Calamity skated her Destroyer back to the main skirmish, cursing fluently in gutter-Deutsch the entire way. She’d have to settle for an “assist.” The Catapult’s “kill” would be claimed by Paladin Sinclair.
The center of the loyalists’ line caved as Tara Campbell led her line against Stansill’s Griffin. Julian blasted more armor from the side of the ex-knight’s machine before being forced to leave off. His heat, pushed too high too fast, addled his Templar’s control circuitry. The ’Mech responded sluggishly, but still with deadly force.
His PPCs cored through a Kinnol main battle tank, turning it into a smoking ruin.
Fast-cycling, spreading his arms wide, his next salvo blasted armor from a Hasek infantry carrier and all but scrapped a crippled Marksman.
Then a pair of gauss slugs cracked into Julian’s back and his left knee as a Kelswa assault tank rolled over and buried a line of Republic Cavaliers, training its big guns on the eighty-five-ton ’Mech.
The brutal assault shoved Julian forward and kicked one leg out from beneath him at the same time. The Templar’s gyro screamed in protest, and Julian abandoned himself to a rough landing.
Which threw the second of only two major hitches into his off-the-cuff plan. His Templar sprawled in the very wrong direction. Crashing down on its right side, shoulder digging into the ground and head laid right under the Kelswa’s rail guns.
No time to wrestle the assault-class monster back to his feet. Julian got the ’Mech’s arms beneath him and managed to prop himself into a half-prone position. His left-arm PPC flayed armor from the Kelswa, blasting away protection and leaving a half-melted scar down its front side. Not enough.
Which was when Calamity Kell burst back onto the scene.
“No you do not!” was all she had time for as she barreled her Destroyer in at its top speed of 120 kilometers per hour, autocannon blazing, and ramming it into the right side of the stationary assault tank.
Julian had a front row seat. Saw the autocannon hammer hard into the Kelswa’s side, and hoped, even though he knew—somewhere back inside his mind—that she couldn’t possibly burn through before the assault tank’s gauss rifles took out the Templar’s cockpit. At that point, he hadn’t considered the wreckage about to pile up in front of him.
But then the SM1’s forward-thrust barrel speared into the assault tank’s side, ruining the weapon but giving the Kelswa just that start of a nudge. Rocking it up, off its right-side treads, as the hovercraft slammed in behind its weapon to cave in the tank’s side. The impact shoved the Kelswa over and ramped the Destroyer into the air. It flew, gracefully, for about three seconds.
Then crashed to the ground in a belly flop that beat the Stinger’s earlier performance hands down.
“Callandre!” Julian stumbled his Templar back to its feet, lying about on both sides with PPCs, keeping enemy vehicles back from his friend’s wrecked Destroyer. “Calamity Kell!”
“Ow.”
It wasn’t much of a response. But it was enough.
Julian turned with a vengeance into the nearest line of loyalist ’Mechs, relieved for his friend and ready to put an end to the march on Paris. The Guard lost its Enforcer in the next few minutes, but wrecked incredible havoc amongst the shattered loyalist line as well. Julian burned down a Hastati Regulator, and a Condor so new out of the factory it had only a base-primer paint job.
Then Tara Campbell finally stumbled close enough to Stansill’s Griffin to rip out the ex-knight’s heart with her autocannon. The BattleMech died on its feet, fusion reactor bursting free in a golden blaze, shattering limbs and armor, casting pieces in all directions.
The force of the blast knocked Tara Campbell back, but the stubborn Hatchetman flailed about, trying to rise again.
Loyalists broke from their line, fleeing for the safety of Conner Rhys-Monroe’s direct command. Already Julian’s Guards were sparring at range with the stronger force. Surprisingly, enough to slow Monroe, set him back a step. Julian threw forward a pair of Jousts. A Kinnol main battle tank, captured by Dawkin’s engineering squad and pressed back into the battle, rolled in as well.
It bought them seconds.
“Artillery?” Julian toggled for a direct line. “What do you have left?”
