A Bonfire of Worlds

by Steven Mohan Jr.

  Tucker nodded. "The topology of hyperspace is affected by local gravity wells—the mass, kinetic energy, and angular momentum of stars and planets. Every star system is different. I found the right frequency for Wyatt, but that same shift won't work for any other system."

  "You need to finish your program. We've got to get out of here."

  "Really? He looked around the battered, rusted room. "Because I was thinking of settling down here."

  She scowled. "No, I mean, we can't afford to let ComStar stumble upon this information. We can't let them get hold of SHPGs again."

  Tucker frowned.

  "What is it?"

  "He met her pretty hazel eyes. "CLARION NOTE was a Word of Blake protocol. A plan of last resort. But the Blakists never triggered their ultimate weapon. Gray Monday took place more than a half-century after the Jihad. So who triggered the blackout?"

  "Don't you see?" said Alexi. "Word of Blake never died. It's like a cancer. ComStar's in remission, but it's not cured. The true believers still live. And one of them must have sounded this CLARION NOTE."

  Blue Mountains

  Ronel, Former Prefecture IV

  The Republic of the Sphere

  20 November 3140

  Julian Davion hunched into his parka as he watched fat, wet flakes of snow drift down from a leaden sky. The snow seemed to swallow all sound, which was one of the reasons he was out here.

  He needed peace.

  And the Republic liaison had told him he had a visitor chop- pering in to the Richmond drop port. That was another good reason to disappear into the mountains. The last thing he needed was another meeting with some slick politician eager to enlist the First Davion Guards in a new post-Republic alliance.

  He stood at the top of a snow-covered ridge that plunged down at a steep 45° angle, his back to an evergreen forest, dark pines and firs blanketed in white. The ridge defined a narrow pass that curled around a low-slung mountain, just wide enough to let a 'Mech through.

  Julian was muscular and good-looking, still thin, still strong, his Davion green AFFS uniform still crisp. Even his red-gold hair was cut short in accordance with regulations. He would not break faith with his nation—even while he was in exile.

  Especially while he was in exile.

  Julian sighed. He was supposed to be scouting the location for the next set of war games. Had to keep the First Davion Guards sharp. And how did you keep an army with nothing to do sharp, except to drill, drill, drill and drill some more.

  He shook his head.

  When did this world begin to feel like a prison?

  When I lost the ability to do anything meaningful, he thought, answering his own question. Like Caesar in Gaul, he was forbidden to return home. Caesar had crossed the Rubicon anyway, but Julian would not. He thought about the two data wafers locked in his classified safe back on the Markeson

  Pride. Data that suggested what Caleb was. Data given to him by Gavin Marik-Davion.

  He shook his head. Whatever Caleb was, whatever he had done, Julian would not bring dissension to the Suns.

  Would not bring war.

  This wasn't really about Caleb or him. It was about what best served the people of the Suns. Caleb was a weak and dangerous prince, but civil war was a cure worse than the disease. Julian would look after his people first. He thought Harrison Davion, the last Prince of the Suns, would have approved.

  If only Harrison had lived. If only Caleb hadn't been ill.

  If only Harrison had acknowledged Julian as his heir.

  Julian had never wanted to be First Prince, never expected to be anything more than the Prince's Champion. Had never seen the signs that Harrison was grooming him to lead one of the Successor States.

  If only.

  "Turn and face me, Davion dog," cried a muffled voice.

  Julian started. He'd thought he was alone. He wheeled, his hand going down to his sidearm.

  And took a stinging snowball right to the face.

  He stumbled backwards, tripped, and suddenly found himself sliding down the ridge slope. Cold snow pushed its way down his parka as he fell down the mountain. For a moment, Julian was cold, wet, and disoriented.

  Blinking snow out of his eyes, he saw a figure bounding towards him in the thick snow.

  "Hey, Jules," said a familiar voice. "Looks like you've lost a step."

  The figure pulled down her black, fur-lined parka and Julian gasped. He instantly recognized the lovely face, the lopsided smile, the doe brown eyes, the tangle of hazelnut hair.

