A Call to Arms mda-2

by Loren L. Coleman

  Erik knew that somehow the corporate officer would get the job done. That was all that mattered. “Then the mines’ failure to make quota doesn’t matter.”

  “Local titanium buyers will begin to ask questions,” Michael reminded him. “Our export schedule will fall off as well.”

  “Fill local orders first. All off-world shipping goes through Tikonov, yes?” He barely waited for Eus’s nod, caught it in the man’s ghostly reflection in the window. “Start filling those shipping containers with raw ore, tailings, old equipment—whatever it takes.”

  “Duke Sandoval will not be pleased.”

  Erik’s gaze slid away from the Taibek Hills, rolling back into town along the network of rust-streaked rails and rough roadways. He turned away from the window and spitted his corporate officer with a hard glare and a dry smile. “My uncle is well aware of the need to cut back on regular operations, Michael. Keep to schedule. That will please him.”

  Still, Erik could not help his nervous glance at the data crystal that waited for him on the corner of his large, kidney-shaped desk. The hardcopy communication had arrived on the latest DropShip. Michael had brought it in, delivering it before his report. From Lord Governor and Duke Aaron Sandoval. A reprieve from exile? Orders for a new operation, or modifications for Achernar? So few messages from Aaron Sandoval had held good news since Erik’s failure on Mara that he wondered, and worried.

  “Is that everything, Michael?” His tone came off more curt than he’d intended.

  Michael Eus slid his noteputer into the pocket of his charcoal-brushed suit coat. Youthful, steel gray eyes seemed at odds with his salt-and-pepper hair. They also showed the intense will of a man determined to rise in the Sandoval empire. “I intercepted another call from Legate Stempres. He’s still concerned that he failed to separate that new Ryoken from Customs.”

  “He’s concerned about losing my family’s investment in his career.” Erik laughed, short and dark. “That man has hedged every bet since being named Legate under the planetary governor’s emergency powers. Can you tell he’s insecure in his job?”

  “What would you like me to do about him?”

  Erik did not miss the way Michael Eus immediately promoted himself as overseer to Brion Stempres. He smiled, and then took another taste of his brandy-tipped coffee. He savored the momentary warmth, deciding how he wanted Stempres cared for. “Handle him, Michael. Keep him at arm’s length for now.”

  It also was not inconceivable that Stempres might try to convert Michael Eus into an asset of his own. In the legate’s place, that’s what Erik would attempt to do. The young noble wasn’t too worried—Michael seemed to realize that power was gravitating around Tikonov, and Erik’s uncle. Still, Eus bore watching. Erik had learned on Mara that he couldn’t trust family. He wasn’t about to trust a corporate suit with an eye on advancement.

  “Now get out of here, Michael.” Erik waved the man away with an imperious gesture. “I have some things to think about, and I don’t wish to be disturbed. Not unless it is something you cannot personally handle.”

  The confidence playing over the other man’s face said that he doubted there was any such situation. Michael Eus bowed shortly from the waist, spun and padded softly from the plush office.

  Preparing himself for the coming one-sided interview, Erik strolled around the large and mostly-empty office taking the most circuitous route back to his redwood desk. His feet sank into plush carpet. The entire room still had a new-office smell to it that spoke of a lack of permanence to Erik. He paused over a small, glass-encased model of the new Achernar Industries MiningMech—the same model he was now ripping apart and rebuilding into military conversions—and again at a wide bookcase that contained almost every handy reference book one might need with regards to mining on Achernar.

  The leather-bound volumes across the top shelf had little to do with mining, though. Michael Eus had stocked the office with a complete history of the Sandoval dynasty (Robinson Press, 3130 edition): twelve volumes, six centuries of family activities and profiles. Erik knew that a few events were missing from that “complete” history. He’d checked. Those were the secrets and dirty laundry the family would never allow a public airing.

  Still, running his hand along the leather spines, feeling the raised lettering under his fingertips and watching some of the gold gilt flake off to the shelf’s dark walnut surface, gave Erik a sense of the history that pushed at both his uncle and himself.