“Another few hundred pounds. Then we’re down to throwing rocks.”
“Use it! Retard distance minus two hundred.”
He didn’t even try to put the fire into Conner’s line, which might have prompted them to speed their attack. He simply filled up the ground in between them with a line of fire and shrapnel that no one would willingly cross. Four . . . perhaps five hundred meters separated the two lines now. Julian wanted to keep that as long as possible.
Longer, it turned out, than he’d ever imagined.
As the debris cleared in a rain of blackened earth and gravel, and the smoke drifted into fading wisps, the loyalist line stood there. Centered on the Rifleman. Unmoving.
Then the entire line began a slow but certain retreat.
Allied units converged on Julian’s position, rallying. Two strengthened companies . . . three. . . . Julian took a head count, started weighing out what he had left against the knight-senator. Even odds. Or pretty close to it. Even with Tara Campbell’s Hatchetman staggering up along with Gareth Sinclair and his Black Hawk, Julian gave an edge to the loyalists. Fewer BattleMech units at this point, but heavier ground forces and better support with their recovery vehicles and mobile gantries.
“You won’t get a better shot at them in an hour,” Calamity broadcast on a general channel.
“Or them at us,” Tara responded. She sounded about how Julian felt. Battered and utterly spent. “Are they thinking to take and hold Chateau-Thierry?”
Julian frowned, and waited, and watched. The loyalists began forming up in company-strength units, then dividing down, it seemed, into lances as organized by an outside force. Conner Rhys-Monroe, then? Getting his people readied for. . . ?
“Check your high-gain sensors,” Maya Avellar broke in on the chatter. “That’s not ours.”
Julian didn’t bother. He’d figured it out already. Turning toward the distant city, he gazed through a mud-streaked cockpit canopy into the sky. At first, it was just a darker mass moving against an overcast sky piled up with heavy thunderheads. Then a shadow that moved down through the light curtains of rain, falling over the far side of Chateau-Thierry.
Finally a DropShip. Excalibur-class.
Two elements of fighters streaked down behind it, taking high-speed turns over the city and the surrounding woodland and flats. Transgressors. Julian was just as happy to leave them alone. At least for now.
But he knew, felt it, that it wouldn’t be for good.
This wasn’t over.
“It’s not, is it?” Callandre Kell asked, as if reading Julian’s mind. She had crawled out of her ruined tank, and now perched atop it with a bloody compress held to the side of her head.
Julian sat back in his command chair, breathing easier now that his cooling system had made headway against the stifling heat of combat. Now it was merely a sauna. And he was through with it. Until the next time.
“It is,” he said, “for now.”
32
People of Terra! You can no longer hide your heads in the sand and pretend that what you do has no effect on the greater realm of humanity. Your support for the exarch’s illegal actions is scorned by most worlds. You make it possible for an outlaw government to survive.
Look within yourself the next time you see a uniform of The Republic’s military. Ask yourself the simplest of questions.
Are you proud? Or are you beginning to fear?
—(Senator) Conner Rhys-Monroe, departing transmission, Terra, 1 June 3135
Terra
Republic of the Sphere
1 June 3135
A somber pall smothered the Chamber of Paladins, draining the energy of the room—which Tara thought could have been more upbeat, if still severe.
As t
wilight rolled up on Geneva, the day spent, all but six paladins had returned to the chamber and their stations. Always in motion, they conversed with each other, or with handfuls of the twenty or so knights milling about awaiting missions or a request for data. Occasionally, one would be called away, but never for long. It had all the trappings of a war room, and the war was going well. Better than could have been expected, all things considered.
But then, Meraj Jorgensson was dead. Another name lost to the rolls of the vaunted paladin corps.
She had not really known the giant man, but she’d respected his position and his history of accomplishments. Sad, yes. But there seemed to be something more lurking under the surface. A grim determination as the paladins monitored the last remnants of fighting, the retreat of the senators and their supporters, and culled names from the Republic’s roster of active servicemen. Separating those who had supported the loyalist cause from those who had remained steadfast.
