16

Spectators

River’s Run Flatlands

Achernar

4 March 3133

Rain continued to pound the River’s Run Flatlands just as it had hammered through the Taibek foothills and Agave Dales. Sand-choked rivulets streaked the ferroglass shield of Erik’s Hatchetman. Desert wash flooded the old river course that raged along as if the river had never been diverted to better serve the city of River’s End.

“Something coming through, Lord Sandoval.” Michael Eus had commandeered a spot inside the heavily armored mobile HQ vehicle. His voice cracked on Erik’s title. It might have been the static of transmission. “Erik… sir! Knight-Errant Powers has fallen. Patching through the trans—”

One of the HQ techs cut Eus off, splicing the intercepted transmission onto Erik’s command frequency. A Republic soldier reported back to base, informing Colonel Blaire that Kyle Powers had been gravely injured—possibly killed—in battle. A tingling chill walked up Erik’s spine. Listening to those reports of the challenge battle’s final moments, he pulled his Hatchetman out of the column line and stomped it up to the crest of a small, mud-slick rise. A deep roll of thunder cheered the Republic. Rain applauded against the elongated head of Erik’s BattleMech for the assembled Swordsworn force.

A half dozen converted MiningMechs continued their dedicated march alongside the old riverbed, rolling along on tank-tread feet. A Behemoth, two Condors and a squad of four Jousts followed, leading a double-wide column of command and support vehicles. Nearer to the column’s rear the mobile HQ pulled out of line as well, leaving its place next to a MIT 23 M.A.S.H. unit, grinding to a halt in between Erik and his tail-end military force. Ranger scout vehicles mixed in among infantry carriers. A squad of veteran Demons rolled along, unconcerned, while JES carriers wove in and around the back of the column as if eager to move up when called.

Everything he could muster in a timely fashion when Michael Eus brought his uncle’s orders to him.

Enough to hold River’s End. He hoped.

“More time,” Erik whispered to himself. Another week of attrition among Republic forces would have helped. Two would have been better.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Nothing, Michael.” Erik scolded himself for forgetting the voice-activated mic. “I was worried about the time. The river is forcing us into a long detour.” Not exactly true. Even without the flashflooded watercourse, Erik had planned to swing far around the militia-controlled base to come at River’s End from the east.

“Estimated time of arrival is still holding at fifteen hundred hours. I can pass along an order to increase our pace.”

Erik bristled, feeling his anger rising in the warm flush that spread along the nape of his neck. “I can give my own orders when I am ready to, Michael. Continue to monitor the Republic military bands.”

“Yes, Lord Sandoval.” Michael was properly respectful, even though he paused before answering.

Well, what should Erik expect from a man who had stepped forward as his uncle’s soldier, bought and paid for? Michael Eus had brought the Duke’s orders to Erik personally, a coded verifax commanding that all Swordsworn forces move against the Steel Wolves at once or otherwise confound Star Colonel Torrent’s plans so that Kal Radick’s faction could not send more support to Ronel.

“Keep them tied down on Achernar.”

That had been Aaron Sandoval’s order. Standing in full regalia, no doubt about to attend a highly visible—as highly visible as one could get without HPG service—function as Lord Governor, the Swordsworn’s leader nodded imperiously. No questions clouded those bright, cerulean eyes. This man was the master of all he surveyed.

“Do not allow Torrent to withdraw for Ronel, Erik. Do not allow him to seize control of the local HPG station. Kal Radick does have a working, JumpShip-based hyperpulse generator. If we allow him to establish the spine of a communications network, our Swordsworn will be hard pressed to resist him. Listen to Michael Eus. He has been my eyes and ears—and occasionally my hands—on Achernar since before your arrival there. He will have suggestions.”

And Erik had been cautious of Eus being suborned by Legate Brion Stempres.

“Have you been in touch with our friends inside River’s End?” Erik asked over his private channel to Eus. Reports from the Sonora Plateau had trailed off, confirming that Kyle Powers had indeed been killed in combat. Martyring himself, by all indications. “Our reception is readied?”

Michael’s voice bled confidence through the transmission. “News agencies friendly to your uncle’s—to your agenda are on hand to put a positive spin on our arrival. Industrial areas owned by Taibek Mining, Steyger Railways, and the Fronc Granaries are cleared. Together they form a defendable staging area and can house all equipment inside warehouses. Logistical support in food and ground services has been put into place.”

Which, when all added together, would give Erik a fair base of operations on the outskirts of River’s End, in between the city proper and the militia’s outlying command post. It might even buy him a measure of goodwill among the populace. Good PR never hurt.

But he would still have preferred another week.

Throttling his Hatchetman into a forward walk again, pacing the column at fifty meters, Erik shoved the thought aside and tried not to let his uncle’s interference worry him. Even such surprises as Michael Eus’s perfidy were to be expected in the long-reaching game the Sandovals played, though it was hard not to feel slighted, in at least some sense. Duke Aaron Sandoval was not here, not in person, and Erik was. That counted for something more than a title. Erik should not—and would not—be made to feel the part of a spectator. No. He remained on the board and in play.

A knight. At worst, a pawn. That idea appealed to him at some remote level, and Erik felt an upward tug at the corner of his mouth. A pawn in Caesar’s game.

And pawns that survived to the final rank became powerful pieces indeed.

River’s End

Achernar

Jessica Searcy bit down on her lower lip. Not hard enough to draw blood. Just enough for the pain to reign in her emotions.

Heavy, golden curtains drawn across her living room windows filtered Achernar’s already gray day down to gloomy twilight. She sat on the couch, feet pulled up beneath her, trivid remote balanced on one leg. Her left thumb rested down against the memory timer. A mug of forgotten coffee cooled on the end table as she pressed in, backing up the once-live holo footage, eased back for a moment, then brushed the feathertouch sensor once more so that the entire scene played out again, and again, as she watched with dry, aching eyes.

Watched Raul Ortega kiss another woman.

Jessica had it memorized. She wasn’t even certain anymore what she looked for in the trivid’s memory buffer. She caught Raul’s slight recoil over something said or gestured. Then the red-haired woman grabbed the front of his MechWarrior togs and pulled him in to plant a hard kiss on his mouth. That was hard enough on her. But it was Raul’s hand coming up, cupping the back of her head with desperate need, that stabbed a shard of ice into her heart every time.

He broke it off, finally, but with no obvious look of regret or shame. Words passed between the two, trampled by a news anchor’s voice that Jessica had long since muted. She didn’t need anyone else’s imagination filling in the blanks. She didn’t need to see again Raul’s half-amused smile, the determination behind his dark, dark eyes. Didn’t need it. Not at all.