Fortress of Lies mda-8

by J. Steven York

  “No,” he admitted, “it isn’t.”

  “See, that’s the problem. Morale is really low right now. We’re on short rations. Plenty of ammo—we brought that with us—but not even enough spare fuel for training maneuvers. So the troops hang around the barracks all day, looking out at this lovely base, and wondering when House Liao is going to drop in with an overwhelming force. To top it all off, the Duke’s sudden departure has started talk among the men that he’s forsaken us, or he’s secretly negotiating a deal with the enemy.”

  Erik again felt a knot in his chest, both at the mention of his uncle, and at the memory of his own brush with betrayal.

  “It’s especially hard on my men and women in the Davion Guard. Our entire ethos is built on the idea of the worthy prince—great leaders who can in turn inspire us to greatness. Many of us believed Duke Sandoval could be such a leader, that he could help us fight for the greater glory of Davion.”

  “Do you still believe that?”

  “From what you’ve told me, the Duke has not forsaken us. I find it interesting, however, that I had to infer that from your reports. You’ve never explicitly said so.”

  Erik was quiet for a moment. He steered his ’Mech onto a taxiway running parallel to the north-south runway, and opened up the throttle. There weren’t many places to enjoy the simple pleasure of taking a ’Mech for an all-out sprint. The Hatchetman wasn’t a fast ’Mech, but it could still do well over sixty kilometers an hour in a dead run.

  The Arbalest was faster—this was barely above its cruising speed. Sortek had no trouble keeping up, and Erik certainly couldn’t run away from his inquiries.

  The smaller ’Mech easily sprinted in front of him. “Look, Commander. People think the Davion Guard is fanatical, but we’re not delusional. The Duke is far from a perfect leader, but he has potential. You know, I’ll let you in on a secret about the nobility. People talk about ‘the divine right of kings.’ That suggests that the nobles are somehow touched by divinity, and therefore are better than the rest of us.”

  Erik thought about Aaron’s story about the sword of the First Knight. “Do you believe that?”

  He laughed. “Not for a minute. Yet I don’t entirely disbelieve it, either. I know that sounds contradictory, but let’s put it this way: I believe in the divinity part of things—that some people act as conduits to a higher power. It isn’t the frail humans, noble or otherwise, who possess that divine spark. They only carry it, channel it. And being only human, sometimes they lose their way—betray the divinity they carry.

  “But that doesn’t mean the light of divinity is gone. It always exists, and we are simply seekers of that light. It’s possible that Duke Sandoval carries it. I think he might.”

  “But if he doesn’t?”

  “Our allegiances could change, as they did when my father declared his loyalty to Devlin Stone. But our loyalty never changes, Commander. It’s the men and women we follow who sometimes lose their way—or find it.

  “You’re a Sandoval, Commander, of noble blood, with your roots deep in House Davion. That means something to these troops. They know, as do I, that the light is always there. It is exclusive to no man, certainly not the Duke. It might flow through you as well. Know that if you are worthy, we will follow.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The Duke may return, but he isn’t here today. You are. Liao forces are massing on the north coast of Georama. We know they’re coming. We need you to lead us to victory—or at least to glorious death.”

  He laughed. “Don’t flatter me with your optimism, Justin.”

  “Things don’t look good, Commander.”

  They moved past one of the air-defense emplacements that surrounded the base. They were still largely intact, and at least protected the base from easy air attack. There were nine of them, and, in theory, any three could protect the base against anything but the most massive air assault.

  They did nothing to protect from an attack by land or sea, however. With so many troops historically garrisoned here, the base depended on conventional forces for ground defense. But the SwordSworn were far short of that strength—the current troops rattling around in the base like peas in a beer keg.

  With morale poor, and fuel for their tanks and IndustrialMechs in short supply, they were ill equipped to resist the inevitable invasion, much less mount an offensive against House Liao’s increasingly entrenched forces on Georama.

