Operation Excalibur, page 17
part #31 of BattleTech Series
"Very well, Colonel," Home said. "It is so noted." He turned to the recorder. "The board recorder will delete the entries made on the accused's behalf ... those statements where they tried to take responsibility for Colonel Carlyle's decisions."
"Yes, sir."
"Colonel Carlyle? Do you have anything to add?"
"No, sir."
"Wait a minute!" Lori shouted, leaping to her feet. "You haven't heard what I have to say!"
"The questioning sequence of this board of inquiry is closed. Colonel Carlyle, you and your wife will wait outside while the panel completes its deliberations."
"Yes, sir."
"Precentor!" Lori called "Wait!"
But one of the Lyran guards had already come up behind her. "This way, Colonel," he said softly. He sounded gentle, even sympathetic. "There's nothing you can do now."
And with a cold, sick certainty, Lori knew he was right.
14
Adjudication Chambers Royal Palace, Tharkad City
Tharkad, District of Donegal
Lyran Alliance
1165 hours (local), 3 October 3057
They were led into an anteroom, one with Spartan furniture and a temperature kept so cool that Lori could see their breaths puffing from their mouths in the cold air. The room had a window—one of real glass or transplas— that looked out through frost etchings over the mountains and snow-clad forests of the countryside to the east.
"Grayson?" Lori said, studying him carefully. "What do you think?"
For just a moment, she caught a flash of... something. Of excitement, of eagerness, perhaps. Something she'd not seen there in a long time.
But then it was gone, fading behind the dull and expressionless lack of feeling she'd come to hate so much of late. "Everything will be all right," he said. "Believe that."
"Damn it, why didn't you defend yourself?"
"Because it wouldn't have done any good."
"You don't know that! You could have tried for a higher board review! An appeal! You could have requested a formal court-martial! Or a special trial by your peers as nobility, as Baron Glengarry!"
"Believe me, love. None of that would have changed anything. I know what I'm doing."
"I'm not so sure you do!"
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The tension was unbearable, but Lori dreaded hearing the decision almost as much as she wanted an end to the waiting. All too soon, then, the door opened and an aide in Steiner full dress walked in.
"Colonel Carlyle?" the aide said, speaking to Grayson. Then he nodded to Lori. "And Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle. Will you both follow me, please? They're ready."
"Time to face the music," Grayson said.
"If they find us guilty," Lori said, "they're going to have a damned hard time with—"
"If they find me guilty. You're not a part of this."
"The hell I'm not. I'll make myself a part—"
"Hush," Grayson said.
Side by side, they walked back to the council chamber. The aide palmed a door open, then stepped aside as they walked through.
Lori's eyes went at once to the desk in front of the seated panel of five. Resting directly in front of the cowled ComStar precentor was a sleek, keen-bladed sword, its furniture of gold and its hilt tighdy wrapped with black sharkskin, a relic, no doubt, of some military collection or other. The sight struck her an almost physical, palpable blow, and she hissed with the sharp intake of a breath. No!...
Once, well over a thousand years ago, officers had been identified by such swords and, on some rare occasions, had even used them in battle. There'd been a tradition, she'd read once, in the ocean-going navy of some one or another of Terra's countless warring nation-states. If an officer of that navy was accused of some wrongdoing—of running his ship aground, say, or of cowardice in the face of the enemy, he would face a court-martial with brother officers as his judges. As a prisoner, he was required to surrender his sword, which was his badge of authority and of command, for the trial's duration.
The tradition held that after the tribunal had completed its deliberations and the accused was called back in to hear the verdict, his sword was placed on the table before the court. If the verdict was an acquittal, the sword was placed with the hilt turned toward the officer, so that after the decision was announced he could reach out, pick it up, and return it to his scabbard. If the verdict was guilty, however, the sword was left with the blade pointed at the officer as he walked in the door.
It was a tradition that some militaries had picked up and made their own a millennium later. Looking up at the dingy wall behind the board, Lori saw that the sword had come from there—she could see the dust-outlined shape where it once had hung—and had been placed on the table, as dictated by tradition.
The blade was aimed directly at Grayson.
He said nothing, though he plainly had seen the symbol and knew precisely what it meant.
"Colonel Grayson Death Carlyle of the mercenary regiment known as the Gray Death Legion," Home said when they stopped in front of the bench, with the table and that accusatory sword before them. "On the charge of treason, this board of adjudication finds you innocent. There is insufficient evidence to suggest that you acted willfully against the Federated Commonwealth.
"On the charge that you violated the terms of a legal and binding mercenary contract between the Gray Death Legion and House Steiner, the board of adjudication finds you guilty as charged.
"On five counts of illegal military assault upon forces then in the service of the Federated Commonwealth, the board of adjudication finds you guilty as charged on all counts."
The precentor looked up from his electronic slate, fixing Grayson with wintry eyes. "It has been suggested that since you were technically working for the Federated Commonwealth at the time of your offense, you are not guilty of violating your principal agreement with House Steiner. This board has decided, however, that you be found guilty on all applicable counts nonetheless. We are interested here not in the letter of the law so much as in the spirit, and it is clear that you, Grayson Carlyle, violated the spirit of contractual law when you willfully changed sides on Caledonia, entering combat against the military forces you had been directed to support. It is for this reason that we have no alternative but to find you guilty.
