A Bonfire of Worlds

by Steven Mohan Jr.

  It was a most apt comparison.

  Ordinarily this was the kind of meeting she would have taken in a conference room over a nice glass of plum brandy. But not today. Today was going to be a lesson.

  An example.

  Although, and her eyes flickered to the galleries that dominated the throne room's wings, it did seem as if attendance had fallen off at court. No matter—and her gaze turned back to Duke Stan—what would happen today would get around.

  The small, round man stopped before the foot of the dais and offered her a shallow bow that was not quite disrespectful.

  No bright smile lighted Duke Stan's cinnamon face. So it's going to be that kind of meeting, thought Melissa. Good. It will just make a better example.

  She glanced at the pair of BattleMechs stood on either side of her, the blue-and-white checkerboard Fafnir and the blue Defiance with gold accents. Let him challenge her here, in the very seat of her power.

  "You summoned me, Archon?" said Duke Stan stiffly.

  "You don't seem happy to see me, Duke Zdenekova," she said, daring him to admit it.

  "I mean no disrespect, Archon," said Duke Stan coldly, "but my world is under assault. I should be standing with my people against Clan Wolf."

  That stung. She heard the murmurs ripple through the galleries. No, you are not the selfless patriot, thought Melissa. That is not the story we will write today.

  "Because your years of military experience would be such a great asset to your people in this troubling time," Melissa shot back.

  "I have no military experience, as I believe the Archon knows," said Duke Stan. "Nevertheless, I would be with my people on Gienah and suffer whatever dangers they suffer. Sometimes leadership is not merely an exercise in power, Archon, but also an exercise in conscience."

  The murmurs grew a little louder.

  Melissa studied Zdenekova like she might study a bug. So he had come to fight? Very well. She would crush him. She had to.

  Vedet was already conducting a guerilla public opinion campaign against her. The master of Hesperus II had a habit of living on that little patch of land just on the safe side of the line that separated disagreement from treason.

  The tape of his speech on Hesperus had been right on the line. Standing in front of a pair of BattleMechs as if he were Archon. Like a Brewer would ever sit this throne. (An Atlas and a Zeus, no less. What was that man compensating for?)

  Well, Vedet was no longer a political problem. Melissa had turned the problem of Vedet over to Gunter Duiven. Just as soon as Loki located Vedet, he would be dealt with. She suppressed a grim smile. Let him try to use his smooth political tactics against her secret police.

  And she would act just as harshly against Zdenekova if need be. She could not allow the grievances of these two men to ignite a firestorm of revolt among her nobles.

  "Very well, Duke Zdenekova, let's discuss this war you seem so concerned about. Do you believe that trafficking in dissent, in criticism, in treason, is helpful to the war effort?"

  Zdenekova drew himself up to all of his limited height. "I engage in no treason, Archon. But neither did I whistle for the wolves to come." "If you truly supported the prosecution of this war—"

  "This war?" roared Zdenekova, cutting her off. "The war against Clan Wolf? The war you assured me six months ago we would never have to fight?" His voice dropped an arctic whisper. "Is that the war you speak of, Highness?"

  Melissa realized the murmurs had disappeared. The people in the galleries were leaning forward. There was absolutely no sound in the chamber except the distant clank of machinery.

  "You tread dangerous ground, Duke Zdenekova."

  "So what? You will offer me my life for my silence? What will you offer the people of Gienah, Highness?" He shook his head. "I fear that soon my people will have no appeal except to Alaric Wolf."

  A gasp rippled through the throne room.

  Melissa bolted to her feet. "I will not be spoken to in that—"

  Someone hit her, tackling her, riding her to the ground. She smashed into the dais, the man on top of her.

  And then everything happened at once.

  A terrible shriek shattered the room's calm and Melissa saw a flash of ruby light.

  She looked to the throne room's entrance and flashed on an armored shape, a soldier in power armor, its right arm ending in a laser, its left in a nasty three-fingered claw. A missile rack built into the suit's carapace located over the soldier's helmet.

  Hauberk battle armor.

  As she watched a second soldier appeared.

