Surrender Your Dreams

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Philosophy worthy of a Capellan seer. "You must admit that compared to regular troops of The Republic, the Fidelis seem out of the ordinary."

  "Not to us," he said, taking another swig of his beer. The knight did the same. "We are simply the products of our past."

  "That can be said of nearly everyone."

  Adamans shook his head. "Not so. What is your lineage?"

  Erbe was surprised to arrive at a serious topic so quickly. "Well, my ancestors were from the Federated Suns. I was raised on Towne, and did not leave there until after the fall of the HPG." Thinking of his family conjured memories of the chaos of the Jihad and the pain of the challenges he faced then.

  "How does your past guide your life?"

  "Let's just say that my past is not what makes me who I am." My father's past is what forged me. 1 refuse to make his mistakes. For the second time in the same day, he acknowledged that he had become a knight in an attempt to purge the wrongs of his father's past. It never seemed to be enough.

  Adamans took another drink of his beer and licked his lips. Kristoff didn't match him this time: the alcohol content of this beer was much higher than the drinks he was accustomed to, and though the Fidelis officer did not show that he was feeling the effects of the drink, he decided it might be hard to tell. "From the day I was born, I was raised and trained to be a Fidelis warrior. I learned every role of our society, every assignment in the military. This role was mine because it was my father's, and his mother's before him. He had the right to set me on this path. From birth I knew my role and duty." He took another small sip.

  Erbe studied him silently, then ventured, "It sounds like a caste society."

  Adamans frowned. "We do not believe in castes. They limit freedom. We know because of the Great Betrayal that freedom and choice are important. We still sing the stories of that time, and of our bonds with The Republic."

  "The Great Betrayal?"

  Adamans pondered the question. "I must choose my words carefully. Sir Erbe. The Fidelis keep our history to ourselves. This is more than tradition; it is law to us, our creed. The Great Betrayal was a pivotal moment for our people. We had been betrayed and left for dead by those who were of our blood. They forgot us, but we refused to die. The custos ensured our survival. He led us down the road to our home.

  "The betrayers came and claimed to be our friends. The custos knew better. He trusted them only as much as necessary. When we learned of their betrayal, he changed us forever. He taught us that freedom, with rules and guidelines, was the key to our survival. We shed the old ways that held us back. We found The Republic and tied our future to the Great Father— Stone."

  The mention of Stone prompted Erbe to raise his beer in a toast. "To the memory of Devlin Stone."

  Everyone in the bar, even those he felt sure could not have heard him, stood and raised their drinks. "To Devlin Stone!" they barked in unison, as if it were a military cadence. They drank heartily, passionately, as if it were a matter of honor. Adamans did the same. What the heck? Have they got genetically enhanced hearing? As they slammed their empty glasses and bottles onto the tables and bar, they shouted one word: "Service!" Most nodded at him.

  Even with the explanation he had provided, Adamans had succeeded in keeping the Fidelis' past a mystery. But one thing was for sure. The Fidelis were loyal to The Republic. Rather than trying to get more information about their past, Erbe chose a different tack.

  "This custos. He's your leader?"

  "He is that and more. He is the past and future of our people."

  "How many custos have you had?"

  "He is the only one." Kristoff considered that statement, and realized it was the first tangible thing he had been told by the Fidelis warrior. But even though it allowed him to guess at a number of years this might indicate, it still gave him no clear ideas as to the true origins of these people. I wonder how old this custos is? Time for another change of subject.

  "I understand that you train in every military role."

  "We do. My specialty is a light BattleMech, but I prefer duty in the artillery."

  "Once we have a chance to pilot a 'Mech, very few of us are willing to turn back to the life of a ground- pounder."

  "We believe one cannot truly appreciate the gift of a 'Mech unless one understands every other role in the military. We study the ways of the technicians because being able to repair gear damaged in battle makes us better warriors. We study vehicles as Jagers, learning everything about them and how they perform. We fight as infantry, as Superstites, to know what it is like to stand unprotected on the field of battle."

