"That would be Callaway, sir?"
"Yes. Julia Callaway. How'd you know?"
Artman gave the tiniest of shrugs. "I know. She never could get the hang of converting to standard in her head." He hesitated a moment, as though gauging Grayson's mood. "It's your son. Sir."
Grayson had assumed that to be the case. Somehow, he'd known....
"What's he done now?"
"Oh, he's not in any trouble. At least, not yet. But I thought it was time you had a look at these."
Reaching across the desk, Artman held out a slim, plastic memory card. Grayson took it and slipped it into a reader on his desk. A window opened, overlaying the 1290 work. It was a set of simulator scores, listing reaction times, kill ratios, and instructor's "grudges," the outright mistakes made by the trainee in a simulated combat encounter.
"Overall reactions are down eight point five percent in the past week alone," Artman said in the clipped and efficient tones of a human computer. "That's twenty-four point two percent since we began the training/testing regimen, four months ago. He's been making mistakes in simcombat. Grudges are up ten percent, but the kicker is that those pilot errors have been stupid, rookie mistakes."
"Such as?"
"Yesterday, he was simming in a Shadow Hawk, squared off against an Assassin. Should've been an easy kill for the boy. He's got talent, a real feel for operating a 'Mech, for becoming almost one with it. But then—here. Look." Leaning over the desk, Artman pointed to the engagement on the screen, an interweaving of colored lines on a graph that carried the story for those trained to read it. "There. Twelve seconds into the encounter, the Assassin started moving to his left, turning away from him as it did so. Practically an invitation: 'Hey! Come get me!' Your son's proper response would've been to move in, pivot hard left, and drop onto the 'Sassy's tail. But he turned right instead." Artman's brown finger traced along the rise and fall of colored lines, up to a point where all the lines came together, then dropped sharply to the floor of the graph. "The 'Sassy, with its greater speed, seized the initiative and got onto the Hawk's tail instead. Six seconds later ..."
Grayson felt a cold pricking at the base of his neck. It wasn't easy looking at the electronic record of his son's death in combat ... even when that death was a simulated one.
"In my opinion, sir," Artman continued, straightening upright again, "Alex hasn't recovered from what happened to him during the campaign last year. In fact, judging from test scores like these, I'd say he's rapidly growing worse."
Grayson studied the computer display for a long moment before allowing himself to reply. He'd already read a memo posted to his terminal that morning by Ellen Jamison, a gentle and worried note to the effect that Alex had been having trouble sleeping, had been suffering from recurring nightmares in which he relived various of the Glengarry campaign battles. Her diagnosis was PTSD; her recommendation, that he be taken off of combat duty.
"So. What do you recommend, Sarge?" Grayson asked slowly.
"Get him out of 'Mechs, that's certain," Artman replied without hesitation. "I won't tell you to drop him from active duty, but the idea probably warrants some consideration. More than anything else, young Alex needs time to heal."
"You know," Grayson said, "there's an old piece of advice about getting back on the horse after you fall off."
Artman raised an eyebrow. "Sir? What's a horse?"
"A riding animal, native to Terra originally. Quadruped, pretty fair-sized. It was taken along to quite a few other worlds during the first big interstellar outleap, though its biological needs restricted it to planets a lot like Terra. The point is, learning to ride one took some patience and, I gather, a few spills before you learned how to stay in the saddle. They used to say that if you got thrown, it was best to climb back in the saddle right away, before you lost your nerve."
"There's some truth in that, sir, certainly. But there's a danger, too."
"What danger?"
"That you'll push your son too hard, too fast. Or maybe I should say, that you'll let him push himself too hard and fast, trying to live up to your standards."
"I see. You've seen evidence of this?"
"I know he calls up your simulator profiles and pores over them before he climbs into the sim cockpit himself."
"I didn't know that."
"I think he sees the Glengarry campaign as a personal failure. His unit took sixty percent casualties before you came along to bail him out, then rescued him, in front of his command." Artman shook his head. "That's not easy for any man to live with. It's a lot harder when your old man is Grayson Carlyle. Sir."