  It was Calamity Kell.

  She reached down and offered him a hand. Julian grunted as she pulled him up. "You know you could've just dropped by the office like a regular person, Callandre."

  Her brown eyes twinkled. "I tried that. The folks on the Pride told me you were ducking me."

  They walked up the hill, slogging through the snow. She wasn't dressed in one of her usual outfits. It looked like regulation Kell Hounds uniform pants beneath the parka. When they reached the top, she leaned against a pine tree, her arms folded across her chest.

  "I wasn't ducking you exactly," said Julian brushing snow off himself. "I thought you were some tedious politician."

  She snorted.

  Callandre Kell was many things, but the last thing she was, was a politician.

  She was a warrior and a phenomenon. She was the best Destroyer pilot in human space. No one could drive an SM1 like her. And if there was a way to buck authority, "Calamity" Kell would find it.

  Julian had known her since she was the Nagelring's "darling rogue," from the class of 3129 (and 3130 thanks to her suspension—and she'd managed to tangle Julian up in that little adventure as well.) They had dated briefly—very briefly—but that part of their relationship just hadn't worked out. Still, she knew him better than anyone ever had. She was the best and truest friend Julian ever had.

  Even if every time she appeared, she tore through his life like a tornado.

  And then, right then, he understood why she was here.

  Julian swallowed, his heart breaking. He plastered a smile on his face. "That uniform looks good on you. And what, no color in your hair? Keep this up and people will talk."

  She snorted a little laugh as forced as his smile. "Look, Julian, I-"

  "No," he said softly. He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. "I'm sorry, Callandre, but the answer is no."

  She stood there for a moment, her face white, looking like he had just slapped her. Julian had never felt so wretched in all his life.

  Her mouth worked for a second before he any words came out. "How did you—?"

  He shook his head. "When you were recalled by the Kell Hounds I figured you'd be fighting the Wolves on the front line. But here you are. And I can only think of one service you could provide to Melissa Steiner more valuable than your crazy driving."

  She swallowed. "The Archon asked—"

  "I don't serve the Archon," said Julian softly, and then even though it tasted filthy in his mouth, "I serve the First Prince."

  "Alaric Wolf," said Callandre. "You remember him from Victor Steiner-Davion's funeral. He killed Thaddeus Marik and crushed Jasek Kelswa-Steiner. No one can stop him. No one. But you, you and I, we could stop him. And if we stopped Alaric, this whole terrible war could be over."

  "Please don't," said Julian. "I don't disagree with you, Callandre. I just. . . can't."

  "Jules." She was pleading now. "I fought with you against the Senatorial Revolt. That wasn't my war either, but I stood with you."

  "If it were just me, my life, my 'Mech, you would have it, you know you would. But I can't commit the First Guards."

  "Why can't you-?"

  "Caleb has explicitly ordered me to remain on Ronel." He shook his head. "If I took the First Guards to fight the Wolves, I'd be committing treason."

  "Then come without the Guards. Take a leave of absence. I'd take just you," she said fiercely.

  A leave of absence.

  It sou
nded so easy. Except... Caleb would use a leave of absence to drum him out of the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns. Maybe he could live with that.

  Against his will, he remembered the data wafers locked up in his safe.

  Except he owed it to the people of the Suns to deliver them from madness. And he owed it to Harrison Davion to repay the trust the man had placed in him. If he walked away now, he would carry those debts the rest of his life.

  "No," Julian said softly.

  He saw how deeply that word wounded her. She stared at him like she'd never seen him before. "Why?"

  He opened his mouth. Wanting to tell her everything. Callandre Kell was his best friend. But there were some secrets a prince could not share. Some terrible duties a prince must bear alone.

  He had learned that from Harrison.

  And so, knowing she wouldn't understand, knowing it would only hurt her more, he drew a deep breath and shook his head.

  "But-"

  "No," Julian's voice was steel. "I will not betray the people of the Federated Suns."

