He would look the part, give his speech, and cheer on the glory of the Federated Suns.
For the last time on this tour.
Caleb’s reprieve had come with the death of Victor Steiner-Davion. Now he was finished with this tour at the ass end of the Federated Suns. Finished with the public relations circuit on which his father had sent him while Julian, Caleb’s cousin, enjoyed the pleasures of New Avalon and the much finer, coreward worlds. Finished with shaking hands and kissing babies. Finished with photo-op meetings in front of academy classes and megamall openings.
Caleb paused for his last set, shaking hands with the commandant, waiting as the newsvid journalists zoomed in for stills. A dusty sage taste coated his mouth. The wind tugged at his dark curls except where sweat matted down the thicker hair behind his ears. He smiled, nodded to Gadbois, and replaced the militia officer at the lectern at the forward edge of the stage.
“Thank you, Commandant Gadbois. It is my honor as well to join Firgrove Academy for these solemn proceedings.”
Academy alumni sat closest to the stage, on bleachers set up to either side of the main grounds. They had stood through the invocation and the commandant’s address. They waited now out of respect for Caleb Hasek-Sandoval-Davion, who would preside over the lowering of the flags to half-mast. These were older men and women. Retired officers. A few minor nobility among them, but hardly worth Caleb’s time.
The future belonged to the others. Between and beyond the alumni, five hundred armed forces cadets in their parade best stared back at him, drawn up in perfect rank and file. Half his age at least, Caleb still identified with these children more closely than the has-beens. Young, eager faces. Most looking forward to their two years of civil service on Firgrove, no doubt.
But not all. Caleb saw the occasional sidelong glance. The eyes that strayed.
Because arrayed in perfect formation behind the cadets was a combined arms company from New Syrtis, sent to the ceremony by his aunt, Amanda. Sent for him. A line of Infiltrator Mark II battlesuit troops backed the cadets, their reflective faceplates bright and blue under the sun’s strong glare. A pair of Hasek troop carriers behind them, their square-bodied bulk forming the next rank.
And then crowning the formation, an Enforcer. Fifty tons of metal and myomer, standing in a wide-legged stance. Its rotary autocannon pointed safely at the ground, but ready. Always ready. Not Caleb’s preference, though Julian—if he’d been here—would likely rather have rode out the ceremony inside that sweaty cockpit than on stage.
By the expressions on the cadet’s faces, Julian would not have been alone.
Eagerness and desire. Oh yes, Caleb knew that look. A few of these cadets hoped for selection by lottery to one of the nearby garrison posts, where they would see several years of advanced combat training and join a true regiment in the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns.
House Davion’s military.
His military.
“Eighty-five years ago,” Caleb said, beginning his short address, “when he was not much older than many of you here, Victor Ian Steiner-Davion graduated from the Nagelring. A fine institution, in what was then the combined state of the Federated Suns and Lyran Commonwealth. He graduated with honors. And that was also the way he lived his life. With honor.
“He was a student of war first, and of politics second. A leader for his time, when generals ruled the Successor States and warfare ravaged the Inner Sphere. Those times needed a leader such as him. They were fortunate. And so were we to have known him.”
And because The Republic was now making a big deal over the passing of an ancient hero, Caleb would be allowed to return home and accompany his father to Terra. That was what was important here, he wanted to say. But a leader—even a future leader—had to remain above such obvious claims.
Instead, Caleb merely nodded his signal to the bandmaster, who struck up a mournful dirge of “Taps” as the cadet honor squad lowered the academy flags to half-mast. Caleb turned around, presenting his back to the audience while he watched the ceremony. The flag of the Federated Suns came down first, leading the way. Firgrove’s flag and the ensign of the military academy itself followed.
When it was done, Caleb turned back to his captive audience.
