing her vision. Her sapphire eyes did have a glossy look to them.
“You should have the Legionnaire back. It was your ’Mech before you got hurt. I”—he swallowed hard—“I don’t want to give it up,” he admitted, “but it’s not right to keep you sidelined.”
Charal smiled sadly. “I appreciate that. I nod.” She screwed up her elfin face into a frustrated scowl, then slowly eased it back toward a disciplined, false calm. “The hopscotch diagnosed me with . . . with Nonfluent Aphasia. It’s a brain dysfunction that interferes with my speech patterns. I substitute worms without meaning to.”
Hopscotch? It took Raul a few seconds to understand what Charal meant. “The hospital?” The other MechWarrior nodded. “Is it serious?”
“It’s a brain dysfunction, Raul. My neural connections are a bit spilled up.” She glanced away from him. “I’ll never pilot a real BattleMech again.”
Not when a finely tuned neurohelmet might read her crossed brainwaves and trip up one of the near-priceless BattleMechs. But a converted IndustrialMech, with its much more basic neurocontrol system, that she might be allowed to pilot. If the situation was desperate enough to allow her on the field. Raul winced. “I’m sorry, Charal.”
“You’re a fine pilot, Raul. I’m glad it’s you.” She nodded after the absent command officers. “You do . . . gold . . . by Achernar.”
Not sure what else he could say to her, Raul simply nodded and left. Her words chased him from the briefing room. Do good by Achernar. That was what she had meant to say. And he was trying, dammit.
He was trying.
11
Calm Before the Storm
Achernar Militia Command
Achernar
1 March 3133
The arrival of Knight-Errant Powers acted as a shot of adrenaline for the entire militia. Leaning back in his chair at the on-base officer’s club, listening as Jeffrey McDaniels regaled the table with yesterday’s scuffle between Fourth Armor and the Steel Wolves, Raul Ortega took its measure from the spirited conversations warming up the lounge. He couldn’t hear more than snatches of two or three at a time, not over the general background buzz of conversation and the upbeat guitar solo someone had coined into the music system. By the sweeping gestures and excited flush lighting each face, he could tell that, like McDaniels’s, most were telling of recent battles—but now the stories had an air of pride-in-service rather than the anxiety that had colored the tales of holding actions of only three days before.
At the next table over, a pair of fighter pilots shouted down a VTOL squad as to which had made a larger impact on that first, desperate day of the Steel Wolf assault. They held up wildly bent straws and folded napkins to represent airborne craft, dogfighting each other and strafing an array of salt and pepper shakers set out over their table. Some armor jocks had claimed most of the dance floor, pushing chairs around in tank formations, and a trio of bulked-up infantry lieutenants hovered at the nearby bar, adding the sweet aroma of their cigars to the already-thick air while discussing battlesuit tactics.
Recital night at the O-club.
McDaniels dropped heavily back int
o his chair. Thirsty from all his talk, he picked up a tall glass of iced juice and drank heavily. He’d hit his four-drink limit early with highballs of Glengarry Reserve, making up in quality what he couldn’t get in quantity. Raul continued to nurse his second margarita, enjoying the sweet ice and tangy bite of bar-stock tequila.
“You’re sure?” he asked his friend. “Morgan and Brightfoot?” The two men who were still missing in action from the spaceport mess Raul had been helping clean up . . . was it only six days ago?
Major Eligh Chautec nodded, backing up McDaniels. “Gun-cam footage doesn’t lie. I know their faces. By the Unfinished Book I should, they were such thorns in my heel a few years back.” Chautec had commanded Achernar’s armor corps when Colonel—then Major—Blaire was still overseeing the RTC. Chautec’s steel gray hair had streaks of black in it still, though they were hard to find with his hair cut into a tight flattop. “Always bothering after a transfer to active duty. They weren’t good enough then, and they weren’t good enough yesterday.”
Not if McDaniels’s story was to be believed, and the ‘captured’ reservists had been put back into the field under Star Colonel Torrent’s command. Driving Shandra scout buggies wasn’t a huge vote of confidence in their abilities. Especially when they try to tangle with McDaniels’s crew in an M1 Marksman.
“Jeff had no choice,” Chautec said. One man dead—Corporal Morgan—and Brightfoot retreating with severe damage.
Clark Diago and Tassa Kay rounded out the small table of officers. Tassa sat with her chair partially pulled back, as if trying to disassociate herself from the men. Diago stared at his wedding band, the gold all but glowing against his caramel-colored skin. “Better to know what happened to them, I guess.”
McDaniels didn’t seem so certain. “Say that when it’s one of your MechWarriors turning coat.” He realized belatedly that all three Achernar BattleMech pilots were, in fact, represented at this table. “I meant one of the conversion pilots.”
A Call to Arms Page 13