  "Every moment you serve Caleb you are betraying the people of the Federated Suns and you know it." Callandre's doe-brown eyes flashed with anger. And then she turned and stalked through the trees, disappearing into the white fall of snow.

  Julian laid a trembling hand flat on the bark of a pine tree, bowed his head. And closed his eyes.

  Derelict Orbital Station in High Orbit

  Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown

  Prefecture X

  22 July 3140

  Tucker drifted down the darkened passageway, his helmet light sending shadows skittering like spiders across the bulkheads. "There are no bodies here," he said nervously.

  "Just yours and mine," said Alexi. Her voice sounded different over the radio.

  "Well, that's good luck," Tucker muttered. He felt the comforting weight of his slug thrower in his right leg pouch. He knew it was irrational to fear mummified corpses drifting through a dark and silent world. Still he was glad he had the gun.

  Alexi snorted. "There was no luck involved. The mess decks are right below the access hatch —I put them in there."

  "You put them in with the food?"

  "Don't worry, Tucker. They've been dead for fifty, sixty years. I don't they'll take any of your sweetened bean sprout paste."

  Tucker made a gagging noise. "Alexi! That stuff's hard enough to eat as it is."

  She laughed. "Sorry. Look, this is a fifteen-minute procedure. We'll dump your program into the buffer, manually align the antenna, set the timer, and then we're done. We can curl up in aux control with bean sprout paste until the cavalry gets here."

  "I hope the cavalry brings cheeseburgers," Tucker muttered.

  Alexi snorted.

  They reached the access hatch. This part of the station was depressurized, so they wouldn't have to bother with an airlock.

  "Here, I'll go first," she said.

  "I'll do it," said Tucker, a little stung that she'd been laughing at him.

  "All right, all right. Just make sure you anchor as soon as you get topside. Don't drift away on me."

  "I know," said Tucker indignantly.

  The hatch was set into the bulkhead at waist level. He unbolted it and set it aside, letting it drift slowly through the passageway. Then he stuck his head through the hole. There was a moment of disorientation as "sideways" suddenly became "up." Of course there was really no such thing as either "sideways" or "up", but tell that to a hominid brain designed for life on Terra.

  He climbed out onto the station's surface. The deck plating was puckered and warped, whole sections peeled back by the force of a terrible battle waged before Tucker was born.

  He picked out the antenna, twenty meters away along the main axis of the station. He started walking, careful to always keep one boot locked down.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flicker of motion. Alexi? He glanced back to check. No, she was behind him, half-kneeling as she unpacked the tools they'd need.

  Nerves, Tucker. There's a million particles of debris orbiting the station, caught in its microgravity. That's all you saw. He resumed walking. Step-Lock. Unlock-Step. But he unzipped his pocket and slid the slug thrower out. The one he'd taken from the adept who brought him the radioactive junk.

  The one he'd killed with.

  He moved more carefully from feature to feature, crouching behind a mangled upwelling of metal here and wondering how much cover that crater would provide there.

  Tucker snorted. Like Blakist ghosts would give a damn about cover.

  He stepped out behind jagged metal and flashed on three space-suited figures. The suits were snow white and all bore the familiar two-rayed star emblem of ComStar. And floating just beyond the station's hull was a Mark VII landing craft.

  Tucker didn't even think. His hand jerked up and he fired.

  The recoil knocked him backwards, but his feet were anchored to the deck. For a second he looked like a limbo contestant.

  Ruby light sliced past his head, missing him cleanly right.

  The astronaut he'd hit had his hand over his starred faceplate, a red mist freezing into ice on the desperate man's gloves.

  Tucker shot him again and then stepped behind his tortured metal shield. "Alexi!"

  "Tucker, what did I tell you about radio silence?"

  "Um, I don't think it matters anymore. We've got company."

  "What?"

  Ruby light sparked off the jagged metal a few centimeters from his head. "And they're shooting at me."

  "Do you have a defensible position? Can you hold them off?"

