Sword of Sedition

by Loren L. Coleman

  So far, the wolf had done an incredible job. Jasek’s contingent was spread out over five klicks, trying to regroup, and Alaric had claimed five “kills” for himself.

  Yori had only the one Firestarter and a Mobile HQ so far. A poor showing.

  Desperate to improve her record for Toranaga, Yori pushed her weapons, fast-cycling them in order to add to the damage already being wrought by the twin Warhammers. White-hot energy arced across the burning ground as her PPC sliced deep into the side of a retreating Centurion. Her missiles corralled and decimated a short squad of Cavalier infantry.

  Yori pulled a pair of Shoden assault vehicles in close, protecting her flanks as she half-walked, half-slid down the ridgeline’s tailings. Kisho continued to push forward past her position and deep, deep into the Davion backfield.

  Springing the Ghosts on Julian so late in the battle had been a risky maneuver, but now the fresh assault force not only blunted the Davion thrust, it began rolling up both sides of his forward line. The Warhammers slashed apart vehicles and infantry formations with their PPCs. Demons raced down more versatile tanks—Condors and even some of Callandre’s deadly SM1 Destroyers—using pack-tactics to drag down the stronger vehicles.

  Raidens clung to the sides of armored hovercraft or swarmed the lower legs of BattleMechs. A pair of Jousts attempted to retreat. VV1 Rangers and Hasek MCVs pressed forward, milled about uncertainly. Some dropped Infiltrator infantry, which Kisho’s Catapult shattered and scattered. The rest tucked tail and ran.

  Not what she had expected to see.

  Not at all.

  The entire Davion front was stalled and wide open!

  There was nothing concrete. Nothing that said this wasn’t a trap to draw her in for the kill. It was simply a gut feeling, gauged from the reaction of the auxiliary units and how that chaos was likely extrapolated from a broken Davion strategy. The conservative decision, she knew, would be to take advantage of the lull to reform her line.

  But a very loud and dangerous voice inside her argued for an immediate reprisal attack.

  “It is often better to fail spectacularly than persevere in mediocrity,” she whispered, careful of her voice-activated mic.

  The words weren’t hers. They belonged to Theodore Kurita. They belonged to the Kurita defense in the War of 3039.

  Swallowing back the taste of blood and scorched electronics, Yori toggled for an all-hands channel before she could think better of it.

  “Main forces, advance!” she ordered.

  Throttling up into a run, the Grand Dragon ate up the ground in strong, four-meter paces.

  “Straight into the teeth, and kick them back down their throat. Wakarimas-ka?”

  She swapped fire with a Davion Pack Hunter, trading particle cannons. But she had greater armor reserves to fall back upon. Soon the fast-attack ’Mech was also limping for its rear lines. Her missiles arced out in wave after wave, falling among the infantry and light armor assets Julian had left exposed. Kisho’s Warhammers speared forward in a two-prong drive.

  His Catapult and her Dragon followed.

  The Davions were in full retreat. It was working!

  “Banzai Company, push to liberate Nagasoku. Alaric, if you have anything left, now is the time! Hit them. CRUSH them!” she shouted, already tasting victory.

  “Forward the Dragon!”

  24

  Devastation! Far as the eye can see! The world of Misery is certainly earning its name as mercenaries supported out of the nearby Federated Suns’ March continue their pogrom against rogue samurai who have taken up the Combine’s cause in the Draconis Reach. Oh, the humanity!

  —Misery Broadcast Trivid, Unknown Report, Misery, 16 April 3135

  Terra

  Republic of the Sphere

  13 May 3135

  Erik Sandoval-Groell was allowed to accompany his uncle into one of the training center’s monitoring stations. A narrow, windowless bunker-style room suffering from a lack of good ventilation, it was close and stuffy. And he was choking on the dueling perfumes worn by Sandra Fenlon and Nikol Marik.

