A Call to Arms

by Loren L. Coleman

  To Raul he smiled thinly. “Agent Ortega,” he said in leaving, reducing Raul in rank to his original position as a Customs Officer. Raul’s surprised start told him the arrow had gone deep, as Erik had intended.

  Everything, he decided, was going to go as he intended. Now, with the militia. Soon, with Star Colonel Torrent. And, eventually, with the position and honors his uncle would bestow on him. Erik was not about to let anything stand in his way.

  Especially Raul Ortega.

  23

  Final Decisions

  Steel Wolf DropShip Lupus

  Achernar

  17 March 3133

  The tactical planning room of the DropShip Lupus was an outboard space, strangely shaped as it nestled up against the Overlord’s curved hull. Rather like a trapezoid, with a concave, sloping base. Utilities covered one of the inside bulkheads, caught between decks in a frozen cascade of pipes, electrical conduit and wave guides. The other held a large, darkened monitor and a computer terminal. The trapezoid’s top had been punched through with one vent for warm, sterilized air, one for recirc, and the only door in or out.

  Star Colonel Torrent was always the last to arrive. He stepped through the door at precisely eight a.m. local time, shut and locked the door behind him. Any officer who did not deign to be present found themselves not only shut out of the room, but would be fighting—literally—for their job before the afternoon was over.

  A crescent-shaped metal table stood bolted into the center of the room with a curved bench around the outside and a single, swiveling seat positioned on the crescent’s inside. A small holographic emitter rose up in the table’s center, currently displaying a three-dimensional model of the local HPG station. Torrent took a roll call by eye, then stood over the empty seat with large hands resting on its high back.

  “Today,” he asked the trio of senior officers, “or tomorrow?”

  No one jumped to give him the bad news, and so he knew long before Star Captain Demos spoke up. “Tomorrow,” she said. She reached up to tug at a long curl of her shiny, black hair, what Nikola herself would have called a ‘tell.’ The armor commander was beginning to feel the pressure. “My technicians are still rebuilding the engines on two hovercraft, hoping to replace the Demon we lost the other day. Our Condor drivers could use the extra time on simulators, as well, and the Elementals are still too slow in dismantling so many charges.”

  A childish effort on Erik Sandoval’s part, Torrent thought. Breaking the toys he cannot play with. The Star Colonel’s people would strip away enough of the spoilsport demolitions that any damage would be easily repaired.

  He glanced at the next officer in line, but Mech Warrior Franzia also demurred. Two of his IndustrialMech pilots had light injuries that could use the extra day of rest.

  “Xera?” Torrent turned back to his senior pilot.

  The raven-haired warrior never hesitated. “My warriors will be ready to go when you command it, Star Colonel.”

  What few warriors she had left. The toll on aerospace was always highest on extended missions such as these. Taking the San Marino had cost the Steel Wolves two good pilots and two locally irreplaceable fightercraft. A double-flight of four Jagatai was all that remained.

  Torrent gripped the chair back with frustration, wanting to tear it out of its floor-mounted socket. Then he relaxed, setting aside his bloodlust by sheer force of will. He spun the chair around, took his seat, and then swiveled back to face his advisors.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Dusk. I want the best possible conditions for our air support. I will make a challenge to Erik Sandoval, and to the people of River’s End, right after our meeting. No one will ever say that my Steel Wolves did not conduct themselves with due honor. Now,” he ordered Franzia, “tell me about the militia.”

  The other MechWarrior was slight of build and had a tendency to stutter when extremely nervous. He was neither trueborn nor even of Clan Wolf origins, but one of the Republic freeborn who had come to Kal Radick and petitioned for acceptance. On the surface, he was a poor replacement to Star Commander Yulri as one of Torrent’s planning staff. But the man was a gifted MechWarrior, no doubt about that. It was the one mitigating fact in his favor.

  “I-I’ve . . . I have been going over the reports, Star Colonel. The militia has reported high casualties from the B-Brightwater diversionary assault and from our taking the San Marino. There are also rumors that they’ve—they have—suffered several d-d-desertions in the past week.”

