Fortress of Lies mda-8

by J. Steven York

  Short of climbing back in his ’Mech and marching half-loaded back onto the battlefield, there was no avoiding this encounter. Erik ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, feeling the stubble that told him it was past time to shave the sides of his head, then checked the top-knot—a style that he shared with his uncle, and a tradition for Sandoval males. Straightening the thin combat jumpsuit—the maximum a Mech Warrior might wear into combat—he squared his shoulders and stepped onto the man-lift platform. It started with a slight lurch, then dropped smoothly to the floor of the bay, decelerating only at the last second, so that he had to bend his knees to absorb the shock.

  He stepped onto the painted metal of the bay floor just as Aaron arrived at the lift. Deciding this was no time for family informality, Erik flashed a quick salute.

  It was not returned. Instead, the Duke just stood there, his eyes locked on Erik’s, a slight frown of disapproval on his square, unconventionally handsome features. Duke Aaron Sandoval was a large man, just short of two meters tall, big boned, muscular, broad shouldered. Erik was by no means a small man himself, but he found Aaron physically intimidating.

  Most maddening about dealing with his uncle was Erik’s difficulty holding his perceptions in the present. On his own, Erik was a MechWarrior, elite and respected even on his worst day. When he was in Aaron Sandoval’s presence, he felt like a child: unworthy, insecure, small.

  Erik was twelve when his father sent him to live in Aaron’s palace on Prefecture IV’s capital world, Tikonov. He’d been resentful at the time, forced to leave his family and home. His father told him it was necessary; Erik was part of the distaff line of the Sandoval family. While his father had some measure of wealth and privilege, Erik’s place in the family couldn’t offer him power, opportunity, or even citizenship in The Republic, so connections were used, old favors called in, and Erik was placed under Aaron’s care.

  It was a curious relationship. Though Aaron was actually his cousin, Erik had been instructed by his father to honor him by calling him “Uncle” instead. At first it had seemed odd, even unnatural, but later Erik had become comfortable with it, and eventually came to think of his older relation in those terms.

  “Cousin” implied that they were contemporaries, and though there was not a huge span in their ages, that had never been the case. When Erik had arrived, a tall but still gawky teen, Aaron was already well into his missile-quick rise to power and wealth. Erik had been in awe of Aaron’s confidence, poise, and sophistication—elusive qualities that Erik strongly desired to emulate and still often struggled to find in himself.

  Aaron became as much a father figure to Erik as his own sire, pushing him to develop himself as a scholar and a warrior. The title “Uncle,” first offered as a sign of respect, became one of admiration and affection—though that affection was rarely returned. Instead, Aaron treated Erik like a weapon or tool, to be honed and sharpened to a razor’s edge, then to be used. As soon as he was old enough, Erik’s abilities were put to use, acting as Aaron’s surrogate eyes, ears, and hands in dealings across the Inner Sphere.

  As Aaron’s star ascended, so had Erik’s. Erik had been the Duke’s aide, military advisor, courier, diplomat, and general. He’d visited dozens of worlds, conferred with leaders at the highest level, and traversed the halls of power countless times. And yet, Duke Aaron Sandoval’s approval always seemed to escape Erik’s grasp.

  Erik sensed that this day wasn’t going to be any different.

  The Duke’s left eyebrow rose quizzically. “I understand you nearly lost another ’Mech today.”

  Erik tried to hide his reaction, but he could feel his face redden. Months earlier, as the result of an act of family treachery, Erik had lost a war, most of the forces under his command, his personal ’Mech, and the planet of Mara. Forgiveness had been a long time coming, and annoyingly, though Aaron seemed to be over the rest of it, he never let Erik forget the loss of his ’Mech.

  He’d once told Erik of some ancients—the Romans, or the Greeks perhaps—who had a saying: “Return with your shield, or upon it.” He’d had to explain to Erik that during that time, a man’s shield would be used as a stretcher on which to carry his dead body home from battle. It struck Erik as a foolish—as well as inappropriate—comparison, as his ’Mech had been hijacked rather than taken in combat. Still, the memory of the incident filled Erik with shame.