  Lars Magnusson did not seem to mind. The Ghost Bear warrior seemed to enjoy the company of both women as all three crowded near the left-hand wall, watching the battle unfold on a number of wall-mounted flat-D screens where “guncam” footage played alongside tactical and strategic overviews. Lars stood in a modified parade rest, as if concerned with where he might allow his hands to roam. His gaze kept jumping from one screen to the next, and when asked he offered commentary on how things were progressing.

  Badly, from the looks of it. But no one could be certain.

  No holotank display. No live network to pull up a review of casualty percentages or tactical scoring. Erik and Aaron had both been surprised at the rudimentary facilities offered their small group. Erik wondered if the better monitoring station had been given to the Dracs and the few Wolves who had shown an interest in the battle. Or had a cadre of Republic knights—or paladins—reserved the best equipment in the Auxiliary Training Center?

  And Erik could only imagine the treasures being shown off inside the Sphere Intelligence Service building next door, a show catering to Prince Harrison and Warlord Toranaga.

  “Is Julian faking weakness?” Erik asked aloud, voice pitched for his uncle alone. Not that either of them had any doubts that the barest whisper could be—and was being—recorded.

  Duke Aaron Sandoval had chosen a paramilitary uniform similar to the modified Republic dress worn by most Swordsworn officers. Worn by Erik as well, this day. The lord governor of Prefecture IV stood in a posture of relaxed meditation. One foot out in front of the other. Resting his right elbow in his left hand, propping up the right arm so he could tap two fingers against his chin. A study of idle concentration.

  Always playing a role. Today: the indulgent nobility.

  “If so, it is a very good act. And Yori Kurita has bought into it.”

  Erik watched the battle as it turned against the Federated Suns. It bothered him deeply, watching Combine forces roll in against a Davion line—the Sandoval dynasty’s greatest fear, the threat they had lived with for so many generations. Erik might be displaced into The Republic of the Sphere for his education and edification under the care of his “uncle” Aaron, but that did not make his heart beat blood that was any less sworn to the Draconis March. And the family.

  He swallowed dryly, edging up to the brink of their latest talks. “What about the March?” he asked. “Are they buying?”

  Aaron shot the young scion a hard look, but did not rebuke him. What they knew about Combine troop movements was, for the moment, private knowledge. As were efforts by the Sandoval dynasty back in the Federated Suns to take advantage of them.

  “What the family decides to do will be without the input of you or I, Erik. Our concern remains with the worlds of The Republic.”

  Except that they could be elevated to so much more. Now! At this moment! Erik had watched his uncle put it all into place over the last few years. The support he’d garnered from like-minded nobles and military leaders. Governors and legates and even, he suspected, a knight or two. All for the express purpose (expressed to Erik, anyway) of turning over Republic worlds to the Federated Suns in one fell swoop.

  Aaron might have hoped for greater, even, in his private plans, but with Harrison Davion cozying up to the exarch, why not take what they could, now, and support the dynasty’s plans at the same time?

  “Patience, Erik.” Aaron cautioned him, as if sensing the younger man’s thoughts. “The wisest leaders delay the longest, and then move the swiftest. After all, look at what the last few months have brought us.”

  A fractured government. Disgraced nobility and a diminished exarch. More worlds teetering on the edge, including Tikonov! The Confederation struck at will throughout Prefecture V, and had begun making inroads into IV and VI, and yet Aaron continued to wait things out on Terra.

  “There are even rumors of an assassination attempt against the exarch
. Now is not the time for rash decisions.”

  Which played well to any hidden recording equipment, as it could be read two ways. In support of the exarch, or simply waiting for him to fall on his own time. But . . . rumors! Aaron had no idea what it had cost Erik to help arrange that “attempt.” Now was precisely the time! There were loans being called due.

  Still, he understood Aaron’s caution. Would Prince Harrison support any bid by the Swordsworn worlds for Davion sponsorship? That was still the question. “We have friends, at least,” Erik said. And they did.

  “But which are our best and most able?” Aaron asked. “The Republic is awash with its own struggles. We are courted from all sides.” No surprise there. In fact, that was information the Swordsworn leaders wanted in the hands of The Republic’s wardens. “And there is always the new question of House Davion.”

