by Andrew Keith
"Be careful of overconfidence, Johann," von Bulow said quietly. "These aren't just ordinary mercenaries. Always remember that. They fought the Clans to a standstill on Pandora, and that was no mean feat. The Gray Death Legion is an opponent to be respected."
"Yes, Herr General." The younger man's tone was subdued, but there was still a gleam in his eye.
Von Bulow favored him with a smile. "Still, you're right. The situation will never be more favorable. His Grace has planned well." He gestured at the transparent plasteel window behind his desk, where six Invader Class JumpShips hung motionless at the system's zenith jump point, awaiting the order to engage their hyperspace drives for the jump from Skye to Glengarry. The Asgard was docked with a larger vessel, the Star Lord Class Gotterddmerung. Together, the ships represented a formidable armada.
Ever since the death of Archon Melissa Steiner, the pride of her eldest son and heir had swelled unchecked, and the Davion presence in the Isle of Skye was becoming more intolerable with each passing week. Prince Victor had all but accused Duke Ryan Steiner of complicity in the assassination of his mother, but that was no excuse for the arrogance his troops had been displaying these past months. And if Victor Davion's lackeys believed that the Duke would cave in under their pressure, they were sadly mistaken.
Discontent with Davion rule had flared into open protest and even some riots all over the Isle of Skye at virtually the same moment? And though Richard Steiner held the rank of Field Marshal and Commander in Chief of the Federated Commonwealth forces in the Skye March, he had chosen to throw his lot in with Ryan Steiner's Free Skye Movement rather than attempt to put the risings down. Von Bulow, as one of Richard Steiner's closest supporters, had advised against Richard allying with Ryan, but it seemed now that Richard had done the right thing after all. As Field Marshal of the Skye March, he controlled most of the region's military assets, but as the new Duke of Skye, his political power was even greater. The former Duchess, Margaret Aten, had been handicapped by the twin impediments of low birth and close personal attachments to Katrina and Melissa Steiner, but the political marriage between her young daughter Sarah and Katrina's nephew Richard had been a popular move. Even more popular had been Margaret's decision to step aside and allow the new generation to take over.
No one outside the new duke's inner circle knew that the abdication had been anything but voluntary. Even the young Sarah remained blissfully ignorant of the coup Ryan and Richard Steiner had staged to win virtually absolute political power with the Skye March.
Besides having the Steiner name to his credit, Richard had immediately made it clear that he was no slavish supporter of the Federated Commonwealth. In a hotbed of separatism like the Isle of Skye, the new Duke's position on the issues of local rule and regional sovereignty had earned him many allies at all levels of society. And where Margaret Aten had been a vehement opponent of Skye secession, her daughter, only half Richard's age at the time of the marriage, was meek, mild, and easily dominated by her forceful husband.
Once Ryan Steiner had obtained Richard's support, he had Richard send two full regiments of dedicated pro-Davion troops from their base on the key world of Hesperus II to aid Richard's cousin, Marshal Caesar Steiner, deal with the tensions on the Marik border. This removed a major obstacle from the path of rebellion. Richard also secured the return of the Fourth and Seventeenth Skye Ranger regiments, which had been shifted out of Skye space during earlier Davion efforts to tighten their grip on the region. The two units still retained their old pro-Skye sympathies. Added to the Tenth Skye Rangers, which made up the core of von Bulow's command, they formed a solid nucleus around which the insurrection would be able to rally.
Most of the garrisons the Davions had planted in the Skye territory were of indifferent quality and uncertain commitment. A few, like the Skye Rangers, were actually controlled by Ryan Steiner's Free Skye Movement, and many of the others would be easily dominated by Duke Richard. After all, he was already their rightful commander, and in the first few weeks of the uprising, to what other clear, legitimate authority would they turn? That had been the case with the loyal but green Eleventh Federated Commonwealth, the regiment garrisoning Skye. On the duke's orders, the unit had stayed in garrison when militia armories on Skye were opened to the cadre of reservists and promising trainees who formed the rest of von Bulow's strike force, the Skye Guards. They were green, but eager.
