BattleTech: Redemption Rites, page 25
“The 106th withdrew in good order from Trellisane,” Ricard said. He wore gray Wolf leathers and carried no noteputer or other reference, but spoke without hesitation. “The Star Colonel reports minimal losses, which are already being made good out of Yellow Sun stockpiles on Loric. She insists her Cluster is prepared to accompany any Lupus Galaxy Cluster back to reclaim the planet before the Tamarinds have time to recover.”
“I am sure,” Othar said, thinking of the steady, careful woman he’d placed in command of the 106th Garrison Cluster. The reports had come, transmitted and retransmitted by JumpShips in series between Loric and Gienah, in little less than a week, which was lightning-fast in this day and age. He had absorbed the summary, but left the details to Radu and Ricard.
It was enough to know Wolf’s Dragoons had taken another world. He inferred they had taken Labouchere and Alula Borealis on behalf of the Tamarinds, though he had no direct confirmation at the moment. Othar had hoped against hope that one of the Lupus Clusters would have been in position before the 106th was forced to withdraw, but he was pleased Kamilla had done what he’d asked and preserved her Cluster. Trellisane was still there. Better now to let the Tamarinds get complacent, then strike and take it back.
“See that Kamilla’s report is forwarded at best speed to every Cluster commander. I will want to append a message to the COs of the Rufus Clusters, reinforcing that I fully support her actions, and she acted in the best traditions of an Empire garrison Cluster.”
“Traditions?” Radu asked. “These Clusters are newborn. They have no traditions.”
Othar shared a look with Ricard. “Tell me, Radu. Had the touman not gone to Terra, and you had still done as you had, and won your Star Captain’s rank. Where do you think you would have been posted?”
“A Wolf Guards Cluster,” Radu said immediately. “The Khan would have recognized my skill and placed me there, where I would have the best opportunity to win glory for the Clan.”
Ricard snorted. “There are days, Star Captain,” the old trainer said, “when I wonder if you ever heard a word I said.”
“Of course.” Radu rolled his eyes. “You only know six words, and you said them over and over again all the time.”
Ricard grinned back. Radu and Ricard’s friendly rivalry had built across these long months into mutual respect. Antagonistic respect, to be sure, but it made the Den Keshik stronger, Othar knew.
“I commanded a garrison Cluster,” Othar said. “When I was first promoted. I had five Star Captains, one for each Trinary.” He glanced again at Ricard. “All of them were fresh from Trials of Position.”
Radu blinked. “I do not understand.”
“In the Blooding,” Othar said, “you earn your rank, and rightly so. That is the rede of our caste. And with rank comes position. You have proven the worth of your genes, breeding, and—” he inclined his head toward Ricard “—your training. But what you learn in your first posting is the reality of life inside the touman, now that you have won entry. You learn the reality of command, of combat outside of formal Trials. You need to learn every lesson Ricard and the others can teach you when you are young, yes. But learning does not stop when you are Blooded.”
“What is there to learn in a garrison Cluster?”
“Sense,” Ricard growled.
“Quiet, old man.” Radu scowled. “Had I been one of your Star Captains, Star Colonel, what would you have taught me?” Radu’s young haughtiness was on full display. It was all Othar could not to laugh in his face.
“For one, the lesson Kamilla just demonstrated.”
“Running away?”
“Preserving your forces,” Othar said, with a little steel in his voice. “You have been with me these months, building these two Galaxies. Do we have warriors and equipment to spare?” He waited. “Could we have raised twenty Clusters out of the Empire? Thirty? In the time we have had?”
“With more time—”
“Time,” Othar spat, “is the single most valuable commodity in existence. It is more powerful than ’Mechs or tanks, breeding or science, even more powerful than the ilKhan. Time is the key. Yes, with another eighteen months we could rebuild Kamilla’s Cluster, had she lost it. But we may not have gotten those eighteen months. Because if Kamilla’s Cluster was lost, there would be no one to slow the Dragoons’ advance to the next world, or the world after. Now, there is. Because Kamilla had the sense to preserve her Cluster, another world might be saved.”
“Had she fought, she may not have lost even one,” Radu insisted.
