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Chapter 8
Duke Kelswa's former office
Governor's Palace
Tamar City, Tamar
Tamar City burned.
They hadn't started the fires, and they were trying to extinguish them, but neither of these changed the fact that the city was burning.
The HPG had been taken intact by a commando team, and they had managed to hold it until they could be relieved. The defending garrison, however, had been none-too-careful with where their ordnance was going and the city had paid the price of it. So had the forces Richard Winters had committed to battle, if only because they were being careful and so had taken more casualties before the matter could be decided.
Someone had unleashed a binary virus into the city's command network where it had ripped through the ancient systems regulating everything from sewer flow to emergency response management. There were sewer crews responding to fires, and road maintenance crews showing up at the scenes of riots as the citizens took the opportunity for some good old-fashioned looting.
Winters stared out the windows of the office he had taken over in the palace of the planetary duke and watched the city burn. On an expensive, high-end tri-vid entertainment station a muted news-feed continued playing. He had held this position since the Marines had announced the arrival of his…guests, and escorted them into the room. Now, expression fixed so his contempt didn't show, he turned to the four people seated in chairs in front of his desk.
"Gentlemen, Ladies…your Grace," he added with a slight, sarcastic bow, to the man seated at the far left. "I am General Richard Winters and you have been brought before me so that I might communicate your fates to you."
"I will not sit here and be spoken too in such a disrespectful manner by mercenary scum such as you! I demand that you release me at once! The people of Tamar will not stand for this affront! I demand—"
Winters was shutting him down just as fast. "You, Sir, are in no position to make demands," he said, shouting down the Duke of Tamar. "The people of Tamar are too busy trying to save their city from the damage you have inflicted upon them! Selvin Kelswa, Third of that Name, Duke of Tamar, you are accused of conspiracy to utilize a weapon of mass destruction inside the seventy-five thousand kilometer exclusion zone of an inhabited planetary surface. You are also accused of conspiracy to use a prohibited weapon, breach of free passage, deliberate damage to planetary infrastructure, breach of responsibilities entrusted to you, counts of murder, attempted murder, and conspiracy to commit both that are too numerous to list, and numerous lesser offenses. You are hereby remanded into custody for delivery to an authority competent to try you for these offenses, and punish you as you so richly deserve.
"You have the right to not answer any questions put to you, anything you do say can and will be entered into the official record at your trial. You have the right to legal counsel—I dare say you can afford it so we can spare the public at least that particular expense—for the duration of the voyage and at your trial. You also have the right, since there is a present state of war, to have your case heard before a military tribunal of the Star League Defense Force." Not that Winters had any real expectation that he would, but… "Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"
"I will not be dictated to by a—"
"Do you understand these rights, Sir?" Winters snapped.
Kelswa crossed his arms.
"Let the official record show that the prisoner remained belligerent and mute.
"Precentor Hoppe," he continued as Kelswa began to once more shout. "You have likewise been accused of conspiracy to utilize a weapon of mass destruction inside the seventy-five-thousand-kilometer exclusion zone of an inhabited planetary surface. You are also accused of conspiracy to use a prohibited weapon, breach of free passage, breach of responsibilities entrusted to you, and numerous lesser offenses. You are hereby remanded into custody for delivery to an authority competent to try you for these offenses. Do you understand your rights, Ma'am?"
"The charges against me are baseless," she said coldly.
"I am not competent authority to adjudicate the charges, Ma'am," Winters said frankly. Kelswa was still shouting, but she at least was being reasonably polite about it.
"ComStar is a neutral party. Our rules are self-enforcing. You are not competent to try me—"
"No, Ma'am," he agreed. "I just said that."
She seemed taken aback by his agreement.
"That is why you are being transported to competent authority. Whether that is the judiciary of the Federated Commonwealth, or whatever passes for judicial process in ComStar is well above my pay-grade.
"Guards."
The door of the office opened and four Marines with the brassards of MPs entered. Kelswa struggled though not effectively. Hoppe seemed to be in a state of shock as the Marines shackled them and led them out of the room. Winters turned off the recorder for the judicial log and turned to the other two people in the room.
"And now we come to the two of you," he said.
"We did not know—"
"You mistake me, Prime Minister," Winters cut her off. "The two of you stand accused of no crime. I had hoped that—"
There was a knock on the door.
"Enter," he called.
The doors were opened and a woman wearing the dress uniform of the Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth entered.
"Marshal," the Prime Minister said as she stood to great the other woman.
"Prime Minister," she said, then nodding to the other man in the room, "Lawrence."
"Joy," Lawrence replied.
