Sword of Sedition

by Loren L. Coleman

  Chasing after her fleeing support crew, Tara gained several long strides along the highway before Stansill even thought to pursue. No doubt thinking to collect the surviving Anat and his MechWarrior from the fallen Catapult. Already planning their escape route to Senate-friendly territory.

  He’d be back.

  Meanwhile, Tara and Demos pointed their wounded unit toward Annemasse and relief. She watched the scene on a rear-channeled monitor. Fires burned beneath the partially collapsed overpass and greasy clouds of smoke blew out from either side. But no more lives had been lost today. Demos’ Destroyer and her remaining Demon had already collected the drivers of the decoy sedans.

  And in the distance, above Annemasse’s DropPort, an Overlord now rose on majestic flame. Too far away to make out any crest, she had no doubt the splash of red on its side would be the bloody field on which a golden dragon reared.

  “Tango-one to base,” she said, toggling over to the channel she shared with the DropPort control authorities. “My compliments to the Dragon’s Pride and the Coordinator, and we apologize for the delay in his schedule.

  “I hope he enjoys Nihon.”

  The long-rumbling echoes of battle barely reached back to the Annemasse DropPort, sounding like distorted thunder by the time they found the Monolith Lines DropShip, Argent Beauty.

  Caleb actually dismissed them as such for a moment, even though he stood under a blue sky without a dark cloud in sight. Of greater concern to him were the hot gusts sweeping the DropPort’s black tarmac, tugging at his gold-trimmed range rider jacket and mussing his hair.

  The scent of scorched ferrocrete, from the DropShip’s landing, still hung heavily in the air. Caleb wrinkled his nose as the scent burned up in his sinuses.

  He’d left his sunset orange Stormfire off the foot of the Beauty’s main cargo ramp, the sports car growling on the tarmac as its powerful engine idled high enough to compete with a CargoMech unloading pallets to a waiting flatbed. A few dockworkers glared at him for interrupting their routine, but Caleb’s gold dignitary’s badge and the nearby quartet of security service men in their dark jackets and darker glasses put them in their place.

  They gave him a wide berth as the young lord walked directly up the middle of the three-story ramp.

  Surprising him, Danai suddenly appeared at the ramp’s head. The dark-haired beauty stepped from the shade of the cargo bay right into the path of a custom’s agent, who cornered her with his noteputer at the ready. She brushed the DropPort officer aside with a gesture back into the bay, nodding him ahead of her, but then paused to study the nearby cityscape, hands on her hips, a frown settling over that elfin, exotic face.

  Half a dozen shared dinners over as many different star systems, and Caleb still had no idea who she was. Just that she was one of the most self-confident women he’d ever met. Though comfortable around the trappings of money and power, ranks and titles apparently meant nothing to her. If she had found out his identity, in fact, she never remarked on it. He had watched her take dinner with a Capellan officer one eve. Stroll comfortably with a newsvid journalist the next. And had even caught her—in passing—in the Stargazer’s small gym, trading jokes with three ships’ crewmen she’d joined for a workout.

  It had been one of the hardest decisions in his life, not to ask one of those men later—in a passageway—just who the infernal woman was! Harder still not to put one of his security agents on her. They’d have done it, had he asked.

  He didn’t.

  Pride, fortunately, was a very strong force.

  Though not so strong that he hadn’t driven from his Triumph-class DropShip straightaway to the Argent Beauty, hoping to catch her one last time before she debarked for Geneva and who-knew-where.

  “If you are wondering where the best restaurants are,” he called up to her, still at least one story below, “I might be convinced to share information.”

  Danai tore her gaze away from the city. In her red jodhpurs and a matching suede jacket, she looked both comfortable and stylish. Earrings dangled almost to her shoulders. At the end of each swung a golden supernova with a yin-yang symbol etched into the center.

  Something familiar about the design . . .

  “Actually,” she said, cocking her head to one side as a new deep rumble echoed over the tarmac, “I’m more interested in what’s going on than where to eat.” She waited, but obviously saw no gleam of understanding from him. “That’s weapons fire, Caleb.”