Tara put a hand on Gareth Sinclair’s arm as he and Heather GioAvanti finished up a hasty conference and returned to their comrades, and their own stations. “What’s left?” she asked.
No one had spent much time or energy to freshen up after battle. After cleaning up the fighting around Chateau-Thierry, Tara and Gareth had grabbed simple jumpsuits to pull over their combat togs. Heather GioAvanti had found a moment to drag out a working uniform, but her hair was also still matted down from wearing a neurohelmet.
Gareth sipped at a lime-flavored sports drink, still hydrating himself after the long day spent inside a cockpit. He toasted the paladins working at their stations with it. “They’re tracking down the last of the on-planet holdouts. Some small skirmishes being put down in Sverdlovsk and Sao Paulo.”
“We can’t be certain how many loyalist supporters made the final DropShip exodus, either,” GioAvanti said. “It will take some time to set Terra to rights. But we’ll get the job done. David McKinnon will bring in part of the Seventh Hastati after all, to supplement our losses. We’ll rebuild.” She glanced at one of the darkened stations set in the circle. “And tomorrow we’ll bury Meraj in a small ceremony.”
“That doesn’t seem right. Especially after the trouble The Republic went through over Victor Steiner-Davion.” Though there weren’t many who could compete with Victor’s resume. Next to his life, most paled.
Gareth and Heather were far more practical. They both began to speak, both stopped. Heather nodded at the younger paladin, ceding the floor to him. “What’s not right is that we put Victor through the trouble to begin with. No paladin wants their death to be a long, drawn-out affair. It’s what we do with our lives that we want to matter.”
“Also,” Heather reminded them all, “Meraj was Clan. He kept his codex up to date. A copy and his DNA gifttake will be returned to the Dominion. He’ll be remembered through new generations.” She paused, glanced at her colleague, and then offered, “You will, of course, be asked to attend the service for Paladin Meraj.”
Tara nodded. “I would be honored. But is there anything more I can do, today?”
She didn’t feel up to much more. And her BattleMech wasn’t ready for anything but a long and detailed overhaul. But the offer had to be made.
She hadn’t come back to Terra to stand back and watch.
Paladin Mandela walked by and slipped a wave and a glance in GioAvanti’s direction. Heather checked back toward the door, and then returned a quick nod to her comrade. “I guess that is going to depend,” the paladin said.
She turned Tara toward the entrance to the chamber with nothing more than a directed look. The exarch’s chief of staff waited there. Héloïse Montgolfier. Scanning the room. Heather nudged Tara with a light touch on the elbow. “I suspect she’s here for you.”
Jonah Levin played bartender, pulling three glasses out of a Chippendale and pouring healthy splashes from a clear bottle. His staff would frown later, seeing that he hadn’t properly called for one of the servants who existed for such menial tasks. But Levin had had enough today of letting others handle the workload around him while he sat, and waited.
“I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to storm out of my office today, and take to the field.”
Cradling all three glasses in his hands, he carried them over to the small sitting area. The Bullet had curtains drawn over its windowed alcove and lights set to eight percent. As close to an intimate setting as he could make it. He handed one glass—carefully!—to Tara Campbell. Julian Davion looked ready to refuse, but the exarch nodded.
“It’s flavored water.”
He had learned many things in the last few months regarding the Federated Suns’ champion. Levin had made it a point to find out, the moment Harrison Davion insisted that the young man stay and sit in on that first meeting. Knowing that Julian would refuse an alcoholic drink was only one piece of valuable information.
Knowing why was another.
Both Tara and Julian sipped politely, still standing. The exarch joined them, taking a seat on one of the leather chairs, letting the supple material form around him like a glove. The others sat after him.
Julian set his aside first. “I imagine the exarch taking to the field would have been looked on as a reckless act to some,” he said.
“To most, Julian.” Jonah sipped, letting the fresh hint of lemon wash away the dry taste that had plagued him all day while pacing floors in his many offices. “People forget so quickly that I came up a warrior. Was a paladin before I was ever exarch. When news came of Jorgensson’s death, that was hard. But it wasn’t the hardest part of my day.”