“Had she fought, she would have lost,” Othar said. His voice was even, his tone certain. He gestured behind him at the Blood Reaper. “I am as certain of that as I am there will be a ’Mech right there when I turn around.”
“I—” Radu stopped. He shook his head. “I no longer care.”
Othar chuckled. “You will again, soon.”
“What of the Sea Foxes?” Ricard asked.
“Reports are confused,” Othar admitted, “but it appears Khan Kalasa is honoring his word. There are Clan Protectorate Clusters fighting on Stewart and Kalidasa, and the Watch tells me it will spread to Helm soon, if it has not already.” He shook his head. “Even with their help, too many of my Clusters are tied up there.”
“And still no word from Terra,” Radu said, full of frustration.
Othar said nothing, but the tips of his fingers burned, and he tasted metal in the back of his throat. The physical sensations of his anger were becoming familiar companions.
“He will come,” Ricard said, into the silence. “I have faith.”
“Faith doesn’t win battles,” Radu sneered.
“It does,” Ricard retorted. “Someday you will understand.”
“BattleMechs help,” Othar said before the pair could get going. “Which means for today, I must acclimate to mine. We will speak again after.” He clapped Radu on the shoulder, nodded at Ricard, and turned to stride toward the Blood Reaper.
Othar needed to get out of sight before the burning rage he felt at the mention of the ilKhan broke out of him. It was the first thing in his mind in the morning and the last when he fell into a fitful sleep. Where was word, any word, from Terra?
He reached the Blood Reaper’s foot and looked up, eying the handholds and recessed steps he’d use to climb to the cockpit. It was ten or so meters overhead, a climb he’d made many times in his life, the same climb he’d make many times in the future for as long as he survived.
Flexing his fingers, Othar grasped the rungs and started ascending.
He had no guess about what the ilKhan’s reaction would be to Othar’s actions when he finally did return. His mind was full of scenarios, of ideas, and in some of them he lived, some died.
Cool metal beneath hot skin, Othar climbed, wishing with all his heart that day would be tomorrow, so he could just know.
INTERLUDE
OVERLORD-CLASS DROPSHIP CHIEFTAIN
ZENITH JUMP POINT
CAMPBELTON
FREE WORLDS LEAGUE
17 AUGUST 3151
Hack Kincaid stepped into the small brig and motioned the guard out into the corridor. The brig in an Overlord was little more than a closet with a door that locked, but it sufficed for its present purpose. He waited until the hatch slid shut behind the guard, then turned to face the prisoner.
Marotta Kerensky stood on the other side of the grated door, arms held behind his back, still clad in his gray Clan Wolf leathers. All of his insignia and rank tabs had been removed, as had the BloodRibbon that had once adorned his breast. His wrists were empty; no codex, no bondcord. Magnetic boots held him to the floor, and he was wan. He looked thinner than the last time Hack had seen him, in June at Savannah. Hack was sure he was being fed, so it was likely lack of exercise.
“Colonel,” Kerensky said.
Hack swallowed. Just hearing Kerensky’s voice, his accent, the mellifluent sense of entitlement that dripped off his words, made Hack want to strangle the other man. But that was just emotion. Hack had a lifetime’s experience controlling his emotions.
“Star Captain,” Hack replied.
“Is it my turn in front of your tribunals?”
“You are not a member of the Dragoons,” Hack said. “You have no place in our courts.”
“You do not want my words heard, quineg?”
“I don’t care about your words. Your words are public record. Every recording of you since you set foot on Parma has been made public inside the Dragoons. Every conversation, every radio transmission, every scrap of paper you provided and justification you proposed.”
“Then you know your fellows chose to go with me to Terra,” Kerensky replied.
“They did,” Hack agreed. “And they have paid for those decisions. Decisions have consequences, no matter the reason they’re made.”
“Consequences that have given you control of the Dragoons.” Kerensky’s expression darkened.
“What’s left of them,” Hack agreed.
“So, it has worked out for you in the end.”
Hack glared at him. “Tell that to my dead.”
“Your dead died in battle, as warriors should.”
“For your Clan.”