"I appreciate your frankness."
Artman spread his hands. "That's what you pay me the big C-bills for, Colonel. You knew I wasn't a damned hardwired yes-man when you assigned me to the training cadre."
"I'll let you know what I decide. Thanks for coming."
"Not at all, Colonel." Artman snapped to a crisp and precisely military attention and saluted. "Good day, sir."
"You too."
Grayson remained thoughtful for a long time after Artman had left. He didn't have an enormous number of options here, and almost anything he did could be the wrong thing ... or at least could be perceived as wrong.
The Glengarry campaign had been a grueling, seven-month hell, one that had very nearly destroyed the Gray Death Legion as a fighting unit. Four months after the conclusion of that campaign and the defeat of the Skye rebellion, the Legion was still seriously understrength. It wasn't for any lack of newbies—Glengarrians had been flocking to the Legion recruiting centers across the planet—but just that it would take time and seasoning to make them Legionnaires.
The administrative problem Grayson Carlyle was facing here lay partly in the simple fact that everyone who'd been on Glengarry under Alex's command had suffered in that campaign. If Grayson were to release every Legionnaire who was still having nightmares, or who'd lost friends, or whose reflexes might have suffered as a result, he might lose half his active duty roster.
Nor could he be seen to be giving his son special treatment. That had always been a major disadvantage of having members of his own family under his command in the Gray Death. If there was even a hint of favoritism in his conduct or in his orders, the morale of the entire unit could collapse overnight. He had to be perceived as being fair; it helped, even, if he was seen to be harder on Alex and Lori than on anyone else in the regiment. Finally, and as a father, he couldn't simply step in and redirect his son's life. Alex Carlyle was twenty standard years old, for Blake's sake, old enough to decide for himself what he wanted to do with his life.
Hell, had he pushed Alex into a BattleMech cockpit? He didn't think he had; certainly, that had never been his intent. Even now, Grayson knew he could accept it if Alex didn't want to be a MechWarrior. In a lot of ways, that decision would make life easier for Grayson, who hated the necessity of giving the orders that might well result in Alex's death—a real death, not a simulator's readout.
But the important thing was ... what did Alex want?
He needed to find an assignment for Alex that would give him time to recover from the campaign—and to make up his mind about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
Just as he was settling back into his chair and trying once more to concentrate on the confused tangle of forms and dates on his monitor, the door chimed again. "Come."
Major Davis McCall walked through the door as it slid open, clad in his finest regimental dress grays, the medals and ribbons he'd won over the years forming an impressive display of metal and color over his left breast. From the expression on the big Caledonian's face, this conversation was going to be no more pleasant than the last one.
"Hello, Mac," Grayson said. "What's up?"
"Ah dinnae ken quite how t' begin, Colonel." McCall rubbed the brush of his red beard, looking as uncomfortable as Grayson had ever known him to be.
"It's the rumor about our getting a contract for Caledonia, isn't it?" Grayson said bl
untly. The expression on McCall's face, a mixture of surprise and dismay, told Grayson he'd hit the mark. "I should have told you sooner," he continued, "but there wasn't anything definite. Hell, there still isn't. I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily."
"Then, sir, the rumor's nae true?"
"Not yet, anyway," Grayson replied. He sighed. "We did have an inquiry from ComSquared a few weeks back, and I imagine that's how the rumor got started. But it was only an inquiry, checking on our readiness in case we needed to go on what they called a peacekeeper deployment."
"An' ... an' what did y' tell them, sir? If I may ask?"
"That right now we weren't in any shape to take on any kind of deployment. Third Batt was still out at the time. And you know what kind of condition the First and Second are in right now."
"Aye. Aye, I do that."
"I've been considering—considering, mind you—deploying Third Batt if we need to. I most certainly would not order you in against your own people."
"I appreciate that, Colonel," McCall said. "I really do. But is it not likely tha' th' boys would see that as just a wee bit a' favoritism, noo?'
"They know—as you should know too, Mac—that it is not my policy to force my people to engage in combat against their own families and countrymen. That's asking rather too much of them, don't you think?"
