Sword of Sedition Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product 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.

  Sword of Sedition

  A ROC Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2005 by WizKids, Inc.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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  ISBN: 0-7865-5694-3

  A ROC BOOK®

  ROC Books first published by The ROC Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ROC and the “ROC” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: April, 2005

  For Sharon Turner Mulvihill and Mike Mulvihill.

  Great friends.

  Acknowledgments

  Working on Sword of Sedition was a treat and a terror. We spent so many years creating The Republic and introducing a cast of characters, and then Jordan Weisman asks me to take it, add a secondary cast, larger plotlines, nitroglycerin, and shake it all up. Never a dull moment. And with support from so many good people, we’ll keep bringing you more and more surprises.

  Thanks to Jordan and Dawne Weisman and everyone at WizKids who continue to work very hard on this universe. A special thanks to Sharon Turner Mulvihill, who labors tirelessly with the authors to get our work out there. I’d be lost without her. And a big welcome to Liz Scheier, our newest shepherd at Roc books.

  Big-time appreciation to Kris Rusch and Dean Smith, incredible teachers and even better friends. Allen and Amy Mattila, for their friendship. Randall and Tara Bills, Bryn and Ryana and now Kenyon Aleksandr, who are a large part of our lives. Phil DeLuca, Kelle Vozka, Erik, and Alex. Peter and Kathy Orullian, and Cheyenne. Russell and Bobbie Loveday, and Dwayne and Raven.

  Mike Stackpole, Herb “Snuggles” Beas, Chris Hartford, Christoffer “Bones” Trossen, and our “cartographer” Øystein Tvedten. “Team Battle Tech” members Pete Smith, Chas Borner, Warner Doles and now David Stansel-Garner, without whom BattleCorps.com would never have gotten off the ground. Also, Alexander “Wild Knight” Strong, who gave me a good laugh and contributed to the “newswire” clips.

  And to the new generation of writers it is my privilege to work with on BattleCorps.com: Ilsa Bick, Kevin Killiany, Phaedra Weldon, Louisa Swann, Steve Mohan, and Dan Duval. Welcome to the neighborhood.

  Always—always!—the deepest of thanks to my wife, Heather Joy, for her love and generous support. My children, Talon, Conner, and Alexia, who are growing up far too fast. And yeah, the cats. Chaos, Rumor and Ranger. Our local “nobles.” And Loki, our neurotic border collie and court jester.

  TRIALS OF DAMOCLES

  “Politics is war without bloodshed, while war is politics with bloodshed.”

  —Mao Zedong, “On Protracted War,” May 1938

  “Politics is the real two-edged sword. It always draws blood.”

  —(Exarch) Jonah Levin, “Overheard Conversations, Vol. IV,” Terra, 4 December 3134

  1

  Historically, the proof is there. If you look—if you think past all the white noise the governments bombard us with from every media outlet—there is a trip-wire mentality among the Marches that when the strength of local military forces exceeds a certain ratio to the direct power supporting the Davion throne . . . a war happens. I’ve put my own life in danger by pointing this out, you understand. You have to let the people know!

  —Free Radio, “TALK Conspiracies,” New Avalon, 19 August 3134

  Kathil

  Federated Suns

  17 December 3134

  Julian Davion hunched over the ConstructionMech’s controls, working backhoe scoops as they broke apart pale green sod and exposed the rich black soil.

  Clawing down into hardscrabble and clay.

  Widening the foundation for a new perimeter-gun emplacement at Kathil’s Yare Industries.

  The machine’s cab smelled and tasted of diesel fumes. And honest sweat, though not Julian’s own. The reversed buckets required a firm hand to control, in contrast to the responsiveness of the weapons systems of a BattleMech, and when the internal-combustion engine labored, growling under the load and coughing oily smoke into the air, there was no comparing this machine to the war avatar the prince’s champion normally piloted.

  Wasn’t even in the same class.

  Not yet.

  Julian’s “handler,” standing on the edge of the excavation, gave him two thumbs up and then made punching motions. Both men wore sound-dampening headgear, a must for anyone spending long hours on the construction site, and didn’t even try shouting to each other. Julian simply nodded, and lifted the full buckets up to the machine’s chest height.

  Throttling back on rocker pedals, he slowly reversed the bipedal machine away from the planned emplacement. One step. Two. A loud, shrill beeping warned others away from the lumbering ’Mech. Julian stopped, then pivoted in a shuffling sidestep to swing the buckets over the back of a dumper, clutching the triggers on each control stick. The buckets up-ended to dump sod and dirt and clods of red clay into the truck’s low-walled bed. In a new trick he’d learned from Buddy Harris, Julian twisted the control sticks inward to knock the heavy steel buckets together. More clumps dropped out, shaken loose by the beating. Only then did he ease off the triggers so the buckets tucked back under long double-jointed arms. He swung the machine back around, ready for another go at the growing excavation.

  And saw the site foreman and Duchess Amanda Hasek standing next to his handler.

  Buddy frantically waved one arm for attention and made a familiar throat-slashing motion, as common on any battlefield as it was on a construction site.