“For the ilClan.” Kerensky’s face gained its first animation since Hack entered the compartment. “No matter what else happened, no matter why it happened or what it cost, for the first and last time in our history, there is an ilClan, and it is the Wolves. The Wolves, the same Clan your ancestors departed from all those years ago.”
Hack didn’t speak.
“Brubaker and Crews are dead, I am told,” Kerensky said. “Sacrificed on the altar of your unity, I am sure. Scapegoats for your Dragoons’ participation in the greatest victory in human history. The death of Malvina Hazen. The destruction of the Republic of the Sphere. Perhaps you will still kill me. But it will not matter.” Now he smiled. “Because those things are done. They are real. And no matter how much you may wish to, how much you try, you cannot undo them.”
“You think you understand us,” Hack said, after a moment. Everyone did. Everyone he’d ever met thought they understood the Dragoons. They had their own conception: money-hungry mercenaries who tricked their way through fights. Glory-hounds who relied on news coverage to make them look good. Overpriced hirelings. Even, this many years later, Clan deserters.
None of them understand. Hack was convinced it was not something you could understand from the outside. You had to be a part of it.
“You are simple,” Kerensky said. “I appealed to your vainglory, to your pride. I told Crews and the others this was the ultimate mission, that it was sacrilege that the Dragoons would not be there. It was enough to hook them, and then your precious unity ensured the rest would come.”
“You say ‘unity’ like it’s a noun,” Hack said.
“Is it not? You chant it like a prayer.”
Now it was Hack’s turn to smile. “You hear, but you do not listen.” He looked behind him, then perched on the edge of the guard’s small desk. It was a useless posture in microgravity, but it felt right when he crossed his arms across his chest.
“We Dragoons seek unity of purpose,” Hack said. “Unity of action, to achieve victory. It is an adjective, not a noun. And,” he chuckled, “quite often an epithet.” He licked his lips. “What sent those Dragoons to Terra with you was discipline. Because you convinced Crews and, for his sins, Tom went along with it.”
“It means the same thing,” Kerensky said.
“You still don’t understand,” Hack told him.
“You think the Wolves don’t understand unity of purpose? Or discipline? The entire touman went to Terra to win the ilClan. It was the greatest assault since the Great Father liberated Terra from the Usurper. The ilKhan led us—”
“The ilKhan,” Hack spat.
“What he did to your General Brubaker was wrong,” Kerensky allowed. “I still do not understand it.”
Hack stood, careful to not lift his boots. “Then you’re a fool.”
“I—”
“He did it because he could. Because he didn’t care, because he had no loyalty to anything beyond his own ambition. He did it because all of us, you and me, Dragoons and Wolves, are nothing but assets to be used or discarded. He did because he knew winning Terra would make him the biggest target in the Inner Sphere, and he knew he would need his touman to defend it.” Hack barked a laugh. “Do you know, all these months later, he has not come home? No world of the Empire we’ve struck or visited has heard of a single Wolf Cluster returning from Terra. Your valiant ilKhan, having claimed his prize, has abandoned every world of the Empire.”
“I am sure he has a plan,” Kerensky insisted.
“His plan is to sate his own vanity. It is the plan of every Clan warrior, bred into your genes and force-fed to you from childhood. Ambition, unchecked. Just pure ambition.”
“He made the Wolves the ilClan,” Kerensky said.
“And himself ilKhan,” Hack agreed. “All of them, those Wolves and my Dragoons, all of them died putting his ass in that seat. How has he repaid them, any of them? Where is his loyalty to them, to reward theirs to him?”
“We did not do it for reward,” Kerensky spat. “We are not mercenaries.”
Hack laughed and tapped the hatch open. “There’s more to life than money, Star Captain.”
“That’s all?” Kerensky asked. “A lesson on Dragoons and insulting the ilKhan? No thinly veiled threats under the guise of your ‘justice’? No torture?”
“For now,” Hack said before he stepped through the open hatch.
CHAPTER 24
NADIR JUMP POINT
NOCKATUNGA
FREE WORLDS LEAGUE
14 APRIL 3152
“Do you know,” Jefferson Adebayo said to Haya in the transfer tube, “this is my first visit to a recharge station?” He wore a functional-looking brown coverall, out of place in the sea of Dragoons blue filling the tube connecting Gargoyle to the Nockatunga recharge station.
