Sword of Sedition

by Loren L. Coleman

  He eased off his throttle, then slammed it back into full reverse as soon as he regained control of the Blood Reaper. The ’Mech nearly spun over, and Alaric felt like he’d been punched in the gut as the quick-release buckle on his restraint harness dug deep into his abdomen.

  He glanced at his wireframe schematic. His left PPC showed a control circuitry failure. Pushed too hard too fast. And the thin armor protecting his cockpit was of desperate concern as well, as another salvo of missile fire hammered down around him. A single warhead slammed into the side of the Blood Reaper’s head, the noise of the explosion thundering through the cockpit as the brutal shove jogged him sideways.

  Two kills in as many minutes. Alaric was a Star commander in Clan Wolf now. Good enough, but not what he had promised. Not what he had been promised.

  If he’d had both particle projector cannons available, he’d still have had a shot at wearing down the assault ’Mech’s thick armor. As it was, he was beaten. Beaten before he had even scratched the massive titan, having spent his equipment with reckless abandon. Which left him only one option.

  Alaric staggered, letting the Blood Reaper sag backward.

  He had assumed Rahm would not—could not—make the hard call. There Alaric was, falling back as the Jupiter pressed forward with a hard-hitting assault, everything about his ’Mech shouting weakness. Rahm was in his six. A ristar not afraid of making an enemy would seize the opportunity to attack and disable the faltering ’Mech. A warrior too full of his own sense of honor would instigate a melee first, and then turn his weapons on the other testing cadet.

  Which would have given Alaric warning enough to take the first shot.

  So the rude shove, slamming his Blood Reaper in the small of the back and slicing deep into hips and armored legs, actually caught the new Star commander by surprise. Rahm hit him with everything the Blood Reaper had, having learned the wrong lessons from Alaric’s own blitzkrieg assault.

  Warning lights flashed for attention as heat sinks ruptured. Destructive energy carved through armor and shielding to throw unstable surges into the fusion reactor. But his sagging midsection and splayed legs were for more than the appearance of weakness. Alaric’s stance helped absorb the brutal assault.

  Alaric held to his feet, twisting around to lever his arm straight back at the advancing Blood Reaper. Pinned between the Jupiter’s railing assault and Rahm’s gamble, Star Commander Alaric squeezed off his first PPC blast to slap a scourge of energies into the Blood Reaper’s right arm. Slicing past laser damage. Coring out the shoulder joint and finally slicing the entire arm away.

  It evened the odds with respect to raw firepower.

  But Alaric had held his fire, letting his heat levels drop back down to a manageable range while Rahm had driven his own into dangerous territory. So Alaric hot-cycled and fired again. And again.

  He blasted through more chest armor.

  The particle cannon scourged composite flesh from the left leg.

  As the Jupiter’s lasers bit into Alaric’s left side and Rahm’s remaining particle cannon flailed at fresh armor on his right, Alaric slashed another stream of energies lower down, and this time sliced clean through the lower leg. The Blood Reaper crashed down into a patch of burning grasses, disabled.

  Then Rahm pulled the plug by deactivating his targeting system.

  Three . . . Star captain!

  But it was not over.

  Shaken and beaten by the Jupiter, still Alaric stumbled his savaged Blood Reaper forward just far enough to lay the red-hot barrel of his PPC against the side of the other ’Mech’s head. No skill shot this one. It was an execution, and perfectly within Alaric’s right. The weak fell behind. The strong went on.

  There would be repercussions, of course. Challenges to defend against. Perhaps some official notice of the waste of good genetic material.

  Liam Ward would remind Alaric that mercy was also a virtue of warriors.

  Alaric pulled the trigger, and a screaming cascade of energy left the Clan Wolf roster another warrior short.

  Then he shut down his own targeting system, putting an end to the Jupiter’s impetus for attack. There was no personal grudge to settle here. And he had no intention of dying a fool who reached beyond his grasp.

  Because Star Captain Alaric was scheduled to leave for Terra this day.

  And one did not keep the Khan of Clan Wolf waiting.

