Fortress Republic Read online

  Foundations Of Blood . . .

  Julian Davion—Prince's Champion of the Federated Suns—is a warrior who has lost his way. Amidst political turmoil and the shifting fortunes of war, he struggles to find his destiny

  Julian's First Davion Guards have restored order on Terra. The Republic is closing its borders, keeping its core intact while leaving farther-flung worlds to fend for themselves. But The Republic is not only being attacked from without—it's being undermined from within, and the hunt for seditionists continues.

  Ex-knight and now-senator Conner Rhys-Monroe still leads the fight to destroy The Republic from the inside. He is expertly opposed by Countess Tara Campbell, leader of the Highlanders and The Republic's best hope on the outside. Terra lies at the center of their titanic tug-of-war, where Julian struggles to keep his footing in a situation shifting like blood-drenched quicksand.

  FORTRESS REPUBLIC

  Dividing his attention between the water-softened world he saw through his ferroglass shield and the iconic layout on his heads-up display, Erik throttled forward into a hard run to lead the Condors forward after the retreating vehicles. Both Demons and the Shandra had fallen back down the slope onto a secodary line held by a fifty-five ton Griffin and two captured Haseks. Like the others, all three combat vehicles had been painted with tan and green colors being used by these supposed "Capellan irregulars." Skirmish troops thrown at Tikonov in advance of any main thrust. Poorly trained and mostly disposable freedom fighters.

  "But they don't fight like it." he whispered, careful of his voice-activated mic.

  In fact, reports of House Liao's well-organised probing assault were what first tempted Erik away from Terra and what might very well be the high-level political event of the decade. Leaders from every Great House and most of the smaller realms, all converging on the capital of The Republic? At a time when the Senate was disgraced and disbanded, and starting what amounted it a civil war? Seven months ago, Erik, would have been hard pressed to imagine turning his back on such an opportunity.

  Seven months ago, however, he had not yet learned to look at the larger picture.

  Seven months ago, his uncle Lord Governor Aaron Sandoval, had not nearly gotten him killed.

  A lot had happened since then. Erik had developed the first of his own intelligence assets. He'd made contact with one of The Republic's largest subversive organizations. These were both secrets he now kept from his uncle.

  And both were reporting to him the same thing. House Liao's puch forward at Tikonov was larger, and better organized than The Republic credited. Which meant Tikonov— and the Sandoval hold over the Swordsworn faction—was in danger.

  So Erik had come back. And without his uncle. The better to make his own mark now, while so many eyes were watching.

  FORTRESS REPUBLIC

  A BATTLETECH NOVEL

  Loren L. Coleman

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd.. 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc. an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2005

  10 987654321

  Copyright CD 2005 WizKids, Inc. All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARC.A REGISTRADA Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the roducts of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable bylaw. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Acknowledgments

  As Fortress Republic heads into editing, Sword of Sedition is not long out and Daughter of the Dragon is new on the shelves. So I’ve had the chance to gauge reaction from many readers, and from everything I’ve heard, the response is overwhelmingly positive. Not only did the readership roll with the sweeping changes we’ve started to implement (breaking up The Republic and marching onto the stage more of the large Great Houses), they embraced them. A benefit of writing inside a universe at war. Change is to be expected. Which makes my job even better, as I am able to enjoy a fresh challenge with every novel.

  And not just for myself. At some point along the journey in each and every book, dozens of people lend a thought, a whisper, a hand or two. Only some of which I’ll be able to thank here:

  Jordan and Dawne Weisman, Mort Weisman, Maya Smith, Mike Mulvihill, Kevin Goddard, Kelly Bonilla, and everyone at WizKids who continues to work very hard on this universe. And especially Sharon Turner-Mulvihill, who I owe big time for her patience and often great efforts on my behalf.

  The staff at Roc books, which now includes Elizabeth Scheier. Jen and Laura Anne, you will be missed, but I have been left in good hands.

  The usual suspects who often walk through my office, my home, and my life. Allen and Amy Mattila. Randall and Tara Bills, with Bryn and Ryana and now Kenyan Aleksandr. Phil DeLuca, Kelle Vozka, Erik, and Alex and Logan. David and Troy and Trent who are now that much closer that I can come visit my “fourth cat.”

  Of course: Mike Stackpole, Herb Beas, Chris Hartford, Chris Trossen, and our cartographer Oystein Tvedten. Team Battle Tech members Pete Smith, Chas Borner, Warner Doles. The new generation: Kevin Killiany, Ilsa Bick, Phaedra Weldon, Louisa Swann, Steve Mohan, Dayle Dermatis, Dan Duvall and others who are joining the ranks through BattleCorps.com; welcome to the neighborhood.