  Early volumes where the Sandoval dynasty came to power, and had briefly stood in line for the throne of the Federated Suns. Princes of the realm.

  Middle volumes. The fall of the Star League and the Succession Wars which followed. Here the Sandoval dynasty secured themselves as undisputed rulers within the Suns’ Draconis March. Those stories involved so many tales of battle and heroics against House Kurita’s Draconis Combine that Erik could reread them ad infinitum. The leather itself felt charged with electricity, jumping small sparks to Erik’s fingers.

  Volumes eleven and twelve. The last eighty years. Cold to the touch.

  These troublesome pages detailed years of civil war and the Word of Blake Jihad. They contained bright moments, such as Tancred Sandoval’s marriage to Yvonne Steiner-Davion—and once again a Sandoval sat on the throne, even if as regent to the son who would follow. But so many dark times overweighed the good.

  3081: when Devlin Stone annexed twenty-five worlds from the Draconis March into his precious—and precocious—Republic of the Sphere. Several members of the Sandoval dynasty stood in opposition to this, but already a popular wave of support for Stone’s reforms had caused a shift toward the decentralization of power.

  3095: the power struggle on Robinson that permanently divided the family, creating a branch of true believers in Stone’s work and a line of loyal opposition.

  3124—and an event not recorded correctly by the histories—brought the two lines into conflict on Schedar. The opposition had sponsored border pirates as a means to test Republic resolve, and true believers from outside The Republic had chased them down. Aaron Sandoval himself—then an officer in the Republic military—had become involved, and managed to cover up the family’s involvement.

  And then, in an event not covered at all by the current history books, Devlin Stone abdicated power and disappeared. Erik knew how much Stone’s desertion had hurt his uncle. So much that when the HPG network crashed, and Aaron was free to pursue his personal agenda, he had sent Erik as his military ambassador to the world of Mara. A world in Prefecture III with strong Sandoval interests, the idea had been to secure it and then invite the Robinson-based dynasty back into both Prefectures III and IV at the same time. Erik had opted for a military solution, but failed to take under proper consideration a cousin of his who was on planet—and sided with the natives.

  Christine sent Erik back to Tikonov in disgrace.

  Aaron Sandoval sent him away to Achernar.

  Erik shoved himself away from the bookcase and the painful memories. After one final sip of the strong coffee, he left his cooling mug on the silver salver resting on a tray next to his door. The brandy taste stayed with him on the short path to his kidney-shaped desk, faded into a pleasant afterthought as Erik rolled up his chair. He fit the data crystal into a reader slot at one edge of the redwood desk. Pressing his thumb up against the nearby indentation provided his DNA sample that was compared to the digital key embedded within the crystal. A green light blinked its authorization. Motors hummed to life as the desk’s glass inlay levered up into a vertical screen, and the strong countenance of Aaron Sandoval, Lord Governor of Prefecture IV and Duke to the Swordsworn, winked into existence.

  Even reduced to a twelve-inch display, his uncle seemed to fill the room. With a proud chin and piercing blue eyes, Aaron Sandoval was no easy man to forget. He wore his blond hair shaved up into a topknot similar to Erik’s, although he wore it combed back rather than braided. He preferred to dress in robes of state rather than military uniform, b
ut he wore them with such precision, perfectly tailored and pressed, that the air he gave off was still one of military command.

  “Erik,” he began with no preamble whatsoever, “I have reviewed the reports on your progress. It is more than satisfactory. In fact, your sponsorship of Brion Stempres to replace Legate Rudy Maks was an inspired idea. I have similarly replaced the Legates on two other worlds where the Swordsworn hold dominance.”

  Imitation was the highest form of flattery. What his uncle didn’t say spoke large in Erik’s mind and helped stiffen up his spine.

  “Regardless of your progress, nephew, I still feel that I must warn you not to exceed my directions. Achernar is a valuable world with its working HPG station. I should not have to tell you that. How valuable has been made apparent to me, however, in the latest communiqués delivered to Tikonov by JumpShip. We know of Achernar and Ronel, of course. In all the rest of Prefecture IV, I have rumor of only one other working station—one of Kal Radick’s JumpShip hyperpulse relays. Three, perhaps, out of a possible thirty. My agents on Ronel tell me that they have made contact with Markab and Al Nair, and your report that Achernar has had sporadic contact with Genoa is also good intelligence. But, Erik, that is all.”

