The Last Charge

by Jason M. Hardy

  “I don’t think you need to worry about that. Just worry about what he said, not what he’s done in the past.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure he’d like that.”

  The rest of the walk was made in silence.

  22

  Marik Palace

  New Edinburgh, Stewart

  Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

  26 May 3138

  The word came. It filtered down quickly, because it needed to. Aero units stationed in the city and surrounding towns, impatient MechWarriors waiting in scattered hangars, artillery units in well-stocked bunkers and infantry units tired of purposeless marches through the city all got the news, and they received it with a combination of anticipation, excitement and stomach-grinding dread.

  The combined Lyran/Wolf forces would arrive 4 June. Give or take a day. Drill time was over.

  There had been some migrations from New Edinburgh, but by and large life in the city had continued approximately as normal. Until now. Suddenly, departing DropShips were full of people who had the means and the desire to depart. Businesses started shifting activities off-world where possible, and they didn’t lack for volunteers to scout new locations. In a matter of days, downtown became much quieter, and the people who remained grew increasingly edgy.

  On the plus side, Daggert thought, traffic in the city was getting much more manageable.

  Which was good, because Daggert had an order sitting in front of him, waiting for Anson Marik’s signature, that would impose military control over just about every aspect of the city, including traffic. The fewer cars they had to direct, the easier their task would be.

  Daggert hadn’t slept much since he’d learned about the departure of the invading host, and it felt like he’d spent the great majority of his waking hours staring at a map of the city and the land around it. The preparations he’d made to this point were quite detailed, but he could always do more. He had to do more.

  He focused on the perimeter. He didn’t want the Lyrans and Wolves to beat his own forces into the city, and it would be best if they stayed out altogether. Street fighting might keep the defenders of Stewart from being overwhelmed, but it could also damage the core of New Edinburgh beyond feasible repair, and the Commonwealth could not afford to lose such a major economic center.

  Although in the end, if all Daggert had to worry about after this battle was the economic fallout, he would be ecstatic. He was planning for worse.

  He had prepared for fifteen different landing locations for the invading armies. He had looked at digging tunnels, laying minefields and putting up a giant electrified fence around the city. He’d discarded that last option fairly quickly, but the others were integral parts of his plan.

  Through it all he tried to picture the coming battle as the invaders would see it. What approach would they take toward the city? How would they advance on the first troops they saw? And, most importantly of all, what wouldn’t they see? What could he hide?

  Timing would be crucial. If the complete scope of Daggert’s plan became clear too early, the invaders could make the whole thing come apart. He needed to make sure the invaders didn’t see anything that made them hesitate to move forward. He needed them to stick to their guns. He needed them here.

  He leaned back in his chair. The plan seemed more ludicrous the more he thought about it. The end goal he intended to achieve—did he really propose that to the captain-general? And did Anson finally, grudgingly, agree to it? Did they even have the right to make the decisions they were making?

  He knew the answer to that last one, at least. They were making this decision because they were the only ones who could. Whether historians praised them or damned them for what they were going to do, he hoped at least a few of them would understand why they did it, and how few other options they had.

  The ceiling of Daggert’s office was a rough, uneven texture, with bumps and lumps that cast small shadows over the white surface. As Daggert stared at the ceiling, focusing on this bump or the other, they seemed to take on identities. This bump was a Vulture, that one an Uller. Movement vectors appeared, and the bumps seemed to drift across the ceiling. Then he would move them back and set them on another course of action, watch them chase another possibility.

  He closed his eyes, and he still saw them. He was fairly certain he would keep seeing them, whether he was awake or asleep, until the battle was finally done.

  “Wake up,” a low voice said. It was gruff but contained an oddly calm note as well. Odd because the voice belonged to Anson Marik.

  Daggert opened his eyes. “I wasn’t asleep,” he said.

  “Then you should be.” The captain-general settled his bulk into a chair that Daggert always thought was normal-sized until Anson made it appear small and cramped. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

  “I’m not sure. A few days,” Daggert said warily. Anson’s demeanor put him on his guard—since when did the captain-general care about his well-being?

  “That’s not enough,” he said. Then, as if he was aware of how strangely he was acting, his tone grew harsher. “You can’t nap when the shit starts flying. You’d better be ready for it.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Tell me what you’ve done.”

  Daggert reviewed everything—troops placements, battle plans and the situations where they’d be used, artillery placements, mine deployment, aerial force capacity and any other aspect of the defense that popped into the captain-general’s mind. Daggert had already planned this presentation, though he hadn’t expected Anson to pop into his office and request an impromptu recital, and he tried to run through a large amount of material in an organized, efficient fashion. But Anson kept hindering his pace.

  “How dense are the mines to the north?” he asked when Daggert was outlining the minefield boundaries.