  At least the man tried to correct his lazy grammar. Torrent tapped a thick finger against his jaw. “Mech Warrior Franzia, you say ‘reports and rumors’ as if you do not believe them.”

  Franzia slid out from his place at the end of the bench, typed rapidly into the nearby computer terminal. The staccato fire of the keyboard reminded Torrent that the man had been a computer slave not so long ago. An accountant! And now he commanded a BattleMech.

  “I do not, Star Colonel.” Columns of numbers filled the wall monitor. “The casualty reports are extremely high compared to their survival rates in previous engagements, by a factor of seven-point-five to one. And these desertions? By all accounts, they have led to no defections, which I find interesting. A dozen men and women of shaky allegiance to the Republic, and not one has contacted us? Statistically speaking, that is highly unlikely.”

  Torrent noted the other man’s confidence once he slipped into the realm of numbers. Franzia lost his stutter and all indications of doubt. And in Torrent’s presence, too. That, more than anything, convinced the Star Colonel.

  “What about the Swordsworn?” Nikola asked. “Perhaps the defectors went over to them.”

  Franzia nodded, paused as if confused, then shook his head. “Except that you yourself assured me, Star Captain, that no vehicles could move into River’s End without our being aware of it. Where did the APCs go? Why haven’t we seen Cavalier suits among the Swordsworn infantry posts?” He caught the contraction too late. “Excuse m-my base language. The militia may have suffered some losses, but I believe they are also using this to hide forces from the Swordsworn as well as us.”

  Torrent nodded. “Preparing for an underground resistance,” he said, “or a surprise attack.”

  Demos dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Give them exactly what they had when we took the spaceport, and I will still lay five-to-seven odds in our favor.”

  “And if the Swordsworn and militia actually join forces?” Torrent asked.

  “If they work together seamlessly, under one authority? Five will get you eight.” She smiled. “If Sandoval hangs back again, and does not engage? The morale hit alone will improve our odds.”

  The commander could not resist his indulgent smile. “Nikola, looking to recoup your earlier losses?”

  “Aff, Star Colonel. I would. Except that I find Achernar’s position to be a poor wager, and I have learned not to bet against you regardless.”

  Torrent rose, leaning over the table and fixing each of his advisors in turn with a hard stare. “Always a good lesson,” he said. A predator’s grin slowly crept up on his face, stretching the edges of his wide, wide mouth. “Now, let us go teach it to Achernar.”

  River’s End General

  Achernar

  Every tri-vid on the floor—likely in the entire hospital—was turned on to the announcement. Jessica Searcy caught snatches of the beginning from every door as she made her rounds, then finally stopped in a room once she understood what was happening. A public address by Star Colonel Torrent of the Steel Wolves: another challenge.

  “For the safety of all,” Torrent was saying, “I ask that you remain indoors and away from the spaceport, the industrial sector, and any location where our opponents have gathered. That Prefect Kal Radick’s orders have been ignored, rebuffed, forcing us to bring violence to your world, is a tragedy. Do not let it visit unnecessary hardship on you or your families. Do not come in between the Steel Wolves and their prey.”

  The hard glint in Torren
t’s dark eyes, his savage appearance with the shaved head and white, white teeth—Jessica shivered with a cold thrill. This man meant exactly what he said. And more. The warning was meant for the militia as well as any civilian. The Steel Wolves were coming for Sandoval and his Swordsworn forces.

  Coming tomorrow.

  “Dusk,” Torrent promised. “Our forces may be met at the spaceport or at any venue between us and our goal. As the challenged party, that decision belongs to your defenders. It is the final decision they may make. All of mine against all of theirs. That was the bargain struck. That is the bargain they must now live up to.

  “Bargained well,” he said without warmth, “and done.”

  The video cut back to a long shot of the San Marino spaceport, and the Steel Wolf DropShips commanding the field. Then it switched back to a news anchor, and Jessica slipped from the room.

