Roderick didn’t wait for an answer. “You know what both of them are going to do,” he said, hoarseness creeping into his voice. “Vedet wants the archon’s seat, and Alaric wants…Alaric wants any part of the Inner Sphere he can get his hands on, for all I can tell. Was Anson Marik really a greater threat than that?”
“He was a Marik on our border and he was weak,” Trillian said, while still not looking at Roderick. “That’s always been enough in the past.”
“And what has the past gotten us? We’ve fought all these wars mainly so we can set ourselves up to fight more wars. I know you say the archon takes her responsibilities seriously, and I believe you. I don’t think she started this war lightly. But no matter how seriously she took it, it’s a whole hell of a lot easier to start a war when you’re commanding it instead of fighting it. It’s all abstract to her, a game of planets. Get a few gauss rounds whistling past her ear and she might stop waging war just because she has a chance.”
“Lower your voice!” Trillian hissed. She had caught a few other patrons of the bar looking in their direction as Roderick’s arguments became more heated.
When Roderick spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “Sorry, Trillian. You’ve got to understand this isn’t easy for me. I’m about to win a war alongside two commanders who might turn out to be the two biggest threats the Commonwealth will face in the next few years if we’re not careful. It’s tough to remember who I should be shooting at sometimes.”
“You don’t have to worry about all that,” Trillian said. “That’s why I’m here. To be careful. To make sure these threats you think you see don’t ever develop.”
Roderick stood, leaving a half-full glass on the table. He wiped his mouth quickly with the back of his hand. “I damn well better worry about it,” he said. “Because when the next fighting comes—when one of these idiots does something that makes it so the archon has to call up troops to stop them—you know I’m going to be there. I’m going to be the one fighting that war. The archon will be trying to stay in power, you’ll be playing your games, but me and my men will be the ones in the crosshairs.”
“Roderick,” Trillian said, making her voice as calm as possible while finally looking at him square in the face. “I didn’t want to talk about all of this. Sit back down. Let’s talk about something else.”
Roderick remained standing. “We’re about to take out a nation, Trill,” he said. “I’m not really ready to do small talk right now.” He walked out of the bar.
Trillian stayed awhile longer and spent most of the time wishing she was drinking more. This would be a good opportunity to get good and ripped—they wouldn’t land for two or three more days, after all, so she’d have plenty of time to recover. But she kept nursing her drinks instead of gulping them, and by the time she was ready to return to her berth, she was far more sober than she had planned to be.
Still, she was a little unsteady as she walked away from the grav deck, and she welcomed the feeling of zero gravity as it removed the possibility that she would fall on her face. She pulled herself toward her berth, running a series of arguments through her head. It was too bad Roderick had left—it had taken her a good portion of the evening, but she had managed to refute just about every point he had made. At least she thought she had. The drinks may have been playing games with her mind, but for the moment she thought her arguments made perfect sense.
One argument was that, while she couldn’t speak for Melissa, Trillian was not as safe as Roderick wanted to believe. War had a way of reaching beyond the soldiers, and Trillian had almost gotten in over her head in Zanzibar City, and she had damn sure been in somebody’s crosshairs. The soldiers, of course, bear the brunt of any war, but Trillian should never have let Roderick walk away thinking they carried the entire burden.
But if she really wanted him to understand, she would have to tell him about the policeman she had killed, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that yet. Maybe it was better if he didn’t understand how compromised she was.
She shook her head. Damn drink. Muddling her thoughts. She didn’t have to tell him anything other than that he should stop complaining and do his job. She’d never heard a soldier on the verge of a major triumph complain so damn much. You didn’t have to spend much time in politics to understand that victory is always, always good. People feel good about their leaders, about their nation, about life in general right after a victory. And taking a Marik away from the Lyran border—who, exactly, was going to be unhappy about that?
Maybe he was right about Vedet and Alaric, maybe there would be new threats, but who cared? Threats unify a nation. Threats give people a common cause. In the end, a threat is just the first step on the road to another victory. If Vedet and Alaric had designs on the Commonwealth or the archon’s seat, well, then bring it on. People and the politicians who lead them like nothing better than a good fight. It keeps the blood moving.
She looked down the corridor. She was practically at the end. Had she gone too far? Was this even the right corridor?
She was suddenly very tired. She needed to find her quarters soon. It wouldn’t do to drift off to sleep right here in the hallway.
A giggle jumped out of her mouth. Drift, she thought. That was funny. Drift off to sleep, drift through the corridor, float away asleep in the hallway. That wouldn’t be too bad, really. A little drifting would feel good.
But then she looked at the door in front of her and realized it was hers. She stared at it for another moment before palming it open and sliding inside.
She didn’t bother wrapping herself in her cocoon. She wanted to drift. She took off a layer of clothes and then just closed her eyes, spread her limbs and floated in her room. Totally directionless, totally free. She fell asleep quickly.
An hour or two later she bumped hard into the door of her closet and was jarred awake. Damn DropShip air currents, she thought as she rubbed her arm; then she wrapped herself in her cocoon and went back to sleep.