"Ladies, Precentor," Winters added to Lawrence Urrutia, "I shall be brief. Damage has been done to your planet's fighting forces that it could ill afford to lose. However, given the…fragmentation of your chain of command and lack of cohesion my superiors hope that we have not left your planet too badly off in regards to its ability to resist the Clans."
"The damage to the city—"
"Is regrettable, Prime Minister," Winters said gently. "But this planet is more than one city, and quite honestly, as a pre-space general once observed, 'fixed defenses are a testament to the stupidity of man.'"
"General Patton never encountered a Castle Brian," Marshal Corelli noted.
"No, Marshal, he did not," Winters agreed with a smile. "However, I have fought inside a Castle Brian, and I have taken enemy held Castles Brian. This…wall, was no Castle Brian. It would have provided a negligible addition to your defense even had it been completed. Now the resources required to finish it can be diverted elsewhere."
Precentor Urrutia's lips quirked in what might have been a smile, and Marshal Corelli smirked.
"Marshal, you have the resources of the entire planet at your disposal, including those belonging to Precentor Urrutia."
"You aren't from around here, are you, General?" the Marshal asked wryly. "ComStar does its own thing. It certainly doesn't take orders from the locals."
"Marshal, you will be provided with telemetry and records of the attack upon Task Force TH-X1138. I'm sure the Clans will be…less than amused by them. What you wish to actually do with them is, of course, up to you. Speaking for myself I would prefer mutual cooperation."
"I don't suppose you plan on sticking around," Precentor Urrutia said, his tone making it a statement.
"We have our own movement orders to execute, which I am not at liberty to divulge," Winters said. "Whether forces are sent to relieve you or not is both a military and political question for your respective governments."
"The military question being whether or not the 26th survives long enough for it to become a political decision," Marshal Correli said dryly.
"Given ComStar's activities it has been decided to post a small garrison in the former ComStar compound. Once the HPG has been repaired service will return to normal, for now, with priority given to military-critical messages. If you have to retreat they should be able to whistle up some JumpShips."
"Not enough to evacuate the planet though."
"No, Prime Minister," Winters admitted. "How many forces can be spared to defend this one planet is well beyond my pay-grade. However, I am landing the First Lyran Regulars Regimental Combat Team which we pulled largely intact from Ridderkirk, and the remnants of the 41st Avalon Hussars from Planting. I am keeping General Felix Steiner as my military liaison from the…Federated Commonwealth."
He turned to Correli. "The 41st is in bad shape, but they have good experience against Clan Wolf. The Regulars are in decent shape materially, thought they were forced to leave most of their stockpiles behind, but their command structure is very confused."
"What happened? I know Jane Craigie, she doesn't play politics but is a really solid tactician."
"Hauptmann-General Craigie was in a vehicular accident and resides in a coma. Her deputy was incapable of even organizing a retreat off-world."
Tamar
Before
"Follow me and we shall push these invaders off Sacred Tamar!"
"Mute," I said, and the ranting extortions of Selvin Kelswa, Duke of Tamar, fell silent. "Analysis."
"There is an 87% probability that Selvin Kelswa is suffering from some form of personality disorder. His discourse shows evidence of megalomania, paranoia, and delusions that he is capable of winning."
My hand paused on Durandal's control sticks. "Did you just make a joke?"
"A small one, or at least so I intended. It seemed appropriate."
"Okay." Still going to take some getting used to. Bun Bun was—had been—occasionally funny, but it had always been a function of programming. Something designed to get pilots to think of the Improved DI as less of a machine because—humans being humans—we were more likely to trust things like tactical analysis that came from something approximating humans than we would coming from a machine. It had been a function of Bun Bun's diagnostic interface computer reading my brainwaves and generating a remark to adjust them towards an ideal state. Even then it had been restricted to semi-humorous remarks. Deliberate misunderstanding what I was asking for? And then using it to tell a joke? Not happening, ever.
"Tactical analysis?"
A side-window opened in the augmented-reality environment. An Atlas was stomping its way down a street that, judging by the way it was buckling, had not been intended for assault-class mechs. A box under the window scrolled information about engine neutrino-emissions, weapon profiles, and other useful data. The Atlas was a relatively new and powerful unit when we had left, this one was ancient. There were spots where armor plates didn't align quite right, mixed-and-matched parts from various updated models most likely. The paint-job was new, but there were places, some quite large, where it had already flaked away. The only reasons for flakes like that was someone not knowing what they were doing when painting the thing—unlikely, considering how neat and sharp the transitions between primary and trim colors were—or oxidation of the base metal that hadn't been properly cleaned first.
Who the hell lets their mech get rusty?
"Broadcast in the open."
"Broadcasting," Durandal said.
"Selvin Kelswa," I said.
