Surrender Your Dreams

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Boyne walked around the holographic table to the side where Greene stood. His eyes never left the table. Synd watched him. He's already fighting the battle in his mind. There was something about Boyne, about the Fidelis, that made them grittier fighters. They were always mentally in a battle. Clansmen are quick to the fight. These Fidelis tend to take their time, to think things through.

  Boyne pointed to the map. "Major Greene, tell me about those buildings." His finger loomed into space near the highway. Greene handed him the laser pointer, and Boyne highlighted two tall skyscrapers, one on each side of the main road into the city. Greene picked up his noteputer and stabbed away at it, pausing twice to confirm the coordinate in the city.

  "One is the New Dearborn University Hospital. Thirty-two stories tall, it is the main hospital for the city. Over eight hundred beds. The other building is a commercial property. Office building, twenty-eight stories tall, no unique features."

  Boyne turned to Synd, and his dark eyes made contact with her own. as if he were staring into her soul. "These two buildings are unremarkable except for where they are positioned. I propose we send two squads to that location, plant shaped charges along the base of those structures and collapse them across the highway. The debris field will be enough to block the road entirely and force the Jade Falcons onto secondary streets. If we time it right, we can even drop the buildings on them as they pass."

  "Are you crazy?" cut in Captain Paulis. "Greene just told you, one of those buildings is a hospital. You'll be killing hundreds of innocent people."

  Synd jumped in. "Captain, it is Major Greene. Captain Boyne"—she weighed her words carefully—"while your proposal is creative, I hope to find another option."

  Boyne did not waver. "I understand your concerns. Lady Synd. The loss of life is not a small matter. However, my suggestion is motivated by the desire and necessity for this mission to succeed. After all, my life is on the line, as are all of yours. We are going to suffer significant losses to the Jade Falcons even if this plan is successful. Unless there is an alternative, I ask that my proposal be considered."

  She felt her jaw tighten. Damn. She knew that he was right. At the same time, she was sworn to protect the citizens of The Republic. Even though the people of Ryde were under Jade Falcon occupation, they were still her people to protect. As a soldier, she understood that the mission came first . . . but at this cost? The plan he was suggesting repulsed her. It was the kind of thinking that kept her up at night.

  "I appreciate your candor," she replied. "Your suggestion will be taken under advisement. In the meantime, I want all of you to come up with alternative plans of attack. We will reconvene here tomorrow at 0800 to review options." The two captains saluted and left the room. Greene lingered behind.

  "Sir Greene, what do you make of these Fidelis troops?"

  He cocked his eyebrow. "They're the most aggressive— no, most fanatical troops I've seen in awhile. You watched the exercise earlier today. They didn't just dig in, they launched an assault against a superior force and won. They go at fighting like C'apellan Death Commandos. Maybe that's where Stone found them—their training is top-notch; to the man they have more expertise than our standard Republic forces. They seem dedicated and highly motivated. They've fully integrated with our regular forces with no issues other than our men running pools as to where they really came from."

  The men aren’t the only ones curious about their origins. "I agree with your assessment, but I'm also worried. This suggestion that Boyne has made, to take out the buildings—it's as if he has no regard for the casualties."

  "I think he is putting the mission first." He paused, opening his mouth as if to continue speaking, then closing his mouth without uttering a sound.

  "What aren't you saying. Sir Greene?"

  "M'lady, you and I have gone over this data together so many times it hurts my head. While Boyne may come across as a little indifferent, let's face it: His plan might buy us the time we need to bring off this mission."

  She frowned. He was right, and that was what hurt the most. "When I became a knight, 1 thought of myself as more than a soldier. This assignment has reminded me that even a knight must follow orders."

  If this is what we have to do to preserve The Republic, is the price too high?

  Price of Service 7

  Breezewood, Kwamashu

  Duchy of Andurien

  Fortress Republic (+860 days)

  "Pickaxe, this is Rook. What is your position?" Sir Mannheim demanded as a Streak missile blast snaked in on his 'Mech's left leg. The armor there was gone long and deadly minutes ago, and he was grateful that the Streaks were only a twin pack. Cumulative damage was making his Shockwave sluggish, and it now required every ounce of his skill to balance and pilot.