  “Medium density,” Daggert said. “A little over 150,000 mines per square kilometer.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Enough to make the ’Mechs cautious, yes. Given that we don’t have an unlimited number of mines, I believe it’s the right amount.”

  Anson nodded curtly. He didn’t seem satisfied, but Daggert couldn’t remember the last time the captain-general seemed satisfied about anything.

  It wasn’t long before the next question.

  “You’ve put most of the Silver Hawk Irregulars in the outlying areas and the militia troops in the city.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they still talking to each other? Coordinating?”

  “Yes. There have been regular drills, and we’ve gone over a number of scenarios involving troops charging into the city and the kinds of things that would require coordination between both levels of troops. The commanders have gained a workable understanding of each other’s tendencies and tactics.”

  “Why not flip-flop them? Put the seasoned fighters in the city where they can make life hell for the invaders?”

  “Because that would unnecessarily expose the less-hardy militia troops. They will need the shelter of the city to survive, and it’s important that they know the ins and outs of New Edinburgh better than the Silver Hawks. And if we get the outcome we’re planning for, it would be best for the Silver Hawk Irregulars to be well away from the center of the city.”

  Anson’s eyes looked wide and vacant, as if he couldn’t remember what Daggert was talking about. Then he jerked his head back, and his eyes narrowed. He had remembered.

  “Right. Of course. Okay. Go on.”

  Daggert did. The questions from Anson didn’t stop, though. The captain-general, usually completely uninterested in the technical details of war, picked through every aspect of the battle plan, poking at each detail, looking for a flaw. For a time Daggert found it refreshing—it was good, he believed, to have your ideas tested, to be forced to justify them. And having Anson be so interested in the particulars of his job was a novelty.

  That lasted about an hour. After that, the constant flow of questions started
to wear Daggert down, and he kept restraining himself from asking if Anson could just trust his decisions. But he knew how poorly Anson took challenges to his authority, so Daggert kept his temper in check, and Anson’s questions, comments and criticisms kept coming.

  “You’re focusing too much on the roads. They’re going to stay away from the roads, because they’ll assume you have them locked down. You put too much manpower there, you’ll end up wasting forces who spend the whole battle waiting for the enemy to come find them.”

  And then: “Don’t trust so much in artillery. No one’s going to be scared by it. They came here for a slugfest, and they’re not going to turn back until they get it.”

  And later: “This isn’t Danais. This isn’t Gannett. Why are you still relying so much on the hit-and-run? Aren’t they used to that by now?”

  And still later: “Don’t worry so much about the launch points. Worry about where you’re going to put the damn ships and keep them safe.”

  And even later than that: “The aero forces aren’t secure enough. Make sure they can’t take out our air units as soon as they land.”

  And so on and so forth. It was exhausting. Daggert didn’t know if Anson was operating off some comprehensive battle plan that he carried in his head or if he was simply being contrary as often as he could. It helped that Daggert was already tired to begin with—had he lost his composure and tried to unleash his temper on Anson, his lack of energy would make his fury sound much like his normal voice. He could completely give in to anger without Anson noticing a thing.

  But he kept his patience, and he kept talking, tried to cover everything until he reached a point at which he noticed that no one had spoken for a few minutes. He had presented everything he had, and Anson had given every response he had, and both of them were done.

  Daggert tried to look Anson in the eye, but the captain-general’s head was slumped, his chin practically to his chest. He could see that Anson was awake—the captain-general’s right hand was squeezed into a fist, and he occasionally rapped the armrest of his chair with his knuckles. Daggert kept quiet, waiting for Anson to do whatever he was going to do.

  Finally Anson slowly raised his head. His brow was clenched, his mouth twisted into a snarl. It was a familiar expression. But when he spoke, his voice was level.

  “Is there anything we could do differently?” he asked.

  “Many things,” Daggert said. “But none that would take us to our goal.”

  Anson’s expression didn’t change. He was looking toward Daggert, but not at him. His attention was focused on something far distant.

  “There had to be a time,” he said, “when it could have been different. There must have been a way.”

  “Maybe,” said Daggert. “But that doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “The situation isn’t going to change. We have the tools we have, the same tools we’ve always had. We’ll use them as well as we can. That’s all we can do.”

  “The same tools we’ve always had,” Anson echoed, and Daggert knew that no matter how little sleep he’d had recently, the captain-general had had less.

  Daggert fell silent again, waiting for Anson’s focus to return to something in the room. It didn’t take long. Anson’s face remained set in its angry cast, and his eyes seized on Daggert.

  “We will,” he said. “We’ll use them in ways they’ll never expect.”

  Daggert nodded.

  Anson’s fist was tight, his knuckles white. “There’s one more tool. One more we should employ.”

  Daggert nodded again. “The operative.”

  “Yes. It won’t be smooth—he’ll probably be lost to us after this—but he’s placed so deeply, we’d be foolish not to take advantage of him now.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll prepare some information for him to pass along.”

