Sword of Sedition mda-15

by Loren L. Coleman

  A second, lower pass in partial hover mode had taken twenty-two slow, excruciating minutes, and Julian pressed forward against the ferroglass walls of the portside viewing lounge with the rest of the diplomats and off-world delegates. Marking where the ComStar main compound had once stood, and finding the slabs of reinforced ferrocrete that were all that was left of a parade grounds or small DropPort. The steel-girder skeleton of a single building still thrust itself from the churning waters. Vegetation, what little survived the high background count of radiation, was stunted and coarse and twisted. Parodies of the island’s former strength.

  “Hilton Head Island was the de facto capital of Terra during ComStar and, later, the Word of Blake years.”

  The professional narration continued even in the stairwell. A soft feminine voice, but serious.

  “A seat for powerful organizations that controlled a virtual monopoly on all interstellar communication throughout the Inner Sphere. ComStar’s formidable military strength was first suspected in 3025, when a glimpse of the island’s underground warrens by outsiders proved the organization had safeguarded or restored several regiments of pristine, Star League–era BattleMechs.”

  Another turn. Another flight of diamond-grate stairs.

  “When ComStar emptied their vaults to defeat the Clans at Tukayyid in 3052, it was thought that most of Hilton Head’s extensive complex fell into disuse. Until Word of Blake captured Terra, in 3058, and restored the underground complex.

  “Exactly what resources these facilities lent Blakist forces preparing for and conducting the Jihad, we will never know. At least one nuclear warhead in the fifty megaton range detonated far below the surface of the island, collapsing the tunnels and great caverns. The island’s center imploded even as other weapons—conventional and strategic—blasted its surface. What once had been a landmark of beauty and power, one hundred twenty square kilometers of cultivated forests and a sprawling, modern complex, was reduced in the space of a single hour to scorched bedrock and radioactive debris.”

  “And that,” Aaron Sandoval said firmly as Julian finally gained the upper observation deck, “was nothing less than the entire place deserved.”

  Aaron Sandoval wore a double-breasted suit rather than noble’s finery or the paramilitary uniform he’d adopted leading his Swordsworn to the aid of Prefecture V. Today, he appeared more the businessman or a conventional politician on a junket than one of the most powerful men in The Republic.

  The enclosed deck stretched wide enough to open up smoke-tinted portals on both sides of the narrow-bodied shuttlecraft. The two men had it to themselves, as the view from here was poor compared to the port and starboard lounges below, with their ferroglass walls and better angle on ground-based landmarks. Even the large digital monitors at the front and rear of the deck offered a better vision of the shattered island than the side portals, which posed the problem of seeing down over the curve of the shuttle’s hull.

  Standing near the forward monitor, Aaron turned down the volume on the nearby intercom system, leaving only a soft whisper reaching them from aft.

  “Do you really believe that?” Julian asked the duke and lord governor. As he approached, Aaron stepped forward and the two men shook hands. Brief but firm.

  “Why not?” Aaron said. Shrugged. “ComStar, and especially Word of Blake, caused more than their share of misery in the history of the Inner Sphere. And we’re still reaping this particular whirlwind. The Blackout. Why didn’t we learn decades ago the hazards of being so dependent on HPG communications?”

  There was a nearby table with a tray of iced drinks on it. Fresh; the glasses still sweating. Aaron had thoughtfully provided refreshments, as well as the conspicuous absence of service personnel. Julian helped himself to a glass of sparkling sweet seltzer. A sip helped clear the dry taste from his palate while he thought.

  Aaron’s question had sounded rhetorical, so he left it alone. Instead, he answered the lord governor’s first statement.

  “Their fair share of misery… There are few who could withstand that charge historically, Davions and Sandovals included.”

  Did the duke flinch? Julian couldn’t be certain.

  “And House Kurita most recently,” Aaron said.

  “Yes.”

