Fortress of Lies

by J. Steven York

  Around the room, a dozen combat controllers sat at individual consoles, relaying orders and situational data to the field commanders. The room buzzed with many voices talking at once, yet it was also strangely calm as each controller focused intently on their own console.

  A few supervisory controllers walked the room, observing and stopping to intervene with some detail. Occasionally a runner would come through to hand a document or a cup of coffee to one of the controllers.

  From Aaron’s seat, he could look down on the controllers and their consoles, as well as on a ring of holodisplays that surrounded his position. He seemed quiet, but nothing escaped his attention.

  There was one overarching pattern: The red icons representing House Liao forces were all on the retreat, falling rapidly back to beachhead areas where DropShips waited to spirit them away, or to the spaceport in the capital city of Argos, still nominally under their control.

  To a casual observer, the victory for Duke Sandoval’s forces seemed decisive and overwhelming. But the Duke fully appreciated how fragile the situation was. As House Liao forces fell back nearly as fast as the Duke’s forces could follow, they collapsed their own supply lines in front of them, even as his were stretched ever thinner.

  House Liao seemed on the verge of withdrawing from the planet, but Aaron had studied just enough Aikido to know how an attacker’s own energy could be turned against him. The greater it was, the more it could be used to the attacker’s disadvantage. His troops—his SwordSworn—were pushing hard to keep up with the retreat.

  The door to the room slid open with a hiss, and a handsome woman with streaks of gray in her shoulder-length brown hair entered the room. She wore a trim black suit with pale blue piping; loose sleeves framed her carefully manicured hands. Her perfume was musky and, to Aaron’s taste, rather unpleasant. Apparently the scent was quite popular among both women and men on New Aragon, but he had heard some of his troops jokingly refer to the scent as “swamp cabbage.”

  Her makeup was immaculate, but she looked tired. Like many people, she apparently had trouble sleeping under stress, a problem Aaron had never shared. Ostensibly, she had no business in the command center. This was a military matter, not a civilian one. Another military commander might have asked her to leave, especially at such a critical juncture, but Aaron’s political sense would not allow it. New Aragon would not always be at war, and Marilou Grogan was the planetary governor, after all.

  He repressed a sigh. She remained his major stumbling block to bringing New Aragon under his influence—a possibility that had seemed remote when they’d first arrived. To Aaron’s distress, he discovered that Prefect Shun Tao, Prefecture V’s supreme military commander, had stationed himself on New Aragon in order to be closer to the line of resistance against House Liao’s invasion.

  While Shun Tao was in no position to refuse Aaron’s aid, he was a fierce Republic loyalist, and justifiably suspicious of the Duke’s motives. Aaron was well outside his own Prefecture, meddling without invitation from the local government. From Aaron’s standpoint, it was as though he’d been caught with his hand in the candy jar. Their relationship had been chilly, and Aaron knew that his presence on New Aragon would be welcomed only so long as his forces were militarily necessary.

  Then there had been an astounding reversal. The official reports said that Shun Tao had been wounded in early fighting. The Prefect had been evacuated from the planet, and simultaneously the Prefecture’s forces had begun pulling back, abandoning the world to the House Liao advance. Aaron suspected there was more to Tao’s withdrawal than that. Perhaps the man had been recalled, or had simply cracked under the strain.

  Though he was too pragmatic to put much stock in such things, Aaron could not help but think of it as divine intervention—a sign that his campaign was meant to succeed. He would repel House Liao’s aggression, and bring many new worlds under his banner, ultimately to pledge them to the renewed glory of House Davion, from which his family had drawn power and prestige. The Republic, though a noble experiment, was rapidly proving itself a failed one, and Aaron wanted to be ready when its remains were divided.

  But every journey was a series of steps. Divine intervention or not, the traveler could stumble, or even fall. First, he had not only to win New Aragon, but to gain its continued allegiance to his cause. The ongoing battle with Liao would justify the alliance for the foreseeable future, but Aaron hoped for more than that. He could see The Republic crumbling around them, Prefecture V more than most. If the people of New Aragon could not count on their own Prefect and Lord Governor for protection and stability, they would turn elsewhere. Hopefully they would turn to him.