  Duke Sandoval paused, letting Erik consider that numbing fact. The young noble listened to the sound of footsteps running down the outside hall as he counted up the worlds. With a fifty light year range to any HPG, Achernar and Ronel could conceivably reach through all of Prefecture IV, most of III and V, and into pieces of Prefecture II and border worlds of the Federated Suns. A chill shook Erik’s spine. He heard a shout outside his door—ignored it. Sixty… seventy worlds. And of all those, only five or six of them could talk to each other.

  A recipe for worried populations.

  Aaron Sandoval nodded, as if agreeing with Erik’s thoughts. “Panic and civil unrest are highest on those worlds lost to the Blackout. News and rumors of fighting are not helping, either. Besides your ill-fated attempt to bring over Mara,” always one to jab past failures back at Erik, the better to keep him mindful of orders, “I have confirmed major escalations on Dieron, Addicks, Liao and Ankaa. The Republic might be under attack. It might be eating itself up from within.”

  However it was happening, Erik understood his uncle’s unspoken context. The Republic was dying. On any given world there might be factions who recalled their old allegiances to House Kurita, Davion, Liao… to Clan Wolf or the Sea Foxes… to the Word of Blake. Ignorance and fear brought out the mob mentality. Devlin Stone’s reforms—his efforts to encourage relocation, to spread the Republic’s different cultures over many worlds—were now working against the Republic.

  Who was it—a general for House Steiner—who had originally coined the term Information is ammunition?

  From twenty-odd light years and several weeks away, Duke Sandoval sensed his nephew’s conclusions. “The single greatest asset anyone can possess right now is a working HPG station,” he said. “Achernar must remain accessible. It must eventually be brought under the control of the Swordsworn. Eventually, Erik. Do not rush my plans. Take no action unless provoked, and only if a diplomatic solution does not present itself.

  “Our best, nephew. From the family.” The message terminated with one sharp, decisive nod—

  –and gave way to the sound of arguing voices and shuffling feet in the hall outside Erik’s office. He thought he heard Michael Eus’s voice, raised up on the far side of the argument. The loud voices faded, but Erik could still hear nearby offices emptying and people moving quickly down the hall.

  “What in the blazes is going on out there?”

  Erik pocketed his uncle’s message, planning to destroy the data crystal as soon as feasible. He kicked up from his chair and crossed to the large set of double doors. A knock rapped through before he reached them, stopping him fast in his tracks. That would be Michael, no doubt. The warning bought Erik a brief moment to compose himself. Folding his arms across his chest, frowning his displeasure at the interruption, he barked out a single “Come!”

  Michael Eus opened the door. Behind him, top executives for Taibek Mining argued and gestured to each other as they streamed down the hall. Michael did not bother to step through the doorway, which meant he had come to call Erik away for something. Something that had the entire building in an uproar if management was any clue.

  Michael shook his head, as if angry with himself for disobeying Erik’s earlier command, or at whatever problem had arisen to force him into such a position. He looked straight at his employer, and Erik actually read a touch of fear behind his impassive gray eyes.

  “Lord Sandoval. We have a situation.”

  Achernar Customs Security

  River’s End, Achernar

  A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, pushing around the tepid air. Closeted away in his office at the Achernar Customs Security building, Raul Ortega hunched forward, dividing his time between a stack of paperwork, his noteputer, and the computer network station built into the top of his desk. A half-eaten maple bar lay forgotten on the desk’s pull-out sideboard; its frosting melted slowly down onto the paper plate, sweetening the air with syrup and sugar. Warm milk remained untouched in a waxed paper cup.

  Never enough hours in the day. Raul pulled up an on-screen memo from the joint directive of Legate Stempres and Planetary Governor Susan Haider. As of two days before, all hardcopy news delivered by DropShip would be duplicated, cataloged and routed—by Customs—to Achernar’s chief executive and ranking military office.