  "Your training is impressive," Erbe responded, taking a long swig of his beer.

  "We are prepared to fight and, if we must, die for The Republic." Conviction rang in Adamans' voice.

  "Let's hope that death is not part of this."

  "I do not seek death. None of us do. At the same time, I do not fear it. I know that my children will carry on my legacy. They will one day see the reading of the Unopened Work. If I do not fulfill our destiny, they will."

  "You haven't mentioned your wife," Erbe pressed.

  "I do not have a wife," Adamans said, finishing his beer.

  "But your children . . ."

  Adamans stared at him impassively. "You have not heard how we reproduce, Sir Knight?"

  Kristoff wordlessly shook his head.

  Adamans guffawed and slapped the knight on the shoulder. "I am joking, Sir Erbe."

  "You have a wife, then?"

  "More than one," he replied. His wide smile seemed out of place on a Fidelis warrior. "We all have our duties and service to perform for our people. Some requirements are much more pleasant than others." He cocked an eyebrow.

  Kristoff Erbe was not sure if the Fidelis trooper was still joking.

  Price of Service 4

  Breezewood, Kwamashu

  Duchy of Andurien

  Fortress Republic (+858 days)

  Chin stood in the old processing facility and looked at the massive stacks of chemical drums stretching as far as the eye could see. This was one of the buildings he had told Sir Mannheim was off-limits, and the knight had dutifully stayed away. Jeremy had counted on his obedient nature.

  The last few weeks had been a mix of boredom and keeping the vigilant Fidelis and Hunter Mannheim out of his private work in the plant. They had simulated the reactivation of the industrial complex. Fires burned in old incinerators, sending smoke into the air. Trucks drove around the city loaded with empty crates. Mannheim had concentrated on their defenses. Jeremy had concentrated on preventing him from snooping around too much in the old plant.

  Thousands of drums had been stacked here over the years, in some places up to the ceiling. Some had developed leaks, especially those on the bottom. Pools of chemicals mixed. There had been attempts of varying effectiveness to contain the leaks over the years, but most of those attempts had failed by now. Jeremy was familiar with all the chemicals stored in this facility. Better yet, he knew about the other, more dangerous substances stored elsewhere in the complex.

  He carefully planted the remote charge against one of the barrels, something he had done a hundred times already over the last few weeks. The placement of each charge was carefully planned. He had broken out some of the windows in this and other buildings to ensure a good flow of oxygen.

  The hard part had been doing it without Mannheim or any of the Fidelis catching him—or finding his hidden cache of charges. In fact, Chin had found it disturbingly easy; just like everything else in this operation. He truly believed it shouldn't be so easy to do this . . . thing . . . that he was doing. Even if he was just following orders. "I just don't understand why taking lives is so simple," he muttered.

  Chin paused. "Oh, great. Now I'm talking to myself."

  His dialogue with himself was interrupted by a chirp from his wrist communicator. "Chin here."

  "This is Rook." If Mannheim had switched to his call sign—"You need to report to HQ"—t
hen there was . . .

  "Trouble?"

  "Double-time it."

  * * *

  "It's on the local media as well," Mannheim said, pointing to the portable holovid unit. "They came in at a pirate point and are two days out." The troopers in the room hung on his words. He surveyed their eyes for a long moment: Fidelis. Republic, it didn't matter—they all bore a look of determination. This moment was what they had planned and trained for. The air in the old office seemed to take on the heady smell of sweat and energy that Hunt associated with battlefields. This room, with its peeling yellow paint, broken furniture, dust and dirt creeping in at every corner, was not an office anymore—it was a command post, and this was war.

  "Designation?" Chin asked.

  "Our satellites picked up the insignia on the DropShips at long range. They are from the Oriente Protectorate," one of the Fidelis troopers answered from his post at the surveillance monitors.

  "Ships?"

  "Three," the technician replied. "All are Union- class."