  Much could go wrong. Much had gone wrong already. Aaron tried not to let it concern him. His grandmother had been fond of telling him that, “For the wise, each failure teaches fifty lessons, and with each setback comes fifty opportunities.” He had always tried to live his life by those words, seeing each day, good or bad, as a springboard to an infinity of bright tomorrows.

  This philosophy had led many to criticize him as being a reckless dreamer. He suspected that some even thought him mad. He didn’t care. He had noticed that those criticisms became more muted each time his power and status increased.

  With Shun Tao out of the picture, a new range of possibilities had opened, and Aaron was quick to position himself in response, establishing relations with the remaining local powers. He’d had no trouble with the Legate, New Aragon’s military commander. He’d immediately seen the Duke’s forces as the saving grace they were, and he had no desire to try and step into the Prefect’s shoes. Aaron had put him in charge of operations on the other continent, and the Prefect willingly placed himself under Aaron’s authority, a neat arrangement that kept him out of Aaron’s hair.

  The Governor, on the other hand, had no real authority over the military, which was Aaron’s immediate concern, and yet she was too politically valuable to ignore. Should their forces be successful in this theater, Aaron would later have need of the resources, manufacturing capabilities, money, and public support that were within her sphere of influence.

  Yet she remained a cipher to him. The extent of her loyalties to The Republic and her own Lord Governor were unknown, and it was unclear to Aaron whether she would respond better to diplomatic seduction or simple intimidation. Perhaps he would try a little of both.

  A narrow aisle separated the raised platform, on which he sat, from the rest of the room. She walked purposefully over to stand in front of him. He glanced down at her and smiled what he knew, from hours of practice in front of a mirror, was a reassuring smile. “Things are going well, Marilou. With luck, we may have the capital firmly back in our control by tomorrow afternoon.”

  She flinched slightly when he used her first name. She evidently did not enjoy his familiarity, but was in no position to object. It was the sort of subtle display of power and authority that the Duke enjoyed.

  “I would prefer to be in the capital myself, instead of cowering here in your DropShip.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And do what? Get yourself shot? I don’t know if you’re more concerned about your people or political appearances, but trust me, neither of them would have been served if you’d stayed in the capital and gotten killed or captured. Nothing will speed the return of New Aragon to normality when this is over than a big parade through the center of Argos to the Capitol Building, celebrating your triumphant return.”

  “If your intelligence reports are accurate, one wing of the Capitol is a burned-out hulk, and the dome has collapsed. Some celebration that will be.”

  He grinned. “Then you’ll stand on the ruined steps, praise the courage of the New Aragon people, and vow to rebuild, bigger and grander than ever, with a memorial park for the war dead right in front.”

  She pursed her lips and considered. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you, Duke Sandoval? Even the New Aragonians who are dying out there can be stacked up as a neat political platform.”
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  He frowned slightly. “You make me sound cold, Governor. We fight the best war we can fight, and nothing will bring back those who perish. I’m merely practical. Their sacrifice can be given additional meaning, if it helps to strengthen our Republic in its time of trouble.” He studied her face at the mention of The Republic. He saw no reaction; perhaps she wasn’t a loyalist after all. He thought perhaps that her first loyalty might be to herself. If so, that was good news. Greed and self-interest were readily exploited. He smiled.

  “If I’ve learned anything in my years, it’s that any disaster, no matter how grim, can be given a political spin,” he said. “There are no defeats—only opportunities. There are no casualties—only fallen heroes.”

  “I won’t be happy until I have my capital city back, no matter the condition that it’s in.” She studied the maps, her face showing a great deal more comprehension of the abstract symbols than he would have expected. She blinked, then looked up at him with a slight frown of puzzlement. “Couldn’t you have taken the city already? It seems that you have more than enough forces in place in the suburbs.”