  Always the deepest of appreciation for my wife, Heather Joy, without whose support none of this would be possible. My children, Talon, Conner, and Alexia, who are still growing up far too fast (my wife is starting to look up at our first). And yeah, the cats. Chaos, Rumor and Ranger. Our local “nobles.” And Loki, our neurotic border collie, doing a study in three parts on how to herd cats; how he suffers for his art.

>   BUILT ON QUICKSAND

  These are the times that try men’s souls.

  —Thomas Paine, “The American Crisis,”

  19 December 1776

  There are always trying times that must be faced, and conquered. How we rise to meet such challenges, that is the true test of our strength of character, of will. As chaos rails against the fortress of the mind.

  —(Acting Prince) Caleb Hasek Sandoval Davion, “A

  Public Address,” Terra, 2 June 3135

  1

  With few loyalist holdouts left, it seems certain that life on Terra can be expected to turn once more towards calmer waters. In fact, can a reconciliation with the rogue Senators really be that far off? Now that the insanity has nearly run its course?

  —Excerpt from the Terran Times editorial page, 8 June 3135

  Siberia, Terra

  Republic of the Sphere

  9 June 3135

  “Incoming!”

  The warning crackled in Julian Davion’s ears amid a wash of static. And already too late.

  Missiles flashed across the low, barren ridge in overlapping waves. Fell over his position in a smothering blanket. Bright blossoms of fire gouged into the Siberian tundra’s permafrost, threw smoking earth and blackened gravel against the lower legs of Julian’s eighty-five ton Templar.

  One flight of warheads and then a second slammed against his BattleMech’s right side. They blasted away armor and shoved Julian hard to the left. Straps on his safety harness dug in at his shoulders, his waist. The quick-release buckle was a hard knot pressed into his gut.

  The prince’s champion of the Federated Suns wrestled against his control sticks, working hard to keep his Templar on its feet and moving, shuffling forward, fighting its way up the slope. His muscles ached with fatigue and more than a few bruises. The cramped cockpit stank of old sweat, the ozone flavor of warm electronics, and a recent application of conditioner that some over-eager technician had used on the supple neoleather wrapping his command chair. The conditioner’s acrid stench burned Julian’s sinuses, scratched at the back of his throat. He desperately needed a swallow of water.

  A final flight of missiles hammered into the Templar’s right shoulder. Two warheads slammed into the side of its head, just back of the cockpit’s ferroglass shield. A deep, metallic gonging rang in Julian’s ears.

  The ’Mech wrenched to one side as if shoved, but never faltered a step.

  “Still here,” Julian managed between dry coughs.

  Already toggled to the First Davion Guards’ common channel, he relied on the voice-activated mic built into his neurohelmet for hands-free comms.

  “Still good.”

  His warriors were on edge as it was. They didn’t need to worry overmuch about their commander just now. Especially after Prince Harrison’s recent accident.

  Julian could do with fewer reminders of his uncle’s condition as well, and living in the moment was his first, best defense. Always checking his heads-up display for an update on the approaching battlefield. Keeping an eye on his OmniMech’s waste heat buildup, the wireframe schematic that darkened as he lost his armor, his speed, and his supporting forces.

  A pair of Kinnol battle tanks struggled alongside Julian’s position, one of them responsible for the earlier warning. Seized in last week’s battle near Chateau-Thierry, both had been striped blue, white and red across one fender to match the Templar’s parade colors. They’d also weathered the storm of warheads, though one of the vehicles chuffed great gouts of sooty, black smoke through a gaping rent in its side. Still it pushed forward.

  Behind the Kinnols, spread in a loose skirmish line, followed a double-squad of armored infantry. Heavy-footed Hauberk on the left. Standard Infiltrators on the right.

  In their slow-moving wedge formation, Julian led his Guards up and over the ridge.

  Down into battle.

  The Western Siberian Lowlands near Salekhard were Terra’s latest (and near last) battlefield. Senate loyalists pressing to the end their ill-fated resistance against The Republic of the Sphere. Already driven from their stronghold near Sverdlovsk by a joint operation between Julian’s First Davion Guards and a large Republic force, this particular group had broken the cordon and fought their way along the eastern side of Russia’s snow-capped Urals. Pursued by Paladins Avellar and Mandella, nearly escaping several times, only to be trapped here. A barren, desolate basin cut by icy rivers and thin woodlands. Few places left to run. No place left to hide.

  “Bugs caught on the walk,” Sergeant Montgomery had said.