  Julian chopped at the kill switch, felt the engine die with a couple of hitching coughs. He sagged back for a few breaths, felt the seat’s hard, premolded plastic through the thin padding someone had pressure-taped into place. Shook his head. It had been too good to last.

  Rolling down the wrinkled sleeves of his chambray work shirt, Julian refastened the cuffs at his wrists and did his best to brush the wrinkles flat. He hung his ear protection on an overhead hook, but kept the yellow hard hat, which was only common sense on a work site. Then he patted the cab’s dashboard with something like affection, or apology. Before Christmas, he knew, the ConstructionMech’s yellow-tinted foul weather shroud would be ripped away and true ferroglass armor added in its stead. One of the machine’s back-scooping arms would be replaced with a light autocannon or missile-pack refit. Technicians would then rivet red danger signs over the construction-classic bumblebee striping, warning against fire or intense heat and giving proper loading instructions for the ammunition case, and care of the machine would afterward be shared with an ordnance specialist.

  This ConstructionMech and others like it were to be added to Kathil’s local garrison, requisitioned into military service. Julian had signed those orders yesterday.

  Just one of many changes coming to Kathil as the Federated Suns prepared for war.

  The ’Mech’s engine ticked off the seconds as it cooled. Cranking open the narrow door, Julian grabbed an
overhead rung and levered himself out of the cab. From an easy perch on the ’Mech’s blocky hip joint, he took a quick survey. Yare Industries’ geothermal plant lay a kilometer back, hunkered down between two low hills, dominated by the massive, twenty-story-high tower dish used to beam microwave energy up to orbiting Kathil spacedocks. Staggered between the plant and Julian’s excavation were four other active work sites. IndustrialMechs labored alongside dozers and cranes. Crews of men and women, all working on the fortified bunkers meant to house soldiers and equipment, scurried around the large equipment.

  And a short jaunt to one side, half-hidden behind tall, blooming dogwoods, was the executive VTOL that had ferried Duchess Hasek to the site. A small security contingent secured the area, including a pair of Pegasus scout vehicles and a squad of Infiltrator Mark II battlesuit troopers. Security Service agents in their suit jackets and dark glasses spread out in a wide fan to keep anyone else from approaching either the duchess or the site foreman, David Styles. Lines had already started forming.

  More delays.

  Leaning out from the side of the ConstructionMech, Julian cupped one hand around his mouth. “Decided to survey the project, Duchess?” Of course, he knew what had actually brought the grande dame out to Yare.

  “Looking for you,” she shouted back. Her voice was thin, but piercing.

  Expecting her arrival through most of the morning, sweating through a mixture of anticipation and dread, Julian nodded and shifted his weight past the hip joint. A short ladder welded to the ’Mech’s left leg made for an easy climb down. Dropping the last meter, he landed on slightly bent legs, then straightened to his full height to work the kinks out of his back. Julian stood one point eight meters, though his mother always said he carried himself as if taller. His father’s name for it had been “bearing.”

  Sometimes Julian still heard The Chairman’s voice in his head.

  “A real man stands straighter when he’s not carrying lies on his back or dishonor in his heart.”

  Julian welcomed those moments, liking to think he took after his father in more than looks. The same reddish-blond hair and healthy complexion, strong chin and hazel eyes, square shoulders. Christoffer Davion never served one day in military service, and had preferred his elected status as Argyle’s world chairman to any noble title the Davion name brought home. But he’d have never begrudged his son the opportunity of fine schools and military academies, or the direct sponsorship of their cousin, First Prince Harrison.

  “Men choose how to live their own lives.”

  Which Julian accepted as a difficult truth. Ultimately, he had chosen to live his life under the bright edge of a suspended sword.

  Julian believed his father would have liked seeing him graduate the New Avalon Military Academy, and being named the youngest prince’s champion in the history of the Federated Suns. It was a reassurance he’d held to for fourteen years, ever since his father passed. Twenty-seven now, he saw no reason to let it go.

  Not even under Amanda Hasek’s disapproving frown.

  “You certainly didn’t make yourself easy to find,” she scolded him.

  Duchess of New Syrtis and Minister of the Capellan March—in charge of fully one-fourth of the Federated Suns’ star-spanning nation—Amanda Hasek’s glares had been known to melt generals and cause lesser nobility to quake. A powerful and dangerous woman. Still, her heart-shaped face had a strong, straightforward beauty that so reminded Julian of Prince Harrison’s first wife, the duchess’ younger sister. Turning matronly in her sixties, Amanda gave in slightly to her years by allowing a touch of gray at her temples to feather into the coal-dark hair she wore swept up and back in the latest fashion.

  She cupped her hands over her ears in an effort to cut down on the noise of so many nearby machines. It was a large project. Julian doubted Yare Industries had seen this much activity since the Fourth Succession War.

  The excavation was too big to jump, so Julian walked around the nearer side. The warm scent of turned earth rose to meet him. He was only half a dozen steps away from her when he finally said, “Well, you found me.” A ghost of a smile. “Which I suppose means that I’m done for the day.”

