Sword of Sedition mda-15

by Loren L. Coleman

  “There is always something to be done,” Jonah agreed. But he also knew it wouldn’t necessarily be a decision they wanted to face.

  He paced a few more slow steps. Ended up at the tea service that one of his assistants had set out on a small, rolling cart, tucked in next to the door of one of his many private offices. The door blended into the wall, and only a simple pressure plate and the faint outline of the seam revealed its presence.

  Jonah glanced at the door, his back to the paladins, then stepped up to the tea service. From the small rosewood chest he selected a tea basket already prepared with a spice blend from Algedi, a planet just over the border with the Draconis Combine. Picking up a silver pot from the samovar, he poured a single cup and steeped the tea basket inside steaming water. The golden scent was rich and heady, unique to Algedi, and growing rare as the difficulties of The Republic impinged on shipping traffic and trade relations.

  “So many difficulties.”

  Though he was avoiding the worst of them with this long discussion of Prefecture IX. Or was he leading into it?

  Senator Geoffrey Mallowes was a Skye representative as well, Jonah recalled. In fact, it had been Gareth’s family friendship to the powerful senator that tripped Mallowes up in the end. The senator’s cat’s paw turning against him and the cabal’s long-range plan to usurp power.

  Of all the cancers eating away at The Republic, this was by far the most serious. And the resolution was a decision he had to make alone. Mostly.

  “Thank you,” he finally said, dismissing the two senior warriors.

  Both nodded, and Gareth sketched a half-bow as well. “Thank you, sir,” they said.

  “Remain in the capital,” Jonah instructed them on their way to the door. “I may have something for you by end of the day.” He did not turn to follow them out, or even watch. He did not trust himself to remain appropriately distant from his former comrades.

  Another necessity. Another sharp edge.

  When the outer door closed heavily, leaving the exarch alone, he slowly made a second cup of the golden, spicy tea while putting his thoughts in order. He palmed open the nearby lock, waiting until a hidden mechanism swung the door open, and carried both cups into the private office, which was no less grand, but set up for better use as a personal command post.

  The same cherrywood paneling. The bronze accoutrements and leather furniture. No window, though. Instead, a bank of dark plasma screens took up one entire wall, capable of individual or composite display. And this desk was a modern sculpture of metal and glass, occupying the exact center of the room. The top, at the press of a button, became a holographic display that accepted battlerom footage, hyperdetailed maps from the World Cartography Office, or feeds from any military satellite in orbit over Terra.

  It was the room Jonah retreated to in order to watch worlds fall or send men to their deaths.

  It wasn’t a happy room, either.

  Lights had been set to a dim level, creating an atmosphere more appropriate for whispered secrets than political debate. A hand reached out from the collected shadows along one wall, accepting one of the cups Jonah carried. He handed it over with a thin, humorless smile.

  Jonah stalked the floor, warming his hands around his own small cup, inhaling the pleasing aroma that wafted up on tendrils of steam. His guest followed him as far as the desk, standing next to a simple, straight-backed chair. The man wasn’t short and wasn’t tall, and had a build few would remark on as muscular or lean. His dark hair was pleasantly combed, with a touch of gel, certainly, to prevent any untidiness. The kind of man few remarked on to others. Perfect.

  “Mallowes,” the exarch finally said, breathing the name. He lowered himself into his leather office chair. The padding wrapped around him like a comfortable glove.

  The ghost paladin sipped, and nodded politely. He was the secret, eighteenth member of the august body that helped the exarch run the military and keep order. Sometimes known as “Emil” to the visiting paladins and knights who came and went right under his nose without ever knowing his identity. Champion of the ghost knight organization. Master of spies and covert operations.

  Also, the man single-most responsible for adding to Jonah Levin’s sleepless nights.

  “I’ve followed up on the legwork you ran before the election,” the ghost paladin said. “Most of our evidence is still circumstantial, but we have the best timeline possible under the circumstances. For instance, we know certain members of the Senate began ‘sponsoring’ young and excellent MechWarrior candidates as far back as twelve years ago. Hundreds of them.”