  The Defiance was already moving, taking a half-step right. It leaned over, placing its right-arm PPC on the ground directly in front of her, using its armor and the PPC's flared shape as an impromptu shield.

  Then it raised its right arm and horrible lightning lashed out and caught the first Hauberk dead center.

  Melissa felt static discharge raise the hair on the back of her neck. Her ears rang with the terrible whipcrack of the particle projection cannon.

  The shield in front of her vibrated with each missile hit, each splash of ruby light.

  The Defiance let loose with its LB 10-X, the autocannon's deep rattle filling the room, joined by the 'Mechs two lasers and its Trellshire Minigun.

  Melissa felt like someone had stabbed her in the ears with an ice pick.

  And then just like that it was over. The little Hauberks never really stood a chance against a monster that massed nearly forty times what they did. Their only hope was surprise and when they failed—

  (to kill her)

  —their battle was lost.

  The Diplomatic Guard agent who'd saved her life got off her and jerked her to her feet. He was shouting something, but she couldn't hear him, couldn't hear anything at all.

  She tasted smoke on her tongue, smelled the sweet, sharp odor of expended explosives. The iron tang of blood

  Two more guards ran up to her, each grabbing an arm, bodily carrying her out of the throne room, moving her quickly to safety. She caught images: her gilded throne melted down to golden slag, priceless murals scoured from the walls by stray lasers, two columns crushed and the roof above them sagging dangerously.

  Duke Zdenekova's body lay across the ribbon of blue carpet, smashed and bleeding.

  Well, I was right, she thought unsteadily, what happened here today will definitely get around.

  It wasn't until they cleared the throne room and put her in an armored limousine that sped away from the palace escorted by a pair of SM1 Destroyers that she realized the Fafnir had not stepped forward to defend her.

  Not at all.

  The Wasteland

  Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown

  Prefecture X

  17 September 3140

  They walked out of the desert, using the twisted black column of smoke on the horizon as their pole star. After half a century, war had come again to Luyten. Tucker knew there was a chance the Republic forces had been defeated by the Com Guards, but he no longer cared.

  He just wanted to be free of the desert.

  Alexi guided on the column of smoke and Tucker guided on her. The hunger and the sand and the blistering heat had taken their toll on Alexi. She'd dropped five or six kilos, and every gram of body fat she'd ever owned. She was a slim creature built of long ropes of muscle and pure determination. She stalked forward, back straight, daring the desert to stop her.

  Tucker staggered after her, every step a wracking, lurching agony. But following, always following.

  On the morning of the third day, they spotted something on the horizon. It started as a speck of black, nearly lost in the horizon's heat blur. They just stood there, watching it. Even Alexi was too tired to speak.

  And really what was there to say?

  The speck grew into a hoverjeep painted khaki. Tucker coughed as he watched the jeep race toward them, a deep phlegmy cough from deep in his chest. He put his left hand to his mouth as he hacked. He'd caught something in the last few
days. Just his luck. All the plants and animals were dead, but somehow he'd caught a virus.

  Alexi screamed. "Tucker, Tucker! It's a Republic jeep. I can see the insignia." Suddenly she was running, sprinting, capering.

  Tucker stared at her for a moment and then, resigned, he shuffled after her.

  The jeep pulled to a stop next to Alexi. "I am Knight-Errant Alexi Holt on an undercover mission for Paladin Sorenson. Recognition Code Alpha Forty-Seven Tango Eight." "Confirmed," said one of the soldiers in the jeep.

  She turned and pointed at Tucker. "This is Tucker Harwell. He needs help."

  Alexi ran back to him and took his arm, a dazzling smile on her tanned face. "We made it, Tucker," she whispered. "We made it."

  One of the soldiers looked at him and for an unguarded moment shock stole across her face, eyes wide, mouth hanging slackly open, before she quickly locked it down again.

  "You have taken the ComStar base?" Tucker's voice was cracked and thick and swollen. "You have prisoners?" He paused. "Casualties?"

  "That's right," said the female officer, staring at him.

  "My sister is Com Guards," he croaked. "Want to see her."