  “Of course it is,” he said, covering the awkward moment.

  It was weapons fire. How had he missed that? He stepped up next to her, looked out over Annemasse for himself. There really was nothing to see. And the echoes seemed to roll in from far outside the city proper, in the direction of Geneva.

  “Hardly our concern,” he said.

  “You think so?”

  He shrugged, then removed his sunglasses. The day seemed blindingly bright after guarding his eyes behind the dark lenses, but he wanted her to see his eyes. Soft brown with gold flecks. They were among his best features. Everyone said so. “Not unless you are Republic military,” he said.

  A guarded look crossed her face. A tight smile that did not quite reach sloe eyes. “No. I’m not Republic. Citizen or resident.”

  He knew that much. And given the cruise line’s route, she could have been of the Federated Suns, Confederation, or any of the old Free Worlds League realms. Which hardly narrowed it down at all.

  “Then we simply avoid it. What happens on Terra hardly matters to the rest of the Inner Sphere.”

  Her sidelong glance spoke for her. The same question she had asked earlier. You think so?

  “The universe does not revolve around Terra or The Republic of the Sphere,” he said defensively. In fact, in Caleb’s mind, very little mattered that happened off New Avalon. The capital of the greatest realm in history.

  His realm.

  His capital.

  “Yet we are both come to Terra,” she said, speaking up louder as an Overlord on the far side of the tarmac lit off its engines and rose under hard thrust. She could be fishing for more information about him. She could be trying to simply argue her point.

  “A matter of family obligation,” Caleb said, brushing over the entire situation with Victor Steiner-Davion and his own father’s need to pay final respects.

  It still bothered him that his father had not waited for Caleb, so they could arrive together. But then his aunt Amanda, in a couriered letter, had mentioned some trouble on New Hessen and other Davion worlds. Better to arrive quickly and deal with the situation from planetside, he supposed.

  Anyway, that was more Julian’s purview. His cousin was certainly a hands-on personality.

  The magnificent roar of the launching DropShip’s fusion drive made further conversation difficult at best, so both watched the rising vessel, as improbable as it was graceful, like a thirty-story skyscraper suddenly deciding to bend the rules of gravity to go in search of a new city. The Draconis Combine insignia was four stories high and clearly visible to the entire field. Caleb frowned at the crest.

  And as the noise of its ascent faded, both realized that no more echoes of battle pounded through the city.

  “Well,” Danai finally said, “it seems to have stopped. Which means we can leave the DropPort without fear of being blown up.” She reached over and flicked the badge clipped to his jacket. “Gold, eh? Nice. A free pass through all security.”

  “Perquisites of the position,” he said, his eyes narrowing. Certain she was fishing now. She didn’t know!

  But she could hardly miss the security service agents standing post at his car, where Mason also waited, or at the foot of the DropShip ramp, or the one who had followed him up and now stood a respectful distance away at the opening to the cavernous cargo bay.

  “Makes up for all the nuisances.”

  “I hear you.” Danai nodded. “Unfortunately, this trip, I’ve earned a less-than-optimal welcome.”

  “I can’t ima
gine anyone not being glad of your arrival, Danai. Though if there is some trouble, perhaps I can move things along a bit. I have some influence.”

  “I’m sure. But there isn’t much you can do to free up my cargo. It’s heading right into customs lockdown. I just need to oversee its handling.”

  A merchant, then? Or the daughter of a shipping magnate, at least? Either way, Caleb felt a moment of letdown. He had imagined her a much more exotic figure. The truth, as it often happened, did not quite measure up.

  Still, he wanted to see her again. He wouldn’t beg, but he’d make one final offer.

  “If you let me know where I can reach you later, then, perhaps we can trade our first impressions of Geneva.”

  Danai searched his face carefully, no doubt wondering how much was simple curiosity and how much was the need to find out more about her. In the game they played, he was asking her to concede a point. Concede, or end it here in a stalemate, with little chance to resume later. Finally, she nodded. Once.

  “You can reach me through the Capellan Cultural Exchange,” she said, voice terse.