  The veteran non-com wasn’t far off. Wide arctic plains and sinks of frozen marshland stretched near as far as the eye could see save for the Urals rising in the west. A few exposed ridges like the one Julian had slipped behind, but not many. Below, spread out over several kilometers, a dozen BattleMechs stormed those desolate flats. Three stories tall and clad in composite armor, many of them walked and ran in the close approximation of giant knights. Others stalked about the battlefield on reverse-canted “bird legs.” Sleek and deadly. At a glance it was difficult to tell ally from enemy as the machines challenged each other with fists full of lightning and lances of jewel-tone lasers. Avatars of war, let loose into the world of men.

  And they weren’t alone. Between these battling titans, companies of armored vehicles reeled back and forth like metal-shod herds caught between mighty predators, mixing and clashing and then breaking apart again as they sought flight in a new direction. Overhead a few remaining aerospace fighters stooped out of a pale blue sky to scream over the battlefield, laying down long strafing runs that burst through enemy lines and carved up the frozen ground.

  Missiles rose and fell, rose and fell. Their gray contrails streaked the sky. False thunder rolled across the open plains as warheads and autocannon argued with each other. Angry, hellish streams of particle cannon energies scourged the war machines of one side, then the other. Lasers bit back and forth.

  Into this Julian Davion led the Guards’ second thrust of the day.

  A Catapult held the lower slope, flanked by two JES crawlers. Between them, capable of throwing out an umbrella of over two hundred warheads, they could pound an area flat with deadly saturation. Launching waves of indirect fire over the ridge had softened their blow, but Julian knew better than to let them have a second bite.

  “Suns, concentrate fire on my target,” Julian ordered as the Catapult hammered at him with its twenty-millimeter autocannon. He drew his crosshairs over the closest JES missile carrier. Waited for the targeting reticle to burn the deep, solid gold of a hard lock. Quickly toggled for his all-hands circuit.

  “Swords—”

  “Hammers!” she interrupted.

  “Dammit, Calamity! Wheel in and hook them. Now, now, now!”

  On that last “now” his crosshairs gave him good tone, and Julian eased into his triggers even as a wailing alarm warned him of missile lock. Of multiple missile locks. But he edged out the Senate loyalists by a good second or two, which so often made all the difference in combat.

  His particle projector cannons, one mounted in each arm, spat out twisting streams of hellish energies. They twisted and snaked their way across the frozen ground as if with a life of their own and cored in through one side of the missile carrier, blasting away armor in shards and molten spatters.

  The Kinnols added one more PPC each, and threw a flight of long-range missiles into the air. The sleek warheads drew a tight line on the wounded carrier. While one of the battle tanks missed wide with both PPC and warheads, the second made up for it by following in Julian’s initial strike. Its PPC sliced through one tracked belt, crippling the JES crawler, stranding it in place.

  As if that would matter, as the Kinnol’s missile flight hammered in through the gaping wound Julian had already carved. Filling the crew compartment with a raging storm of fire and shrapnel, it killed the crew instantly and cracked one of the crawler’s ammunition bins.

  Several tons of warheads detona
ted in sympathetic explosions, ripping away one whole side of the vehicle, tossing it into the air as if it were a child’s toy. Trailing a gout of fire and belching oily, black smoke.

  The crawler—once a solid piece of machinery, now a mangled, fiery ruin—landed a good twenty meters away with a pancaking belly flop.

  Then the second carrier and the Catapult disappeared behind clouds of exhaust smoke, and all Julian could do was tense and ready himself to ride out the terrible pounding he was about to take.

  Better than one hundred warheads slammed in around him, blossoming in fireballs across his shoulders and chest, digging through the armor on his arms, his legs. Tearing up the ground as smoke and blackened earth geysered into the air.

  Two missiles hammered into the side of the Templar’s head, shaking Julian against his restraints as if he were a rag doll being whipped around at the end of short rope.

  Another flight cracked a flaw through his centerline armor, and the physical shielding that protected his ’Mech’s fusion engine. Coupled with the power draw spiked by his PPCs, the reactor’s surging waste heat bled upward through the cockpit’s diamond-plate decking.

  Julian gasped, his breath pulled from him to be replaced by hot coals burning in his lungs. Fought his control sticks even as he felt the eighty-five ton machine overbalancing to the left. Ducked back the other direction, as the bulky neurohelmet he wore translated brain signals from his own equilibrium into the regenerative feedback loop being fed down into the massive gyroscopic stabilizers screaming in the Templar’s gut.

  No joy.

  The slope, the heavy damage, the ringing in his ears from the pummeling he’d taken—Julian abandoned his fight against gravity and surrendered his Templar into a controlled fall. It slammed hard against the frozen ground, digging its left shoulder through the permafrost. Bounced Julian twice more against his harness as darkness pushed in at the edges of his vision.