  He nodded. “But if I were to take the city, logically my first action would be to sweep up along the north-south arteries and take the spaceport.”

  The frown deepened. “And? That seems like a good thing.”

  “The spaceport is speeding their retreat. If I took it, the forces in the area would be cut off. They’d have to try to retake it and make a fighting retreat to another staging area, or House Liao would have to redeploy forces to support them.”

  “Still, shouldn’t you then be able to crush them?”

  “In theory, if everything went perfectly, I could wipe out a good part of their forces and put a dent in their aggressive advance across this part of space.”

  “Again, this seems a good thing.”

  “It’s a trap. Even if it wasn’t intentionally set, it’s just as easy to fall into. I have no reserves left to back up such an attack. None.” Or at least none that could be moved without leaving us critically vulnerable somewhere else. “If things didn’t go as planned, or if some of House Liao’s retreating forces doubled back to hold Argos, then this entire war could turn in the course of a few hours.” He looked into her eyes. “You do want your planet back, don’t you?”

  Her eyes widened as she grasped the situation. “Of course I do. I’m sorry, Lord Governor, for questioning your judgment. Of course I’m grateful that you’ve come to our aid. With the Prefect injured—perhaps even dead—and our own forces overwhelmed, your unexpected arrival was little short of a miracle—one I’m not inclined to question. I’m just tired, and concerned about my people and my planet.”

  And about getting your cushy office back as well, I’ll wager. Duke Sandoval smiled slightly and turned his attention back to the holotable.

  She stood there for a moment. Then, realizing that he was quite through talking, she walked over to the railing where she could observe the holotable.

  Aaron relaxed a bit. They were getting close to the issue of what would happen if the battle turned on them—something he didn’t want to get into with the Governor. That was, of course, the difference between her and him. This planet was everything to her. To Duke Aaron Sandoval, it was—it had to be—merely one strategically placed chess piece in a game that spanned light-years and many star systems.

  Taking advantage of the chaos that had reigned since the collapse of the Hyperpulse Generator—the faster-than-light HPG interstellar communications network—House Liao forces had swept across the outskirts of The Republic, having taken nearly half of one Prefecture, and encroaching on a second. They had succeeded in conquering a handful of worlds and thrown countless others into panic and chaos. Sandoval’s game was not to protect any particular world, but to kill House Liao’s momentum, bloody their noses, and hope that forces could be rallied to stand against them.

  New Aragon was simply the right world at the right spot on the stellar map: a place where the Duke’s limited forces would be enough to turn the tide of battle, and where winning that battle might be seen as having real importance. It was The Republic’s last remaining sizable military base in the region, the rest having fallen to the Liao invasion. Alone, unprepared, it was powerful enough to put up a good fight, but nothing more. Now, thanks to the Duke’s forces, the invaders were being repelled, and the base might now serve as a staging area for a counterattack.

  The next twenty-four hours would be critical. By then, New Aragon would either have expelled the bulk of the invaders or would be facing another round of battle that could not be won.

  If that reversal came, Aaron had little doubt as to what he would do. While he didn’t mind playing the role of gallant savior of New Aragon, the world was merely a pawn. And pawns were—regrettably for them—expendable.

  To the Duke’s mind, such decisions weren’t cruel. Cruelty required malice, and he had none. He was simply concerned with the greater good of House Davion. If New Aragon could be saved and brought under their banner, so be it. Otherwise, it was simply an unfortunate circumstance and not his concern.

  Justin Sortek, senior officer of the watch, looked up from his console. “Lord Governor, you asked to be informed when Commander Sandoval’s unit returned. They’ve just entered the bays, and Commander Sandoval is parking his ’Mech.”

  He nodded and stood. “Very good, Major. I’ll be going down to debrief him. You have the watch for the moment. I’ll have my earset on in case you need to consult me.”