  There wasn’t much else Julian could say. For the last five days, people had talked about little else, in private or public. Including the young scions, who continued to mingle carefully, and in meetings at the highest levels of power, which Julian continued to audit at Prince Harrison’s request. News of the first skirmishes between Draconis Combine and Republic forces eclipsed the expanding Liao war effort as headlining news, and also the ongoing struggle between Senate loyalists and Republic nationals happening right here on Terra.

  “Vincent Kurita maintains that his realm has no official standing in the conflict.”

  “And you believe that?” A hint of the Sandoval paranoia regarding the Dragon peeking through. And extra emphasis on the you. Aaron helped himself to a shallow glass of a dark scarlet wine.

  Julian sipped more of the sweet seltzer. He wagged his head. Not committing himself, or his prince, in any way. “It could be just as he says, two renegade leaders wrapped up in their own honor. Katana Tormark has certainly been agitating worlds on both sides of the borders. Warlord Benjamin could be simply following in the same form.”

  “But what do you believe, Julian? The Dragon’s troops on the march? You must have a personal opinion.”

  There was no way to be certain if Aaron Sandoval asked on behalf of The Republic, the powerful Sandoval dynasty, or himself. Which was Prince Harrison’s trouble in trying to deal with the lord governor; the man played his cards far too close, and bet conservatively.

  “I think House Kurita has always been a formidable foe and, at times, a strong ally. I would never seek a war with them.” Especially as the Federated Suns continued to prepare for certain hostilities with the Capellan Confederation. But there was no need to mention that to Aaron Sandoval.

  And no need to preempt the prince’s decision, either.

  “But if the Combine stepped over the line, I would not hesitate to meet them.”

  Aaron smirked. “A sentiment you proved with your recent showing in the simulators. A fine performance, by the way. Though I’m sure the prince must have hoped for a more unambiguous victory, especially with bootleg roms of the entire battle already available on the market.”

  Julian’s turn to wince. This would be his second political headache involving simulators. His and Callandre’s both. Though because of it, he had been approached with quite a bit of cautious praise. The young nobles and even some of the experienced delegates still weren’t sure what to make of one another, but it helped when they had an icebreaker. Like discussing the finer points of the simulated battle, or what Julian thought of his opponents, or his allies, in the honor match.

  “Regardless,” Julian said, “Prince Harrison is taking good advantage of the moment. I’ve hardly had a moment to myself since that day.”

  “And now I am intruding with my request for this meeting. I could tell you that I’m sorry, but it would be a shallow apology, I’m afraid.”

  Shaking his head, Julian pointed out some nearby seats they could occupy, nodded the lord governor ahead of him.

  “Don’t worry about it. This is my third tour of the violent scars left behind after the Jihad. And the worst of them all, I think, though I have the Manhattan ruins and Gorst Flats still to visit.”

  No matter the mounting tensions or shifting political landscape, Harrison Davion continued to insist that Julian visit the militarily and politically poignant historical landmarks of Terra, either in the prince’s company or with other important leaders from around The Republic and Inner Sphere. Not many cultural centers or museums of art in the champion’s future.

  But Harrison had something in mind. That was becoming more apparent every day. Julian exhaled heavily. “Though after this excursion,” he said with great ser
iousness, “I may see to chartering a private flight.”

  Aaron laughed, calm and steady: a politician’s laugh. He took a seat at the same time as Julian, easing his tall frame into one of the leather-backed tube-constructed chairs that were so common in executive shuttles and civilian DropShips.

  “Having a rough day, Lord Davion? It can’t be any worse than the shuttle’s starboard lounge, where my ticket sentenced me.”

  “Julian, please. And I don’t know about that. It’s been …an experience.”

  Aaron Sandoval leaned forward, suddenly energized. “All right, I’ll play my hand against yours. What have you got?”

  If Julian thought Aaron was serious at all in an attempt to show his true hand, he’d be far more worried for his uncle’s absence. Still, this was a game safe enough for now. “A pair of Captains-General,” Julian said. “Anson Marik and Cameron-Jones. You can put those two at the same table or across the entire lounge, and they’ll hold a bitter conversation at volume over whom should resurrect the Free Worlds League.”