  “There was a capture attempt, yes. We repelled it quite easily. My ’Mech was never in any real danger.”

  “There were losses,” said the Duke. “You let yourself be led into a trap.”

  Erik wondered how Aaron already knew the details of the encounter. Had the battle been observed by a scout, or did he have a spy in Erik’s patrol, reporting back on some secret communications channel? It would be typical of “Uncle,” who, though he trusted Erik more than almost anyone, didn’t trust him very much at all.

  “I would have thought,” Erik replied dryly, “that you’d have better things to do than keep tabs on my every move, Uncle. I’ve heard there’s a war on.”

  The corner of Aaron’s mouth twitched upward for just a moment, a tiny flinch that anyone else would likely have missed. Even Erik couldn’t be sure if the suppressed smile was one of amusement or annoyance.

  “Walk with me,” Aaron said, spinning on the ball of his foot and heading back toward the elevator to the crew decks. Erik double-timed until he was walking at his uncle’s side. “Yours wasn’t the only ’Mech they tried to take today, or the only guerilla-style ambush set. There were half a dozen similar incidents.”

  Erik’s eyebrows rose. Damn you, Aaron—why didn’t you say that to start with? “That’s not good,” he finally said aloud.

  Aaron stopped in front of the lift doors and pushed the call button. He turned to look at Erik. “On the contrary, it’s encouraging news. I believe that if House Liao were sending reinforcements for a counteroffensive, they wouldn’t be taking such reckless chances to shore up their forces. I hate to be an optimist about such things, but I think we finally have them. New Aragon will be ours, with most of her military and production assets intact.”

  Despite his mood, Erik smiled. The lift opened and they stepped in. “That’s excellent, then. We were due for a victory.”

  But Aaron’s face remained grim. “It’s too late. Our entire offensive at this point is mainly bluff and bluster. While the Prefecture’s forces won’t hinder us, we can’t count on them for assistance, either. The Lord Governor has pulled them all back to Liao and a few nearby worlds, effectively ceding control of the rest of Prefecture V to anyone who can take it. I’d prefer it to be the SwordSworn rather than House Liao, but right now our position is tenuous.

  “We have no reinforcements. Parts, fuel, and supplies are low and our troops are exhausted. If the damned Cappies managed to push back at all, we wouldn’t last a week. Fortunately, they don’t seem to know that.” He pushed the button that would take them to officers’ country. The elevator started up with a gentle whoosh of air.

  The Duke turned back to Erik. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving? When? To where?”

  “Immediately. The flagship is in orbit, and a shuttle is arriving within the hour to take me there. There’s a waiting JumpShip charging its drive right now, so I’ll be able to jump almost as soon as we link up. I’m going to New Canton, to talk with that fool Jose Sebhat. He’s convinced his Lord Governor that they can avoid conflict with House Liao by ceding territory. It’s idiocy. You don’t hold a wild dog at bay by feeding it your fingers. If I could convince him of that, and make a mutual-defense pact with Prefecture VI, it could change everything.”

  Erik had met Sebhat, Prefect of Prefecture VI, several years before at a Republic summit. At the time, Erik had thought him a fainthearted man to hold a post of such military importance. Now his instincts were being verified.

  “Frankly,” continued Aaron, “New Canton’s control over their Prefecture’s worlds isn’t much bette
r than here. I’m not even entirely sure they’re worth the bother. But if I can at least bring in the Prefect’s personal forces to our cause, and stop them from handing Liao gifts on a platter, that will be something.”

  The doors of the lift opened, and they stepped out into officers’ country, where Aaron and Erik were both quartered. In the hallway beyond, a steward was cleaning a bulkhead, the smell of disinfectant strong in the air. Aaron flashed him a silent look that told him he wasn’t wanted here. The steward saluted, even as he scurried for the lift, slipping through the doors just before they closed.

  “Worse,” continued Aaron, “every world House Liao takes without a fight frees up more forces to continue their offensive into Republic space. They’ve been allowed to take far too many worlds, to win too many battles already. They have momentum on their side, and that’s a difficult thing to resist, not only militarily, but in terms of public perception. Battles can be won and lost in the hearts of the people. If a planet believes that capture by the Cappies is inevitable, then that planet is already lost to us.