  "We've hit their flank to the north of your precious damn factory, Rook," returned the agitated voice of Colonel Daum. "We've got a full company of them tied down here in the city. I sure as hell hope this is worth it."

  Hunter watched Jeremy Chin's Fox hovercraft dash at full speed across his field of vision, turning on the fly and letting go a barrage at a Protectorate squad of Purifier battle armor attempting to reach the perimeter of the plant. The tall antennae of the Fox whipped in the wind. Tied to its tip was a real fox's tail that lashed around as the vehicle roared down the street at full throttle.

  Mannheim was distracted enough by the sight to chuckle.

  "Roger that. Pickaxe. We have forces knocking on our front door and may have to abandon this facility."

  "My people have fought and died to save that place!"

  Hunter fired his missile rack again, this time at the Po tank making its third run into the open. The missiles popped across the top and turret of the tank, forcing it once again to seek cover. He noted that he had only two reloads left. After that the missile rack would be dead weight on his BattleMech.

  "Stand by, Pickaxe," he replied. Changing the channel, he tied into Chin's Fox, which had gone up two blocks, turned around and was roaring back to take another glancing shot at the Purifier troops. He waited until Jeremy fired, then opened the channel.

  "Foil, this is Rook. It is time to cook the chicken," he said as the Purifiers strafed the Fox, giving as good as they got on this pass. Hunter wanted to help, but all he had left was his large laser and he was saving that for the Po when it reemerged.

  "Do we have a fix on Colonel Daum?" Chin's voice sounded ragged, rushed, wired on adrenaline.

  "He's to the north, bogged down in the city. One of the Protectorate companies has him fully engaged."

  "Damn it!" shouted the ghost knight. "You have to tell him to disengage and get out of the city. Hunter."

  "I will try, but he's as stubborn as they come." I wish he were fighting on our side.

  "More blood . . ." Chin's voice sounded lost.

  "Say again?"

  "Nothing. Damn. We need to go west, head to the DropShips. Before you key the blast, get our people out and signal Daum to evac as well." His words sounded urgent, almost panicked. Mannheim watched as the Fox dove into the complex and ran west, moving as quickly as it could.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes seemed like an hour as The Republic's mock-Duchy force disengaged from the industrial complex and moved away to the low ridge to the west.

  The force was dramatically smaller than the company that had landed on Kwamashu. The vehicles and 'Mechs that had survived were in dire need of repair. Jeremy Chin watched anxiously as the Fidelis squads set the pace. The Fidelis troops had suffered losses but they seemed surprisingly low. His impatient check of the Fox's chronometer made him wonder if it was working.

  "Foil to Rook. Are Daum and his people out of there?"

  "I got word to him. He should be clear by now."

  Jeremy's palms were slick with sweat. "Should be" wasn't the same as "yes, he is." He should take time to check. Each passing moment meant that more of the Oriente Protectorate raiders were pushing into the complex. More blood. H
e glanced back at the small wooden box he had recovered from the monastery. It had slid around in the back of the Fox's cramped piloting compartment, but was still there, wrapped in the embroidered cloth it had been sitting on. He could feel the contents of the tiny coffin taunting him, as if he had awakened a ghost that still wanted to bring chaos to the universe. This bastard knew about shedding blood. Now he was a witness to more carnage—even if it was from inside the box.

  "Knowing you, you'd enjoy this," he said to the box as the Fox rose over the ridge.

  He wanted to signal Colonel Daum once more, but time was working against him. "Rook, this is Foil. Request your concurrence to detonate."

  "Foil, this is Rook. You're green."

  Jeremy keyed in the code to detonate the explosives. Not just the ones Sir Mannheim's team had planted, but all of them. He hesitated on the last sequence of the code. Time stretched, then snapped back.

  The blast erupted, and Ghost Knight Jeremy Chin bowed his head.