25
Marik Palace
New Edinburgh, Stewart
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
5 June 3138
“They’re landing.”
The words came over an intercom, because there was no time for anyone to walk through the halls of the palace and track Anson down. He had left an order that this news needed to be delivered to him immediately, no matter when it happened, no matter what he was doing. And now it had come.
“Where’s Daggert?” he said.
“On his way to see you.”
“Is Cameran-Witherspoon with him?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Okay.” After a pause, he activated the intercom again. “Thank you.”
He could almost feel the surprise radiating out of the intercom.
It didn’t take Daggert long to find him. He’d made the journey to Anson’s new office enough times that he knew the shortest route. The whole secret had actually fallen apart rather quickly—there were even two guards stationed outside the room now, a development that had caught Anson by surprise. He didn’t know how the guards had tracked him down, but he had known he couldn’t stay hidden forever.
Anson started talking as soon as he saw the door opening.
“Are they all here?”
“Yes,” Daggert said
“All three forces?”
“Yes. All on their way down.”
“All right. So far so good.” He turned to Cameran-Witherspoon, who seemed a little surprised at the pace of the conversation. “Force Commander Cameran-Witherspoon. Are your troops ready?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Briefed on the battle plans you made with Daggert?”
“Yes.”
“And your division commanders know what they’re doing?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Good. Excellent. Then it’s time for you to go.”
Cameran-Witherspoon blinked. “My lord?”
“Go. Leave. Get the hell off th
is planet. You and most of the Silver Hawk Irregulars. I want you to leave three companies behind, and the rest of you will get the hell off this planet.”
“Three companies? My lord, that’s nowhere near enough to—”
“I didn’t ask if it was enough and damn well didn’t ask for discussion on the matter!” Anson yelled. Old habits die hard. “You’re leaving the planet because I said you’re leaving the planet! Now get the hell out!”
Cameran-Witherspoon’s hands were floating above his waist, wiggling this way and that in a series of incomprehensible gestures. “But…my lord, where?”
“Where? A DropShip port, of course. That’s how you get off a planet. But use the MacDonald port—I think our own port will be watched pretty closely between now and then. I’ve already arranged to put a lot of movement on the highway to disguise what you’re doing. I want you in MacDonald, and all but three of your companies with you, and I want you to take off. Where you go from there, I don’t care. Probably should be a Silver Hawk planet.” He paused. “New Hope. Go to New Hope. Take it as a damn symbol if you want.”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t have to understand!” Anson thundered. “All you have to do is bloody well follow orders! You’re a soldier. That’s what soldiers do. You were in this office just a few days ago when I explained your duty to you and you said you understood it. Your first responsibility is to the people of the Silver Hawk Coaltion. Well, those people aren’t here. So get the hell off this planet and go fight for your people.”
Cameran-Witherspoon still didn’t move.
“Get the hell out or I’ll have the guards carry you out! Move your ass!”
Cameran-Witherspoon was talking to himself, shaking his head as his mouth moved soundlessly. Anson couldn’t quite read his lips, but he was pretty sure it was mostly four-letter words with a ten-or twelve-letter combo thrown in for variety’s sake. Cameran-Witherspoon was not happy, and he was confused as hell. But he was leaving.
Anson watched the door shut behind him. “Do you think he’ll really go?” he asked.
“He’s a fighter, so he’s not going to be happy about abandoning any of his troops when a big battle is brewing. But he’s also a soldier, and you’re the captain-general. He’ll follow orders.”
Then Daggert did an odd thing. His top lip curled a bit, exposing some teeth, and the corners of his mouth edged minutely closer to his eyes. It took Anson a moment to recognize the expression as a very weary grin. “Plus, I’m sure he was impressed by the Anson Marik charm.”
“Damn it, Daggert, you’ve become awfully familiar lately. You like yourself way too damn much,” Anson said. But he was smiling as he said it.
The moment was brief; then it passed. The smiles disappeared.
“You could still go with him,” Daggert said. “There are plenty of decoys available. The plan will work without you. You don’t have to stay.”
Anson slowly eased into his chair. He’d been noticing his own weight the past few days. He thought he felt heavy, ponderous, even awkward sometimes. His frame had always carried his weight well—at least he thought so—but now his flesh felt like it was sagging, his muscles felt atrophied, his legs occasionally shook under the burden of his weight.
“Cameran-Witherspoon was right about one thing,” he said. “You shouldn’t abandon your troops in battle.”
“Unless you’re serving a larger purpose.”
“What purpose? A figurehead? Someone for the people to rally around?” He smiled again, but this time it was entirely without joy. “These days, the people only rally around me when they can light me on fire.”
“That’s just the protestors, my lord. It’s not everyone.”
“I’m staying,” he said flatly. “They’re coming for me. That’s one of the reasons they’re putting so many troops on the ground, and that’s how we’ll get them to stay. And I’m not gutless enough to make ’em chase a decoy while I turn tail and run. If they’re coming for me, they can find me. Then let ’em figure out what to do with me.”
“All right,” Daggert said, and Anson knew the issue would not be brought up again. He’d just closed and latched his last escape hatch.