  A Capellan! Truly forbidden fruit. He had wondered, with her Asian heritage, but sloe eyes and a Mandarin accent was hardly conclusive proof of Confederation birth.

  Now that he knew, it was a large piece to the puzzle that was Danai. Cargo being seized by customs . . . Capellan artifacts, perhaps? Or something perishable? Good Sian wine, or naranji fruit; both were considered a restricted export item. And with hostilities between nations right now, House Liao and The Republic at war, it couldn’t make things any easier for her.

  But Caleb might. He did have influence. Maybe not on Terra, but through his father he could reach so many worlds. And he might be convinced to do a favor for a friend. For the right price.

  “The Exchange,” he said. “All right.” He nodded toward the waiting customs agent. “If you are certain there is nothing I can do now?”

  She shook her head.

  Caleb put on his sunglasses again. “I won’t keep you any longer, then.” He had what he wanted. He turned down the ramp, following a trio of dockworkers maneuvering a large pallet jack.

  “Caleb.”

  He stopped, looked back.

  Danai had paused in the shadow of the cargo bay. She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll see you.”

  She would. He was certain about that. Caleb nodded, and then stepped easily down the ramp to his waiting Stormfire. Its air-conditioned interior was a welcome freshness after the heat that rolled off the tarmac. It smelled of fine leather. The engine, when he let it have its head, growled with released fury.

  Mason laughed, cheering him on, and Caleb grinned savagely as he cut very close to a scrambling port worker. “Watch out!” Mason warned.

  “Missed him by a good meter.” He followed the track of DropPort personnel, all waving their red batons to guide him along a safe road. Sometimes he even obeyed their directions. But not often. What would they do? Kick him off-world for failing to yield to an electric cargo bus?

  Right.

  17

  Polls show at least a base of support for the exarch and his extreme policies, strongest on Terra’s European and North American continents, which favor Exarch Levin 51% to 37% with 18% undecided.

  Off Terra, favor follows the nobles on most worlds, but only at 39% to 34%, with 27% still to weigh in.

  These days, that is with an error of +/- 100%.

  —Pollster Jared Ladd, Stellar Associated, New Earth, 18 April 3135

  Terra

  Republic of the Sphere

  19 April 3135

  Yori Kurita walked the banks of the Kitakami Gawa, measuring the estuary’s fall since high tide. About two hours. The rank smell of uncovered salt-muds, mussels and water grasses lifted from the wide basin and fought with the flowering orchids cultivated in the nature preserve’s many nearby koi ponds.

  Caught between the poisoned and the perfumed. That was her story.

  “We carry our own honor and that of our ancestors,” she whispered. Barely loud enough to reach her own ears. “What we accomplish adds to their glory, or erases a small measure of their failures.”

  As a mantra it brought little peace of mind, but with no one to really talk to, the introspection kept her thoughts busy. Focused. And there was little else to do now, other than to think and consider. Pacing the flagstone path in short, uncertain strides, Yori kept to the Kitakami “riverside” as she wrestled with her own feelings for being on Terra. She did not belong here as part of the coordinator’s entourage.

  Rescued from obscurity by Warlord Toranaga.

  She nodded a bow of respect toward a pair of samurai guards who stood an alert vigil at the next fork. A mix of the old and the new, this watchpost. Both men wore body armor beneath silk kimonos, and carried Nakjama laser pistols as well as katana swords. Flickering torches burned above them though twilight was still an hour away, the brands fed by a natural gas supply hidden inside the bamboo poles. One samurai held a small scanning device that measured infrared heat signatures.

  The coordinator of the Draconis Combine did not travel lightly.

  In fact, the natural preserve above Ishinomaki Port had been chosen specifically for its remote location and ease of security controls, as much as for its simple beauty. The flower gardens disguised remote sensors, and several of the small teahouse structures were actually security posts crammed with electronics and infantry squads. Even the two BattleMechs standing constant guard on the northern and southern approaches were artfully hidden behind screens of tall, thick-bodied cypress.