Of the handful of pro-Davion units that might offer real resistance, only the Gray Death Legion remained as a genuine force to be reckoned with. The mercenaries were already weak from detachments, and their leadership was currently far from the unit. If von Bulow could overwhelm their base on Glengarry quickly enough, the Legion could be neutralized right from the start, and the rest of the Skye March would fall easily. Yes, von Bulow thought, His Grace had planned this well.
The strike on Glengarry would be the first overt military operation of the campaign. Even so, Duke Richard had taken care to avoid an outright confrontation. Instead, he had exercised his undoubted right as Duke of Skye to reaffirm von Bulow as the rightful Baron of Glengarry. By thus using his authority as duke and Field Marshal to uproot the Gray Death from Glengarry and plant von Bulow and the Tenth Skye Rangers in their place, Duke Richard would have almost all of the Isle of Skye in sympathetic hands and a solid body of legal right on his side when the Archon Prince protested. Let Victor actually start a war by challenging Ryan and Richard Steiner. Given the divided loyalties throughout the old Lyran Commonwealth, the prince would soon be bogged down in civil war.
The dawn of new independence for the people of Skye was at hand. And perhaps more, too. Richard Steiner wasn't that far off the principal line of succession of the Lyran Commonwealth. Once Katrina's heirs were cast out, what would stand in the path of Richard becoming the next Archon of a revived House Steiner?
"Pass the order to Weltalloberst Ghishko. All ships to continue preparations for jump. I want the fleet ready to move out in three hours. And inform Glushko that I will be transferring my standard to the Gotterddmerung prior to jump. Understood?"
"Yes, Herr General." The aide saluted stiffly and left von Bulow alone to contemplate the fleet and the scattered stars beyond.
Stars that would soon be free of the Davion tyranny.
7
Nadir Jump Point, Glengarry System
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
1 April 3056
"Gray Skull, Antelope. We are clear. Preparing to go to main drive on your signal."
Before responding, Captain Einar Rodland of the JumpShip Gray Skull carefully checked over the instrument repeaters around his bridge station. The risk of a catastrophe soared astronomically any time two massive ships tried to maneuver in close proximity to each other. In the absence of atmosphere and gravity, the laws of inertia reigned supreme, and the tiniest mistake in applying thrust could end in a fatal collision.
It was doubly risky when one of the vessels was a JumpShip. Designed solely for the purpose of traveling the light years between star systems, the huge vessels lacked conventional space drives. With nothing beyond thrusters for station-keeping purposes, they were essentially huge, free-floating targets that couldn't evade trouble if a ship under power did run wild.
Rodland double-checked the navigation display and keyed his comm circuit at last. "Antelope, Gray Skull. Concur. You are free and clear to navigate."
"Thank you, Gray Skull," the DropShip skipper replied. "Happy drifting, Captain."
Nearby, Use Martinez snorted. She had taken a vacant bridge position to observe the Antelope's departure, a common courtesy extended by JumpShip captains to visiting officers. She was commanding officer of the DropShip Io, which was docked with the Gray Skull for the hyperspace jump to the Skye system, where her ship would get badly needed repairs.
She glanced at Rodland and raised a quizzical eyebrow. At his nod she touched her own borrowed console to respond to the DropShip. "Safe planetfall, Captain Drake. And don't let the
dirt clog your jets." She looked at Rodland and smiled. "Now I've done it. Sold out to the enemy and insulted my own kind."
There were appreciative chuckles from the rest of the Gray Skull's bridge staff. The mostly friendly rivalry between JumpShip and DropShip crews was an old one, and exchanging appropriate insults in lieu of well-wishing was a time-honored tradition.
Rodland waited for the laughter to fade before speaking again. "Engineer, what is our charge status?"
"Ninety-eight percent, Skipper," Lieutenant Haugen replied. JumpShips were incapable of normal-space travel without the assistance of tugs, saving all their mass for the Kearny-Fuchida hyperdrive system. Between jumps they used gigantic sails to gather and store solar energy. The Gray Skull had carried a full charge for weeks now, except for the small drain to power life support and other onboard systems. "Nominal for jump."