"This adjudication board is neither a civil nor a military court of law and, as such, has no power to pass final judgment or to mete out legal sentencing. Our recommendation, however, will be that the office of the Judge Advocate General find you guilty on all counts save that of treason, that the mercenary contract between the Gray Death Legion and House Steiner be officially declared null and void due to noncompliance, and that your personal properties, Colonel Carlyle, be handed over to the Barony estate.
"I have before me a message from the Archon Katrina Steiner, further stating that should this board find you, Colonel Carlyle, guilty on even one count, she intends to declare an official disinvestiture, which will strip you of all rank, titles, and privilege associated with your former position as Baron Glengarry, including the Landhold of Glengarry itself. A new baron will be named within twenty-four hours.
"Further, it is our strong recommendation that the Gray Death Legion be disbanded, by force, if necessary. This order would not need to be carried out if Colonel Carlyle agrees to voluntarily give up his command of the unit." Home's cold eyes fell on Lori. "It was my thought that command could fall upon Lieutenant Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle."
Lori opened her mouth to speak, to refuse point-blank, to tell Home exactly what she thought about his offer when Grayson, at her side, closed his hand upon hers and squeezed, hard. When she looked sideways at him, he shook his head, warning her to be silent.
"In any case, the Gray Death Legion will have ninety standard days to leave its former landhold and find work and basing elsewhere. Any resistance to this command by any member of the Gray Death Legion will result in the forceful disbanding of the Legion. Do you have anything to say for the record at this time, Colonel Carlyle?"
"Yes, Lord Precentor," Grayson replied. "I accept the judgment of this board, and I would like it noted that I do hereby resign as commander of the Gray Death Legion, in favor of my executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Lori Kalmar-Carlyle."
"I refuse," she said. Turning, she favored Grayson with a dark scowl. "Grayson! What the hell are you do—"
"The decision is mine to make," Grayson said, still addressing the board, "and I wish it recorded as such."
"It is so ordered. Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle, I remind you that you are present at these proceedings as a courtesy of this board. Any further outburst on your part, and I will order you ejected from these chambers. Am I clear?"
"Yes, damn you," Lori said, breathing hard. If she could have reached the precentor's throat in that moment ...
Home ignored what he might have called the "prejudicial comment" on her part. "Colonel Carlyle? Have you more to say on your behalf?"
"No, Lord Precentor."
"Then I declare these proceedings are closed," he said.
* * *
"I'd like this message sent," the man said, passing a small electronic pad across to the clerk at the message desk of the Asgard HPG station. "Priority-commercial."
"Just this?" the clerk asked, looking up.
The client was a military officer in the uniform of the Davion Guards. His epaulets bore the rank insignia of a colonel. "That's it. Here's my account card."
The clerk nodded, accepted card and pad, and began keying in a code sequence at his terminal. He wore the white uniform of ComStar, with that organization's device worked into a patch on his left breast and on his shoulder. "I can fit you into a routing slot going out at 2330 hours standard, tomorrow. That's just about thirty-four hours local from now. Unless you want to pay extra for—"
"Tomorrow's fine." The cost of full-motion HPG transmissions might routinely be borne by the likes of Katrina Steiner and interstellar governments, but he was on a limited budget. He was willing to accept the costs of commercial-priority transmissions, which meant he wouldn't have to wait until the next routine package transfer, probably in a week or so. He would have to see about getting a raise. He was worth it by now, surely. But he would keep his messages to text only and as abbreviated as he could manage.
"Need your signature," the clerk said, pushing a screen tablet and stylus across the counter at him. "And confirm your destination address."
Swiftly, the officer scrawled out his signature: Charles Dillon, Col., AFFC. The destination of the message was correct.
Brandal Gareth, Defiance Industries, Hesperus II.
* * *
The collective mood of the Legion officers was subdued as they entered their visitors' quarters once more, escorted by Lyran Alliance troops who took up their accustomed positions outside the door. "Weel, we gave it th' good fight," McCall said heavily.
"Good fight nothing," Lori snapped. She whirled to face Grayson as soon as the door was shut behind them, eyes sparking. "What the hell is going on, Gray?" she demanded, her voice low and fast. "It's not like you to just—"
She broke off, practically in mid-word, as Grayson held up one warning finger. He glanced back and forth, then looked at her and winked. Casually, he tugged at one ear with his hand—his artificial hand—and she realized that he was concerned about spy devices and unseen watchers. "I don't really want to discuss it," he said.
She hesitated, then nodded, a bit sharply. In her anger she'd forgotten the danger. Still, how much more damage could they do now? The worst had already happened. Grayson had been found guilty, ordered to renounce command of his precious Legion, and the Legion itself was in danger with its landhold, with its world, forfeit.
No large military force could survive for long as a unit without some planetary base to call its own. It was more than a matter of having someplace to call headquarters, and BattleMechs needed more than pilots and techs to remain operational. They needed vast amounts of ammunition, silicarb lubricants, replacement parts, circuitry and electronics, fusor packs and power couplings. They needed a vast support infrastructure, people to produce the spare parts and manufacture the ammunition. Farms to grow the food needed to feed all of those people. More people to run the farms ... truck the produce ... handle transport logistics and communications for the unit.