  Buddy Harris gave the prince’s champion a friendly wink as he passed, heading for the ConstructionMech and his regular job. Julian offered his hand to the second man—the one who stood stiffly at Amanda’s side. David Styles looked like a scared wolf caught in a steel trap, desperate enough to chew off a leg to escape. He was obviously unused to visiting royalty, especially on an actual work site. It had taken Julian days to break through the foreman’s natural deference to hear what the man actually thought.

  Now he felt reluctance return in Styles’ weak grip.

  “Thank you for your time, Lord Davion. You handle a CM well.”

  “A cockpit’s a cockpit,” Julian said. “And I hate standing around.” Buddy was already back in his cab, waiting for the order to restart. “I hope I didn’t cost you much in lost time.”

  “Not at all,” the foreman politely lied.

  Julian laughed. “Thank you, David.”

  Taking that as his dismissal, the foreman bowed briefly to Julian and deeper to Amanda Hasek. “My Lord. Duchess.” He backed away quickly, then fled at a stiff walk to the next closest work site. The waiting lines trailed after him.

  “Any news from ComStar?” Julian asked soon as the other man was out of earshot. Turning the duchess toward business before she pounced on any more of his shortcomings.

  Amanda shook her head, mouth pinched into a tight grimace. “Nothing beyond what we have already heard. A priority message from The Republic, being delivered by diplomatic courier. Once it has been decrypted and all codes verified as genuine, it shall post according to diplomatic rank.”

  Julian’s frown sat heavy on his face. “By courier,” he said. He made it sound like a curse.

  It was, in a way. Certainly a far cry from the efficiency of ComStar’s vast interstellar network only two years prior. Before the Blackout. Practically overnight, upwards of eighty percent of all hyperpulse generators, which made instant communication possible between stars and stellar empires, quit talking to one another. And even those that worked did so sporadically, reaching only a few stations in the available network.

  Kathil’s HPG was one of the silent ones.

  “Three weeks from origin.” Julian shook his head. “Four years ago, a secure verifax could have made the transmission relay in three days.”

  Or even in as many hours, at the highest-class priority. There was no way to tell even that, anymore. This hand-carried message might bring word of new trade offers from The Republic of the Sphere, or the flare-up of a violent boundary dispute. Tempers were running short on many worlds guarding the borders of the young nation. It might be the arrival of a dignitary. A natural catastrophe. Intelligence reports.

  “It could be news of an invasion,” he said. “And we would not know until all passcodes and red tape procedures are verified.”

  “Faith forbid!” Amanda was quick to say. But her brown eyes were veiled. Hardened.

  Not that Julian needed any overt signs. He knew the Haseks’ Capellan March was lacking only an excuse to break the peace and invade the nearby Capellan Confederation. Or strike at the ever-troublesome Taurian Concordat. People were scared. Planetary governments were nervous. And despite fifty years of military downsizing, everyone was still too well-armed.

  Even the duchess’ presence here, visiting Kathil, was a sign of the distrust building between Prince Harrison and the Federated Suns’ stronger noble families. Harrison Davion, as well, lived under the sword, mortgaging strained relations against the future of his realm.

  At least with the duchess on Kathil, there was no immediate threat from New Syrtis. And whatever news had come from The Republic would come to them first.

  Julian saw Buddy still waiting, and gave him a high thumbs-up. As the ConstructionMech’s engine roared back to life, dumping more oily smoke from its stac
kpipes, he caught Amanda’s elbow and escorted her away from the excavation. He noticed some gray dust staining the lower legs of his black trousers, and stopped to brush at them without much hope of success.

  “Julian.” Amanda Hasek shook her head. “You’re a mess.”

  He would be by her standards, of course, having spent the morning on site. But what else was there to be done? “Plans can look fine on the table, Amanda, and be wrong for the field. You don’t leave military planning to civilian contractors.”

  “Yes. But you do not trade skilled labor for an academy-trained MechWarrior either. Although Sandra wagered with me that I’d find you at the controls of some machine out here.”

  Lady Sandra Fenlon was Amanda’s ward, and the duchess’ calculated attempt at matchmaking had been painfully obvious to both young nobles. Privately, they had agreed to let Amanda believe it was working. Better that, they decided, than worrying about whom the duchess had in her second-string lineup. For either of them.

  “There’s so much to do,” Julian said, keeping to the subject. “This morning I had to shut down a site that was half-completed.”

  He pointed out an abandoned work area where three high slab walls stood over a finished excavation and new-poured foundation. Half a kilometer behind it rose the massive, twenty-story satellite dish of Yare’s geothermal station.

  “What was wrong with the site?” Amanda asked, studying the layout for herself and not seeing the problem.

  “Too close to the microwave tower. Too far from the next supporting bunker. If it were me, I’d throw a combined-arms company right at it, with flankers to hold off any chance for reinforcement from the east or west.”

  He made a steeple with his hands, showing the maneuver. Then clap!

  “Bring them together, smash the defensive line, and storm the facility.”