BATTLE IN THE BADLANDS
Marcus opened communication with his com officer, Ki-Lynn. "Where the hell are the reserves? I wanted them to close up with us ten minutes ago. This Orion is taking me a bite at a time."
"The enemy slipped their second lance of light-mediums in behind us," Ki-Lynn said, sounding unflappable as ever. "Reserves have reported two Blackjack 'Mechs causing trouble with Streak-variant short-range missile systems."
Marcus checked the nightmare that had settled over his tactical screen. The passages were so narrow and the rock thick enough to shield magscan that he had only a rough idea of where any of his men were. Half had been forced out the far northern side of the maze, up onto a plateau—part of an area known as The Fringes. These Fringes might still offer the Angels some basic cover, but beyond them were some flat desert plains. From what Marcus could tell, maybe only four of the Angels remained in this tight area of the badlands.
The battle raged all around him—and it was far out of his control....
BATTLETECH
LE5589
DOUBLE-BLIND
Loren L. Coleman
ROC
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published by Roc, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.
First Printing, April, 1997
10987654321
Copyright © FASA Corporation, 1997 All rights reserved
Series Editor Donna Ippolito Cover art by Les Dorscheid
Mechanical Drawings: Duane Loose and the FASA art department
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To my lovely wife,
Heather Joy Coleman.
For believing.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to identify the following people who conspired to make this happen.
Jim LeMonds, for starting the ride. My parents, for all their support along the way. Everyone in the Orlando Gaming Group who got me involved in "those games," with a special note to Ray Sainze. A lot of people back in aft reactor berthing, U. S. S. Theodore Roosevelt CVN-71, who were repeatedly subjected to the noise of my flywheel printer and allowed me to live.
Jonathan Bond, for helping me make first contact with those in the business. The Eugene Professional Writer's Workshop, for beating me into submission, especially Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch, who took pity on me and taught me a lot. Christopher Kubasik and Doug Tabb for giving me those first few breaks and Greg Gordon, for his all assistance in learning the game-writing field.
The wonderful people at FASA who had made this all happen. Bryan Nystul, a very patient man, and Sam Lewis, who arranged my intro to Bryan over the phone. Donna Ippolito, who took a chance with me and then helped me make this a better novel.
My wife, Heather Joy, for believing in me, and my sons, Talon Laron and Conner Rhys, for giving up time on their favorite living jungle gym.
BOOK I
All warfare is based on deception.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The actual events of war are secondary. It is how those events are perceived that occupies most of a ruler's time and effort.
Sun-Tzu Liao,
journal entry, 5 August 3051, Outreach
Prologue
Word of Blake Warehouse
Harrisburg, Gibson
Principality of Gibson, Free Worlds League
15 October 3057
Precentor Demona Aziz stepped into the doorway of the dimly lit room, an office tucked into a corner of a huge warehouse, one of several the Word of Blake organization maintained on the planet Gibson. Though the rest of the place was stacked almost to capacity with crates, barrels, and pallets of supplies, the cramped aisles smelling of dust and the diesel fumes of cargo-loaders, the office itself was spotlessly clean. The undecorated plaster walls were painted off-white, and the room was sparsely furnished with several folding metal chairs, a desk holding a small lamp that was the room's only source of light, and a white-noise generator to guarantee the privacy of any conversation.
The office window, which looked out onto a pile of crates rising almost to the ceiling, rattled as the entire floor vibrated at regularly spaced intervals. Everyone present recognized the sound as the monstrous footsteps of the ten-meter-tall BattleMech that routinely patrolled Harrisburg's warehouse district. Upon arriving, Demona had recognized the huge war machine as one of the new Grand Crusaders, its bulky frame reminding her of a squat, well-muscled wrestler. The combination of deadly intent and new technology recalled to her some words of the Blessed Blake, who had taught that "those who fight to preserve technology and knowledge are the grandest crusaders of all."
Jerome Blake. Sainted founder of the ComStar Order, the semi-religious organization that had taken upon itself the task of preserving both knowledge and technology against the apocalypse of "dark times," as prophesied by the Blake. For nearly three centuries, its members had patiently bided their time, tending the hyperpulse generators—the only means of timely communication between stars—for the Great Houses of the Inner Sphere.
As the Blessed Blake had foreseen, the vast expanse of worlds colonized and inhabited by the sons and daughters of Terra had fallen into chaos and despair during those centuries of warfare, a long dark night from which ComStar would light the path back to civilization. In recent times ComStar had tried to hasten this moment by intentionally sowing chaos, the quicker to give birth to the new order. Blake's will be done—ComStar would be the salvation of the Inner Sphere.