  “Never admitting that it is simply beyond the resources of either one,” Aaron interjected.

  “Exactly. And the one thing they can agree on is that they will oppose Jessica Marik to their last coin and final bullet.” In fact, only the low-level pass over Hilton Head’s ruins had silenced them both, for a moment, until Anson made a point, loudly, of how Cameron-Jones’ ancestors had been among those to welcome the Word of Blake in the old days of the League.

  “So?” Julian asked. “What’s your hand?”

  “Three Dracs,” Aaron said, deadpan. “Warlord Toranaga, Yori Kurita, and one of the coordinator’s advisors.”

  Julian didn’t hold back his grimace. “It must be very… polite in there.”

  “To the point of screaming. Bowing and smiles, and cold, murderous looks. Their arrival killed all conversation before takeoff, and the bounce from Geneva was very chilly. And apparently no one’s office of foreign affairs considered the inherent problems in seating a Sandoval, even one from The Republic, so close to high-level members from the Draconis Combine. I half-expected a katana at my throat when I moved too quickly for the viewing window earlier.”

  Annoyed Julian might be, but his professional relationship with the “Marik” leaders stopped far short of personal animosity. “I think I’ll fold to your raise,” he said. Then: “What’s on your mind, Lord Governor?”

  “Aaron, Julian. Aaron.” He took a tentative sip at his red wine, untouched until now, then nodded his approval. “We’re close enough to family and political companions to make titles superficial.”

  “How is that, when I champion the Federated Suns and you are one of The Republic’s most vaunted administrators?”

  But to this, the lord governor of Prefecture IV and Duke Caselton merely smiled, and took another sip of his wine.

  One point to Sandoval. It served Julian right for asking the question directly, trying to get the man to tip his hand. In the awkward silence that followed, he might try to speculate on the relationship, and see if Aaron would lean one way or another. Might.

  Instead, he turned to the video monitor, watching the trivid display as the shuttle swung around one last time to view new highlights. On the backside of the twisted framework of metal girders Julian had seen earlier, lying in five meters of water, the outlines of two rusted-over BattleMechs could be seen lying prostrate on the lifeless shoal.

  It amazed him, the clearness of the water here. But then there were no seaweed beds or thick algae in these waters. No living coral. Only a touch of silt, washed up from deeper floors.

  Chilling.

  “You must understand,” Aaron said a moment later. “Except for joining the prince for the viewing of Victor’s remains, my access to Harrison Davion has been less than optimal. And it is exactly my position within The Republic that prevents me from making too strong a push for an audience. My exarch, I believe, would rather I kept my distance from House Davion.”

  Fair enough. “We have received much the same …impression.”

  “Your schedule, at least, is slightly less daunting.”

  Julian nodded. “Which is why you sent your nephew, Erik, ahead. To feel out the waters.” Julian glanced at the monitor again. Saw the unnaturally clear ocean rolling over shattered bedrock, and swallowed hard. “So to speak.”

  This time the lord governor did not exactly confirm Julian’s supposition. “Erik’s report was not encouraging, though the boy rarely knows what it is I’m looking for.” Keying up the point that Julian could not be certain, either. “Still, given your resistance, and the prince’s unavailability, I’ve been content to be patient.”

  “And now?” Julian asked.

  But Aaron waited. Waited for him to open with one of the two most-obvious gambits. The Dragon again, which dealt the Sandoval dynasty into the game, or local politics, which brought in the exarch. This man was a master player. Julian chose to gamble conservatively.

  “Tikonov,” he guessed.

  “What have you heard about Tikonov?” Aaron asked, very, very still. Giving away neither pleasure nor disappointment in Julian’s choice.

  How to answer that? “Everything Prince Harrison knows, I believe. I’ve been kept abreast of most reports concerning the fighting here on Terra and around The Republic.” Which said a lot, and not much all at the same time.