  7

  Watching what has happened to Stone’s “great” Republic, I can only be satisfied with Styk’s decision to declare its independence in an attempt to preserve lives and the honor of our world.

  —(Former Senator) Countess Jiu Soon Lah, Styk, 27 January 3135

  Woodstock

  The Republic of the Sphere

  9 February 3135

  The dingy yellow cab dropped Erik Sandoval-Groell off at curbside and, after Erik paid, the driver sped off with a belch of noxious exhaust and a severe rattle in the vehicle’s old engine. The young noble grimaced with distaste, brushed his hands together as if ridding them of something particularly gritty and unpleasant. Then, giving himself a moment, he studied his destination with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

  Ixtapa’s family Mexican restaurant sat on the border between Woodstock’s interplanetary DropPort and its capital city of Charleston. WORLD-FAMOUS SALSA, a sign promised. Tucked in beside a small strip mall serving this neck of suburbia, the adobe façade and garish colors made it an easy landmark. Warm reds and bright yellows stood out in a community favoring beige and grays. Pleasing musical chords floated down from overhead speakers and a deep, sultry voice with a Latin accent accompanied the guitar. An aroma of spiced meat and warm tortilla wafted out the open doors.

  A welcome embrace that comforted Erik, even as he fought against it. He did not like clandestine meetings.

  At least, not ones he hadn’t set up personally.

  Waiting for two men to enter ahead of him, the noble scion gave himself a slow count of ten before heading into the restaurant. Inside, the music competed with a noisy lunchtime crowd. People chatted and gossiped. In between conversation, they attacked large plates of enchiladas smothered in cheese and guacamole or built their own fajita wraps from chicken delivered still sizzling on cast-iron plates.

  A steady stream of iced margaritas traveled from bar to tables on the trays of waiters, and Erik began to think he might like one. Then the hostess returned from seating earlier customers, stepped up to him and laid a slender hand on his arm. She was slender and small, with dusky skin and long, glossy raven hair casually held back with a tie of red cloth.

  “Senor Groell?”

  His defenses flashed back up in a heartbeat, then subsided. Obviously, he was expected.

  He nodded, and the woman gestured for him to follow her.

  Erik didn’t worry about how she had known to watch for the young noble or how she had recognized him. He had dressed down today, eschewing any noble dress or even his more usual military uniform for khaki pants and a loose-fitting, chambray shirt that spoke “relaxed” to the casual observer. But Erik’s hair, shaved up the sides into the classic topknot favored by the Sandoval dynasty, was different enough that the hostess had likely been told to watch for it. Certainly there had been no subterfuge in her warm, doelike eyes.

  He could not say the same for the man who waited for him. His hair had been dyed a premature white, and shorn tight enough that one could count a half dozen scars that twisted over his scalp. The rough stubble of two-days’ beard shaded his gaunt face, and his one good eye stared a red-hot hole through Erik. A patch covered his left eye, and a narrow scar trailed down through his eyebrow, disappearing under the black fabric.

  Jack Farrell.

  Freebooter. Pirate, some said. Erik had never met the man before, but knew him by reputation. When you worked for Duke Aaron Sandoval, Lord Governor of Prefecture IV and leader of the Swordsworn, it paid to keep on top of such things.

  When you were related to Aaron, such attention w
as demanded.

  Sliding into the seat opposite One-Eyed Jack, Erik nodded when a server asked him if he’d like to start with a drink.

  “Margarita. Blended and salted.”

  Farrell had only a tall, sweating glass of ice water sitting in front of him, flavored with a single wedge of lime. Something in his glance said that he thought less of Erik for mixing pleasure with business. “I already ordered for us,” he said.

  “You will excuse me if I decide not to eat.”

  The pirate—if such he was—shrugged. “Looks strange, sitting in a restaurant, not eating. But suit yourself.”

  Well, perhaps it did. So Erik helped himself to the wicker basket of warm corn chips. Dipping one into an earthenware dish, he tried the restaurant’s salsa. A thick mixture of tomato, sweet onion and a blend of peppers, evened out by oregano and . . . garlic? It had a fine taste and a long, lingering bite. Erik wasn’t sure if “world-famous” was warranted. But it was definitely good.