  “We can’t win alone, and we wouldn’t want to if we could. Both as a condition of victory, and as part of my long-term goals, I need to build a coalition of worlds fighting under our banner. I’m starting with New Canton in hopes that we can bring many worlds into our fold with one agreement—but if that fails, there are many worlds here in Prefecture V that might answer our call.”

  They entered Aaron’s quarters. His valet, Deena Onan, greeted them at the door, taking Aaron’s officer’s jacket and handing him the tailored civilian tunic that he preferred.

  Erik watched as she disappeared into the adjacent bedroom with the jacket. The quarters were tiny and rather plain by the Duke’s usual standards, even though they were considered large for a military DropShip. The fortunate part about their relatively small size was that Deena would have to either work very hard to stay out of sight, leave outright, or simply go about her business where Erik could watch her. He sighed inwardly. Deena was a lovely woman: tall, athletic yet shapely, with waves of auburn hair that cascaded loosely over her shoulders. Despite his long-standing interest, she seemed oblivious to all Erik’s overtures toward her. Still, he could look and dream.

  Aaron settled into the combination easy chair/acceleration couch bolted into the corner of the little sitting room. There were two other chairs just like it in the room, and a small folding chair in front of a writing desk; Erik wasn’t invited to sit down, and therefore remained standing.

  Deena passed through the room, giving Erik a whiff of her musky perfume. She dropped several orange courier folders full of documents on the desk before vanishing again. The papers were likely dispatches from the Duke’s extensive personal and military empire, a power base that had become increasingly hard to manage after the failure of the HPG interstellar communications network. Now business, war, and diplomacy all had to be carried out in person, by long-delayed courier dispatches, or through surrogates. Everything had changed.

  “I’m leaving you in charge,” Aaron said. “Hopefully, all you’re looking at is mopping up, making sure that the local government—and their allegiance to us—is solid, then preparing our forces for the next counteroffensive.”

  Aaron looked at Erik, something obviously unsaid.

  Deena appeared in the bedroom doorway again. She glanced at Aaron, but he did nothing to indicate that she should leave. She was one of the few people on his staff who had his absolute trust in matters of security.

  Aaron took a deep breath, then continued. “If I’m wrong about the situation, if there is any sign of a counterattack, you’re to withdraw our forces immediately. Minimize our casualities and losses at all cost.”

  “We could—”

  Aaron held up a finger immediately to silence him. “You will do nothing. If this planet falls, it falls, and we won’t lose one of our boys or girls unnecessarily in its defense. We can’t afford to. I am trusting you, Erik, to follow my orders without hesitation. Understood?”

  Erik clenched his jaw, but nodded.

  “Very good, then. Get down to the command center and prepare the ship to jump forward with the lines as soon as my shuttle is away.” He looked at Erik for a moment. “Go.”

  Without another word, Erik slipped past Deena and out into the hallway. He heard the security door lock behind him. He stood there for a moment, his stomach in knots. He’s trusting me? Well, the people of New Aragon are trusting us, too, and God willing, they’ll never know how ready we were to abandon them.

  2

  DUKE AARON SANDOVAL SEEKS INTERPREFECTURE PACT—New Aragon. Even as his troops mop up after a stunning reversal against House Liao forces, Duke Aaron Sandoval, Lord Governor of Prefecture IV, has announced that he will proceed to New Canton and seek a pact for the mutual protection of all Republic territories, including Prefecture V, against the Capellan Confederation incursion.

  Responding to critics who state that the Duke is “out of his jurisdiction” in bringing his forces deep into Prefecture V, he responded, “Neither I nor the leaders of Prefecture VI can ignore the chaos just across our borders in Prefecture V. The unprovoked and unjustified attacks by House Liao against our territories cannot be ignored, nor can we allow outmoded notions of Prefecture sovereignty or protocol to determine how, and especially where, we choose to act.”