  “All noble scions?” Jonah asked, surprised. Not paying due attention, his first sip of tea was too quick and he scalded the tip of his tongue. He pressed the pained area against the roof of his mouth.

  “No. Some—Senator Mallowes for instance—went for top-drawer quality.”

  Like Gareth Sinclair, the ghost paladin did not have to say. As an up-and-coming knight, and then the newest paladin, Gareth had figured prominently into Geoffrey Mallowes’ plans.

  “Other members of this cabal spread their nets much wider, and were far more rough in their planning. Bribery, blackmail and intimidation; nothing was beyond their methods. They targeted nobles, citizens… even residents. In fact”—the ghost paladin paused—“I would think purchasing citizenship and a military billet for a disenfranchised resident goes a long way to securing loyalty. More so than favoring a noble’s son or daughter already born to privilege, and serving out of natural aptitude or their own sense of duty.”

  Jonah nodded and sipped more cautiously this time. The bitter taste of caffeine was well-cloaked by the round, aromatic flavor of the tea. He let it sit in the back of his mouth a moment, determined to enjoy one thing in this afternoon. As with anything, though, savor too long and the bitter crept back in.

  As with the senators, left unchecked for so many years. Noble born, every one of them. And from families with long histories of dominant rule. Histories that stretched back centuries, compared to The Republic’s mere six decades. Why hadn’t anyone else wondered about their reaction once Devlin Stone stepped down from power? Stepped down… and disappeared.

  The promise of Stone’s return, should he be needed, was a widely known tale. But that’s all it remained. Not even Jonah, with his access to state secrets, could penetrate that level of security. Was there a shadow organization, then? Something Stone had set into place to watch the watchers?

  Clearly some senators had thought the promise apocryphal, doubting Stone’s ability or desire to return. Jealous of the exarch’s power, remembering the before times when nobles controlled the fate of the Inner Sphere, the cabal’s plan had been simple and ambitious at the same time. Get their hooks into the rising stars of The Republic’s military arm, and work to get them noticed as knights and, eventually, paladins. At that level, even one or two owned men could bear undue influence in upper-level military policy. And if one could be made exarch…

  As conspiracies went, this was well-planned for the long haul. If it hadn’t been discovered, it might very well have succeeded. But one paladin put it together. One very well-connected, very extraordinary man.

  And it cost Victor Steiner-Davion his life.

  Jonah swallowed his tea, letting it warm his throat. “Such a waste,” he said, speaking of the cabal’s efforts and Victor’s loss all in one.

  The ghost paladin nodded. Understanding. “Some of our information comes from running down Victor’s leads, of course. Though we have never fully reconstructed the data erased after his assassination, or half of his sources. The memory of his caregiver—what she saw during the course of her duties—is still our best starting point.”

  “And we have nothing direct linking Mallowes to Victor’s murder? A money trail? Testimony?”

  “Nothing. We have the senator cold on conspiracy charges, but the rest is difficult. Henrik Morten is our direct access to the extortion and undue-influence case. We know Mallowes ordered him t
o bird-dog Victor once it became clear that Victor was snooping around. Morten conned information from the caregiver, then later ordered her unsuccessful murder contract to cover those tracks. We have that much in confession.” And he produced a small data wafer, slipped it onto the edge of the exarch’s desk.

  Jonah left it alone. It seemed that every time he turned around, he was dealing with more state secrets than he’d ever wanted to know about. The interrogation and confession of Henrik Morten was video footage he could do without.

  “It is a logical conclusion,” the ghost paladin continued, “that Mallowes also dealt the lethal blow to Paladin Steiner-Davion in between those two events.”

  “But it cannot be proved,” Jonah complained. He set his tea aside, no longer interested in it. “The rest would be enough to convict him in Noble’s Court, if we were certain the other senators would stand an impartial trial. But it is Victor’s murder I want to hang over the whole cabal! The man was a bona fide hero and a living legend. He deserved better!”