But ComStar had forsworn that sacred duty six years ago when the traitors Anastasius Focht and Sharilar Mori assassinated Primus Waterly and taken control of ComStar, shamelessly announcing their intention to reform the Blessed Order into a secular organization that would freely share the technical secrets it had closely guarded for centuries. Even more upsetting was that so many members of the Order were willing to follow them into this heresy.
But not all. Demona Aziz stepped into the room, leaving someone else to close the door. Such manipulative little gestures came naturally to her, this one a subtle reminder of who held the power. A half dozen members of the Word of Blake's Toyama faction sat or stood about the office, most pulling their white robes tighter about them to ward off the wa
rehouse's chill. Demona let her gold-embroidered hood fall back over the raised shoulders of her own formal robes, ignoring the cool touch of the air against her cheeks.
Her anger would keep her warm.
The man seated behind the desk rose even as she heard the quick snick of the door being closed behind her. He folded back his own hood, exposing chiseled features that took on a foreboding look in the dim light. Stepping to one side, he gestured to his chair. "Precentor," he said, nodding respectfully in greeting.
Demona shook her head, disturbing a few long, wild strands of dark hair. "I will stand, Cameron."
She had been three weeks in arriving here from Atreus, capital of the Free Worlds League. Cooped up in the tight confines of a DropShip, ferrying from one JumpShip to another in order to traverse those many light years. Being out of communication with the Inner Sphere for so long, Demona felt as if she'd been deprived of a substance, a drug vital to her existence, and was only now receiving it again. So she would allow demi-Precentor Cameron St. Jamais to keep his seat, and he would feel that much more important. Good. He was a powerful man in his own right, and Demona would need such supporters. It was for similar reasons that she put up with his theatrics—these remote meeting places, the dim lighting, the white-noise generator. She would even have been willing to bet he'd purposely turned down the warehouse thermostat to heighten the drama.
But Demona Aziz also understood the need for secrecy, perhaps better than anyone in the Toyama. She had the most to gain, and therefore also the most to lose.
When the traitors Focht and Mori seized the reins of ComStar it had been Demona Aziz, Precentor of Atreus and member of ComStar's First Circuit, who had first stood against them. She could still recall her rage and feelings of betrayal as the two heretics initiated their reforms. The ComStar Order had stood for almost three centuries, keeping communications open among the thousands of worlds of the five Great Houses that divided the starry reaches of the Inner Sphere like slices of a vast interstellar pie. To listen to Focht and Mori rant on about reform, abandoning the very premises that were the foundation of ComStar...
Aziz had fled to Atreus, there to gain the support of Captain-General Thomas Marik, ruler of the Free Worlds League. It was she who had led the righteous to a new home. She who first organized resistance to the "reformed" ComStar. She who brought into existence the Word of Blake, an organization religiously devoted to the founding principles of ComStar, as set down so long ago by the sainted Jerome Blake.
And it was she who had then been betrayed again, passed over for leadership as Thomas Marik and high-ranking members of the new organization supported Precentor Blane as spokesman for Word of Blake. Demona knew with what political coin Blane had made that purchase. Hadn't it been Blane who'd first suggested naming Thomas Marik their new leader, their Primus-in-exile? Meanwhile Demona found herself relegated to leading the Toyama, a mere minority faction within the very organization she had birthed.
For more than five years now she had worked to regain her position of prominence, confident in her divine right to lead the Word of Blake toward its destiny. The Toyama still numbered among the smaller factions, but now carried political weight surpassed only by Blane's True Believers. And inside the Toyama were powerful men and women who could do more than talk and negotiate. They could accomplish things.
Demi-Precentor Cameron St. Jamais numbered among these. He led the ultra-radical 6th of June movement, a splinter group within the Toyama that took its name from the date Primus Myndo Waterly was murdered by the traitors Focht and Mori. The 6th of June now called for the assassination of every Great House leader within the Inner Sphere. This would surely plunge known space and its people into chaos, from which the Word of Blake would lead the way back to order. Though St. Jamais' methods were yet to be tested, such convictions gave him, and by association Demona, a powerful voice. So if small doses of ego-stroking and a tolerance for his theatrics were the price to pay, Demona would accommodate him. Yes, she knew the value of secrecy, and she understood the value and mechanics of loyalty even better.
St. Jamais understood the latter as well, and remained standing as Demona turned to face each Toyama member in turn. "There is no easy way to cushion the blow that has been struck at us," she began, keeping her voice low but unable to conceal the tremor of rage. "Blane"—she pronounced his name as the vilest curse—"in his ultimate wisdom has decided that the Toyama are not to be used in retaking Terra."
