The Duke slipped into the elevator and watched the blast doors slide closed in front of him. His stomach fluttered slightly as the lift abruptly dropped toward the deck of the ’Mech bay below. He had a rare moment of privacy, and despite his best efforts, he felt the pressure of his situation bearing down on him. He leaned back against the railing, feeling its cool dura-plast under his palms. He squeezed tightly, as though he could crush the plastic with his bare hands, trying to drive his doubts and emotions back into the dark recess where he kept them hidden. So much depended on this battle, the decisions he would make, and the ones to which he had long ago committed.
The door slid open, and the sights, sounds, and especially the smells of the ’Mech bay washed over him. He sniffed the odor of hot hydraulic fluid and lubricants, burned powder, rocket exhaust, ozone, sweat, and a slight stink of fear. It mixed with the smells of New Aragon: crushed vegetation, stagnant water, a hint of salt from a nearby marsh.
Once again, the eyes of others were upon him, and Aaron realized he needed to project the proper authority due his rank. He straightened, back stiff, shoulders squared, chin high, doubts forgotten. He stepped through the doors, hearing the chatter of air tools, loudspeakers droning orders, warning buzzers, the whir of electric motors, and the occasional thunderous footsteps of a ’Mech moving across the deck.
Through the open doors he could hear the distant chatter of gunfire and muffled explosions. DropShips were normally kept far behind the front lines, but the current rapid enemy movement had caused Aaron to cut that margin somewhat. The line was moving again, and soon it would again be time for the Victory to leapfrog its contingent of troops, armor, and ’Mechs in one five-minute hop.
Despite the powerful equipment moving all around him, Duke Sandoval moved through the ’Mech bay with the confidence and assurance that comes only from experience. Even old hands were known to cower a bit when a fifty-ton BattleMech passed a little too close to them on the bay floor, but the Duke had confidence that, battle weary as they were, his MechWarriors would stay within the painted walkways—the lines beyond which men and lesser machines were always subject to trampling. These were, after all, members of the elite Davion Guard, who saw themselves as being among the best-trained and best-equipped MechWarriors in The Republic, perhaps even rivaling the Knights of the Sphere. They prided themselves on their courage, professionalism, discipline and, above all, precision.
Thus, he found himself sighing as he looked at Erik’s Centurion —its heat sinks still giving off shimmering columns of hot air—which stood in the support structure in front of him.
Commander Erik Sandoval carefully stepped his Centurion backwards and heard the clunks and scrapes as various hard-points and support umbilicals lined up on his ’Mech. A final clunk caused his cockpit to lurch, and he heard footsteps scrambling on his hull. He pulled the hatch release.
In a moment it swung open, a blast of cool air entering the sauna-hot cockpit from a duct deliberately positioned above. Erik saw parts of a tech’s green coveralls and brown leather gloves reaching in and patting him on his neurohelmet. In response, Erik relaxed the ’Mech just enough to lock it into the support structure, then shut the reactor down.
He pulled off the neurohelmet, flipped the quick-release on his harness, and slumped in the seat, basking in the blast of chilled air from overhead. He looked up at the tech, a pretty woman with a few curls of honey-colored hair peeking from under her ball-cap and ear protectors. She smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.
He smiled back weakly. That was the good thing about techs: as long as their ’Mechs were brought back more-or-less in one piece, they didn’t judge. It had not been one of his better days at the office.
He released the harness that held him in the ejection seat, squeezed past it in the narrow confines of the cramped cockpit, and climbed out the narrow hatch in the back of the humanoid Centurion’s head. He stepped out onto the metal grid of the catwalk, then turned back to inspect his ’Mech. Erik ran his finger along a series of new dents in the hatch’s lock housing, dents that would fit the fist belonging to a suit of Purifier battle armor. He grunted and continued to the end of the catwalk.
From there, he could look down across the Centurion’s broad shoulder structure and its massive arms, bristling with lasers on the left and a huge Gauss rifle on the right. Though he couldn’t see it from where he stood, he knew the long-range missile rack mounted in the left side of the ’Mech’s torso was now empty.
As he watched, techs swarmed over the ’Mech like lime-green ants, throwing open access ports, refilling ammo bays, patching damaged and missing armor. The Centurion would be, if not good as new, at least fully battle-ready again within an hour. It would likely take the pilot a bit longer to recuperate.
A sharp movement on the bay floor ten meters below caught his eye: a group of techs flashing a salute. It took another moment to identify the reason for that salute: Duke Aaron Sandoval, striding purposefully toward the ’Mech. Erik Sandoval-Groell let a little grunt of exasperation slip from his lips.
Short of climbing back in his ’Mech and marching half-loaded back onto the battlefield, there was no avoiding this encounter. Erik ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, feeling the stubble that told him it was past time to shave the sides of his head, then checked the top-knot—a style that he shared with his uncle, and a tradition for Sandoval males. Straightening the thin combat jumpsuit—the maximum a Mech Warrior might wear into combat—he squared his shoulders and stepped onto the man-lift platform. It started with a slight lurch, then dropped smoothly to the floor of the bay, decelerating only at the last second, so that he had to bend his knees to absorb the shock.
He stepped onto the painted metal of the bay floor just as Aaron arrived at the lift. Deciding this was no time for family informality, Erik flashed a quick salute.
It was not returned. Instead, the Duke just stood there, his eyes locked on Erik’s, a slight frown of disapproval on his square, unconventionally handsome features. Duke Aaron Sandoval was a large man, just short of two meters tall, big boned, muscular, broad shouldered. Erik was by no means a small man himself, but he found Aaron physically intimidating.
Most maddening about dealing with his uncle was Erik’s difficulty holding his perceptions in the present. On his own, Erik was a MechWarrior, elite and respected even on his worst day. When he was in Aaron Sandoval’s presence, he felt like a child: unworthy, insecure, small.
Erik was twelve when his father sent him to live in Aaron’s palace on Prefecture IV’s capital world, Tikonov. He’d been resentful at the time, forced to leave his family and home. His father told him it was necessary; Erik was part of the distaff line of the Sandoval family. While his father had some measure of wealth and privilege, Erik’s place in the family couldn’t offer him power, opportunity, or even citizenship in The Republic, so connections were used, old favors called in, and Erik was placed under Aaron’s care.
It was a curious relationship. Though Aaron was actually his cousin, Erik had been instructed by his father to honor him by calling him “Uncle” instead. At first it had seemed odd, even unnatural, but later Erik had become comfortable with it, and eventually came to think of his older relation in those terms.
“Cousin” implied that they were contemporaries, and though there was not a huge span in their ages, that had never been the case. When Erik had arrived, a tall but still gawky teen, Aaron was already well into his missile-quick rise to power and wealth. Erik had been in awe of Aaron’s confidence, poise, and sophistication—elusive qualities that Erik strongly desired to emulate and still often struggled to find in himself.