"Good. I didn't want to have to redeploy the sail." The process of furling and unfurling the kilometer-wide sail was slow and cumbersome, and Rodland didn't like to waste effort unnecessarily. But when ships were docking or departing, he insisted on striking the collector array. It was one less thing to get in the way.
"What,about it, Captain?" he asked Martinez. "Is the lo secure for jump?"
She nodded, but looked reluctant. "All set, but I was hoping we could delay the jump for a few hours."
Rodland rubbed his forehead. "Any special reason?"
Martinez shrugged. "The Day of Heroes celebration is still going on back in Dunkeld. We're recording the news-trans. I kind of wanted to get the whole thing, that's all."
Use Martinez had been with the Gray Death Legion for a long time, and she took her connection to Carlyle and his men in deadly earnest. Rodland studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "It'll take almost an hour to plot the jump to Skye anyway. We'll wait until you've got everything you want."
"Thanks, Captain. I appreciate it."
Captain Rodland turned to Lieutenant Dag Ullestad, the ship's executive officer. "Make all preparations for hyper-space jump, Mister Ullestad. Designate destination as Skye system zenith jump point. Start your computations."
"Aye aye, sir," the exec responded smartly.
Rodland noticed Martinez watching the by-play on the JumpShip's bridge with an expression of bemusement. It was the first time she had traveled aboard the Gray Skull, and she was probably finding the military demeanor of the crew vastly different from what she was used to. She had started out as pilot of a merchant DropShip attached to Renfred Tor's Invidious, and had wound up in the Legion's pay almost by accident after Tor and Carlyle began their long-term friendship back on Trellwan so many years ago. So, ironically, the fervent supporter of everything to do with Grayson Carlyle was less inclined to the military life than Rodland, who cared little enough about the identity of his employer but who ran a tight ship.
Rodland had been a ship captain in the service of the Free Rasalhague Republic before the Clans had virtually exterminated that small nation of stars. Rather than face further combat against the fanatic Clan armies he and his crew had chosen the freelance life. That might technically be classified as mutiny and desertion and any number of other capital offenses against the Republic, but Rodland and his men hadn't been alone in fleeing the wreck of Rasalhague. Soon afterward they had taken on the one-shot contract to help evacuate the Gray Death from Sudeten. Grayson Carlyle had offered an ongoing contract afterward, and in honor of the new deal Rodland had rechristened the old Rasalhague Stolthet with its new name, Gray Skull. But that had been good politics, nothing more. Rodland regarded his stay with the region as a temporary stopover on his way to something better—perhaps even a fresh commission with one of the Successor States. The mystique of the Gray Death Legion was nothing new to Einar Rodland, and it wasn't about to claim his soul as it had so many others.
He unstrapped from his command seat and pushed off from the chair arms with practiced ease. JumpShip crews spent most of their time in zero-G, and quickly became accustomed to working in weightlessness. Rodland snagged the back of the navigator's chair and peered over the man's shoulder to double-check the jump calculations he was making. The repeaters at the captain's position would have showed Rodland the same information, but he preferred to let his people know when he was taking a direct interest in their work.
The crewman at the sensor station suddenly broke the reassuring calm of routine. "Contact! Contact!" he said excitedly. "Bearing three-five-two by one-oh-one!"
"Identify!" Rodland snapped, turning away from Rischel and propelling himself with a quick push back to the command station.
"Radiation signature . . . hyperspace field emissions . . . Trace is definitely a JumpShip, inbound," Ullestad reported briskly. "... Range sixty-seven thousand kilometers—"
"New contact!" The sensor operator broke in. "Bearing one-one-six by two-five-one!" There was a pause. "Two new traces . . . three ..."
"God in Heaven," someone said. "It's a bloody fleet!"
"They're coming out all around us!" Martinez said unnecessarily. "We're right in the thick of it!"
Rodland ignored her. "Can you get me a transponder idee?" he asked the communications watchstander.
"Negative. No transponder code. They're running silent." Ships engaged in lawful business transmitted a constant signal establishing the identification, ownership, and affiliation of the vessel. Any ship not transmitting the coded signal could be regarded as potentially hostile.