McCall looked concerned, his head cocking to one side. "Aye, but is Third Batt ready for deployment again, sir?"
It was characteristic of the man, Grayson thought, that he would still think about the rest of the men and women of the unit, even though he was obviously preoccupied with problems of his own.
"They're ready enough." On phosphor, at any rate, the Legion now mustered three battalions. The Third Battalion, under the command of Major Jonathan Frye, had been organized immediately after the Glengarry campaign primarily as a moneymaker, a unit of thirty-some 'Mechs that could be hired out for small jobs on a regular basis to provide a steady income for the Legion.
But the Third had returned to Glengarry with their roster badly thinned. They'd been fighting incursions by the Draconis Combine on the border for months and had ended the campaign with a clash with Clan raiders. Casualties had been heavy, and it would be a long while before the losses could be made up from the Legion's training cadre.
"Garrison duty would be a vacation after what they've been through," Grayson continued. "The point is, Major, that if we take a contract on Caledonia, you won't have to go. We would deploy Major Frye and, if the situation warranted, Major Houk. You would stay here in Glengarry with First Battalion."
"An' have the lads think I'd wriggled oot? I dinnae think so, Colonel."
"Damn it, Davis, it's not 'wriggling oot.' The First wouldn't be in line for this next job, even if it was on Tharkad. Someone's got to stay behind and guard the fort. It's going to be you."
"Och, weel, Ah appreciate the consairn you're showin' me, Colonel," McCall said, his burr and Gaelic rolled Rs especially heavy. "Ah truly do. Bu' there's aye a wee bit more of complications t' the contract. Sir ... this is nae a spur a' th' moment decision. I've been giving this a good deal of thought."
Grayson could hear it coming and steeled himself. Davis McCall was one of his oldest and most trusted comrades in the Legion—and besides Lori, his best and oldest friend. "Yes?"
"Sir, it pains me deeply, but I'm afraid I must tender my resignation from th' Gray Death."
4
The Residence, Dunkeld
Glengarry, Skye March
Federated Commonwealth
1115 Hours, 10 March 3057
"Sit down, Davis," Grayson said, indicating a chair on the other side of his desk. "Sir, I—"
"Sit down, man, and quit towering over me like your damned Highlander." He waited while McCall took a seat, the medals on his chest clinking with the movement, then pressed ahead. "I can't accept your resignation, Major," Grayson continued in a hard and level voice. "Damn it, man, we need you. I need you!"
"I'm sorry, Colonel. I truly am. But there are personal reasons. ..."
"Your family? On Caledonia?"
McCall nodded.
"I thought you weren't on speaking terms with them."
"Well, I've had a message from home." McCall hesitated, as though trying to decide how to say what he had to say. "Sir, it's my brother, Angus. He's been placed under arrest by the Caledonian government and there's been some kind of uprising. I don't know what th' whole story might be, but I've got t' go there, an' quickly."
Grayson shook his head. "I don't understand. What can you do?"
"I dinna ken, not yet. But y' must understand, Colonel. Wi' Angus gone, I am the McCall now. They'll be needin' me at Glen Aire."
"Glen Aire?"
"My family's wee estate ootside a' Dundee."
"An estate, huh? I had no idea you were so well off, Davis. Maybe I should talk to you about the Gray Death's financial situation."
"Och, weel, I'm not, sir, not really. But there is some money in th' family, aye. The McCalls were First Family, sir, back in the early colonizing days. Put up part of the capital for the colony ship tha' brought them oot from Terra. A number of McCalls ha' been governor of th' place."
Grayson leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stared appraisingly at the big Scot. There was an opportunity here....
"Your brother—"
"Angus Charles McCall, aye, sir."
"I gather he's not governor. Who is?"
"A man named Wilmarth, sir."
"The word 'governor' suggests that Caledonia is being run from someplace else. But it's not a Steiner term...."
"Och, aye. Tha' title dates back to three centuries ago, noo, when the Kuritas conquered themselves a good part a' the Lyran Commonwealth."