  Hunter looked at Chin. "The plan was that they would time their attack closer to the announced completion of this facility. We should have had another few weeks."

  The younger knight shrugged. "Luring an enemy is an imperfect science."

  "We could have used the extra time."

  "That doesn't change the fact that they are here— now."

  "We will need to discuss coordinating our efforts with Colonel Daum. Especially since we're suddenly outnumbered and outgunned. They are bringing in a battalion— at best with our force and the local garrison, we number two companies."

  "I'm not looking forward to that conversation," Chin muttered under his breath. Mannheim had noticed in the last month or so that Chin had developed the habit of talking to himself. It must be how he deals with the stress of a mission. "Is there a problem with the local garrison commander?"

  Chin shook himself out of his thoughts. "No. Just thinking to myself. Colonel Daum raked me over the coals pretty well when we met. I've contacted him twice since we landed to give him courtesy updates, even invite him to dinner. He's ignored me—refused to speak to me directly. I'm not sure, but I don't think the man likes me." The sarcasm had returned.

  "I find that hard to believe," Mannheim replied with a faint grin.

  "I know."

  Finally Mannheim could enjoy the banter. Now hostile forces were arriving, and his force, disguised as Duchy of Andurien troops, would finally get into battle. They would have to lure the enemy into battle near the plant, blow it up, record the detonation in detail and get off- world intact. The footage would be released with false casualty numbers for both sides. It would be the spark that would ignite a war. That part he didn't dwell on. What mattered now was the battle itself, and this was his forte.

  "We'll talk to him together."

  "Just remember, you're an officer in the Duchy's armed forces."

  Hunter looked at the patch he wore on his shoulder. It was the outline of Duchy-controlled space set against a map with a deep purple background. A sword ran down the center of it. Whatever patch 1 wear, I am fighting for Stone and The Republic. The uniform doesn't matter. What matters is what I feel inside.

  * * *

  Sir Chin, wearing his disguise as Lieutenant Colonel Gelder, and Sir Mannheim met with Daum at the fortified front gate of the industrial complex. On either side of the gate were sandbagged bunkers with Fidelis troops manning the weapons. Colonel Daum had come in his staff car, tiny flags mounted on the front fenders designating him as garrison commander. The way he moved, the efficiency in his stride, the way he shook hands marked him as a seasoned combat veteran. Chin observed him closely. / will have to remember how he moves and acts in case / have to play that role someday.

  "We can cut through all the damn pleasantries. Colonel," Daum replied when Mannheim invited him inside for a cup of coffee. "As I told your Lieutenant Colonel"—he jerked his thumb at Chin—"I knew your presence here was going to bring trouble. Now a lot of good men and women are going to get hurt or die because of it."

  "We all have our orders," Mannheim said coolly. "I go where they tell me and I do what I'm told to do—just like a good soldier." Chin would have been impressed by how well Mannheim faked his role, except that he was really just being himself with a different name. He knew Mannheim had the right idea by appealing to the common ground between all military men when he saw Daum's acknowledging grin.

  "I hear you, Colonel."

  "Let's cut to the chase," Mannheim suggested. "We've got three bogies incoming, a battalion of troops. You know they're going to head this way: This plant is the prize. What can we do to work together?"

  "I can't leave the planetary capital undefended." Daum started with his primary constraint. "But I can use my militia to cover the city. The enemy's going to come at this plant. The plains to the west of the city, where your DropShips are, would be the most logical place for them to land. Plenty of open space, flat terrain, straight run into Breezewood."

  Mannheim nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."

  Daum put his balled fists on his waist. "I'll send the bulk of my forces out to the western plains as soon as we are sure that is their vector. They'll remain under my command, and I'll send you our communications channels. I will not turn over my forces to your management."

  "I wouldn't ask you to, Colonel."

  Colonel Daum looked Mannheim up and down. "No, I guess you wouldn't. Alright then, Colonel, I'll see you on the field in two days." Daum shook Mannheim's hand and glared at Chin, who saluted as the garrison commander got back into his staff car. He looked at Mannheim.