“We wish we could honor Victor with a nationwide period of mourning, but the ComStar Blackout makes this hardly possible and certainly not practical. Instead, every world has been directed to observe thirty days of respect for our fallen cousin. Take this time to reflect on the hard work it has taken to get here, and the sacrifices you may yet be called upon to make.” He allowed a passing few seconds of silence. “Take this time to think on the life of a hero who gave of himself so selflessly.
“Victor fought the invading Clans, and defeated them. He helped fight the Jihad. He led ComStar as its Precentor Martial and joined Devlin Stone in the formation of a new Terran Hegemony . . . The Republic of the Sphere.
“Victor Ian Steiner-Davion was many things to many people. His passing lessens us all.”
From there, Caleb departed from his carefully prepared speech. He leaned forward, gripping the sides of the polished lectern, conveying, he was certain, a sincerity in his directness.
“And now, in honor of his memory,” he said, “I travel home. Back to New Avalon. In this period of mourning, and with services to come on the birthworld of mankind, it is important that I take my rightful place at the side of our First Prince, my father.”
With that, Caleb straightened to assume strict military bearing. He knew the routine from here, could go through it on automatic, and often did.
The commandant called his cadets to attention. “And salute!”
Caleb snapped off a smart salute, proud of these young men and women who had devoted so many years to the betterment of the Federated Suns.
“Ready . . . to!”
Five hundred arms sliced down. Strong arms. Strong enough to carry Caleb back to New Avalon.
Though Commandant Gadbois was sorry to see the heir leave. He buttonholed Caleb as the cadets passed in review to a somber step set by the academy’s bandmaster.
“You must be off so soon, Sire Davion? Your schedule was to spend a week on Firgrove, was it not?”
It was. But that was before events began to move so fast and so far away from the backwater worlds of the Periphery March. Having already paid a brief and final visit to Duke Marsin in June, Caleb had raced ahead of schedule to Firgrove to make this ceremony. He wouldn’t wait on the ground one moment longer than necessary. “My DropShip leaves within the hour. New Avalon calls me home.”
His aunt had, at least. And his father would be glad to see him, certainly. Would Caleb be left as regent on New Avalon? Or taken to Terra at his father’s side, to see and be seen? That was the only question remaining.
“Duke Marsin will be sorry to lose your support,” Gadbois said, trying to play politics, and not very well. “Your long tour among our worlds meant a great deal to the people of the Periphery March.”
“I’m sure,” Caleb said agreeably. Though he wanted so badly to use Mason’s earlier rant. The one they had laughed over during the DropShip’s landing burn.
Babysitting a backwater March that has delusions of equality. The Marsin dynasty were commoners when our families sat on thrones of worlds and nations.
And while the Davions raised up the Marsins, Mason’s family had finally lost everything when the Draconis Reach grew to envelop Harrow’s Sun. Hardly equitable.
“It was my pleasure to live among the worlds of the Periphery March,” Caleb lied. The final rank of cadets passed by and left an empty parade ground behind. He traded handshakes and salutes with the academy commandant, and nods with the last few someday-soldiers.
And finished at last, Caleb barely waited for his security agents to fan out ahead of him before he abandoned the stage for the brisk walk back to his personal car. Mason caught up on the brisk walk, but said nothing. His secret smile said it all. Mason, too, was happy to
be leaving Firgrove, which had never been more than a necessary delay before heading back to New Avalon. And home.
As for Victor, Caleb shrugged off the man’s passing. A distant relation, and met only once in Caleb’s thirty-five years, the young lord had no strong feelings either way. Victor Steiner-Davion had been very old, older than Caleb’s father, and had had his time.
He had also been one other thing that Caleb had deliberately left off Victor’s list of accomplishments. The honor Victor had chosen to give up, which Caleb could never understand. The position that Caleb cherished above all else, and would someday have for himself.
And perhaps then he could speak it without worry of sounding too eager. Too young.
When he was First Prince of the Federated Suns.
4
I did not know Victor Steiner-Davion. But I respected him and his myriad accomplishments.