"Goddamn," Rodland muttered, strapping in. "Ensign Rischel, speed up those calculations. Communications, signal to Dunkeld control. Report multiple JumpShips, inbound, no transponders. Go to constant sitrep updates until further notice. Mister Ullestad, sound the battle alarm."
The raucous sound of the klaxon filled the bridge. Over the noise, the exec's voice sounded almost inhumanly calm as he triggered the intraship address system. "Now, general quarters, general quarters. All hands to action stations. Secure for possible battle conditions. General quarters. This is not a drill."
* * *
Aboard the Free Skye Jump Ship Gotterddmerung, General-Kommandant von Bulow rubbed his forehead and eyes, trying to force his disoriented faculties into some semblance of normalcy. From the very beginning of his military career he had suffered from the effects of jump shock, the physical and psychological affliction that sometimes accompanied the transition through hyperspace. For most people it was a minor discomfort, but von Bulow found it almost crippling at times. It was also an embarrassing ailment for a commanding general, but he had never been able to cure it. If his presence hadn't been essential on the bridge of the command JumpShip during and immediately after the jump to the Glengarry system, he would have stayed in his quarters aboard the Asgard to avoid betraying this weakness to his men. But the moments right after a hyperspace transition were often critical, and von Bulow had to be on hand to make decisions.
He was still blinking his eyes and fighting down the nausea in the pit of his stomach when the JumpShip's captain, Weltalloberst Ivan Glushko, turned to face him.
"Transition complete, Herr General," Glushko reported. "Coordinates confirmed."
"All ships have reported in," the commtech added a moment later.
Von Bulow nodded acknowledgment, but didn't answer.
"Your orders, Herr General?" Glushko pressed, a look of concern crossing his craggy features.
The general found his voice at last. "Status . . . status of shipping in the area?" he croaked.
"A JumpShip in the position predicted by our scouts," the sensor technician reported. "Invader Class, transponder verifies it as the Gray Skull, as expected. Configuration suggests one attached DropShip. One additional ship under power. Warbook analyzes it as a Gazelle Class armored company carrier. Vectoring for Glengarry, range seventy thousand kilometers, opening."
"Carlyle has a Gazelle in his aerospace contingent," Glushko added helpfully. "The Antelope, Lieutenant John Drake commanding."
Von Bulow nodded impatiently. "I know," he
said. "All right, Weltalloberst, order the fleet to begin launching DropShips. Priority to the Merkur. Execute Operation Blackout, as planned."
"Yes, Herr General," Glushko replied, turning back to issue a flurry of orders to the GotterdcLmmerung's bridge crew. Operation Blackout called for the neutralization of any enemy targets that presented themselves in the area around the jump point. Spies had been active in the Glengarry system for weeks now, and von Bulow had been confident they would have only one JumpShip to deal with in the system.
Still feeling sick from jump shock, von Bulow unstrapped cautiously. The zero-G condition on the JumpShip bridge weren't helping his stomach any. "Weltalloberst, I am transferring my standard to the Asgard," he said. "Carry out your instructions, and retain squadron control until I transfer command."
"Yes, Herr General," the JumpShip captain repeated.
Propelling himself toward the nearest hatch, von Bulow tried not to let his continuing bout of nausea show. The next few hours would be critical for the invasion force, as they launched the massed DropShips and formed up for the trip to Glengarry while making sure that the Legion ships in the system didn't have a chance to escape and carry warnings to other pro-Davion worlds. It wasn't the time for any doubts about von Bulow's health.
Soon enough, he knew, the symptoms would clear up. The prospect of action would occupy his full attention, and von Bulow would again be at his best.
8
Dunkeld, Glengarry
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
1 April 3056
Standing on Castle Hill, overlooking the city of Dunkeld on Glengarry, Major Davis McCall tugged at the high collar of his dress uniform tunic. Muttering a lengthy Gaelic curse at the restrictive garment, he remained unaware of the threat to the very ground on which he stood. McCall had never been one to enjoy formal functions, preferring action to ceremony and the MechWarrior's informal garb of shorts and cooling vest to the stiff attire reserved for parades and special events. But the Day of Heroes was one time when he didn't begrudge the uniform. He must look his best today. He owed it to the men whose memory the Legion would be honoring.