  “What do you want, Mr. Farrell?”

  The other man chuckled. “That’s good. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were here out of idle curiosity.” His voice was rough, almost gravelly. “Don’t want to know how we sniffed out your travel arrangements? Got the message aboard your DropShip?”

  “All right.” Erik nodded. “How did you do that?”

  “Sorry.” Jack smiled, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Can’t tell you.”

  But he wanted to. Erik sensed it. Which meant that either Jack Farrell didn’t know how it had been done, and wanted Erik to believe he did, or he was working on behalf of another. In either case . . .

  “I’ll give you two minutes.”

  “What’s the rush? In a hurry to reach Terra? The funeral service ain’t for another two-three months, you know.”

  So Farrell knew that much about Erik’s mission. Well, it was hardly secret anymore, Paladin Victor Steiner-Davion’s death. And certainly the lord governor would attend the funeral.

  There was a question, though, of what kind of support Aaron still enjoyed within The Republic. Several officials had turned less than cordial when Aaron recently stepped forward as leader of the Swordsworn, reading into the situation—quite correctly—the lord governor’s pro-Davion leaning. But then the Swordsworn had saved Prefecture V from a Liao offensive. And with the public staring match between exarch and Senate heating up, and the Senate’s call for nationalized powers, it was a difficult time—maybe even a dangerous time—to challenge him.

  Of course, since Aaron couldn’t know for certain, he sent Erik first.

  After two years, Erik was getting used to his position as the lord governor’s lightning rod. How many times had he been left to his own devices, even in the face of almost-certain death? Achernar and Hunan. Shensi! That one had been close, and a situation completely engineered by Aaron Sandoval.

  “Live and learn,” Aaron once told him. And Erik had.

  “You asked for this meeting,” he said now, reaching for a second chip. Then paused as his drink arrived in a wide-bodied glass rimed with a crust of salt. Erik sampled the mouth-warming salsa again, and took one careful sip of the tequila-flavored drink. Cold and quenching. Perfect.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “The duke, is he listening?”

  That would be for Erik to decide, wouldn’t it? Information was power. If not, why the long dance by Farrell?

  But Erik knew when to play his trump card. “He is. For another sixty seconds.”

  Farrell glanced at nearby tables. Carefully. Out of the corner of his eye. Erik didn’t believe the one-eyed rogue was checking on partners of any type. Farrell seemed the kind of man who preferred to work alone. Maybe he was checking for any backup Erik might have brought, but the young noble trusted his agents to be inconspicuous. He knew where they were, and Farrell looked right past them.

  “Okay. He said you wouldn’t be much for fun and games. And he does want you to know that this is a serious offer.”

  “Who?”

  Farrell gave him one of those looks. “The first taste is free. After this, it costs. So here it is. Get Aaron Sandoval off St. Andre. Now.”

  Interesting. A warning of a Capellan offensive about to launch? He hadn’t heard anything out of Elsa Harrod, his own double agent against House Liao, so he doubted it.

  A direct threat against Aaron’s person? Now that would be just too bad, wouldn’t it? Remembering Shensi, and the mercenaries that had struck under Liao colors . . . Erik thought perhaps he wouldn’t say a damn thing.

  Regardless, it was worth another few moments. Especially when their food arrived. Both men made a show of taking a few bites, neither ready to look foolish in front of the other by not eating. Farrell had ordered Erik a steak burrito, the meat wrapped with rice and beans inside the tortilla. Warm, but not hot. A good meat-spice flavor. Erik chewed thoughtfully and considered the cryptic message. Get Aaron off St. Andre. Now?

  “He won’t leave now.” Not until Erik cleared the way to Terra. Besides: “St. Andre is one of the safest worlds in Prefecture V, thanks to our intervention.”

  In fact, New Aragon and St. Andre were the crux of The Republic’s position in Prefecture V. As the Capellan Confederation pushed forward on either front, securing its hold on Liao and Gan Singh and Styk, Menkar and Algot, the secure garrisons on New Aragon and St. Andre were a knife held to Daoshen Liao’s belly. These worlds played host to a number of knights and, with the exarch’s election over, several paladins as well. What force The Republic could muster in the defense of Prefecture V was concentrated on those worlds.