  The other man remained silent, neither agreeing with nor refuting the commentary. It was not his position to suggest or make policy, Jonah knew. He was the exarch’s greatest secret resource, and nothing more.

  “There is no way to discover the extent of this conspiracy?” Jonah asked, resignation telling in the sudden loss of indignation.

  The other man shook his head. “Not without a conviction in Noble’s Court to force Mallowes to open his mouth in exchange for leniency.”

  “Let the conspirators police their own?” Jonah grimaced, the aftertaste of his tea turning more bitter by the moment. It wouldn’t happen. The senators had betrayed and attacked the very state entrusted into their hands by the people. “Not a chance. They can scream ‘separation of powers’ all they wish. Until they start cooperating with a military investigation of the Senate, we stay the course.”

  The ghost paladin set his own cup aside. Leaning back, he steepled his hands beneath his chin, considering. “You know they are proceeding with argument for your censure,” he reminded the exarch, carefully retaining his neutrality.

  Jonah did. The talk wasn’t exactly quiet anymore. By public fiat the Senate threatened to nationalize federal powers, working through The Republic’s planetary governors who were held responsible to the Senate and not to the exarch. Any other time, in the face of a common enemy, this show of solidarity among nobles might be heartening. Here, it turned his stomach. Censure the exarch! Devlin Stone would be sick to see what a complete shambles they had made of his flawed utopia.

  “Maybe it’s time,” he decided, seizing on this last thought. “Time to remind them where we came from, and what The Republic was meant to accomplish.” He set a fist upon his desk. Its glass top felt cool to the touch. “One thing for certain, we must have our house in order before the Inner Sphere leaders start arriving.”

  This raised an eyebrow. “You’ve received confirmation, then?”

  “Some.” The exarch relaxed. Slightly. “The Rasalhague Dominion and Marik-Stewart Commonwealth so far. And House Liao.”

  “Liao?” The ghost paladin raised an eyebrow.

  Daoshen had been the one leader they both felt certain would ignore the invitation. “Never underestimate the power of paranoia. Daoshen’s message was terse but insightful. He wishes to make certain that Victor is ‘well and truly dead.’ I think he means to stick the body with a sharp pin.” He shrugged. “Of the others… I believe most will come.”

  Jonah’s predecessor, Damien Redburn, had been wise to orchestrate events the way he had. A call to the state funeral of Victor Steiner-Davion. Hardly a Successor State or other realm could refuse such an event. Adoration or enmity, all owed Victor something.

  “It will be the largest summit of Inner Sphere leaders since the formation of The Republic,” he said.

  “Victor’s family is already protesting his lying in state,” the ghost paladin warned. “It will not look good if Gavin and Simone do not attend, or—worse—speak against the ceremony as going against their grandfather’s wishes.”

  “It can’t be helped. It is a too-convenient opportunity—and possibly our last chance—to halt the fear and distrust behind the last two years of escalating violence. I know that Victor would not have wanted such pomp and pageantry. But Victor is dead. And the man was both a paladin and a patriot—he would not begrudge us this last service. The Republic must survive. Victor can buy us time to find new options.”

  “And the senators?”

  “Must be kept on a tight leash.”

  He was asking something of the ghost paladin now. Both men knew it. Jonah had no doubt he’d created another entry in the growing file inherited from Damien Redburn. The exarch’sEYES ONLY report.

  “Give GioAvanti and Sinclair whatever support you can,” Exarch Jonah Levin ordered. “Whatever they need. The Republic must not appear divided and weak. With everything else we have to deal with, my friend, this we can ill afford. Certainly the Senate—the right-thinking members in their body—will come to realize that.”

  The ghost paladin leaned forward. A diamond-edged glint shined in his eyes. “What will you do?” he asked.

  Jonah Levin reached for his cup again.

  “If I must,” he said, “I will put the fear of Stone back in them.”

  3

  …At the office. I stopped to say a short prayer.

  …In Mo’s, and most of us had a quick toast. About damn time he paid for his sins.

  …Who?

