Sword of Sedition

by Loren L. Coleman

  But before Aaron Sandoval made up his mind one way or another, the shuttle banked slowly away from the ruins of Hilton Head. Julian felt the shift as acceleration tilted gravity back on its heels for a moment, and knew the touring shuttle had turned its “jump” thrusters over for a horizontal vector once again. The shattered island fell away on the nearby screen, receding quickly as the small craft sped toward its next destination. Inland, where the diplomats would visit a mothballed complex at Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

  “Cameron’s Last Stand,” the onboard “guide” whispered from the back of the observation deck. “Sixty minutes.”

  On break, or held out by the lord governor’s specific request, suddenly the service personnel returned with a vengeance. They swept into the observation deck with a purpose, quickly emptying the trash and removing glasses left over from earlier. The tray of drinks, brought to Aaron before Julian’s arrival, was whisked away as the staff hurriedly prepared for the guests who would seek more room on the upper decks.

  Aaron Sandoval let one of the waiters take his glass, surrendering it with barely a flicker of annoyance. They’d run out of time, and the lord governor knew it.

  But he was not about to let the conversation die.

  “I hear,” he said, slowly, “that fighting on New Hessen and Demeter has picked up again.”

  “It has,” Julian admitted, cursing the bad timing. Prince Harrison would not be satisfied with the open ending of the conversation. Julian needed something to bring back for his prince. “Pirate raids backed by Liao support, it seems. It is an ongoing situation we are looking into.”

  “Look deeper,” Aaron suggested. “And see if it might not be in the best interests of the Federated Suns to take a stronger stand.”

  Pro-Aaron? Or pro-Republic? Guests were arriving from down below now, seeking escape from the crowded lounges with their uncomfortable political baggage. More than a few cast anxious glances in the direction of Julian and Aaron, divining what they could of the conversation or planning a method to crash the private talk and chat up either man. With moments left to them, at best, Julian floundered in the conversation, reaching for that last piece of information that would tip Aaron’s hand.

  Duke Sandoval began to withdraw.

  “Prince Harrison”—Julian stood, stopping the lord governor—“would want me to pass along his highest regards. Would you have any further message for him?” Last chance, Julian coaxed the other man.

  Aaron Sandoval paused, then nodded once, deciding. “Tell Prince Harrison . . . There are a great many more things that unite us than divide us. Borders notwithstanding. Tell him that I hope to speak with him, and with you, Julian, again. In fact,” Aaron considered, “that I believe you will do just fine.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Julian’s “inner Harrison” was satisfied. Mostly. But he had a question of his own suddenly pressing forward, raised by the lord governor’s carefully chosen words.

  “Why me?” he asked. A question Julian could not raise with his prince. The champion simply served. “Why the . . . vote of confidence?” It only came to him as he asked the question—that’s exactly what it had been. A vote of confidence.

  “You mean you haven’t figured it out yet, Julian?” The smile was slow and secretive. “Harrison still has some things to teach you, I see. But don’t worry. There is still time.”

  And with that cryptic remark, Aaron moved off. To be buttonholed immediately by a man in a Spirit Cat uniform.

  Julian eased back into his seat, sipping at his sweetened water and impressing Aaron Sandoval’s words firmly into his mind. For the moment, anyway, the images of desolation from Hilton Head were pushed far back into the shadows, as he wondered exactly what his prince was up to that Aaron believed he knew and at which Julian could only guess.

  Plaguing the champion with more questions.

  27

  The Republic has squandered its legacy of honor and righteousness. A false legacy, built on the blood of innocents conquered by Devlin Stone and pressed to support his new Terran Hegemony. Liao is simply among the first of many worlds soon to realize their mistake, to throw off the shackles and step forward as free voices. Yóng yuăn Liào Sūn Zĭ!