  Erik looked again at the oil wells. They represented an almost unlimited supply of potential fuel, but there were no refineries on Ravensglade. The crude oil was shipped, by pipeline or tanker via nearby Port Archangel, to Georama for processing.

  They were passing the corner of the base used by oil companies and miners. It seemed nothing was ever discarded here. Decades worth of old machinery and equipment were scattered around, some of it parked in neat rows, as though ready to be used tomorrow, more discarded in huge scrap heaps, and still more cannibalized for parts until little more than metal skeletons remained.

  Erik’s eye was drawn to a row of IndustrialMechs towering above the rest. They were covered with a dark red crust, a mixture of local red dust, crude oil, and ice. But so was the machinery in current use. Appearances could be deceptive.

  He trotted toward them. “What are those?”

  “Specialized MiningMechs used by the oil companies. The ones with the big claws and the welding torches are PipelineMechs. The others, with the drills and the arms for handling drill pipe, those are DrillingMechs. There aren’t any new pipelines being built right now, and the fields are all well established, so most of them are mothballed.”

  “Have you considered appropriating them for combat use?”

  “Sure, but they’re IndustrialMechs. Internal combustion engines. If we had a surplus of fuel, they’d be a great addition to our force. But right now, I think we’re better off putting the fuel into the IndustrialMech Mods already in our inventory, and into our tanks and other combat vehicles.”

  “I was hoping that the oil company had some fuel store for these things that we could exploit, but they probably haven’t been used in years—maybe decades. No reason the fuel would still be around.”

  Erik could almost hear Sortek shaking his head. “We’ve scrounged all the fuel we can off this side of the continent. Some of the outlying mines and distant oil fields may have stockpiles, but they’re too far out to be worth looking at.”

  Erik kept his eyes on the old ’Mechs. They were funny-looking, even beyond the specialized arms and tools. He trotted closer, stopped, and magnified his forward view. In several places, the crusty coating had been scraped off at least partially, usually over access covers or hatches. He spotted one on a bulge below and to the side of the cockpit. He spotted the wordFUEL and a fitting of some sort. He zoomed closer. A placard read:NATURAL GAS .

  He laughed out loud. “Those oil companies know how to squeeze a C-Bill, Lord bless them!”

  “Sir?”

  “These ’Mechs are set up to run on the waste gas from the wells! We’re swimming in ’Mech fuel! Get your mechanics out here and see how many of these they can get running. And get some engineers out to the wells to see what we need to do to tap ourselves a gas supply. We may even be able to scavenge enough parts from the dead ones to convert some of our current IndustrialMechs as well.”

  “Yes, sir! But what about pilots? We don’t have nearly enough.”

  “Canvass your men. Find anyone who’s ever sat in a ’Mech of any kind, BattleMech, IndustrialMech—even if they have some simulator time, I don’t care. Tell them, if they ever wanted to be a MechWarrior, here’s their chance.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Sortek seemed genuinely excited. Erik hoped the feeling would spread to the troops. Certainly, it was the first good news in quite a while.

  “And Commander.”

  “Yes, Justin?”

  “I think you just channeled some of that light for us, sir.”

  For the first
time in weeks, Erik smiled the smile of a truly happy man.

  18

  Fort Ravensglade

  Ravensglade continent, St. Andre

  Prefecture V, The Republic

  23 December 3134

  Erik looked at the paper, reading it for perhaps the tenth time, still confused. He looked around the command blockhouse, a nest of computers, cables, and makeshift communications gear. Several dozen staffers circulated around the nerve center of their operation, manning various workstations, monitoring communications, or tracking reported Liao troop movements.

  Lieutenant Clayhatchee looked up at him from the watch desk.

  “How did this come in again?” asked Eric.

  “A civilian courier brought it up through the west tunnel from Port Archangel.”

  The stationery was from Port Archangel’s finest hotel, which Erik had heard was none too fine. It was a waterfront place called, imaginatively enough, the Edgewater. The sealed envelope had his name written on the outside, and there was no return address. Written by hand and in large letters, on the single sheet of letterhead tucked inside, were three words: “The Devil’s Punchbowl.” It was signed, simply, “E.”