"Boss, are you doing what I think you're doing?"
A glance at the communications window showed it was George on the private command freq.
"Relax, George, I've got it," I said as Durandal flipped me to the appropriate channel. "Selvin Kelswa, Duke of Tamar. I am Lieutenant Colonel Roland Talbot, Commander of the 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment.
"For to prevent the effusion of blood and for the avoiding of all other inconveniences likely to grow from the wars now levied upon your world of Tamar, it is my pleasure to adventure my person in clean wager of battle to prove upon your Grace's body that you are—"
"Get to the point, traitorous scum!"
"Quarterhorse-Six, what the hell are you playing at?"
"Analysis shows Kelswa to be a megalomaniac arsehole with delusions of godhood, Command," I replied. "I'm offering personal combat for the planet."
There was a relatively lengthy pause (relative in that it would have gone on longer if they hadn't been in combat). But finally General Carson asked: "Why?"
"It seemed like a good idea thirty seconds ago, Sir," I admitted.
General Carson glared briefly up at the ceiling of his command track in the direction of where he thought Winters might be, and scowled. "Winters, private channel." The computer running his tactical center was only slightly less 'brilliant' than the DI computers running their 'mechs. But, since it didn't have to interpret anyone's neurological data, it didn't need to be. It did have somewhat less initiative though.
The light-codes that provided data about communications changed.
"General Winters, this is—"
"I know, Kit, but they're falling back into the city. We do this the normal way and we're looking at an awful lot of casualties and property damage. Talbot has a chance to end this, and even if they don't stand down, Kelswa is a focal point."
"I know that, but there are procedures," Kit said. Then he grimaced, "and then there are times for throwing procedures away, and if it took me that long to remember it I'm starting to think like a bureaucrat. Out.
"Quarterhorse—"
"Carry on, Colonel. Good luck."
"Wilco, General, thanks."
"Selvin Kelswa," I said again, "I grow tired of slaughtering soldiers who are unable to offer even a token defense but are sent to die by political hacks. We can fight it out, your soldiers get killed and, in all likelihood, your capital city razed. I haven't had a good razing in a while and someone's sure to bring marshmallows and chocolate bars. You may even win, though not before we make you pay so dearly for it that the Clans will stomp what's left into the mud. But I'm offering personal combat for the planet. You win, we leave. I win, and your forces stand down. State your conditions."
'Hero Plaza' was just like any one of a thousand parade grounds I had seen before. Huge, in the way that any parade ground intended for BattleMechs has to be. This one had larger-than-mech-sized statues of various 'heroes' mounted on giant pillars, and there were actual tracks dug into the surface of the parade ground itself by all the mechs that had marched past. It was kind of stunning in that anyone had let their parade ground fall into such disrepair, and that the heavily constructed deck (nothing intended for hundred ton machines to stomp past on was anything but heavily built) had worn at all.
The parade grounds I used to stomp past on certainly hadn't worn that way.
At the same time, it reminded me of the parade ground used for the Changing of the Guard outside the First Lord's Palace, or watching the honor guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior. How long had boots been pacing over those stones for? A thousand years? More?
The side of the Plaza I entered from was deserted. My Squadron was scattered outside the Plaza, just in case someone decided to ride to the Duke's rescue or didn't feel like abiding by the terms when he lost. Kelswa, in comparison, entered from between an honor guard of saluting BattleMechs.
He had insisted on delaying long enough for the journalists to wire the Plaza for full-immersion tri-vid so probably ninety percent of the people on planet were watching this. He had his people speak for him. I had Durandal to speak for me. Did any of them understand the bands of tartan, or the meaning behind the crossed antique revolvers? Probably not.
Oh well, they had to learn sooner or later.
"Durandal, I want a thirty-percent performance cap on mobility systems, and fifty percent on electronic warfare, and no radiating of any kind until after the first salvo. If he opens with a missile barrage, and he likely will, full performance for the first salvo and a twenty-five percent reduction thereafter."
"Do you want me to put on hobbles or turn off my sensor arrays to simulate blindness as well?"
"Funny, but not really appropriate right now," I replied.
"Specified limits activated," Durandal reported.
I squared off against Kelswa's ancient Atlas a good two hundred meters outside the maximum range of his LRMs. "Weapon Group Alpha, Beta… Max charge on the rails," I muttered, double-checking weapon presets. "Master Arm, pilot consent…"
"Since you're risking my life—"
"For various values of life."
"—too, can I just say that I think this plan leaves something to be desired?"
"What is the likelihood of his missiles being able to deal critical damage?"
"Nil, but—"
"And if he forgoes using his missiles I will have plenty of time to react before he reaches the range of his autocannon and lasers."