  —Transcript reprinted in the Dynasty Daily, Liao, 16 May 3135

  Terra

  Republic of the Sphere

  31 May 3135

  Erik Sandoval-Groell waited at the foot of the Patriot’s auxiliary ramp as another VTOL swept in from the direction of Annemasse. He’d been watching for a certain one for two hours, as twilight fell over the DropPort, waiting to see if his new allies would honor their pledge, or if he’d been played for a fool. So far, everything promised had come through, from extracting Aaron Sandoval before St. Andre fell, to the early information on the Combine assaults in Prefecture II. But Erik had learned to be wary, always wary, when it came to politics or military alliances.

  And this was a bit of both.

  The air tasted of warm ferrocrete and aviation fuel. A feeling of anticipation crawled over his skin. The VTOL banked wide around the control tower, angling toward the Patriot. It took Erik a moment to recognize the craft in the fading light. An executive Brightstar, with telltale sleek lines and a muffled engine capable of near-silent travel.

  And he’d barely made the ID when it dropped fast and hard, skimming dangerously low along the tarmac for several hundred meters before it finally thumped down next to the Union-class DropShip. The twenty-stories-tall vessel dwarfed the Brightstar, but there was something about the executive craft that made it seem larger than life.

  Something beyond the obvious expense of the craft and the talented manner in which it was handled.

  Something dark.

  The rotors kicked up a wash of sharp gusts and grit, blowing a quick zephyr across the tarmac that died away as quickly as the Brightstar had arrived. The rotors wound down quickly, and the running lights were extinguished. Erik was only slightly surprised when no passenger alighted from the back compartment, and instead the VTOL’s only occupant jumped down from the pilot’s door, shouldered a small rucksack, and strolled over to where he waited.

  The newcomer was older than Erik. By a decade. Perhaps more. Unruly, chestnut brown hair and flat, hazel eyes, and a way of looking through Erik that bothered him a great deal.

  “Are we ready?” the man asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing.” And in a way, he had. But the VTOL pilot merely waited with the patience of stone. “We have preliminary approvals for launch. The Patriot’s captain is waiting my ‘go’ to request finals.”

  “Good. You will have a lift crane bring aboard my Brightstar, please.”

  A very polite order, but an order nonetheless. Erik bristled, but quickly regained control of himself. He looked north, at the city lights of Annemasse glowing against an overcast sky, and wondered about nearby Geneva as well. He was leaving Terra, and he doubted—very much doubted—that he would ever return here to mankind’s birthworld. Aaron had let enough slip from his meeting with Julian Davion, and plans being set into motion with the Swordsworn, that he recognized how quickly things were coming to a head within The Republic. For better or worse. Successful or not. The wheels were in motion.

  And to get a jump on his uncle’s plans, maybe steal a march altogether, Erik was leaving now. On the eve of the services for Victor Steiner-Davion. An event he was slightly sorry to be missing.

  “You are sure that it will happen tomorrow? No chance of error?”

  “Were you able to get the lord governor off St. Andre before the walls fell?” the other man asked. “We do not deal in bad information.”

  Fitting, then. Aaron had once left him in the path of an assault sponsored by the lord governor. It had nearly cost Erik his life. Learn or die—that seemed to be one of Aaron’s favorite training tools. Now Erik would see how his uncle’s luck held up.

  Also, in the likely chaos of martial law to follow, Erik would be already off planet, in the pos
ition to do something. He wasn’t about to lose out on the opportunities.

  “After you, then,” Erik said, waving the older man up the ramp.

  A flat gaze stared back impassively. He wasn’t turning his back on Erik. Not even for a moment. “I insist,” the man said, nodding Erik ahead.

  Erik shrugged his indifference, laughing inside the entire time. They all thought they knew him. They all underestimated him. But Erik recognized when he was safe, and when he tread on dangerous ground. Hard lessons, and ones he would never forget. And when the time came, he’d show them all how much he’d learned. Turning, he walked back up the ramp, hearing his new “friend” following at a careful pace behind him.

  He never looked back again at Terra.

  Not once.