All six Toyama members began to voice their angry protests, those who'd been seated leaping to their feet. Only Demona and St. Jamais remained calm. She had spent her fury in private, during the first few days of travel to Gibson, and St. Jamais never allowed himself emotional outbursts.
Terra, the birthplace of humanity, had been under the direct control of ComStar for almost three centuries. Taking it from the heretics would be the test of Word of Blake's faith. Of our divine right. Preparations for Operation Odysseus had been in the works for some two years now, with the Toyama instrumental in several areas. The idea for the whole plan had, in fact, come from Demona Aziz herself—the insertion of a Word of Blake regiment onto Terra under false identity.
Demona looked to St. Jamais, who met her stare with a steely intensity. Against his dark skin the whites of his eyes almost seemed to glow eerily in the light of the desk lamp. She could sense the crouched presence within him, waiting for a direction to leap. I will give you what you long for, she promised silently.
At her nod, St. Jamais brought his hand down flat on the desk with a resounding slam. His simple order of "Enough!" stilled the buzz of complaints, which trailed off with somebody's final, "He can't do that."
"He has done it," Demona said, again turning slowly about the room to let them all see the calm but commanding mask she wore. "By not permitting us to participate in the actual battle for Terra he deprives us of the recognition we deserve."
A soft voice spoke up from Demona's left, one she recognized as that of demi-Precentor Jillian Adams. "Perhaps they will fail without us. We could cite that as a demonstration of Blane's ineptitude."
Demona shook her head firmly. "I have graciously donated two companies of the Toyama's assault BattleMechs to Precentor Blane, to replace any of lighter design or questionable repair. I have also provided him with our latest intelligence reports concerning the ComStar presence on Terra."
Demi-Precentor St. Jamais leaned forward, hands resting on the desk. "Why?"
It was not a challenge, but a simple desire for more information. Demona felt reaffirmed in her choice of lieutenants for the mission to come. "Word of Blake must succeed, with or without us. It must also prove to the whole Inner Sphere that we are a power to be reckoned with. I will not undermine its strength in order to improve our internal position."
"Then we must increase our strength by other means," St. Jamais said calmly. "To rival the support Blane will enjoy after retaking Terra."
"That and more," Demona agreed. "Once Terra has been regained, Blane plans to initiate aggressive diplomatic efforts to establish relations with the independent worlds surrounding it. At the very least he hopes to form a buffer zone with these worlds. It will also show him as a peacemaker, a powerful symbolic gesture that will cost him nothing and gain him much. I believe he has every chance of succeeding, and will then use the additional power base to declare himself Primus."
Amid another outburst from the others, St. Jamais took the news well. If Demona hadn't been watching, she might have missed the slight narrowing of the eyes and the faraway look that showed him lost in thought for but a few seconds before his gaze shifted carefully back to her. Yes, Cameron, she thought. The Primacy is never far from your thoughts either, is it? You are young still, but you are learning. She offered him a thin smile, her gaze steady. You may hold that office one day, for your ambition might drive you the distance, but only when I am done with it.
St. Jamais was first to regain full composure, quieting the others and then holding the fl
oor by sheer force of will. "Perhaps Precentor Blane has grown too important in his own eyes, as have other Inner Sphere leaders."
Demona recognized the barely veiled suggestion, but she had already rejected the idea of loosing the 6th of June against Blane. "Absolutely not. Such practices are reserved for use outside our Blessed Order."
Demona allowed them all a moment of reflection before continuing. "Precentor Blane has not been so obvious as to keep the Toyama away without some pretext, no matter how contrived. He thinks he is much too clever for that."
She smiled to herself at the thought. "Blane claims he is too occupied with planning and mobilizing our forces for Operation Odysseus to oversee other important agendas." She let her eyes travel over every face in the group. "And so he has asked me to oversee another of his schemes: engineering a full alliance between the Magistracy of Canopus and the Taurian Concordat."
She paused to let the others take this in. The Concordat and the Magistracy were two of the more powerful states of the Periphery, that distant region of space beyond the borders of the Inner Sphere. Emma Centrella, Magestrix of Canopus, had already negotiated a limited alliance with the neighboring Concordat. But everyone in this room knew more than they would ever tell about how that particular event had come to pass.
"Blane even cited 'current hostilities between the Magistracy and the Marian Hegemony' as a possible area of exploitation," she added, her smile growing broader.
Precentor Raymond Gabriel managed a dry chuckle, despite all the dire news. “The man is a fool. Word of Blake would welcome the creation of a new state in the Periphery to rival a Successor House, but Blane must think that mere fortune and prayer will drop into his lap every tool he needs to accomplish it. We could smuggle weapons on his personal ship underneath his own bed and he would never know it."
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