“There's something going on outside. Wait one,” the line went silent for almost a full thirty seconds before Kristoffer's voice came back on frantic and screaming, “They're hitting the bunker! Multiple companies!” Then the line terminated and refused to reconnect. Damn it all! Aaron screamed in his head. Damn it, damn it, damn it!
He switched channels again quickly. “Reyna, stay here and organize an orderly withdrawal. Kristoffer says the command bunker has been hit. House Mercer form up and move out double quick!”
Aaron spun the Axen in place and punched up its maximum cruising speed. He gripped the joysticks tighter and grit his teeth, letting his anger fuel his movements. How did I screw up this badly? I blundered right into feint and never even thought twice about it.
Damien was wrong, he realized. He was not fit to lead. Too arrogant, too desperate, too emotional, too easy to fool. Pershing dangled bait in front of him and he's leaped for it like a fool. Shame was his companion the entire hundred kilometer trek back to the command bunker.
Kristoffer
Captain of the MacCleod, Squire
16 March, 23,423
Verland, Goteborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth
______________
Chris slammed the headset on the table and hurried from the room. The power went out and all the tactical screens went dead. The only other two people in the center bolted as soon as the explosions started. Chris shouted after them, but they ignored him.
He hurried in the opposite direction. He had to make it to the barn and the attached armory. Claire would be there and so would weapons and armored suits.
I will not die defenseless! I will not hide while others fight and die for me!
The command bunker was mostly empty, but he passed a two man patrol in armored suits racing away from him. The building still shook every few seconds as explosions roared outside. There was still fighting somewhere, someone was still resisting.
The hallway ended abruptly at a secured door. The keypad was no longer illuminated. He punched in the security code he was given, but it didn't work. He tried pushing against the door and sliding it into its recess without success.
“Move!” A mechanized voice shouted behind him. Acting instinctively he stumbled and ran to his left and diving away. An explosion sucked the air from his lungs and a wave of heat and debris washed over him like a violent ocean. He clamped his hands over his ears and waited for the rumbling to subside.
He climbed to his feet, wiping flecks and chunks of metal and plastic of himself. The two armored infantrymen hurried over.
“Sorry, sir!” One of them gasped desperately. “We couldn't get through the door, we had to blow it. We didn't know it was you!”
“What?” Chris shook his head in confusion. His ears must have been shot, he thought one of them had addressed him as “my lord,” rather than the more common, “hey, you, boy.”
“You're Sir Aaron's squire?”
Chris remembered the patch on his chest linking him to the knight. In the distance of a second the events on the MacCleod and Lord Pershing's scornful chuckle came back to him. Cast aside and forgotten, ignored and vilified by the Dominion, by his employer, by Sir Aaron. No more. These soldiers apparently believed he was nobility as all squires were. This was his chance.
Chris' face hardened. “You,” he pointed at one, “evacuate the barn, get the medical personnel and the wounded secured. You, with me, we need every fighter we can find to prevent the Dominion from gaining access to the facility. But first, find me a damn suit.”
Chris hurried through the blown out door and into the sunlight, noise and violence of the world. A cluster of ruined bodies lay not far from him in a heap. Arms and legs poked out like a bloody bundle of sticks. Chris ignored them and hurried into the barn. Clusters of soldiers desperately grabbed the wounded and dragged them onto stretchers to rush them to the secure bunker deep beneath the command bunker. Doctors and nurses packed away medical gear and worked to stabilize patients to move them. Blood was everywhere and the air was full of shouted orders and screaming patients.
“Here, my lord,” one of the sergeants said, pulling one of the armored suits from the racks. There were too many suits and not enough soldiers to fill them. He helped Chris into the suit then handed him his helmet. I've never operated a combat suit in my life. It can't be that different than the spacer suits we wear when repairing the Cleod, can it? It just has weapons instead of welders.
The helmet would interface with his SESE tattoos and give him control of the suit and its functions. Secured in the right arm was 10mm machine gun loaded with high explosive or armor piercing rounds. Folded into the left forearm was a vibrablade capable of slicing a man in half without any real effort. The neck of the suit rubbed up against his throat, antagonizing the bruises Sir Aaron had left him the night prior.
“Start rounding up the other soldiers here. If they're capable of fighting I want them suited up and ready to go in two minutes,” he told the sergeant who hurried off.
Chris threaded his way between gurneys, tables and surgeons, hunting desperately. He found her securing a wounded man to a stretcher, both of them covered in blood. She was working quickly, but purposefully. No wasted efforts. She was entirely professional as if she'd been doing this her entire life.
“Claire.”
She glanced quickly at him, then back at her work. “What are you doing here?”
“Finding anyone who will fight and going to stop the Dominion,” he said with more confidence than he felt.
She stood up and wheeled on him now, her annoyance growing into anger. “I'm busy and I'm not fighting anyone. Why are you wearing that?”
“I'm going. It's similar to the EVA suits-”
“You're not a soldier, Chris,” she said flatly.
“Doesn't matter. Just get to the bunker and stay there.”
“What? While you play warrior up here? Stop it and get out of that suit and come with me. You don't belong here,” she said touching the suit's cold forearm.