  —KBT—Kathil Broadcast Trivid, excerpts from “WHERE WERE YOU: The Death of Victor Steiner-Davion,” Kathil, 19 December 3134

  Firgrove

  Federated Suns

  18 January 3135

  The winds had strengthened in the last hour since Caleb’s rushed landing on the world of Firgrove. Warm and dry, with a touch of static electricity picked up off the surrounding desert, the steady zephyr bent the tops of tall ponderosa pines surrounding the military academy and whistled through bleacher stands erected on the parade grounds. It wrestled with the guideon bearers of each cadet company for their red-and-gold standards. Here and there the winds also snagged a utility cap, or a loose-leaf prayer sheet dropped by attending alumni, and tumble-dragged it across the grinder.

  Scents of desert sandstone and sage chased the winds. Dry thunder rumbled in the distance—which seemed strange to Caleb, with not a cloud in the sky and the yellow-orange sun blazing so fiercely in local summer. He kept a curious watch for any glimpse of Firgrove’s legendary ball lightning, though officers had promised him no such phenomena happened over the academy. Too many grounding rods. Clusters of the tall metal poles stood a silent vigil at every avenue corner and staked out the parade grounds like a widely spaced picket fence.

  Still Caleb watched, distracted. Which caused him to jump his cue.

  “We take great pride in saluting the final passing of so great a man, soldier and peer of the realm,” Commandant Laurent Gadbois said.

  Of course the commandant spoke of Victor Steiner-Davion. But hearing “peer of the realm” Caleb stood, anticipating his own introduction. Gadbois had not quite reached the end of his own remarks. The silver-haired officer nodded.

  “We also welcome Prince Harrison Davion’s favor,” the militia officer said, “shown us in the visit of his son and heir. Firgrove Military Academy will long remember this honor, even for so sad an occasion. That the news of Victor’s passing reached us alongside his arrival we take as welcome. For there are none better to lead us in this brief farewell than the Duke of Taygeta, a commander-emeritus in the Davion Guards, and our future First Prince. Caleb… Hasek… Sandoval… Davion.”

  Caleb froze an accepting smile of acknowledgment on his face, never letting his annoyance show for the holovid cameras. Being left to stand while Gadbois finished his inane lead-in did not sit well. Yes, he had insisted on full honors and lineage. Who else in the entirety of the Federated Suns claimed bloodlines of the realm’s three leading dynasties;
leaders of the Capellan and Draconis Marches as well as the ruling line?

  But he didn’t care for the way the academy’s senior officer drew out the patronymic, making it sound pretentious instead of properly deferential.

  “A man’s career could be ruined for less,” Mason stage-whispered from one side.

  A long-time friend and one of Caleb’s most astute councilors, Mason Lambert kept to his seat one row back and two seats to the side. His voice carried no further than Caleb and perhaps a few of the Security Service agents, so Caleb said nothing.

  He simply nodded.

  Always conscious of the image he presented, Caleb tugged at the hem of his green uniform tunic, pulling it flat across his shoulders as he stepped from VIP seating to the steps at the left side of the stage. A fine martial figure. A gilded cutlass jangled at his hip as he mounted the stage. White gloves, and leggings over his dark trouser cuffs, he wore the full ceremonial dress of a Federated Suns officer. As his father would expect of him.

  He would look the part, give his speech, and cheer on the glory of the Federated Suns.

  For the last time on this tour.

  Caleb’s reprieve had come with the death of Victor Steiner-Davion. Now he was finished with this tour at the ass end of the Federated Suns. Finished with the public relations circuit on which his father had sent him while Julian, Caleb’s cousin, enjoyed the pleasures of New Avalon and the much finer, coreward worlds. Finished with shaking hands and kissing babies. Finished with photo-op meetings in front of academy classes and megamall openings.

  Caleb paused for his last set, shaking hands with the commandant, waiting as the newsvid journalists zoomed in for stills. A dusty sage taste coated his mouth. The wind tugged at his dark curls except where sweat matted down the thicker hair behind his ears. He smiled, nodded to Gadbois, and replaced the militia officer at the lectern at the forward edge of the stage.