I did know his politics. And those the Draconis March will not miss at all.
—Duke Corwin Sandoval, Official Remarks, Robinson, 13 January 3135
New Avalon
Federated Suns
24 January 3135
Julian barely arrived in time, walking briskly along the wide flagstone paths of Avalon City’s Peace Park, jogging only when he felt certain that a screen of green foliage or the slope of a nearby hill hid him from sight. His bootheels scuffed against polished stones with insistent strides. The heavy scent of spring flowers in full bloom perfumed the damp, morning air, daffodil and early roses and delicate daylilies. Dragonflies darted across the path and around his head, bluejays complained about all the morning activity, and the chatter of background conversation led him to the natural amphitheater where First Prince Harrison Davion would call an end to the official thirty days of mourning on New Avalon.
Julian cleared the rope lines with only a cursory check of his identity, as he was well known to the security detail in charge of Harrison’s safety. From there, he forced himself to walk sedately. No matter how late. No matter the reason he had been held up at the palace. No one in Harrison’s inner circle should be caught hurrying and out of breath. The kind of rumor spreading out from such a sight could cause market futures to plummet.
Peace Park camped in the shadows of the magnificent Davion palace, rebuilt along with all of Avalon City after the Jihad. A favorite weekend picnic area where citizens explored the maze of paths that wound between meadows and monuments, soft creeks and sunlit sports fields.
Today, however, access had been restricted as two thousand New Avalon citizens—nobles and military men, and commoners drawn by lot—waited for the final ceremonies. The speech would be a short one, but no one minded. They were here to see and be seen, or to enjoy their fifteen minutes with the first prince. Noble finery and starched uniforms mingled with civilian Sunday-best suits and sundresses.
Julian moved among them, elbowing through tight knots and circling around the larger enclaves, always moving down into the amphitheater’s bowl. Only when he approached a cadre of military officers did a path magically open, the military men and women showing uncomfortable deference to the prince’s champion. To a civilian and to many nobles he was just one more man in uniform, thankfully. They tended to overlook him, which was useful. As he walked, Julian caught more than one concerned glance down into the amphitheater’s shallow depression.
Drawing closer, he soon saw why. Harrison. The first prince stood on the natural granite outcropping which had been shaped and polished into a low stage . . .
. . . waiting with Khan Sterling McKenna by his side.
Leader of the Raven Alliance, McKenna at least chose Inner Sphere style over Clan leathers, which was a small favor. Her tailored suit was fitting for the occasion if a bit flamboyant, done in the silver and blue of Alliance colors. Long, luxurious black hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, falling to her waist behind. A gunslinger’s stance. Her earrings dangled near to her shoulders, and Julian did not need to see them to know they were the Raven Alliance insignia. One would hardly call her subtle.
Then again, he had to admit that she was a good fit for the bear of a man who waited on stage next to her. Julian would have recognized the broad back and great fall of curly dark hair from a hundred meters easy.
McKenna spotted Julian first, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She leaned in to Harrison, and whispered. The first prince turned just as Julian gained the stage, leaping easily up onto the sharp lip of gray-speckled rock, and Harrison made a show of studying the timepiece on his wrist before stepping forward to grip his champion in a strong, viselike handshake.
His full beard showed gray on the underside of the chin and in the sideburns, and his eyes had permanent laugh lines in the corners. Other than that, the sixty-five-year-old leader was aging well. There was no doubting the strength of his grip, which had contributed to his nickname of “The Bear,” or the good humor behind those heavy brown eyes, a joy that had been missing for too many years before Sterling’s arrival at court.
“About time, nephew,” the larger man said, his voice gruff but warm. Cousins, actually, but Julian had forever known Harrison as Uncle. “Would have started without you, too much longer.”
With so many from the palace press corps so close by, Julian forced a smile at the old saw. It wasn’t too hard. “I see you’re still wearing your own clothes.”