  “See if you can give him an escape route as well. He’s earned the chance to survive if he can.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Daggert said. He tried to make his voice sound light, but he was too tired to pull it off successfully.

  Anson didn’t answer. He stood and walked heavily toward the door.

  Before the door opened, Anson stopped.

  “Thank you,” he said without turning around, his voice low. Then he left.

  Daggert blinked a few times and couldn’t compose himself rapidly enough to say anything in return.

  He looked at his map again, but his eyes wouldn’t focus. The adrenaline needed to make the effort of explaining the details of his plan to Anson was gone, and now he felt more drained than ever. He really should sleep.

  He wouldn’t go home. By the time he made it home, a hundred details that needed his attention would have popped into his head, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep until they were taken care of. He would end up turning around and coming right back.

  But he could sleep here. He leaned back, put his feet up on his desk and closed his eyes. For a brief time, he saw only welcome blackness.

  Then he saw ’Mechs marching in formation. Battlearmor troops screaming onto the battlefield, jump jets flaring. Aero units strafing enemy lines with bombs while dodging shots from planes racing past them. And he plotted and planned and hoped that either he would plan himself to sleep or that his thoughts would remain lucid enough for the time he spent awake to do him some good.

  23

  DropShip LCS Arm of Hesperus

  Stewart System

  2 June 3138

  Every time Duke Vedet saw anyone whom he believed might have access to intelligence about Stewart, he asked the same question. It didn’t matter how long it had been since he’d last asked someone the question—he’d always ask it again. He couldn’t quite believe his good fortune or Anson Marik’s apparent stupidity, so he made a point of confirming it over and over.

  The question was: “Is Anson Marik still on Stewart?”

  Half the time he asked the question, the only answer he got was a blank stare. Vedet would quickly dismiss the person he was talking to and walk away, making a mental note that the individual in question was obviously not as informed about intelligence matters as he had thought.

  A few people answered with a simple “I don’t know,” but most of them said the words Vedet was hoping to hear: “Yes. From everything I hear he is.”

  It was much easier to cut the head off a snake when the snake sat still and stretched its neck out for you, and that’s exactly what Anson was doing. Rather than get off the planet before the invaders landed and find a safer haven, he was foolishly staying put, waiting for them to arrive. But maybe that’s how bad things had gotten for him—maybe he was running low on safe havens.

  Whatever the reason, Vedet was thrilled to have Anson there. He owed the captain-general—owed him for weeks and months chasing the Silver Hawk Irregulars, owed him for his damn obstinacy. He could repay a debt while taking a big step toward winning this whole war because Anson Marik was still on Stewart.

  In other circumstances, there might have been a number of approaches to Stewart—maybe starting by storming and conquering some valuable Corean Enterprise emplacements, or possibly by cutting off food and other supplies going to New Edinburgh, starving out the capital until it fell and brought the planet down with it.

  But now there was only one target, and it was holed up in the middle of a palace in New Edinburgh. The battle for Stewart, as far as Vedet was concerned, would be the fight to capture Anson Marik.

  The captain-general would make quite a trophy. It was a shame that Vedet would not be able to kill the captain-general with his bare hands, but doing that would be shortsighted, though satisfying. Pictures of him standing over the captive Marik would be extremely popular in the Lyran Commonwealth, he was certain. And if Anson had a few bruises on his face and neck in those pictures—well, he didn’t think anyone in the Commonwealth would object.

  The challenge now was getting to Anson Marik—what was the best path to take and wh
o would get there first? The first option to rule out was the highways leading into the city, since few defenders were dumb enough to leave the broadest, smoothest path into the heart of their city wide open. The second option to rule out was a repeat of Alaric’s scorched-earth tactics. That was fine for a spread-out city of small, poorly built structures like Helmdown, but it would never work on a solid, dense city like New Edinburgh. The buildings there were built to stay.

  The palace Anson had chosen as his residence was in the northeast section of the city, meaning the north or northeast approaches were likely to be heavily guarded. The industrial sector to the city’s north, which included several Corean Industries facilities and suppliers, was sure to have a strong complement of troops attached to the existing garrison, while the DropShip port to the east would be closely guarded by Marik aerospace units.

  But there was still the southeast approach. Two highways came from the east, one to the north, one to the south, but there was plenty of space between them. If the invading armies stayed far enough south of the highway leading to the DropShip port, they might find an approach that was guarded relatively lightly. If two or even three of the forces converged there, they might be able to surge into the city to find Anson Marik waiting for them.

  There were a few hitches to the plan starting to form in Vedet’s head, the main one being he had no confidence that any of the force commanders would work together. Even if he could get some of them to take the same approach to the battle, it would be difficult to convince them to drive into the city. Attacking forces were generally reluctant to charge into a well-defended enemy city, and Alaric Wolf and Roderick Steiner might choose to keep the conflict in the outlying areas.