  "Tucker," said Alexi gently.

  "Sir," said the officer, "I think we should get you checked out first. Then-"

  "Sister, first,"Tucker barked. He sat down on the sand. "Sister first. Or won't go."

  "Tucker, I'm responsible for your safety," insisted Alexi.

  He looked straight ahead.

  "Sure, buddy, we'll take you wherever you want to go," said the female officer.

  Like he was so far gone he wouldn't know what a lie sounded like. He looked up at Alexi.

  She sighed. "All right, Tucker. I promise." Alexi nodded to one of the soldiers. "Help me get him into the jeep."

  They got Tucker settled and then they were skimming across the desert sand.

  Tucker coughed again, spraying phlegm over his hand. One of the soldiers leaned back and handed him a rag. Tucker opened his hand to wipe it clean, but instead of phlegm he saw a bright scarlet smear of blood.

  The Republic forces had not quartered themselves in the Omega One's captured buildings, avoiding the former ComStar base almost as if it were unclean. Instead they'd set up a little tent city, utilitarian structures of steel scaffolding and khaki canvass encircling their Over/ord-class DropShip.

  It was a jumble of sounds and smells: the sharp odor of grease and the mechanical clank of troops in battle armor. The ominous rumble of BattleMechs working through his bones like a wicked base line. The shouts and laughs and curses of people, the sizzle of grill-cooked meat, the clink of bottles, the smell of BO.

  All of it rolled together in a tumultuous whole.

  They took him to a corner of the camp that contained several dozen black bags laid out on the sand, good sturdy bags fashioned from double-ply plastic, each with their own white tag.

  The jeep pulled to a stop and Tucker climbed out. A soldier rushed up in khaki fatigues.

  "He's looking for his sister," said Alexi Holt. "Patricia Harwell."

  "Yeah, I think she's—" began the soldier and then he glanced at Tucker's face. "I mean, hold on. Let me check."

  There was no sentimentality here, thought Tucker. This was just a job.

  Alexi took his hand in hers.

  The soldier went through the columns and rows of black bags until he found what he was looking for. He bent down to check the tag.

  Alexi squeezed his hand.

  The soldier unzipped the bag to reveal-

  Patricia. She just looked like she was sleeping. "All right, that's enough," Tucker croaked.

  "I'm sorry," Alexi whispered.

  "Are you?" he asked. "Are you really?"

  "Aren't you?" She looked up at him, those hazel eyes searching his face.

  "I just wanted to make sure ... Really gone."

  "Tucker," she said softly, a touch of shock in her voice. "She was your sister."

  My sister, Tucker thought dully.

  He cast back to a moment when he had tried to tell Patricia something, something he thought meant everything. "You are my sister. I love you. I love you. Whatever you do to me. I want you to know. I want you to remember. I forgive you."

  Tucker no longer remembered the young man who could think such a thing.

  "My sister," whispered Tucker. "Was a monster."

  "She was fighting for what she thought was right," said Alexi. "Who would not consent to be a monster in service to God?"

  He turned to look at her, trying to understand exactly what she was saying. But it was at that moment that his time ran out. Darkness swept over him.

  The Royal Palace, Tharkad City

  Tharkad, Donegal Military Province

  Lyran Commonwealth

  17 March 3141

  The long, wide hallway was paneled on one side in dark cherry, polished to bring out the lustrous maroon highlights in the dark wood. Life-size oil portraits lined the wall: Katrina, Hanse's wife Melissa, Victor, Peter, Adam, Adam's son Andrew. And yes, Katrina Steiner-Davion was there, too, next to her verdammt brother. Why shouldn't she be there? Katrina had been strong. She had always acted to secure her realm first. What else was an archon supposed to do?

  Opposite the paintings were ferroglass windows inlaid with delicate veins of wrought iron. The peaked windows started at waist level and reached up to the hall's high ceiling. Sunlight slanted through the windows, splashing gold across a forest green carpet that swallowed the sound of her footsteps as she walked beside Leutnant-General Maurer, her security detail trailing discreetly behind.