  * * *

  It looked like everything was going as planned. Sir Mannheim watched the string of explosions, orange fireballs that rippled into the sky on massive boiling clouds of black smoke. Then a shock wave rippled out from the plant, a circular blast pattern of incredible proportions. The ground shook. Scrub trees between his force and the plant disintegrated. His 'Mech lost its footing, sagged to one knee, then dropped to the ground, slamming him around the cockpit. He tasted blood from the corner of his mouth; his voice-activated mic stud had cut his cheek. Salty flavor. Then—The blast shouldn't have been that big. . . .

  As he struggled to his feet, he saw the Fidelis troops laying on the ground. No, he hadn't imagined it. As his Shockwave fought to regain its footing, an image burned itself into his brain.

  The entire industrial plant and at least five blocks in every direction was engulfed in a roaring column of fire that soared thousands of meters into the sky and was still rising. The conflagration was yellow, orange and red, mixed with black churning smoke, still racing upward. Suddenly, he felt a wind behind his Shockwave, blowing toward the industrial complex. Dust, dirt and the debris from the shantytowns flew through the air as if a tornado had touched down.

  He could not comprehend the existence of the inferno. Forced to find a frame of reference for comparison, his mind leaped to holos he had seen of nuclear weapon attacks made during the Jihad. For one wild moment, he wondered if they had somehow made such a horrible mistake. The fire was so intense that it was sucking in the surrounding air for fuel. Another rippling wave shot out from the plant, less intense this time, but still strong enough to knock men down. Of the infantry, only a few of the Fidelis managed to stay on their feet.

  The column of fire and smoke seemed to become larger, wider, until the flames filled his vision. The sound was like a roar of summer thunder that never seemed to reach its crescendo but strained to release more and more energy. There was a low rumbling roar like a distant freight train that seemed to compete with the thunder. The entire city of Breezewood was being devoured by the firestorm. Yet another blast rattled his Shockwave, a grim reminder that the disaster was not over, that it was growing, not subsiding.

  And what about the people? Breezewood was a rundown shadow of a city, but hundreds, perhaps thousands would now die. And—oh, God—Colonel Daum. "Pickaxe, this is Rook. Do you read me?" All he got back was a low hissing and an occasional crackle. All those men and women . . . we've got to help them.

  The wind that had tried to suck his force into the fire seemed to hold for a moment then rush back out. Now, however, the air was superheated. The infantry hugged the ground, scuttling in retreat until they could stand and fall back in earnest. He didn't have to give the order. Mannheim's force retreated at speed from the ridgeline as debris and a haze of searing smoke poured toward them. The column of flames had stopped its climb and was starting to collapse. Mannheim checked his chronometer and was stunned to realize that ten minutes had passed since the initial blast. In his heart, he had hoped it was mere seconds.

  He heard a beep from his 'Mech and recognized it as an environmental warning. He checked the instruments and saw a slight radiation level warning for outside his cockpit. Impossible—unless ... for a moment he convinced himself that the Oriente Protectorate must have used a tactical nuclear weapon. He found himself balling his fists in anger. How dare they?

  Then logic took over. There had been no flash. A nuclear blast would have triggered radiation warnings far sooner than this, since they were a mere two kilometers outside the city. No, something had been released into the air by the blast. "Foil, this is Rook. I'm getting a low-level external radiation warning. It could be that my equipment is damaged."

  Ghost Knight Chin replied, sounding weary. "No, Rook. I've got the same thing here. We need to fall back immediately." "I can't figure out what happened."

  "I happened."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "Nothing—everything. Look, we need to get our troops out of all this. That firestorm is only going to spread."

  Chin was right. Mannheim gave the order to retreat to the DropShips.

  As he gave the order. Hunter shook his head. All the dead. All the blood. It's all on our hands. For the first time since he became a Knight of the Sphere, he found himself questioning the man who had formed The Republic.

  Interpretation of Duty 6

  Munich Spaceport

  Brandenburg, Callison

  Former Prefecture VIII

  Fortress Republic (+35 days)

  Approaching the DropShip unseen didn't require even a fraction of her skill in nighttime operations. The crowd worried her more than the forces under command of the knight: Military personnel had rules of engagement; they showed some degree of control in their operations. Even with her own operatives planted in the crowd, there was a chance that someone in the mob might see her and shoot, thinking her to be part of The Republic force.