  Tucker edged around the makeshift shield's other side and fired. Both astronauts ducked. He didn't think he hit either of them, but at least they'd think twice about charging him. The third astronaut stood motionless, his boots still locked to the deck, arms floating limply, his face mask coated with red-tinged ice.

  He ducked back behind his shield. "Yeah, I can hold them off— until you get up here. Where are you anyway?"

  "How many are there?"

  "Uh, two, now. Looks like, I, uh, killed one of them."

  "Hold on. Tucker. I have to get a few things."

  "What?" he snapped. "What are you talking about?" But the line was dead.

  A red dot glowed on the metal shield, metal glowing red to yellow then white. A fist-sized hole punched through his shield. Tucker glanced at the watch built into the inside of the suit's left wrist. Where was Alexi?

  Only one way to hold them off. Tucker ducked out to take another shot and ruby light sparked off his helmet. The helmet didn't breach, but it wouldn't take much more.

  Still no Alexi.

  He looked at the watch again. Where is she?

  And then the radio crackled. His heart leapt. She's coming back for me. But the voice on the other radio wasn't Alexi Holt.

  It was the devil.

  The Fox's Den, Outside the New City

  New Avalon, Crucis March

  Federated Suns

  14 December 3140

  First Prince Caleb Hasek Sandoval Davion stood in a room full of stars, the whole of the Inner Sphere laid out before him. He loved holding tactical briefings in the Den's huge command center.

  The real Fox's Den, the first Fox's Den, was entombed beneath the shattered ruins of Mount Davion. Still, the new command center possessed the spirit of the old—even if it wasn't exactly same room where his ancestor, Jackson Davion, had orchestrated the magnificent resistance to Word of Blake's monstrous occupation of New Avalon. After the Blakist withdrawal, Davion patriots had dug out much of the original Den's wreckage. This center had been constructed of the same steel as the first.

  Caleb could feel it.

  This is who I am, he thought.

  If only my father had lived to see. If only Julian had not tried to steal my father's love. My place.

  Belatedly, Caleb realized Sandoval was speaking, "—reconsider Trillian Steiner's request."

  Caleb b
linked and peered at his Prince's Champion. Lord Erik Sandoval-Groell was a young man, his dark hair arranged in a traditional Sandoval topknot, the sides of his heads shaved clean. He wore an immaculate dress-green AFFS uniform.

  "You think I should send troops to support Melissa Steiner."

  "No, Highness. But I do think you should not refuse to send troops to support Melissa Steiner. That's not at all the same thing."

  Caleb stared at him.

  Sandoval stepped over to the map projector's controls. The map ballooned in scale, replacing the entire Inner Sphere with a smaller slice of stars. Starting at the Republic's Prefecture

  I, the diagram reached as far rimward into the purple Free Worlds League as Oriente.

  Fortress Republic was a silver spray of stars sequestered behind a bright red border. The Suns and the Capellan Confederation were yellow and green fingers reaching into the gray Republic worlds caught on the wrong side of Exarch Levin's wall. The Jade Falcon Occupation Zone in Skye was an emerald cancer. Anti-spinward of the Republic was the Steiner blue Lyran Commonwealth, albeit with a large, brown Wolf bite out of its flank.

  Yellow note boxes tied to individual worlds indicated DMI or MIIO reports on military unit locations. A flashing red star indicated fighting.

  A string of red stars decorated the Lyran-Wolf border.

  "The Lyrans are the wealthiest state in the Inner Sphere and we do much trade with them. An outright refusal will have consequences," said Sandoval.

  "We have problems of our own. And we did not invite the Wolves rimward."

  "Agreed, Highness." Sandoval still worked the controls, focusing in on the former Republic. "So do not say "yes." But that doesn't mean you have to say "no." You can give Trillian Steiner the impression you are thinking seriously about her proposal, that you might say "yes" in the future. But always delay, never make a firm commitment."

  Caleb nodded slowly, beginning to understand.

  "And when the Lyran cause is surely lost, you can order a very special unit to aide Melissa Steiner."