“There’s a lot of nonsense in this plan,” Anson said. “They better bite on some of it or we’re going to be doing a lot of running around for nothing.”
Daggert held up a noteputer. “You should probably look at this.”
There was a map of New Edinburgh and the surrounding area on the display, overlaid with arrows showing the estimated landing positions and destinations of the invading troops. Anson squinted and immediately saw it.
“The duke’s taking his troops to the south,” he said. “Right by the tarmac, probably.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“He’s taken the bait like a good, stupid little guppy. All right,” Anson said, and he pulled on the bottom of his shirt to smooth it out. “We’d better make sure we give them the show they came to see.”
Outside New Edinburgh, Stewart
Alaric, like just about anyone who had climbed into the cockpit of a ’Mech, went through a period where he started to get impatient when a lot of time passed without him discharging a weapon. A ’Mech was a fighting machine—doing anything else with it felt like a waste of time. He’d never made any of the critical mistakes that often plague young pilots, but he’d felt the itch on his finger and the jumpiness of his leg and he wanted to fight.
The biggest aid to overcoming his impatience was remembering that the fight was more than the exchange of weapons fire.
That didn’t mean Alaric didn’t relish pulling the trigger and watching an enemy stagger under the onslaught of his weapons. But he understood the big picture. The weapons fire was simply the last step in a long process that began the moment a pilot powered up a ’Mech.
That meant that even though he hadn’t encountered enemy fire, even though he didn’t even have an enemy unit appearing on his scanner, the battle for Stewart had begun.
Alaric was keeping his units close together. There was no reason to stretch them out and give the defenders the chance to separate one lance from another. A tight formation would keep the defenders at a distance, which was what he wanted as he walked through the grasslands and fields outside New Edinburgh.
Roderick Steiner and his First Steiner Strikers were nearby, just to the south of Alaric. Colonel Steiner had obviously seen the same things Alaric had, and had come to the same conclusion. He was a good commander, Alaric had noticed—tactically sound but not too conservative. Despite his last name, Colonel Steiner had not shown any interest in playing the power games that consumed Duke Vedet. He was here to fight, a quality for which Alaric had considerable admiration. In future campaigns, Roderick Steiner would be a worthy ally—or opponent, depending on what the future brought.
Duke Vedet and the First Hesperus Guards, though, were nowhere to be seen, which concerned him a bit. His concern had nothing to do with wanting the duke next to him in a fight—Vedet was motivated by so many things other than pure strategy that it made him unpredictable and a liability on the battlefield. But there was no doubt in Alaric’s mind that Vedet had once again held back a piece of information, something that would be to his advantage.
It was possible this information would have little meaning to Alaric. Maybe Vedet wanted to be the first to a particular landmark, something that had importance in Free Worlds League or Lyran history or other such nonsense. If that were the case, Vedet was welcome to his subterfuge. There were too many real concerns to deal with in battle—Alaric felt no compulsion to bow to the illusory demands of history and symbolic gestures.
However, there was a chance that Vedet had his eyes on a larger prize. If the duke had information that would allow him to get his hands on Captain-General Anson Marik first, then that was a concern. Alaric was not so blind to symbolism that he didn’t see the value of parading a captured ruler before his conquered nation. As a way to break the will of what wa
s left of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth and the Silver Hawk Irregulars, the capture of Anson Marik was a move of critical strategic importance. As such, Alaric did not intend to leave it in the hands of a self-aggrandizing bungler like Vedet.
He had put two wings of aerospace units in the sky to serve as advance scouts. One had orders to stay to the north, keeping an eye on the highway that led to the DropShip port. If Anson Marik had any ideas about making an escape, Alaric’s forces would be near enough to the highway to cut him off as soon as his scouts gave the word. The other wing was looking for Vedet, hoping to see whatever it was that the duke had kept to himself. He knew Vedet would show him where to look.
Alaric had landed nearly 120 kilometers away from New Edinburgh, making certain he would be clear of Stewart’s air defenses and outside the minefields when he came down. He already had sent the minesweepers ahead while the rest of the forces prepared their advance, since the information from Duke Vedet showed that the mines were thickest on this side of the city to compensate for the relative thinness of the troops here.
The sun was rising behind him as his Mad Cat walked west. It would be nice if he could make the defenders fight with the sun in their eyes, but he wasn’t likely to encounter any enemy troops until the sun was much higher.
He was walking on a road that bent and twisted along the bottom of small hills while skirting the edge of scattered farms. There was a small town ahead of him, a few old buildings sitting on the side of the road. A few streetlights glowed here and there, but the rest of the town was dark. There was a good chance every one of the few dozen residents of the town had fled, looking for some place that was more likely than their village to have some troops assigned to guard it, or maybe just some buildings with thicker walls. It was foolish, though. A town like this, with no strategic value, was perhaps the safest place they could be for hundreds of kilometers. People generally had two choices during a time of war—be strong or be ignored. Alaric had trouble understanding why people who were not the former could never content themselves with being the latter.
The Last Charge Page 23