  As Aaron stepped down from his platform, he passed near Sortek’s console and leaned close to his ear. “Make sure the Governor stays out of trouble while I’m gone. If the fighting heats up, have her escorted out. Any pretense will do.”

  The Duke slipped into the elevator and watched the blast doors slide closed in front of him. His stomach fluttered slightly as the lift abruptly dropped toward the deck of the ’Mech bay below. He had a rare moment of privacy, and despite his best efforts, he felt the pressure of his situation bearing down on him. He leaned back against the railing, feeling its cool dura-plast under his palms. He squeezed tightly, as though he could crush the plastic with his bare hands, trying to drive his doubts and emotions back into the dark recess where he kept them hidden. So much depended on this battle, the decisions he would make, and the ones to which he had long ago committed.

  The door slid open, and the sights, sounds, and especially the smells of the ’Mech bay washed over him. He sniffed the odor of hot hydraulic fluid and lubricants, burned powder, rocket exhaust, ozone, sweat, and a slight stink of fear. It mixed with the smells of New Aragon: crushed vegetation, stagnant water, a hint of salt from a nearby marsh.

  Once again, the eyes of others were upon him, and Aaron realized he needed to project the proper authority due his rank. He straightened, back stiff, shoulders squared, chin high, doubts forgotten. He stepped through the doors, hearing the chatter of air tools, loudspeakers droning orders, warning buzzers, the whir of electric motors, and the occasional thunderous footsteps of a ’Mech moving across the deck.

  Through the open doors he could hear the distant chatter of gunfire and muffled explosions. DropShips were normally kept far behind the front lines, but the current rapid enemy movement had caused Aaron to cut that margin somewhat. The line was moving again, and soon it would again be time for the Victory to leapfrog its contingent of troops, armor, and ’Mechs in one five-minute hop.

  Despite the powerful equipment moving all around him, Duke Sandoval moved through the ’Mech bay with the confidence and assurance that comes only from experience. Even old hands were known to cower a bit when a fifty-ton BattleMech passed a little too close to them on the bay floor, but the Duke had confidence that, battle weary as they were, his MechWarriors would stay within the painted walkways—the lines beyond which men and lesser machines were always subject to trampling. These were, after all, members of the elite Davion Guard, who saw themselves as being among the best-trained and best-equipp
ed MechWarriors in The Republic, perhaps even rivaling the Knights of the Sphere. They prided themselves on their courage, professionalism, discipline and, above all, precision.

  Thus, he found himself sighing as he looked at Erik’s Centurion—its heat sinks still giving off shimmering columns of hot air—which stood in the support structure in front of him.

  Commander Erik Sandoval carefully stepped his Centurion backwards and heard the clunks and scrapes as various hard-points and support umbilicals lined up on his ’Mech. A final clunk caused his cockpit to lurch, and he heard footsteps scrambling on his hull. He pulled the hatch release.

  In a moment it swung open, a blast of cool air entering the sauna-hot cockpit from a duct deliberately positioned above. Erik saw parts of a tech’s green coveralls and brown leather gloves reaching in and patting him on his neurohelmet. In response, Erik relaxed the ’Mech just enough to lock it into the support structure, then shut the reactor down.

  He pulled off the neurohelmet, flipped the quick-release on his harness, and slumped in the seat, basking in the blast of chilled air from overhead. He looked up at the tech, a pretty woman with a few curls of honey-colored hair peeking from under her ball-cap and ear protectors. She smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.

  He smiled back weakly. That was the good thing about techs: as long as their ’Mechs were brought back more-or-less in one piece, they didn’t judge. It had not been one of his better days at the office.

  He released the harness that held him in the ejection seat, squeezed past it in the narrow confines of the cramped cockpit, and climbed out the narrow hatch in the back of the humanoid Centurion’s head. He stepped out onto the metal grid of the catwalk, then turned back to inspect his ’Mech. Erik ran his finger along a series of new dents in the hatch’s lock housing, dents that would fit the fist belonging to a suit of Purifier battle armor. He grunted and continued to the end of the catwalk.