  “Lord Governor Sandoval came down out of Prefecture IV just in time, all right.” Farrell nodded. Swallowed. “Everything I’ve heard, Liao forces didn’t expect much opposition from the Swordsworn.”

  “No reason they should,” Erik admitted. “No love lost between The Republic’s standing military and the Swordsworn.” So many of whom had once been regular army. And Aaron’s private plans, he knew, involved turning dozens of worlds over to House Davion in one swift, bloodless action. A bold move that might instigate the full collapse of The Republic. If the dominoes fell right.

  And there Aaron would be, Minister of a new Davion March.

  But coming to the aid of Prefecture V had gone a long way toward disguising the Sandoval plans, promoting Aaron to the top of a large list of leaders all vying for legitimacy. The successful military operation was even playing well back on Tikonov and throughout the rest of Prefecture IV. Winning over worlds without a shot fired or a ’Mech on the field.

  To turn and run now . . .

  “Is this about Bannson?” Erik asked.

  That struck a nerve. Jack Farrell started, his fork falling against his plate with a clatter.

  “What about Jacob Bannson?” Farrell responded. He didn’t try to feign nonchalance. “What do you know?”

  “Just what I’ve heard on the political grapevine. That the corporate magnate sold out the world of Liao and a number of others to the Confederation. There’s a rumor he stomped some toes on Terra and Northwind as well by being involved with the Black Paladin, and that he disappeared right after that debacle. And that for years, his corporate headquarters happened to be on St. Andre.” Erik decided to bluff a bit as well, leaning in with a conspirator’s whisper. “And, of course, you are a known agent of his.”

  Cold ice glittered in Farrell’s one good eye. But he did not deny it.

  “You are well informed.”

  “After Prefecture V, Bannson Universal’s largest investments are in IV. That’s Lord Governor Sandoval’s holding. It pays to stay informed.”

  Farrell took a drink of water, then set his glass down with a rattle of ice. “No,” he said. “It costs to stay informed. Now I’ve done my part.” He pulled a dog-eared black business card out of his breast pocket. He threw it into the puddle of water sweated onto the table by his glass. “You call that number and deal with him direct.”

  Erik fished t
he card out of the water. Nothing on it but a common exchange number, centered on one side in silver ink. “It doesn’t even say what planet,” Erik said, tossing it back down.

  Farrell shrugged, stood.

  “Wait,” Erik said. Reasoning through it fast. So One-Eyed Jack worked for Bannson, but he was not the one making contact through him now. Was Farrell selling out his own boss on orders from a third party? “Why you, Jack?”

  “Why me?” Farrell repeated the question, as if he didn’t understand it. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth.

  Erik spread his hands. “If I’m to take the offer seriously, I have to trust the source, don’t I?”

  Another shifty-eyed glance. Farrell was obviously ready to be away from this place, but something held him. Maybe worried that his job wasn’t done satisfactorily. Yet.

  “Because this was part of our price,” he said, his rough voice pitched extra quiet. “And we want to keep on good terms with him.”

  “Still doesn’t tell me who.”

  Farrell nodded. “And you ain’t gonna hear it from my lips, either.”

  But he did reach back down to the table, dipping his finger in the puddle of water and tracing a quick outline onto the red-grained wood tabletop. A triangle, or pyramid. He used a few more quick strokes to section off each of the three corners.

  Then he tossed his napkin into that puddle and walked quickly away.

  Erik watched him go, suddenly not believing anything the man had told him. Things just weren’t done this way. Of course, he really had no idea how such meetings were supposed to go, but this didn’t seem right. He watched Farrell leave, the rogue never once looking back.

  Not even when he walked past the empty table where Erik’s backup men had been seated.

  For the space of three heartbeats, Erik froze. Plates of food sat on the other table, hardly touched, and the two soft drinks were half consumed. No waiter appeared to bus the table, or look concerned at the absence. Something normal, then. Bathroom!