  Moving in the black shadows between two of the hangar buildings, she slithered among stacks of old crates and barrels. The Aurora-class DropShip sat some eighty meters from the buildings she stood between. The nearby transport was much larger and more imposing, but for her the Aurora was the threat. Its bristling turrets represented death. It was a military vessel on a military mission, and she knew that Sir Erbe would be aboard her. The Aurora was her objective.

  She could hear an occasional shot from the far end of the tarmac and the ping of the round hitting the ship. She knew the gunfire was a minimal threat, and she was sure Sir Erbe's troops did too. Her agents in the crowd occasionally provoked gunshots to add to the tension and keep the infantry on the ground under cover.

  Holding her night-vision binocs to her eyes, she swept the area. She saw glimpses of infantry near the rear landing struts, but that was it. There could be others who were concealed or wearing infrared-suppression clothing or armor, but the ground under the DropShip appeared clear. She switched to motion-sensor mode and held her gaze on the ship; she saw only a few figures moving inside the DropShip's cockpit, right by the armored windows.

  Getting aboard the ship was going to be easier than she had thought. Tucking the night-vision gear in her pouch, she moved quietly around the barrel she had been using for cover and crouched low. The reflective lights of the spaceport cast long, pale shadows in the night. Adjusting her thermal-suppression face mask, she moved into the shadow created by a large, rectangular garbage can and used it to get closer to the DropShip. As the shadow stretched, she crouched even lower.

  She paused and checked under the DropShip again. Still no sign of activity. Good. She waited for five long seconds, then dashed across the final distance. No sound, no alarms, no activity. Her target was the forward access hatch. From there she could easily get inside the ship. The chin turret mounted under the bridge would be manned but was turned toward the perimeter fence and the protesters. She went right under it, reaching up and touching it as she paused under the belly of the DropShip. The hatch was a
mere twenty meters farther. Reaching it would test her dexterity and gymnastic skills, but she knew she was up to the task.

  She stepped forward, and suddenly a blanket of force hit her from above. Kicking out, she tried to get free. Damn it! The ferrocrete seemed to reach up and slap her down. She felt weight and knew someone had dropped on top of her. Someone had been hiding on the bottom of the DropShip.

  Someone was damned good.

  She kicked again and heard a grunt. Her opponent chopped at her leg near the knee, hitting a reflex point that stung agonizingly. She suppressed her cry of pain and pushed back to try and get her footing. The leg that had been hit was numb and hung like a dead weight, as if it were asleep. She whirled on her good leg and dropped low, leveling a hard punch.

  Her opponent saw it coming before she had thrown it because he arched his back and the punch went past him. He brought both hands down on her shoulder, but she saw that coming and her body dropped, absorbing most of the impact. She rolled and came to her feet; feeling was already tingling back into her leg. "You want to dance, big boy? Let's rock," she said just under her breath.

  The figure adopted a low fighting stance. With the hand on his extended arm, he motioned her to bring the fight to him.

  She knew he was waiting for a charge, mentally preparing his counter. She didn't play to that; instead, she darted off toward the starboard landing strut. She preferred to make the enemy react to her rather than sacrifice the initiative. The strut would offer cover and give her something to use against her larger foe. Jumping and rolling in the air, she went between the pistonlike struts, rolling to her feet and ready to continue the fight. She waited, but her opponent wasn't following her move.

  Where is he?

  There was a flash, brilliant like the sunrise. Flash grenade. Instinctively she shielded her eyes, but it was too late. She was blinded. She mentally shifted to blind- fighting mode, but her assailant had regained the initiative. She felt a dull thud on the back of her neck. Her ears rang as she punched, hitting something covered by light body armor—a chest? An armored fist hit her jaw, and as she turned to absorb the impact, she felt a kick to her side. Her head felt like it was going to explode as she dropped to her knees. The hit to the neck had been harder than she thought. Shaking her head, she held up her right hand as her eyes struggled to adjust.