"True, but—"
"Yes?"
"I was going to refute you, but a certain Duke is wondering if we're ready and whether we wish to take our marks."
I thumbed Durandal's running lights on, and then off again.
He charged, the heavy surface of the Plaza holding up even under this abuse. He didn't fire as soon as he was within his theoretical maximum like I anticipated. He crossed exactly thirty additional meters of paving material first.
"I thought I said to keep the ECM shut down for the first salvo." Most of them seemed to have not achieved targeting-lock.
"It is. Those missiles are so dumb I doubt that they'd even know what a decoy is, much less how to respond to one," Durandal replied sourly. "Lucky for us they appear to be as blind as they are dumb."
The point-defense laser whined as it swatted the three or four missiles that looked like they may possible hit us.
My turn.
I, or rather Durandal, had been standing stock-still since arriving in the Plaza. That entire time Durandal had been devoting a large fraction of its total processing power to refining its target lock. Now lasers slammed into the armored chassis of Selwa's Atlas, the speed-of-light weapons hitting only fractionally before the charged particle streams. The carbon-coated ceramic bars from Durandal's rail guns were not far behind, the sabots used to accelerate the bars falling away as they left the electromagnetic rails.
My strike unbalanced the Atlas, nearly sending it sprawling, and its pilot was too busy keeping his mech from pitching on its face to spare another shot at me. I side-stepped Durandal, overriding the LPDS to sweep it across the Atlas, at this range the laser would set off target warning systems—assuming any that remained were sensate enough to pick it up—and cook the paint a little but nothing more. Even at close range energy-transfer from the laser was enough to cause missile bodies to deform (and thus blow up), not cause damage to any kind of decent armor.
Still, if the Atlas' central computer was bright enough to detect it (none too certain), it would no doubt inform its pilot of the attack. It was sort of a 28th century—31st, now—equivalent of a matador slapping a bull on its backside with the flat of his blade.
I resisted the urge to shout 'ole!'
He recovered and turned around. There was a crater in the armor of the left arm right below the shoulder; the edges had the familiar melted-look of particle cannon hits. A massive crater over the right glacis to cracked right pauldron. Okay, I was really liking the railguns.
"Ball," I said, the tell-tales projected into the holographic 'sky' informing me that Durandal had correctly interpreted the command and switched over to purely ballistics. Durandal had good heat characteristics, really good characteristics, but that attack had pushed its capacity and I wanted it to come down a little. "Disengage Black Hole."
The combination of blowers and air-mixers normally reduced Durandal's IR signature by mixing cool, local air in with that released from the heat sinks. The range was so short, Atlas so blind, and its weapons so dumb that being a little brighter on IR wasn't a huge disadvantage and I'd scrape a little extra efficiency out of the sinks without it.
He got himself turned around and sorted out and came at me again at a much more deliberate pace. I dropped a pair of low-power bars on him to let him know that while I was out of his range he wasn't out of mine. This time when the Atlas pounded forward I counter-charged.
An autocannon slug slammed into Durandal's belly as a handful of missiles peppered its armor. I responded by flushing all three of the SRM-racks in his face, then lowered Durandal's shoulder. A thunderclap rocked the Plaza as the shoulder-checked Atlas dropped like a hundred-ton weight on to the deck, then my guns blew apart the downed mech's shoulder for good measure.
I turned on the external speakers. "Yield."
"Never! I am—"
I killed the external audio pickups and dodged aside as missiles streaked more or less straight up. My response was to stomp on the Atlas' remaining shoulder until something gave. Then, mindful of the railgun, got the emitter of my right arm-mounted laser into a gap that had opened in the armor plates and fired until the joint gave way. I destroyed the remaining weapons literally from contact range, and turned to the legs…
"Please desist, Colonel."
"Voice analysis indicated 97% probability of Maxiltra Rudasich, Prime Minister of Tamar," Durandal reported.
"How did you get voice patterns to run an analysis?" I asked, pausing in my efforts to cut the head/cockpit assembly from the Atlas where the Duke of Tamar had descended into an incoherent apoplectic fury.
"Re-election campaign commercial advertising archived on the planetary data-network."
I snorted. "Alright, open channel."
"Open."
"How can I assist you this fine day, Madame Prime Minister Rudasich?" I asked.
"You can cease your assault upon the lawful Duke of Tamar."
"Do you have authority to surrender the planet? If so I suggest you contact General Carson. I will pause for five minutes for you to do so."
"Understood," she said, managing to sound remarkably crisp.
Five minutes. If she wasn't back I was going to use that Atlas' head to practice my BattleMech-Rules football. There was a pair of particularly ugly statues that would do for delineating a goal net.