“What was?” Tara asked.
She had remained distant, almost cold, since being escorted up by Héloïse. Even now, the questions seemed to be pulled out of her by some outside force. Jonah recognized it instantly. He was getting to know all too well the pressures of “outside forces.”
“When I noticed that they had come into my office, in my absence, and changed the seal.”
He nodded over at the carpet inlay. The normal ensign of The Republic ran a knot-work banner through a globe of Terra, surrounded by a field of ten golden stars to represent the various prefectures. And the motto: Ad Securitus Per Unitas. Through unity, freedom.
But now the stars all burned red, not gold, and the banner had been replaced by a sword. A not-so-subtle reminder, meant expressly for the exarch, that fighting had come to Terra itself. “Damien Redburn did not mention that customary change, which must also have happened during the Steel Wolf assault last year.”
There were many things about the job that Damien had failed to mention.
“Still,” he continued, “Terra is secured. Mostly. The Republic stands.” For now. “I don’t think I need to tell either of you how desperate things have turned in the last half year. You saw a great measure of that today. But I did want to thank both of you for your efforts.”
“And the senators?” Tara asked. “What happens to them now?”
“Well, that depends on what they try next. Conner Rhys-Monroe, we expect, will return to Markab. Ptolomeny, Riktofven, Vladistock to their own worlds. We hope that some will come to their senses and split the loyalist ranks, especially when they have to deal with outside threats without the full support of The Republic military behind them.
“Regardless, it is a problem for tomorrow. One I hope to meet with my allies,” he nodded toward Julian, “and . . . my paladins.”
Tara had prepared herself. Smart woman. As much a political animal as a warrior, she had to have suspected the offer was coming. Her face betrayed nothing as Jonah offered her the same position she had turned down once already.
“The Republic needs you, Countess. Now more than ever. It is a sad opportunity that a seat in the chamber has opened, but not one I am willing to overlook when the best candidate is sitting in the same room.”
Tara sipped at her water, then carefully set it aside on a marble coaster.
She stood. Again slowly. Deliberately. Bringing herself to atten
tion.
And shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Exarch. And please don’t believe I’m making this decision lightly. I’ve had a year to think about it. During the fighting for Skye and Prefecture IX the challenges The Republic faces were driven home, and maybe at that time I would have accepted. But after this, my second tour of duty on Terra itself, and how you needed to use me here . . . there are things I might need to do. Things you might ask me to do. And I wouldn’t be able to get the job done draped in paladin’s colors. You need people on the outside.”
Jonah felt his composure slip at the end. A brief moment, when the mask slipped away, and he nearly let them see the desperation lurking so close to the surface. People on the outside. Yes, he’d need them. If it came to that.
Faith defend, it would not.
He stood, and Julian followed suit. There was not much left for the exarch but to exchange solid grips with Tara Campbell, and wish her the best. “I will not hesitate to call,” he warned her. “And I know you will not hesitate to answer. The Republic’s thanks, Countess Campbell.”
He turned them all toward the door of his office, walking across the seal, sparing it only a quick glance downward.
“And you, Lord Davion. If I thought I could steal you away from Prince Harrison, I might try.” He waved back Julian’s beginning of polite refusal. “No need, no need. I saw it the first day we met. Your devotion is admirable. Harrison is fortunate to have such a strong . . . champion. And I know he is waiting for you, and it grows late. Go, Julian. Both of you go with my blessing and appreciation.”
“There is nothing more we can do?” Julian asked. Tara waited on the answer as well.
“Nothing that cannot wait until tomorrow. We aren’t finished yet. I have high hopes of turning today’s misfortunes into a boon. A formalized alliance with the Federated Suns is only the beginning of what we might accomplish. We, all of us, work toward peace. Out of everything Damien said at the service today, that sits strongest with me. And we will continue to do so. All it will take is for the right people to step forward. And I think we are close to that.” So very close, Jonah could almost reach out for it.
Sword of Sedition Page 32