  Erik read it yet again, and sighed.

  Clayhatchee looked at him. “Problem, sir?”

  “A nagging pain, Lieutenant. Does ‘The Devil’s Punchbowl’ mean anything to you?”

  “I think I’ve heard some of the officers mention it. A tavern in Port Archangel some of them used to go to, before the Liao forces landed and the base went on high alert.”

  “Where?”

  Clayhatchee turned to a woman manning a logistics workstation. “Astrad, where’s The Devil’s Punchbowl?”

  “Eleventh and Dock, sir, right on the wharf.”

  Erik looked at her. “Close to the Edgewater Hotel?”

  “Right next door, sir. It used to be a popular spot for, you know, recreation. Back before—”

  “In the good old days—two weeks ago.”

  She reddened just a little. “Yes, sir.”

  “Clayhatchee, what’s the latest on Liao activity?”

  “Still massing on the coast, sir. No sign of an imminent attack.”

  “I’m going to need a car.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m going into town. Probably no more than an hour or two.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Unless there are undetected Liao forces in Port Archangel, I don’t see a problem.” He sighed again. There were times he thought Lieutenant Clayhatchee would have made a good mother hen. “I’ll check with security before I head down.”

  As the car left the base, Erik was pleased to see their new IndustrialMechs running close-order drills just outside the base. He noticed that the roofs of nearby structures were covered with off-duty soldiers, watching. The training of their ersatz MechWarriors had become a spectator sport, and a major morale booster. That alone made them worth the trouble.

  Of course, he knew that in combat, it would be a different matter. They’d added as much armor as they could to the units—especially around those exposed natural gas tanks. But none of them would last long against ranged weapons, and their own attack capabilities, limited as they were, could be used only in close combat. In a conventional military sense, they were almost useless—though Erik had some ideas…

  As the car left the base, he had yet another opportunity to assess their defensive situation. There were no natural breaks in the steep cliffs that a vehicle could use, or even a ’Mech. The only way over the cliffs would be by air, precluded by their defenses, or in a ’Mech equipped with jump jets.

  Two tunnels angled down from just outside the base to the foot of the cliffs below. The west tunnel connected the base directly with the wharves; the east, roughly four kilometers away, led to a barge terminal. These tunnels were sized for bringing up heavy construction, mining, and oil-drilling machinery, and were large enough for almost any conventional armor, though too small for BattleMechs. A similar, though smaller tunnel also existed in Boiler Bay, fifteen kilometers to the east.

  All of these were heavily guarded by SwordSworn forces, but any attack would logically focus on opening them to the enemy, and on taking out the air defenses, making them vulnerable to an air assault.

  Erik found himself shuddering. The intelligence reports indicated they were outnumbered. Liao could leave adequate forces to hold the capital and other mainland strongholds, while mounting an overwhelming attack.

  The tunnel curved slightly as it burrowed down through the cliffs to the town below. The car emerged on Dock Street, which served as the town’s main thoroughfare. It was nearly deserted. Many storefronts and homes were boarded up—however both the Edgewater Hotel and The Devil’s Punchbowl appeared to be open for business.

  The Edgewater was an ugly, gray, three-story structure that appeared to have been constructed from stacked and interconnected modular units. Exposed piping and ductwork crawled up the sides and twisted at seemingly random angles over the roof.

  The Devil’s Punchbowl at least appeared to have been built on-site, and for something like its current use, though it was old and run-down. It was a two-story frame building. Erik thought the paint on the outside was dark green, though it was so streaked and weathered it was hard to be sure. Perhaps, he speculated, it was just a coating of moss. An animated neon sign over the door featured a cartoon demon stirring a cauldron. Jutting from one side of the cauldron was what appeared to be a cocktail umbrella; the other side was garnished with a slice of lime.