  She passed beneath a short walk of cherry trees that were dropping a light snowfall of pink, perfect blossoms. “Beautiful,” she said. But her tone left the word sounding flat. Unappreciative.

  “You do not approve of flowers?”

  The voice, coming almost from right beneath her left elbow, made Yori jump to one side, her hand flashing quickly to the katana tucked into her obi.

  Kisho sat cross-legged beneath the deep shadow of a cherry tree, resting against the silver-gray bark. Completely still. The Nova Cat mystic had white-pink blossom petals stuck in his dark hair, littering his shoulders and lap. His eyes were dark pits. Cloaked and impassive.

  “Do you mystics routinely involve yourself in someone else’s thoughts?” Yori asked, snapping off the question with a hostile glare.

  “Contrary to what you might have heard, we are not mind readers.” Kisho did not pretend so much as a civil nod. He remained motionless. “Mostly, we observe. And just now I observed you apparently talking to yourself, Kurita Yori-san.”

  He was right. If anything, she had disturbed his wa, not the other way around. The Kurita name and Toranaga’s patronage allowed her to forgo any kind of apology, no matter the transgression, but she nodded politely regardless. “You are correct, Kisho-san.” Her voice was softer. Conciliatory. “I did not mean to interrupt your meditation.”

  “No meditation. Just a plan for an evening away from the looks and glares of your . . . comrades.”

  Meaning Katsuwe and the other samurai making up the coordinator’s escort. They refused to accept the mystic, who they saw as a fraud and perhaps even a spy for the Nova Cat faction that lived inside the Draconis Combine. Kisho’s blood notwithstanding, he was not samurai. He was not to be trusted.

  Much like they treated Yori, actually. And much—she now saw—like she had also treated the young Nova Cat warrior. Outcast.

  Unclean.

  A flush burned on her cheeks. “You shame me alongside them, Kisho. I apologize on all our behalf.”

  And because her honor could not simply leave it at that, Yori moved off the flagstone path and sank to the grassy, petal-covered ground. She was surrounded by fragrant blossoms, and the smell of the changing tide receded until there was only the slightest—yet persistent—hint of rot beneath a wonderful perfume. Yori knelt, resting back on her calves, assuming a posture she knew she could roll out of and into instant readiness.
She made such choices almost without thinking.

  “I am not your enemy.”

  Kisho was soft-spoken, but hardly at peace. His demeanor was like the pleasant calm on the morning of a great storm, when animals skittered about nervously and birdsong held a nervous edge. She sensed a great deal of anger within him. And anger was rooted in either fear or ignorance. Did he fear her name? Or was he an outcast by choice, unwilling to create a bridge to the other young warriors in the entourage?

  “No,” she said, choosing to answer his question literally. “You are not my enemy. But I have lived with my own fears for too long to set them aside easily, Kisho Nova Cat.” She brushed her fall of thick hair back behind her ears. “Three assassination attempts before I was sixteen years of age. Did you know this?”

  “I can imagine.” He smiled bitterly. “Mystics have wonderful imaginations.”

  “I thought the Nova Cat mystics trusted to visions and portents. Not flights of fancy.”

  “Some might say there is no difference between the two.”

  “Some” meaning himself? A mystic who debunked his own abilities? Yori had a basic idea of the training such men underwent, and the role they played inside Nova Cat society. Mystics were the keepers of their Clan’s futures. It was the Nova Cat visions that had led the Clan into abandoning their homeworlds, uprooting themselves seventy years past to seek sanctuary within the Draconis Combine. She had never heard one—or heard of one—doubt himself before.

  Fear and ignorance. Yes. Kisho Nova Cat would be a very angry man.

  “So you have never read a vision?” she asked, probing lightly. She set aside her own problems as she offered a hand to the entourage’s other outcast.

  Kisho shrugged. A pair of small petals tumbled down his brow. One caught in his long eyelashes for a moment, until he blinked it away. “Have you ever guessed at something about to happen?” he asked. “A relationship that would break up? Two men you knew would eventually come to blows—be it days or weeks, but it would happen?”