And most of those people had families....
The Gray Death Legion, with orders to depart from Glengarry within ninety days, had just lost all of that. They would have to disband, unless they could find another employer, one well-to-do enough to feed and equip a regiment numbering hundreds of BattleMechs and thousands of people for as long as it might take to get established once more.
"Listen to me, Lori," Grayson said softly. Reaching out, he took her by both shoulders, looking into her eyes with an intensity and a depth that she'd not seen in the man since, well, since before he'd left for Caledonia. Something had changed in him, but what?
"Listen," he said again, for emphasis. "I can't tell you everything, not now. But it's going to be all right."
"But Gray—"
"And the reason I know that is because you're going to be in command of the Legion now."
Her eyes widened and she fumbled for the right words. "Gray, I don't want ... I mean, that's crazy!"
"You may be the best for th' job, lass," McCall said. "The lads, they'll aye listen t' you."
"You would be the better choice, Davis," Lori said. "But it's not going to come to that. Grayson has been moping around for months, and now he ups and decides to quit on us. Well, I'm not going to let that happen!"
"Lori, you may not have the choice," Jon Frye said gently. "If he won't do it, no one can make him."
"Grayson!" Lori said. "Don't you care what's going to happen to the Legion?"
"Yes, I care," he said, slumping into a sofa. "I care very much. God, it's cold in here. Alex, dial us up some heat, will you?"
"Dad," Alex said. "What are we going to do? The Legion, I mean. We can't get along without you."
Grayson gave a wry smile. "At this point, you can't get along with me. That's one of the conditions of the judgment. I'm out."
Caitlin DeVries looked from Grayson to Lori. "But we can't just give up. We've got to fight this somehow!"
"Was that what you discussed with that Lyran colonel during those late-night strolls ... what was his name? Schubert. You talked about your stepping aside in my favor?"
"Among other things," Grayson admitted. "Lori, I really want you to do this."
She glanced from one side of the room to the other, wondering who might be listening in, wondering where the unseen cameras might be. Had she already said too much in her anger and frustration? She decided she didn't care. "You mean I'll pretend to run the regiment, while you—"
"No!" He pointed a finger squarely at her face. "You. I'll run off the papers tonight, promoting you to full colonel. And you'll be in charge as of immediately, because I won't be going back with you."
He's slipped a primary cam, Lori thought, suddenly even more worried than before. This wasn't like him. The stress had pushed him too far....
"Grayson, I know this has been hard on you—"
"Don't patronize me, Lori. I know what I'm doing."
"Damn it, let's at least talk about this!"
"Mom's right," Alex began.
"No!" Grayson brought his fist, his left fist, down hard on the low table in front of the sofa. There was a sharp crack of splintering wood, and the tabletop shattered. "Damn."
"You dinnae ken y' ain strength, lad," McCall said.
"Still getting the hang of the damned thing," Grayson said, rubbing his left hand ruefully. He shook his head. "Lori, listen to me now. You're just going to have to trust me on this one, love. I want you to take the promotion. And the Legion."
Her jaw clenched. Defiance flamed, hot and sour. "I will not—"
"Damn it, Lori!" he flared. "I'm giving you an order! Take command of the Legion and see to my people! And don't give me an argument, hear?"
She stared at him for a long moment, tears stinging her eyes. "Yes, sir," she snapped, and without another word she turned on her heel and strode off to their bedroom.
* * *
Alex Carlyle no longer knew his father.
The change that had come over him recently was inexplicable. For as long as Alex had been able to remember, the Gray Death Legion had been Grayson Carlyle's passion, his whole reason for life, a love surpassed only by what he felt for his own family—and even there, in terms of demonstrativeness, the Legion had often taken precedence. Alex had grown up in the Legion, playing in the shadow of ten-meter-tall war machines locked in their access gantries. When kids his age outside the Legion compound were playing sag or touchball, he'd been running miniatures simulations on a discarded BattleTech holotac board McCall had scrounged up for him. He'd piloted a 'Mech for the first time at age twelve, sitting in his father's lap inside the close, oil-and-hot-metal-smelling complexity of a Marauder's cockpit.
From the beginning, Alex, along with everyone else he knew, had assumed that he would continue with the Legion, that he would even go on to command it someday. After all, where else would he go? Oh, there'd been some doubt in his own mind a year or two ago; he'd been worried for a time by the natural question of whether or not he owed his promotion to captain and his assignment as company commander to his father instead of to his own abilities.
Well, that was all changed now, that was for damned sure.
The toughest part, though, would be breaking this to Caitlin. He'd been trying to think of a good way to go about it, until finally he'd just plain run out of time. There'd been no place at Asgard where they could talk, and no time, either. The Legion officers—all save Grayson—had been rounded up early that morning by their Lyran hosts and hustled off to the spaceport with an almost indecent haste. They'd spent the time since in the spaceport terminal, waiting as the Orion was readied for boost.