  —AP Courier News Services

  Lord Governor’s Palace

  Merrick City, New Canton

  Prefecture VI, The Republic

  9 October 3134

  Duke Aaron Sandoval sat quietly in the soft leather of the meeting room chair, his fingers wrapped around the polished mahogany of the chair’s arms, their ivory inlays cool against his skin. The table was carved mahogany as well, the top inset with thick slabs of green-tinted glass. At the far end of the table sat General Divos Sebhat, Legate of New Canton, the focus of the Duke’s attention and his quiet ire.

  Sebhat was a tall man, trim without really looking fit, his head shaved and polished under his wide cap. He wore a green woolen uniform that matched the cap, lushly decorated with gold buttons and cording, his chest layered with enough unearned ribbons and medals to stop a cannon shell. A nickel-plated automatic handgun was holstered at his side—a decorative touch. Despite superficial appearances, Sebhat was a peacetime general, more politician than warrior—a man who preferred to settle disputes with talk, or treachery, rather than battle.

  In that, Aaron could not fault him, as it mirrored his own preferred methods. But unlike Aaron, Sebhat had never backed up his words with weapons. He lacked the skills of a true warrior. For someone who wore any uniform, much less the theatrical spectacle Sebhat wore, Aaron found that unforgivable.

  Still, for over a week, since his arrival on New Canton, Aaron had treated Sebhat with the utmost respect and decorum, even as their negotiations dragged on, producing no real results. Every day Aaron left the guest quarters in the palace’s north wing and met Sebhat at the oak-covered blast doors that protected the conference room. And every day they sat across the table and exchanged empty proposals that never quite meshed.

  It had become torture. Aaron knew every line of Sebhat’s face, the grating and obviously false smile he often wore, the way his left eye twitched when he was bored, which in Aaron’s presence seemed to be often.

  Aaron also knew every detail of the room. He had memorized the geometric pattern woven into the deep carpeting, studied each of the paintings that surrounded the room: the formal portraits of past Lord Governors and Prefects and the large impressionistic battle scene that hung behind Sebhat’s chair—done in dark blue, black, orange, and gold—featuring a hundred-ton Atlas ’Mech, guns blazing as one mighty foot crushed the torso of a fallen Panther.

  He’d seen the Prefecture’s Lord Governor, Harri Golan, only once, at the ceremony marking the Duke’s arrival at Capital Spaceport. There had been a brief speech, a cool handshake, a few empty pleasantries, and then the Lord Governor was in his motorcade and
gone. If he was even in the palace where the meetings were taking place, Aaron had seen no sign of him. He was uncertain if Sebhat was the real power behind the throne—wondering if he had been passed off to an underling with no authority to negotiate. In any case, no progress was being made on the negotiations, and the precious time Aaron needed to build his coalition was slipping away.

  Every morning had been the same.

  Except this one.

  Aaron’s stomach knotted slightly, as he realized this day would be much different.

  It was the little things that made Aaron uneasy. The expected silver coffee and tea service was absent, as was the tray of colorful yet bland sweet-cakes normally set out on the sideboard under a great mirror. The secretary, who usually sat at a small table in the corner taking notes into a computer pad, was also missing, replaced by two ceremonial guards who stood at attention behind Sebhat, ivory-colored rifles clenched in their white-gloved hands.

  But the thing that was most disturbing of all, the thing that had placed the knot in his stomach, was the little self-satisfied smirk on Sebhat’s face. It was a smirk he’d only seen hinted at before—a small, private expression quickly quelled, but now openly and brazenly displayed. Sebhat no longer cared what Aaron thought of him—there would be no more pretense of talk.

  Aaron regretted allowing himself to be convinced that the palace security would protect him, that his usual full retinue was neither necessary nor welcome. It was a chip played in the cause of diplomacy, and obviously a misstep on his part.

  Aaron sensed a movement behind him, as someone stepped close to the right of his chair. He glanced up to see the muscular figure of Ulysses Paxton, his personal bodyguard and chief of security—at least Aaron had insisted that Ulysses be permitted to stay as a driver. Aaron drew some comfort in his presence. The bodyguard was very good at what he did, and Aaron wondered if he might have use of his skills very soon.