  Conner led his column out of Siegberg just after twilight, on the cusp of dark. His Rifleman set the pace at a steady forty kilometers per hour, swaying back and forth as its long-barreled arms pivoted first left, then right. Always searching for a target, it seemed.

  Not so soon, though. Not anywhere within several hours march, and hopefully a great deal further than that.

  He dialed the coolant in his vest down to minimum, and spent several kilometers working kinks out of his neck as he loosened up under the weight of his bulky neurohelmet. His short columns crossed the Rhein at Bonn, and were joined by Cray Stansill’s veterans from the Tenth Hastati. In the next hour, through Duren and Aachen, Conner added the Essen Mobile Infantry force and a company of armored vehicles from Senator Vladistock’s Honor Guard.

  A full battalion crossed the border into Belgium just before midnight.

  Controlling Belgium would be the key to the loyalists’ success. For this and this alone, Michael Riktofven had been an invaluable aid. The man owned most of the politicians and half of the officer corps who routinely trained in the Ardennes. With his help, the remaining senators on planet had shifted men and materiel into the area, hidden from the exarch’s ever-watchful spies.

  They hoped.

  “Tomorrow they gather to say goodbye to Victor.”

  Conner’s whisper was loud in his own ears, trapped by the neurohelmet. He had his voice mic toggled off, but some things were just meant to be whispered.

  “All of them, gathered in Paris. Vincent Kurita. Harrison Davion. The exarch!”

  The plan was fairly simple. Seize the city, and the Republic Cathedral. Avoid the need to barter hostages back to their own realms. Everyone was in place to air grievances and make long-term decisions. If they would recognize the Senate nobility, see that Exarch Levin was using his power to strip away centuries of noble authority—

  They would still be under duress and unlikely to do much more than scatter to the winds at the first opportunity, Conner knew.

  But dammit! They had to try. They had to show the excess to which Exarch Levin would move, and the danger of a divided Republic. This was no longer about Geoffrey Mallowes, and whatever dark hole into which Levin had thrown the Skye senator. No longer about the supposed assassination of Victor Davion, or the small cabal of nobles who had tried to support their own cause.

  This was not even about Conner’s father. It wasn’t!

  It was about leadership, and the just use of power, and who was best suited to hold those reins. Which had been, and always would be, the nobles.

  Yes?

  Watching the clock count up toward local midnight, Conner knew that now was the wrong time to be questioning their course of action. It was too late. In the next hour, small riots would break out across Belgium, France and Switzerland. Civilian organizations such as the Stone’s Legacy movement and even some remnants of the Kittery Renaissance would provide lots of energetic chaff.

  Meanwhile, loyalist forces in the Belgium militia would seize resources and create a military screen under which the stronger military units Conner needed would rendezvous and strike, hard, down into France. The exarch’s Maginot Line of field camps would collapse back into the interior of the country, ready to meet them, but it would be too late. They would be too far out of position. And Conner had some fast-insertion forces prepared to strike ahead of his main line as well.

  “This is it, Father. Where else do people go when they can’t trust normal channels to address their grievances? When they believe their government has failed them?”

  They take it into their own hands.

  For better. Or for worse.

  28

  Victor Steiner-Davion often called for “the right of free men and women to choose their own destiny.” Even Prince Harrison so lately quoted his estranged uncle when condemning the exarch’s high-handed tactics.

  Why, then, should the Senate be vilified so aggressively for opposing the disenfranchisement of so many citizens with the power at our command?

  —Senator Lina Derius (Nationalist Party, Liberty), Liberty, 22 May 3135

  Terra

  Republic of the Sphere

  1 June 3135

  Tara Campbell considered it one of the great injustices of the day (for there would be several) that by some stretch of bureaucratic reasoning, which listed the various political contingents by nationality rather than by name, the Davions and Steiners—the Federated Suns and Lyran Commonwealth—were seated several dozen rows back from the front of the Cathedral’s chapel. About the middle to the back of the forward section, well behind the pews for immediate family.

  Also that “Campbell” seated her near the front, next to “Capellan Confederation.”