  “Question?” Erik frowned.

  The lord governor turned his attention away from the monitors, and the honor match, to rake at his nephew with a cutting tone. “Prince Harrison has his own agenda, Erik. Never doubt that. And he has not forgotten the Sandovals in his dealings with The Republic. But I’ve barely had forty minutes alone with him since I arrived on planet, and he has completely rebuffed your approaches.”

  “So?” The prince was a busy man with layer upon layer of subtleties. Why should it be surprising that he was reluctant to appear too cozy with the Sphere’s resident Sandovals?

  “So I find it odd that he made a point to push your meeting onto the schedule with Julian Davion. And now, after a lengthy introduction at the Exarch’s Grand Ball, I will meet with the young officer as well. Not the prince, Erik. But the prince’s champion.”

  Strange, yes. But: “I guess I do not see it. What is the question?”

  Aaron turned his gaze back to the match winding down on the monitors. A final, no-holds-barred slugfest with units broken and burning on most every screen. “I’m wondering, is all,” he said, tapping at his chin again.

  “Where is Caleb Davion?”

  It should have been Caleb, Julian decided, standing up under Yori Kurita’s withering assault. Caleb, who the night of the reception had gone after the Combine warriors with something to prove. Whose casual insults and superior air had made the honor match happen. No accommodation. No other way to save face.

  And now, no clean victory.

  Yori Kurita kept coming at him, throwing units into the face of his line, spending lives and materiel in good samurai fashion and never letting him reset his forces. The Warhammers tore apart anything he thrust between them, and the Catapult and Yori’s Dragon were no small threat as well. Julian finally drew a trio of JES II missile carriers into a short line near his position to threaten any advancing unit with missile envelopment.

  Which lasted until Alaric Wolf slipped in behind Jasek’s Atlas and took out all three of the allied munitions stockpiles in quick order. Wham, wham, WHAM!

  They erupted in catastrophic gouts of fire that shook the entire battlefield and started several large forest fires burning behind the Davion positions. A simulated wind carried more dark, sooty smoke over the battlefield, which filtered through his cockpit’s simulator system as a distant, charcoal tang.

  Worse, the loss of his stockpiles “turned off” the unlimited ammunition option Tara Campbell had granted his forces during the simulation setup. Suddenly, his JES carriers all reported low ammo bins, and began firing with miserly care. And as the threat of missile envelopment fell aside, the Combine line regained its courage.

  Julian had recognized the munitions dumps as his strategic weakness, but had counted on Jasek’s two companies handling Alaric Wolf. Seven kills! And now his munitions stockpiles as well!

  Julian’s frustrations ate away at his confidence. Worried him in a way that, in a live firefight, he’d never have allowed. A field commander could not afford to second-guess himself. He had what he arrived on the field with, and did the best he could against the enemy force.

  That’s how it had been on New Hessen, with Raul Ortega and Colonel Torris.

  It’s how he prepared every day for the coming conflict with House Liao’s Capellan Confederation. Studying their tactics and force strength deployments. Readying the Capellan March to hold under what would likely be a devastating assault.

  But here, in a tactical simulation, however “real” the equipment made it seem, Julian understood every moment that he was in a battle for pride alone. And pride was about the most ridiculous reason for war. Pride had caused Hanse Davion to overreact against the Capellan Confederation in the second part of the Fourth Succession War. It was one of the primary forces that had brought about the annihilation of Clan Smoke Jaguar, if one counted pride as the motivating force behind the lasing of Edo City.

  And with pride on the line instead of life, he couldn’t say for certain he fought at his best. Though he wasn’t so certain the same could be said of the Combine contingent, when pride and honor meant as much to some of them—many of them—as their lives.

  “Calamity,” he toggled for his armor commander. “We need one of those ’Hammers silenced. Now!”

  “It’s gonna cost.”

  Julian dropped his crosshairs over a nearby Shoden, determined to put the tactical missile carrier out of commission. One of his Jessies slammed a score of warheads around its position, but somehow managed to miss with just about every one.