“Of course I belong here! Aaron-” Chris stopped, looking at the other soldiers suiting up as quickly as they could.
“What? What did he tell you?”
He bit his lip. “This is all my fault,” he said, gesturing to the wounded men and women.
Claire looked around for a moment, too. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah it is. You dying isn't going to set it right. Come on,” she tugged on his arm, trying to pull him towards the bunker.
Chris pulled his arm free, an easy gesture made easier with the suits enhanced muscular system. “No. I have to try. I'm not going to be a spectator when I caused all this.”
“Chris...those are Dominion warriors. The whole flank caved in, there's no one left out there,” she was pleading now. “You can't go. You and all the people you take with you are going to die out there.”
“I'm sorry,” he said. He grabbed her hand and held it in the suit's armored fabric fingers. He smiled at her and looked into her eyes that were also his. She looked away and their destinies parted forever.
He headed to the huge doors, the other Commonwealth soldiers forming up around him. He had to do this, he realized. Sir Aaron was right, he was the cause of this. The aftermath of the fighting on the Cleod flooded his memory. Broken bodies and blood everywhere. Men and women gone into battle on his authority while he remained secure on the bridge. He'd been embarrassed by Pershing. He promised no harm would come to the civilians of Magdeborg. He was a liar, a murderer, a war criminal. Chris in turn promised not to have anything to do with the battle for Goteborg, not that he had any sort of influence on its outcome, but in this small rebellion he might satisfy himself.
The bruises on his throat still rubbed against the suit. Sir Aaron had nearly crushed the life out of him and probably had every right to. He had cowered on the floor, afraid and weak. Even Drayton had taken advantage of him by pushing him into an impossible mission then ignored his pleas for help after being taken captive by Sir Aaron's ship. He had been d
iscarded as useless, a danger to DLT's bottom line.
No more. I won't be treated like a fool, a pawn. I'll make my own destiny. It begins today.
He clasped the helmet on his head and sealed it. Instantly on the face panel the heads-up-display appeared, with a map and the beacons of friendly units around him, a graph displaying his ammunition levels and communications channels. He activated the comms and everything exploded at once. Desperate local commanders were trying to hold their units together and calling for reinforcements.
Most of the fighting was still two kilometers to the northwest, but several Dominion sections had broken through and were headed his way. Chris stepped outside the barn and hurried towards the fighting. There were no more than twenty others with him, hardly enough to do any damage to anything, certainly not to stop Dominion destriers.
Patchworks of Commonwealth sections were arrayed around the bunker, here and there a knight was cobbling together a unit. Vehicles and destriers sporting every color and paint scheme in the Commonwealth army were thrown together and ushered back into the killing fields.
Chris found a few tanks and infantry fighting vehicles that had clustered around the bunker and called them to him. Their sergeants unsure what else to do, listened. Most had their sections destroyed or their knights killed. They needed someone willing to take charge. One of the tanks rumbled to a halt near him and he climbed on board, opening a direct link with him.
“Who are you exactly?” The tank commander asked him.
“I am Kristoffer, squire to Sir Aaron Mercer-Sten. Now get me to the front,” he said. He clambered onto the tank and ordered the other infantry on with him. They obeyed and the tank commander offered no resistance.
“Contact anyone else around here and bring them to me. We're going to stop their advance before they hit the compound. More time is needed to evacuate the wounded!” He called over the Commonwealth military channel to anyone that would listen.
He activated the suit's magnetic paneling and secured himself to the tank's turret one foot resting on the cannon itself. It rumbled ahead, but he remained upright, like a beacon drawing other Commonwealth troops to him. A few of the knights in their destriers even joined ranks and followed behind. He activated the blade built into the suit's left arm and pointed it forward, urging the other units on.
The tactical map on Chris' heads-up-display indicated the Dominion forces marching closer. Their ranks were tight, units relatively fresh and their morale was high. The Commonwealth troops were scattered, damaged and desperate. It didn't take a military genius to figure out the results.
“Catch them in the forest,” Chris said over the net. “Don't give them any clear lines of fire on the barn!” Destriers and the heavier tanks cleared trees and the lighter units followed in their wake. Chris' tank crushed a huge pine tree and sent it toppling into a Dominion destrier. It actually cracked the armor on its chest and it stumbled back before the tank commander put a shell into its gut.
Chris deactivated his magnetic seal with the tank and leaped to the ground. The other armored infantry formed up around him. He waved the blade one last time then charged headlong into the Dominion's formation.
Two kilometers away a Dominion artillery unit received an encoded transmission from the command center of Morlan Pershing. The demi-colonel in charge read the note then deleted it from his console. He ordered the loading of a special canister in the tubes, the crew handling them with extreme caution. In unison, all six guns fired and a minute later a huge white cloud began to rise.
Archduchess Salena Teton-Sten
Duchess of Danvers, Archduchess of the Magdeborg Commonwealth
16 March, 23,423
Sten Palace, Magdeborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth
______________
The statues of Magdeborg's former dukes and duchesses passed by in a blur. Salena paid them no heed and did her best to ignore their scrupulous gaze as she hurried to the throne room.