Adebayo had requested to travel with the Dragoons when they departed, and Haya had readily agreed. He hadn’t offered a reason, and she hadn’t pressed, but Fraser believed, and Haya agreed with him that it would only be a matter of time before Adebayo Brothers’ involvement with the Dragoons during the battle would come to light, and that may not be beneficial to the magnate’s business. Lingering Wolf loyalists on Trellisane would treat him like a collaborator, and the Tamarinds…well, Haya couldn’t imagine they would be well-inclined toward anyone friendly with the Dragoons, if Major Keen was any indication. She wasn’t looking forward to telling the colonel about that episode.
“I’ve been to many,” Haya said, “but each time, I get a thrill. I’m always amazed we can build on this scale, so far from anything.”
“Indeed,” Adebayo said. The final four meters of tube before entering the recharge station’s hull were transparent transpex, widened so transients could step aside for the view without obstructing flow in the personnel tube. She and Adebayo stepped into the alcove and looked up.
This close, the station was a mountainside of armor, transpex, and hull metal. More than a kilometer wide and better than half that long, with one of the largest spinning grav decks in human history, the Olympus-class recharge station was a marvel of ancient engineering. This one was just under 400 years old, if Haya remembered right.
“Amazing,” Adebayo murmured. His hair, always well coifed on Trellisane, now stood on end as if electrified in the zero gravity. Haya chuckled softly, but if Adebayo heard her, he gave no sign. She let him look for a few more minutes, then tapped his arm and led him aboard the station.
Station security officers in off-purple battledress stood inside, checking IDs and scanners, but they passed Haya in her blue Dragoons jumpsuit without comment. Adebayo got a cursory scan, but the old man was harmless so far as the guards watching for contraband or weapons were concerned.
Behind the guards waited two people. Haya smiled; she couldn’t help it.
“Major Tetsuhara!” Phu-Phu Engaga boomed. The industrialist wore a tailored suit that must have had hidden adhesives, because it counterfeited hanging as it would in gravity. He spread his arms and strode forward, enfolding her in a hug. He took her by the upper arms and held her back, regarding her. “You are well?”
“I am well, Phu-Phu,” she told him. “You?”
“He is snug as a bedbug,” the Dragoons officer next to Phu-Phu said. “The colonel planted him here, and he’s been holding court like he owns the place.” The short man—and he was short, not just small in comparison to the towering Phu-Phu Engaga—wore the two stars of a Dragoons major. “Major Tetsuhara. I don’t think we’ve met. Carron Vasquez. I’d be station commander, if we owned the station. Instead, I’m the head overseer.” Vasquez’s smile was easy, and his hand was callused when Haya shook it.
“Pleasure, Major,” Haya said. “This is Jefferson Adebayo, formerly of Trellisane. He is an associate of Mr. Engaga.”
“Phu-Phu,” Phu-Phu and Adebayo corrected simultaneously.
Vasquez looked from one to the other, then rolled his eyes. “Of course there are two of you.”
“My good friend Jefferson,” Phu-Phu said, enfolding the tall man in a hug that outdid Haya’s. “You are most welcome in Nockatunga. Most welcome indeed.”
“It is a wondrous station,” Adebayo said, after sharing a smile and a nod with Phu-Phu. “I told Major Tetsuhara on the walk over: I have never been aboard one before.”
“Truly?” Phu-Phu asked. His great face split in a bright, toothy smile. “It is truly a wonder!”
“Then let’s get under gravity,” Vasquez said, “and I’ll see you get the tour.” He gestured the group toward a lift at the rear of the compartment, where two Dragoons marines with Ceres Arms Crowdbuster stun rifles kept pedestrians clear. Haya hung back, pausing Phu-Phu with a gesture.
“I want you to know, from me,” Haya told him, “that on every world, your contacts were helpful. But on Trellisane, that man—” she inclined her head toward Adebayo, “—saved all our lives. We would not have had our victory without him.” She reached up and squeezed the big man’s bearlike arm. “It’s all in our reports, but I needed you to know it, from me. So you could see the truth in my eyes.”