"The Battles for Hesperus II."
"Aye. And the Fourth Royal Guards held oot on Caledonia for seven long years against th' worst old Hugai an' the Draconis Combine could throw at them. They lost in the end, though, and the Kuritas damn near scorched the whole bluidy world. Wee Caledon was a long time in recovering, and during the next century or two, she was ruled from off-world, first from Hesperus II, right next door, and then, when the Lyran Commonwealth was back on its feet, from the Commonwealth capital at Tharkad. The governor was appointed by the Steiners and approved by a vote of th' Caledonian High Council. Usually, he or she was a native Caledonian, whose name was submitted by the Council in the first place. The appointment became a mere formality, don't y' see?"
"I take it this ... Wilmarth, you said? I take it from your tone of voice that he's not a Caledonian."
"I don't know much aboot him, noo," McCall said, shaking his head. "Th' word is, though, he was a toady to the Davions an' got his appointment as some sort of reward, back a few years."
Grayson considered this. This whole damned political situation was made a hell of a lot worse by the fact that he, himself, had been named Baron of Glengarry by the highest-ranking Davion of all—Prince Victor Ian Steiner-Davion. Grayson Carlyle owed his own position as ruler of this world to a similar reward from the Davions, and every day he was feeling more and more backed into an extremely uncomfortable corner.
As though reading his thoughts, McCall caught himself, eyes opening wide. "Ah dinnae mean, Colonel—"
"It's all right, Davis. I know you weren't calling me a Davion toady. But it's a damned tight spot, no matter how you look at it."
"Aye, sir, it's all a' that."
Throughout the three hundred years known as the Succession Wars, the Lyran Commonwealth, ruled by House Steiner, and the Federated Suns of House Davion had been two separate states, each encompassing hundreds of star systems from the neighborhood of Terra clear out to the Periphery, albeit in opposite directions. Sometimes they'd fought; more often they'd been allies, particularly in their ongoing border struggles with House Kurita and House Liao.
In all those years of war none of the five great Successor States had been able to win the upper hand over the others, b
ut that all changed when Prince Hanse Davion and Melissa Steiner had married in 3022, allying their two powerful states and tipping the balance once and for all in favor of the newly created—and formidable—Federated Commonwealth.
If the political marriage of Hanse and Katrina was an amicable one, however, the marriage of the two states was not. There'd been strains on that alliance from the beginning; the Second Skye Rebellion that had engulfed Glengarry, among other worlds, just a year ago had been an attempt by pro-Steiner separatists to break the old Skye March away from a political superstate that was becoming increasingly monolithic and remote from the needs of its citizens. The defeat of the separatists did not mean that the discontent was any less.
Quite the contrary, in fact ...
The appointment of Caledonia's outsider of a governor was scarcely an isolated instance. Many high government offices once held by people loyal to the Steiners had been awarded to pro-Davion individuals after 3022, and resentment had been running high in those circles for years now, especially as Prince Victor had begun working behind the scenes to consolidate his own power after Hanse Davion's death. Duke Ryan Steiner, the longtime leader of the Free Skye Movement had been conveniently assassinated after the rebellion had been put down last year. Then Prince Victor had replaced Ryan's number two man with the strongly pro-Davion David Sandoval as both Duke and Marshal of the March. This mingling of the military with the civil authority felt like the imposition of military rule to most of the citizens of the March; Grayson could understand why they were growing restless.
Unfortunately, these political entanglements—and the unraveling of the old Steiner-Davion alliance—promised to make plenty of trouble for units like the Gray Death Legion, and for men like Grayson Carlyle. Technically, Grayson Carlyle owed his primary liege responsibility first to David Sandoval, the Duke of Skye, and then to Victor, who'd named Carlyle Baron of Glengarry in the first place. The Gray Death Legion's original mercenary contract, however, was with the Steiners, and extended clear back to the days before the Federated Commonwealth had been formed. FedComMilCom—the Federated Commonwealth Military Command, or "ComSquared," as most military professionals called it for short, was the current legal executor of the contract.
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