  Add intelligence gathering to the growing list of new duties for a Customs Security Officer.

  And another hour cut out of any given workday.

  Footsteps in the hall outside his office. Raul knew how most shoes sounded against the vinyl, stick-on tiles. The angry stomp of military, steel-toed boots. Nervous scuffing of patent leather when shipping agents wanted a favor, and purposeful patent leather when Carl Rossiter, his boss, wanted an explanation. Comfortable civilian shoes, uneven strides, lots of pauses—usually lost or misdirected to Customs Security when they really wanted the downstairs regulatory office.

  These footsteps fell into one last class. Professional work shoes. Comfortable but not too relaxed. Customs officers preferred this kind of shoe: a match for the uniform and good for staying on your feet all day. Raul heard their dedicated stride make a line direct for the door at his back, step inside his office, and wait.

  “Can’t do it, wouldn’t want it, got no time for it if I did,” Raul said without glancing back. The usual line of excuses. “What can I do for you?” he relented on automatic pilot.

  “Dinner would be nice,” a warm voice offered with a touch of amusement.

  Raul spun his chair around, a smile spreading over his face as if half the day’s workload had been lifted from him. Jessica Searcy stood just inside his door, leaning back against the frame. Tall and well figured, she wore her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back severely from her face, accenting her dangling earrings and pronounced cheekbones. Eyes of brilliant, inviting blue teased him with their mischievous gleam. Her dress-suit was comfortable, but not too casual, and his fiancée wore the professional shoes also common to doctors who spend a great deal of time on their feet.

  “But if you really don’t have time for me anymore,” she said easily, “I can take mother’s advice and find a good-looking lawyer who only works sixty-hour weeks.” She turned as if to go.

  Raul vaulted from his chair as if it came equipped with a BattleMech ejection system, caught her up in a strong embrace and swung her back into his office while Jessica laughed. He almost sat her against the maple bar, caught her again at the last moment, and then lowered her into his own chair. “Remember our bargain, Jess.” He shook a finger at her. “I don’t take off-world assignment, and you stay away from the lawyers.” A mostly empty threat anyway. Jessica’s mother lived on Rio now, at one of the best retirement communities in Prefecture IV, and she adored Raul.

  Jessica droppe
d her long hair loose from the severe clips, shaking it down around both shoulders. It fell in strands and curls, like a little girl’s hair after a wild day on the playground. One strand settled between her eyes, resting down onto the bridge of her nose in a manner Raul found extremely cute. She shook off her smile and sat stiffly upright, as if consulting with a patient, tilted her head to one side and considered his offer. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, “do I know you?”

  “All right,” Raul surrendered. He reached out to gently push the stray hair aside, tucking it behind Jessica’s ear for her, and planted a tender kiss on her brow before dropping back into the stiff-backed chair he kept on-hand for most visitors. “Guilty as charged. I’ve been absent, lately, I know.” He ran fingers back through his tightly curled, wet black hair. “But you wouldn’t believe the workload being dumped on the agency.”

  She softened a bit, relaxing into the chair but never too comfortable in an office that wasn’t her own, Raul knew. “I believe it, Raul. I simply don’t know why you put up with it. I thought the spaceport was crowded with unions to prevent this kind of thing.”

  “That’s for the longshoremen and technicians. People who actually do something for a living.” Like doctors. Raul smiled at their shared joke, but thinly. He leaned back into the chair, feeling his fatigue now that the boost from her arrival had passed.

  “You look awful,” Jessica said, a touch of worry crowding into her voice.

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean it. Have you been hunched in this room all afternoon?” A glance around. She prodded at the decomposing maple bar. “Let me guess… your idea of lunch?” She dabbed the back of her hand against her own forehead. “Don’t you have climate control in here?”

  Raul nodded at his office’s narrow window, which looked out over the San Marino spaceport. From his angle, he could just see the rounded curve of the merchant– Union sitting on Pad Seven. “That window is it until we get the heat pump fixed, but I never open it. The dead heat that hangs over the ’port simply drifts in and makes the office hot and sticky.”