  The Hall of Archons was a peaceful place. But Melissa was not at peace. She hadn't been since her own subjects, her own soldiers, had tried to kill her.

  "Certainly, Highness, the young woman deserves to be cashiered," said Maurer, "but to turn her over to Loki—"

  Melissa stopped, turned on him. "She didn't get off a single shot. The Defiance pilot managed to save my life and single- handedly smash the Hauberk squad."

  "She froze," said Maurer softly. His gray eyes locked on her face, his iron brows furrowed. He was a young general, in his fifties, but his face was already careworn. "That happens sometimes in combat."

  "Or she had a conflict in loyalty," said Melissa coldly. "That happens sometimes in politics."

  "There was no connection between her and the conspirators," said Maurer pressing, "no indication of subversive—"

  Melissa slashed her hand down, simultaneously cutting off Maurer and sealing the MechWarrior's fate. "This is not a court martial and you are not a defense attorney. You are a general. So, Herr General, why don't you develop a plan to win this war?"

  "In fact," said Maurer stiffly, "I have developed a plan to win this war. A plan to deal with the one factor that, up until now, has guaranteed our defeat."

  "Alaric Wolf," said Melissa, as they reached the end of the long hallway.

  Maurer sighed. "No, Highness, not Alaric Wolf."

  They stepped through the arch that led to another hallway, and a pair of soldiers in standard armor stepped forward and pulled Melissa and the general into an alcove.

  A platoon of armored soldiers stepped into the Hall of Archons, assault rifles leveled.

  Melissa heard a deep voice call out: "Surrender now and you will not be harmed."

  They were going to take her security team.

  She struggled against the soldier who pinned her arms behind her back. The first crack froze her in place. And then:

  crack, crack, crack.

  "Hallway secure," called out a woman's voice. "Two prisoners."

  Two—out of six Diplomatic Guard agents.

  The soldier holding Maurer let go of him and stepped back. It took a moment for Melissa to process what she was seeing.

  "You."

  He nodded equably. "Me."

  Acid dripped from Melissa's tongue. "I never would have believed you would betray the Commonwealth."

  Maurer didn't ris
e to the bait. He simply shook his head. "I have not betrayed the Commonwealth, Archon. Only you."

  "You ordered the attack by the Hauberks."

  "No, Highness. But the assassination attempt did convince me you were losing your grip on power, that something would have to be done. We should be fighting the Wolves, Highness. Not each other."

  "Why?" she whispered.

  "Everything you've done, Highness—your invasion of the Marik realms, your overture to Clan Wolf, your vendetta against Duke Vedet— everything has been a disaster."

  An officer stepped up to her, a Hauptmann. "We're going to take a little walk, Archon. If you so much cry out or run, my people will put you down, is that clear?"

  Melissa favored him with a bitter laugh. "And if I follow all your little rules, then you'll let me live."

  The solider stared at her for a moment with cold, flat eyes. Killer's eyes. Melissa never saw his armored fist. One second she was standing there looking into those scary eyes, the next she was on the floor, tasting blood.

  Not a flicker of emotion troubled Maurer's impassive countenance.

  "Is that clear?" repeated the soldier.

  "Ja" Melissa mumbled. She spit out a tooth. The soldier helped her up.

  Maurer held a hand and they began walking again, this time with a very different security team trailing behind.

  "We will kill you if we have to, Archon," said Maurer, "but that's not our aim. We will announce you are suffering from nervous exhaustion and appoint an acting archon."

  Melissa snickered. "You think the people won't see through that?"

  "How many will want to?" said Maurer blandly. "Do you real- lythinkthe people are crying out for your leadership, Melissa? All we have to give them is the veneer of legality and they'll accept it."

  Light fear fluttered in Melissa's stomach. Maurer's words had the ring of truth. "And then?" she said trying to keep a handle on the situation.

  "Our candidate will win the war and the people will flock to him. Then you will abdicate in his favor. Cooperate and there will be no reason to kill you."

  Melissa snorted. "And who is your 'candidate/ Maurer? You? Whatever you think of me, the Lyran people will never stand for a military dictatorship."