She knew they would be furious at her. She could almost hear their voices in her head. Describing the funeral as a disaster would be using language too gentle. Damien had lied to her directly, declared open rebellion, and, to add insult to injury, escaped from Magdeborg unharmed with a majority of the Sten House Guard. It was an embarrassment to her rule. Now the dead Archduke was showing up around the palace, hiding in some corner or taking over the face of a trusted adviser for a moment or two. She could never be alone, that's when he appeared the most.
It was silly. There were no ghosts, no spirits, no dead archdukes coming back to haunt her. She was tired, and the funeral made her realize how much she missed her brother despite their differences. She needed more sleep. She would lay awake at night thinking while Richard slept beside her. Her mind would rumble like an engine until daylight crept into the room like an unwanted guest. Then she would pretend like she had just woken from a good sleep when Richard opened his eyes. He suspected nothing of course.
Exhausted visions of her brother aside, the capital was still in turmoil. She had no choice. She declared martial law, locking down the city, ordering curfews and manhunts for any House Guardsmen or Sørensens who fled. The crackdown only netted a few who were promptly executed. The military losses suffered to the Teton army were not grievous, the House Guard had limited civilian casualties and even avoided killing Teton troops where they could. Their purpose was escape, not cause destruction. They wanted to stir the civilians and make them question Salena's grip on power.
A distinct unease had settled over the capital lately after the executions of captured Sten House Guardsmen and some of their Sørensen allies. Their corpses were still rotting in the cages hanging from the Azuren Arkship. That in itself was a political statement. Not only could she remove who she needed, but that she could do it on Azuren grounds indicated their tacit support. The people, as dense and ignorant as they were, appreciated brute force with it was applied correctly.
In the weeks between the death of Archduke Peter and the funeral they had been afraid. Salena had been the salve to that fear and they'd returned to be placid. Now they were fearful again. After Damien's eulogy they had armed themselves, afraid that a general uprising would threaten their homes and shops. Several civilians had been killed by other civilians claiming to be protecting what was theirs. It took days, but the Teton troops and police forces in the city had regained order, subdued the fear and even now, maintained tight control, watching for subversives and unrest. There was a cautious calm now.
Behind her, a retinue of officers and advisers hurried to keep up. They prattled on about various political issues and military concerns, but she was doing her best to ignore them, too. They were so needy. Why couldn't they handle these minor disturbances on their own
“That brings us to one final issue, Archduchess,” one of the advisers said. “Mr. Filipov has not sent word. We believe he is missing and presumed dead or captured.”
Salena stopped in her tracks, leaving the advisers to tumble into each other.
“Excuse me?”
The man cleared his throat, recovering. “Yes, my Lady. It's possible he was injured or killed during the disturbances.”
“How long has it been?”
“Over a week, my Lady.”
She cast a look at Magnus who shrugged indifferently. He had been following, almost bored, at the back of the procession. He wanted to be in the field, but she had kept him in the palace during the unrest where he had paced uneasily and watched events unfold from the windows. He was like a caged animal.
“Explain to me very carefully what happened,” Salena growled crossing her arms over her chest.
The adviser glanced aside for support from his colleagues, but they seemed content to distance themselves from him. Some did literally. Salena knew she did not have a reputation for protecting messengers.
“My lady, the day of the funeral we sent a party to observe his operation zone, uh, the apartment building. They found the bodies of two marines and no sign of Mr. F
ilipov. Some of the blood at the scene tested positively as his. If he was wounded and escaped, he would have returned here. We believe, then, that he has been captured,” the adviser choked out, no doubt recalling the cries for help uttered by the traitors who hung outside the Arkship.
“And what is being done to recover our lost agent?”
“We were waiting for a note of ransom, my Lady. So far, nothing.”
She fixed him with an angry stare. “I want search parties looking for him. Tear this city apart if you have to. I want him found immediately.”
“Yes, Archduchess.”
Salena waited a few seconds, but the adviser still remained in her shadow.
“What in Ithix are you waiting for?!” She bellowed at him. “Does the word 'immediately' confuse you?”
The adviser turned as pale as the statues then hurried from the group. The others watched him retreat then regarded Salena cautiously.
“That goes for the rest of you as well. I don't want to hear any further reports unless it's good news. I am growing tired of your incessant whining.”
She watched them go, but grabbed Magnus' arm as he turned to follow them. “Not you. Walk with me.”
Magnus followed a respectful step behind her and waited patiently for her to speak. She let him mull over the purpose of their impromptu meeting. It should have been obvious, but judging by his recent behavior, it may not have been as clear as she'd hoped. Perhaps she was restraining him somewhat, but Magnus needed new battlefields to conquer until the situation had calmed. She could not risk her heir in senseless bloodshed.
“It is time to start thinking of the future, my son,” she started.
“The future? Are we not already doing so by rounding up the insurgents and looking for Damien's whore?” Magnus asked.
“Those are but short term goals,” she cautioned as she resumed her walk. “We must look to the future of our house, your eventual rule as Archduke and the continuation of the line.”
Schism of Blood and Stone (The Starfield Theory Book 1) Page 37