  “Have you?” Aaron asked. “That is interesting. And yet Caleb Davion was hard pressed to say what planets are currently being contested by House Liao.”

  Harrison had arranged for Aaron to meet with Caleb? Or had Erik slipped into the young heir’s schedule? “Caleb has his priorities. Harrison Davion has mine.”

  “Does he.” It was not a question, this time.

  Julian simply shrugged, letting the stakes stay on the table. He saw no reason to mention that such had been his father’s advice, when Julian first looked toward a life in the military under Harrison’s sponsorship. “Being a prince’s man, Jules, will often demand your very best. I know you have that to give. But it must come without reservations and without hesitation.”

  Julian had not always lived by such a priority. And regretted those years when he had not, taking the prince’s favor for granted. His father, as was so often the case, had the right of it. A little early on his advice, as if knowing he did not have many years left in him, but, ultimately, right.

  “Taking the Swordsworn into Prefecture V,” Aaron said, “relieved a great deal of pressure against local Republic garrisons. But it opened my worlds to attack. Tikonov is the nerve center of Prefecture IV and of the Swordsworn. These recent raids could be nothing more than flanking assaults, meant to drive me back into my own territory, leaving New Aragon open for a major blitz.”

  “But they could be something more,” Julian said. “Probing attacks to test your strengths and weaknesses at home. And Tikonov was once one of the crown jewels in the Capellan crown.”

  “Precisely. And I should not need to point out that if Tikonov falls, it would destabilize the border between The Republic and the Federated Suns.”

  Implying that House Davion had a major stake in keeping the world secure for Aaron Sandoval. Or, possibly more on point, that having a Sandoval in power along the border was good for the Suns’ long-term interests in the region. There were reports that the Draconis March lords had already moved “peacekeeping” forces into the area, to supplement Swordsworn positions. There was no proof that the lord governor had invited such assistance, but neither had he protested very strongly.

  Was Aaron Sandoval playing both sides for his own benefit? Or was there more in play here than a stable border?

  “Certainly Exarch Levin could be persuaded to put a regiment of the Principes Guards or Hastati Sentinels on Tikonov?” Julian suggested.

  The lord governor gave him a sickly smile. “Certainly. Though I would hate to tax The Republic when its forces are needed against Liao and the Jade Falcons, and now House Kurita as well…” He trailed
off suggestively. Then: “Let me ask you, Julian. Would you consider The Republic a strong ally?”

  Meaning, did Julian, and Prince Harrison, give better than even odds of The Republic surviving the next six months or a year? Julian thought that might be the question lurking behind Aaron’s careful words. The duke seemed to be searching for a pledge of interest, or support, before he committed to any long-range goals of his own. What would Harrison ask Julian to do? Encourage Aaron Sandoval to defect back toward his roots in the Federated Suns? Bolster the man up here, such that House Davion would end up with a strong ally within a stable Republic?

  He’d tell Julian to keep his options open. Always.

  “As well let me ask you, Lord Governor: How will you respond to the exarch’s order that you oppose and arrest any senators seeking asylum or returning to their base of power inside your prefecture?”

  How much was Aaron planning to undercut the exarch’s direct authority? That would be a very telling indicator.

  Aaron rose in a fluid motion, wine glass cradled, forgotten, in his right hand. He appeared to be wrestling with how to answer, which in itself spoke volumes, as no doubt the duke and lord governor were aware. In a case such as this, not answering could be as damning, or as certain, as answering.

  But before Aaron Sandoval made up his mind one way or another, the shuttle banked slowly away from the ruins of Hilton Head. Julian felt the shift as acceleration tilted gravity back on its heels for a moment, and knew the touring shuttle had turned its “jump” thrusters over for a horizontal vector once again. The shattered island fell away on the nearby screen, receding quickly as the small craft sped toward its next destination. Inland, where the diplomats would visit a mothballed complex at Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

  “Cameron’s Last Stand,” the onboard “guide” whispered from the back of the observation deck. “Sixty minutes.”