  Questions paraded through Jessica’s head and her legs shook with sapped strength. She leaned back against the wall in the deserted corridor. One way or another, it looked as if tomorrow was going to decide the fate of Achernar. Had Raul had enough time? Would the militia wait and form an underground resistance, or move to meet the threat now, while they could?

  Did she truly believe anymore that her resident honor saved her from taking a stand, if not for The Republic, then at least for Achernar? As Raul had said, there was no glory in war. But there was duty. Didn’t she have the duty as well, citizen or no?

  It was a very lonely question, and the empty hall at River’s End General contained no remedies. If it was answers she wanted, she would have to look elsewhere. And she would need one other thing, she knew then.

  Help.

  From the person least likely to give it. And the one she should be least likely to ask.

  24

  Ascending Jove

  Achernar Militia Command

  Achernar

  18 March 3133

  Achernar’s sun was barely a hint on the northeast horizon, a pale smudge hardly discernible against the black of night when Raul Ortega arrived in his jeep at the command post staging grounds. Warehouse and hangar doors had been rolled open, spilling yellow fluorescent light across the blacktop in deep, yellow pools. Headlamps and spotlights on two score of military fighting vehicles brightened up the staging grounds to an artificial dawn. Technicians and logistics corps ran everywhere, servicing equipment and turning out every last tank, battlesuit and VTOL.

  Tassa Kay and Clark Diago met him near the pool of utility vehicles, coming up together as Raul shucked off his jacket and stripped from a jumpsuit to the cockpit-ready gear of fatigue shorts and a gray cooling vest. The pre-dawn chill bit at him, puckering his lean arms with gooseflesh. Clark clapped Raul on the shoulder, gave him a stiff shake.

  “The old man wants a word.”

  Tossing his gear into the jeep, Raul slapped some warmth into his arms and then nodded Diago ahead of him. “Your team ready to go?” he asked Tassa, falling into step with her.

  She thrust her chin at the two nearest of eight military VTOLs. “Both of those are loaded—overloaded, in fact—with gear and good men. You are certain that this will work? This is not your newest attempt to deny me a separate command?”

  “Deny you? Tassa, I’m counting—desperately counting—on you making rendezvous with . . .” Raul trailed off at her poorly hidden grin. Suckered. He licked his lips. “Just don’t go haring off after Erik Sandoval before I give the word, all right? And remember, that’s a fifty-tonner you’re in today. Don’t expect it to hold up like your Ryoken, and bring it back in as intact as you can.”

  “You still don’t trust me.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know you.”

  “You know me,” Tassa said. And this time her words carried on more than one frequency.

  Raul smiled, but not with the same amount of interest he might have once.

  The two of them had stepped lightly around their brief liaison since Tassa’s recovery under Jessica’s care. Raul knew that—while the passion was there between he and Tassa Kay—there wasn’t the emotional bond he truly wanted. In between planning sessions and on-site reviews these last few days, Raul had tried to mention that to her. Talk to her. Tassa had shrugged off his attempts, working first at becoming healthy and then gearing herself up for today’s battle.

  Though he still wasn’t certain whether to feel relieved or slighted that she had set him aside so readily.

  Bright, hard white lamps drew them through the maze of vehicles and personnel to the militia’s Tribune-model mobile HQ. Colonel Blaire waited for his three MechWarriors under a rollout canopy, studying a contour map of River’s End and the surrounding area. The old officer carried himself in full field uniform today, with sidearm and sword. You couldn’t tell, until he tried to walk, that he balanced on a prosthetic leg. Once the task forces moved off on their objectives, there wouldn’t be a fighting man left to command inside the base perimeter. Blaire would follow Raul’s larger force, offering them the direct benefit of thirty-six years of military experience.

  Raul had readily accepted. He knew they’d need all the help they could get.

  Blaire glanced up from the map, on which he had drawn force lines and time indexes for every stage of the day’s maneuvers. “It’s a very dangerous game we’re playing today, Raul.” He shrugged. “Ah hope you’re certain.”