  She’d already had the dubious pleasure of meeting Daoshen Liao at the Exarch’s Grand Ball, and spending time in his presence this morning during the final, preservice viewing. Now, watching him shuffle down the aisle ahead of her, wearing robes the color of arterial blood chased with heavy gold brocade and decorated with a crouched tiger on the back, made her want to chuck something large and heavy in his direction. Like an Atlas. Instead, she slid along to the outside edge of a pew and trained her mind on the magnificent room instead of the malevolent Liao.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to lose oneself in the chapel. The grand, vaulted ceilings rose sixty meters above the congregation, and stretched nearly one hundred fifty meters in length. Not quite tall enough to park a DropShip in, but almost able to take an Overlord laid on its side. Tara bet she could find room enough for a full battalion of BattleMechs if she were willing to ruin the magnificent vestibule by parading them through.

  Skylights opened up at either end of the room, with light filtering in through awe-inspiring examples of stained glass art. Religious and—some might say—mythological scenes. The one she liked best showed a priest, a monk and an earth-mother druid all waiting in line at the gates of Heaven.

  Which sounded like the start of a bad joke, but was quite tasteful and elegant in the display.

  The air was actually damp with the night’s heavy rains, and it tasted of old wood and new carpet. A sluggish chill crept through the room while everyone waited for the last guests to file in. The Republic Cathedral seated over four thousand souls, and would be filled to maximum occupancy with relations, foreign and domestic dignitaries, an entire regiment of military officers, and the friends, associates and well-wishers accumulated along a century of full life.

  Victor’s transparent coffin had already been brought into the chapel, resting on the altar’s stage under an honor guard of six paladins. David McKinnon. Heather GioAvanti. Drummond, Mandela, Avellar and Marik. All wearing their dress uniforms. All with eyes on their former comrade, as if willing him back into service.

  Tara spent some time leaning forward, eyes closed, lost in thought as she contemplated what Victor might have wanted said at his final service.

  And what was likely to be on the agenda instead.

  “They should plant him quick,” Daoshen said, his tenor voice rising above the whispered conversations which buzzed throughout the grand chapel, “before he changes his mind.”

  The Chancellor of the Confederation sounded more amused than bit
ter. As if Act II, Scene I of his own little drama demanded an obnoxious comment at the expense of those truly sorry for Victor’s passing.

  Tara opened her eyes but refused to glance his direction, to give him the satisfaction. She stared straight ahead, past several rows of pews holding the As and Bs of the distinguished guest list. It surprised her to see, in front of the seated paladins and a space reserved for Exarch Levin, a mostly empty pew for immediate family. Victor had been survived by at least one son and a daughter, and grandchildren, that Tara knew of. One or two great-grandchildren as well? Plus there would be a few immediate cousins still alive.

  But there were only two adults sharing the long bench, and one child between them. Tara recognized Simone Davion from a charity social they had both attended years before. And Sir Kitsune, of course. Knight of the Sphere, and Victor’s recognized son by his lover before Isis Marik. Was it Simone’s son who sat there between the stiff-backed adults? Or Kitsune’s?

  A pregnant hush swept through the room, and the air of expectancy did cause Tara’s head to turn this time. Exarch Levin, escorting his wife, and former-Exarch Damien Redburn walked the lonely aisle between the chapel halves. A carpet runner laid out over the marble floor soaked up their footfalls as the dignified trio moved straight to the front of the chapel, to the front row where, after a word of condolence to Simone, and likely seeking her blessing as well, they joined the family members at the very front.

  The paladins smoothed over the gap in their row by sliding over to fill the space.

  A full house.

  Tara swallowed past the tightness in her throat as Bishop Wesley-Smith of the New Catholic faith walked in from a chamber off to the right-hand side of the altar. A friend and long-time counselor of Victor Davion, he would open the nondenominational ceremony. His goatee was not exactly church-standard, but it was well groomed and he had a light of grace in his eyes that few pious men truly achieved.