It was a public joke, for which Harrison himself was responsible. The prince generally preferred paramilitary uniforms with a noble’s cape of rank. Or, at least, that was the way his valet dressed him in the morning. But in parades and public meetings, he was prone to trade a dress jacket and starched button-down for a colorful T-shirt that caught his eye or was handed to him as a gift.
It was one of his more endearing traits, so far as the public was concerned. The line of “Harry Bears” brought out every month by Excalibur Collectibles always featured the prince’s latest fashion travesty.
Harrison’s mouth opened, then clamped shut against laughter. The prince did not take laughter lightly. His laugh came from deep in his chest, full of humor, and it would not be appropriate today.
He pumped his champion’s hand again. A public relations aide waved frantically from near the front of the stage as Harrison threw the ceremony’s stringent timing off, but the prince took the extra few seconds. “Good to see you, Julian.”
Julian wished he could return the salute, but not replying was the best way to clue in the prince that there was a problem to discuss. And better now than having to force a word in after the ceremony, when the press and the people would throng the stage and give the security detail fits as everyone called for a moment or memento of their prince. Julian remained quiet, letting a touch of strain show on his face.
For all his bluff and bluster, Harrison was no fool. He barely missed a beat, slapping Julian’s back with good-natured strength and pulling him toward the podium where the prince would make his announcement very soon.
A sidelong glance that lasted a single heartbeat. That was all.
Julian nodded.
“My dear,” Harrison called Sterling McKenna to him. He handed Julian off to the Alliance leader. “Would you watch my nephew for me? Make certain he does not get lost again.”
McKenna attached herself to Julian’s arm, drawing him back to one side, leaving the leader of the Federated Suns alone at the podium.
One of the most dangerous moments in any leader’s life, Julian knew. Even in Peace Park, where access was controlled and attendees had been screened by the best security team in the Inner Sphere. But Victor’s recent death (by violence, according to the EYES ONLY version of the report he’d read) had Julian more nervous than usual.
Victor Steiner-Davion had deserved to die in his bed. It bothered Julian that the paladin had been robbed of that. He’d earned the privilege, one so many Inner Sphere leaders seemed denied. With life expectancy well over one hundred for the ordinary man and woman, it said something that lives of past rulers averaged out somewhere less than se
venty.
Julian’s father had pointed that out to him once, when Julian returned from a day of secondary schooling and asked why the family did not take full advantage of its birthright.
“Seventy!” he’d said. “I would rather look forward to another forty years or more with my family.”
Julian had looked it up himself. Sure enough, his father had been right. Inner Sphere leaders and their progeny, it seemed, were wise to avoid space travel, public speeches and gifts from their peers. They should never turn their backs on sparring instructors, a prisoner, or men who had been lifelong friends, and should greatly fear any enemy thought already dead. Stairwells and street corners were also among the known hazards. And under no circumstance should the leader of a House venture forth onto the battlefield to lead his armies to victory.
It just wasn’t a good idea.
So the prince’s champion scanned the crowds beyond the stage and the ropes, beyond the line of security service personnel who formed a living wall between their charge and the adoring public.
While Harrison stepped up to the forward edge of the podium, and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Thirty days,” he said without preamble, no doubt trying to make up for his late start. The soft buzz of quiet conversations fell away into total silence. “Thirty days of mourning for one of our own. And Victor Steiner-Davion was one of our own.”
In fact, Julian knew there were billions of people who still remembered Victor as their onetime prince and ruler. And as the man who had been forced to raise an army in the Steiner-Davion civil war, to remove his sister, Katherine, from the throne she stole. Julian’s grandfather, Jackson Davion, fought on the wrong side of that war, honor-bound to serve the so-called archon-princess until finally he could overlook Katherine’s transgressions no more.
Banishment had been too good for her.
Such simple words were far from enough for the man who had helped save the entirety of the Inner Sphere not once, but twice.
Sword of Sedition Page 4