  He left both car and driver on the street and wandered in. The place was dark—most of the illumination coming from various neon signs, the lights suspended over an eight-pocket pool table, a few spotlights on the back-bar, and the glow of a holovid screen showing a soccer game. The bar had a dozen stools, and half a dozen tables were scattered around the room; all of them were empty. The bartender watched the soccer game, while a lone man in what was probably a merchant marine uniform played alone at the pool table.

  The bartender looked up as Erik slid onto a bar stool. He walked over and dumped a basket of whole, salted peanuts on the bar top. “What’ll it be?”

  Erik looked at the peanuts, then noticed that the floor around the bar and a few of the tables was liberally scattered with shells. It was that kind of place. “Beer—whatever passes for your best around here.”

  The bartender grinned. “Ran out of that almost two weeks ago. Ran out of second best a couple days after that, and third best later that evening. Now I’m down to ‘what I’ve got left’ and peanuts, and not that much of either. Of course, business isn’t exactly booming.”

  “I’ll take some of that, then.”

  The bartender produced a long-necked, clear bottle filled with amber fluid, which he opened and set down in front of Erik. The only label was the letter “A” on the side of the bottle. He took a sip. It was awful—bitter and acidic. He looked around. “Town looks pretty deserted.”

  “The invasion route comes right through here. Folks know that. Town’s been rebuilt four times now. Sometimes, I wonder why we even bother.”

  “You’re still here.”

  “My house backs onto the cliff. I’ve got an old mine shaft there, converted to a shelter. I’ll sit things out, then see what, if anything, is left of this place after you military guys are through.”

  “What about the hotel?”

  “My ex-wife runs it. She’s gonna come stay in my shelter.” He grinned and poked at Erik’s arm with his finger. “I think we’re gonna get back together. Third time’s the charm.”

  “Good luck on that.”

  His smile faded. “We’ll probably just kill each other, but I figure it’s worth a try.”

  “At least something good could come out of this.”

  The bartender squinted at Erik’s uniform. “Hey, you’re somebody important, aren’t you?”

  “You might say that.”

  The bartender squinted at Erik’s
nameplate and whistled. “A Sandoval, in my bar. That’s one to tell the grandchildren. Assuming me and the ex get back together, anyhow. So what brings you down here?”

  “Came to meet someone.”

  The bartender nodded. “Lonely at the top. Well, ’fraid you’re out of luck. Not much of anybody left here to meet. Even the hookers took a boat headed south.”

  “I’m here to meet somebody specific. They sent me a note to meet them here.”

  Erik looked around. The guy at the pool table had disappeared; the rest of the bar was still empty.

  The bartender made a little “O” with his mouth. “What do they look like?”

  “I’m not sure. Seen anyone strange hanging around? A woman, maybe?”

  “A woman? No, nobody like that.” He paused, looking past Erik at the door. “But here’s somebody who seems to be looking for you.”

  Erik turned and stood, expecting to see Elsa Harrad.

  Instead, he was shocked to see the would-be mercenary from the liner. An evil grin crossed the man’s face. “Sit back down, poker boy. You aren’t going anywhere.”

  Erik sat on the edge of the stool, keeping his feet planted firmly on the floor. The merc looked serious, and if Erik was reading the bulge under the man’s coat properly, he was carrying a handgun of some kind. Better to just settle down and see what he wanted. Probably just money. Erik could deal with that.

  The merc grinned. “Bet you never thought you’d see me again, poker boy. Least of all here.”

  “No,” he said, “I’ll admit, the thought never crossed my mind.”

  “Man, you don’t know how good it feels finally getting the upper hand on you.”

  “It was just a game.”

  “I hate to lose.”

  “You realize, of course, that I have enough forces just over that cliff back of town to turn you into a puddle about five million times over.”

  “Yeah, well, I have enough just across the big water to come over and clean your guys’ clocks.”

  “You’re saying you work for Liao?”

  He grinned. “I’m saying I work for her.” He jerked his thumb toward the door.