  A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You can court-martial me if it doesn’t work. Sir.”

  “Give me one of your kay-det grins, Captain, and Ah’ll wipe it off with low-wattage laser. You’re the one sitting in the jaws of the trap. If it doesn’t work, you’ll be dead.”

  Raul smiled fully, though no humor touched his dark eyes. “There is that.”

  The colonel gave each one of them a once-over, then nodded his approval before pulling Raul aside. “You know what we’re up against and what we have to do today. If you need to make any last-minute changes to the force allotments, now is the time.”

  He didn’t think twice about it. He barely thought once. “I trust each member of the task force with their part today, Colonel.”

  “All right. Ah trust you, and that’s good enough. Post,” he ordered the younger man. To Raul’s back, he said, “And you make Kyle Powers proud of you, Captain.”

  Raul nodded, but kept quiet. Jove waited.

  Powers’ Jupiter waited on the far side of the Tribune, standing on wide-spread feet next to the paired Legionnaires. While not at full capability, with two autocannons out of commission and still suffering some targeting glitches, the one-hundred-ton assault ’Mech nevertheless loomed over both nearby machines, in height and in raw, physical presence. It was painted in the same colored bands as before—a layering of tans, yellows, and faded reds. Raul’s gaze was still drawn first to the great red spot that swirled in a storm over the right breast of the BattleMech.

  Which may be how he missed Jessica Searcy at first glance, standing at the foot of the Jupiter.

  “Jess?” Raul stopped flat in his footsteps.

  Setting aside the way his heart pounded against his chest, he could not help but think there was no way his fiancée—ex-fiancée—should be here. Not with the base locked down on full military protocol. When Tassa walked on by, trading a nod of encouragement with Jessica, shock won out over decorum. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Her sharp, answering glare barely kept from cutting into his skin. “Tassa cleared me onto the base. Civilian contractor, temporary warrant officer commission.” He hadn’t noticed the small, golden caduceus shining on the collar of her paramilitary jumpsuit. He did now. “I’ll be in charge of a M.A.S.H. truck. You soldiers have a way of keeping doctors busy.”

  M.A.S.H.? Jessica was on board for the maneuvers? “I really wish you weren’t here.” Also not the best way to reopen a conversation. “I can . . . appreciate what you are trying to do here—lord knows we’ll need your skills before today is done, but I don’t need to be worrying about you out ther
e.”

  “Don’t you mean, you don’t need to be worrying about me, too?”

  Raul held no illusions about whom Jess was referring. She wasn’t going to make this easy on him. And it was no less than he deserved. But, “No. I don’t mean that at all. Counting every crewman, infantryman, and specialist on the field today there will be over two hundred warm bodies, and I can’t afford to worry about any of them. I can only trust them to be there, doing their jobs, because this is how we’ve all chosen to serve.”

  She nodded. “Then you can trust the same from me. Yes? Isn’t this what a citizen does? Take that extra step?”

  Hearing his own argument thrown back at him, and now of all times, left Raul speechless for several seconds. Was she doing this to impress him, or prove something to herself? Either way, it wasn’t necessary. Tassa had proven to him over the last month that you did not have to be a registered citizen to carry yourself with honor. And if comparing his fiancée with a one-time liaison was not a way to tie himself into knots right before battle, Raul wasn’t sure what else qualified.

  “Jess, you’ve been a citizen your entire life in any possible way that it matters. You’ve always had the right side of that argument. Why are you doing this now?”

  Biting down on that lower, pouting lip, Jessica gave in. “Because it was the only way to see you, and wish you luck.” Flustered, she clasped one hand around the back of her neck and shot him a new, withering glare. “I’m not through being mad at you yet, and I don’t want you to cheat me out of my due by getting killed out there today. And don’t get wounded either, because then I’d have to think too long about whether or not to put you back together, and that wouldn’t be fair to someone else who deserves help. What’s more—”