  “Pay it,” he ordered.

  The Templar’s targeting computer drew a second targeting reticle just off to the side, correcting for the odd angle and the Shoden’s movement. Julian squeezed into both primary triggers, lancing through the gray, sooty haze with two bolts of man-made lightning.

  Both struck the seventy-ton assault vehicle. Suddenly a line of bright, argent fire backwashed out from around the main turret track, tearing it half away from the mount, and was quickly overpowered as the missile load in its launcher exploded in a column of tall fire.

  At the same time, Callandre Kell speared out from the sidelines with her SM1 leading a charge of two Condors and a second pair of Goblins. She’d even managed to scrounge up a combat engineer squad as well. That would grab some attention.

  If he let it.

  “Concentrate fire on the eastern ’Hammer,” he ordered, buying Calamity some grace. He pushed his throttle forward, angling away from the Catapult to offer his own support.

  “I’m a bit out of position,” Jasek cautioned.

  Well, yeah. Strung out over far too many kilometers, torn between an advance and a rear guard strategy that had already failed. Julian had something for him, though. He squinted to read his blurred HUD. “Take down Alaric Wolf. Do not let him regroup.”

  “My pleasure.”

  For a reason Julian couldn’t quite pin down, he felt like he’d just thrown more meat to the . . . well . . . wolves.

  A different pair of Destroyers drove back Yori Kurita’s Dragon while Julian worked his own fire team into position against one of the Warhammers. Calamity Kell did not let tactics get in her way as she charged through a thin Kurita line, forming the second half of a brute-force pincer maneuver. Her Destroyer rocked sideways under a PPC lashing, but powered forward regardless, spitting a fury of hot metal from its autocannon which hacked brutally through one of the Warhammer’s arms, dropping the limb onto a charred piece of ground.

  Then Julian’s particle cannon sliced long and deep across the ’Hammer’s right side and chest. Shrapnel exploded out of the centerline gash as the ’Mech’s gyro tore itself apart, spraying in a storm of high-velocity shards. Callandre’s Condors raced up with lasers flaring gem-bright energy and missiles hammering a lethal tattoo over the BattleMech’s head and shoulders. The cockpit canopy caved inward and the pilot’s space filled with fire.

  The Warhammer was “dead” before it ever hit the ground.

  But the Kurita team was not finished. Pushing forward, as if sensing the end of the battle, Yori’s Dragon threw bolt after bolt of particle energy Julian’s di
rection while Kisho concentrated on Callandre’s position. The Nova Cat’s missiles crippled, then hammered into scrap one of the Goblins.

  The remaining Warhammer spent more vicious energy on a Condor, which flipped off a small rise and overturned.

  And on Juian’s tactical HUD, he saw one blue icon after another go dark as the Lyran force continued to feed Alaric Wolf more victims.

  “Dammit, Jasek.” His voice came out as a croak, sucked dry of all moisture as special vents in the cockpit floor dumped hot, stale air into the compartment. Simulating the heat spikes that followed so much cannon fire. “I said take him down, not choke him on your own men.”

  “Easier said . . . done” was the distant, broken reply. “He’s not . . . your way at least.”

  No. Alaric seemed quite content to rest on his laurels, leaving the Draconis Combine’s main thrust on their own while he continued to decimate the entire Lyran front.

  Everything was happening at a quicksilver pace found in the most desperate battles. Julian’s JES carriers all ran out of missiles at the same time and became nothing more than blocking dummies. Yori stepped on one as she pushed by, grappling into point-blank range with Julian’s Templar. And Kisho was suddenly knocked down onto his side as Callandre’s Destroyer slid past the downed ’Hammer to unload her last few hundred rounds into his Catapult.

  The remaining Warhammer was under siege as the last Goblin spilled out a line of hoarded Hauberk battle armor and the combat engineers attacked from its blind side with grapple rods and the black boxes they would need to try and take over the BattleMech. If they could clear out the MechWarrior inside.

  Everything else on the field was fighting one-on-one skirmishes, already burning, or trying to limp away.