  "Told you he was a little stiff."

  Mannheim grinned. "He seemed like a perfect officer and gentleman to me."

  Fortress Republic (+860 days)

  Chin found Mannheim in the fake assembly plant watching the final loadout on his Shockwave. Jeremy watched him for a moment; Mannheim was half-leaning on the leg of the 'Mech, peering up. "He looks like a recruiting poster," he muttered. He seemed totally comfortable with the 'Mech, not at all intimidated. I doubt I'll ever feel that casual near them. Even with all of his training, piloting a BattleMech was not his first love. That was why when The Republic had recruited him as a ghost knight he'd leapt at the opportunity. It was much better to fight battles in bars and dark alleys than to stand in the open and face direct fire.

  He was dreading this conversation, and realized he was allowing his thoughts to wander rather than deal with it.

  Jeremy tugged at his uniform shirt, pulling it taut. He walked over to Hunter and together they watched the rack of long-range missiles being slid into place. Jeremy wasn't afraid to tell Hunter what he needed; he just didn't want to deal with the response he knew he'd get.

  "Alright, Sir Chin, tell me what's on your mind." Hunter spoke without even shifting his gaze from the loader team above them.

  "How do you know I'm not just here to wish you good luck?"

  Hunter gave him a wry smile. "We've known each other for a couple of years now. The only time you voluntarily come into the 'Mech bay is when you can't put off your regularly scheduled training. Yet here you are."

  "Point taken. You're right. I have come down here for a reason."

  Jeremy looked away, then met Mannheim's gaze. "Once the fighting starts, I'll need to borrow a squad of Fidelis for a secondary mission."

  Mannheim physically jerked away from Chin. "Please tell me this is one of your little jokes."

  Jeremy shook his head.

  "Damn it!" Hunter spat. "Those Protectorate forces outnumber us just by landing. Now you want to pull out a squad of our best troops at the last minute?"

  "These are my orders from Redburn—no, from Stone himself. This is a necessary part of our mission here."

  "Orders?" The older knight's face got red. "Orders from people who are not here. I have to deal with the situation at hand. We don't just have to fight these Protectorate attackers, we have to disengage them in bat
tle—one of the hardest things you can do in a fight. You know that. You take off in your Fox and strip me of a squad, and you've cut me down by half a lance. I need those troops."

  "You'll get them back," Jeremy said. "1 just need them for a little while."

  Hunter banged his fist on the leg of the Shockwave. "What if I say no?"

  Chin had not considered that Mannheim might be defiant. It caught him off guard, and he actually stuttered for a moment, searching for words. "Redburn told you the ghosts have orders that supercede your mission objectives. This is one of those orders. I don't like it either. I met with Redburn and tried to find another way, but he's hung this on me, and I don't have a choice."

  Mannheim said nothing for a heartbeat. "I like to think we always have a choice."

  Chin didn't know what else to say. Then he remembered Hunter's conversation with Colonel Daum. "Hunter. You're a knight, and a soldier. You know we all have to follow orders."

  Sir Mannheim closed the distance between the two men with a single long stride. He stood eye-to-eye with Chin, their faces only a few inches apart. Jeremy felt fear for the first time since the operation had begun. It was exciting and scary in the same instant. "I'm a good soldier. I'll cut the squad loose. You do whatever it is you have to do and get it done damn fast. I need you and them back in this fight. Do you understand?"

  "I do."

  "Good." He executed a sharp about-face and walked away. Jeremy watched him as he strode across the 'Mech bay There was something in the way Hunter walked, carried himself, acted, that Chin found himself admiring. He closed his eyes for a moment. If he's this mad with me taking a squad from him in battle, how will he react when he sees the full extent of our mission here?

  Interpretation of Duty 13

  Brandenburg, Callison

  Former Prefecture VIII

  Fortress Republic (+38 days)

  "Sir?" replied the voice of Captain Natel, coming over the speakers in the hard-shell field dome. "Say again."