It seemed, thought Erik Sandoval-Groell as he strode along the perimeter in a newly requisitioned Hatchetman, that battle was to come to the base once again. The place was empty and desolate—the low, fortified buildings as ugly as they were sturdy. In the distance, clusters of oil derricks jutted, and flames emitted from their tops, making them look like black candles as they burned off waste gases. It didn’t look like anything worth fighting for. It didn’t look like anything worth dying for.
Justin Sortek’s smaller Arbalest trotted into his field of vision on the right. “Not much to look at, is it, Commander?”
“No,” he admitted, “it isn’t.”
“See, that’s the problem. Morale is really low right now. We’re on short rations. Plenty of ammo—we brought that with us—but not even enough spare fuel for training maneuvers. So the troops hang around the barracks all day, looking out at this lovely base, and wondering when House Liao is going to drop in with an overwhelming force. To top it all off, the Duke’s sudden departure has started talk among the men that he’s forsaken us, or he’s secretly negotiating a deal with the enemy.”
Erik again felt a knot in his chest, both at the mention of his uncle, and at the memory of his own brush with betrayal.
“It’s especially hard on my men and women in the Davion Guard. Our entire ethos is built on the idea of the worthy prince—great leaders who can in turn inspire us to greatness. Many of us believed Duke Sandoval could be such a leader, that he could help us fight for the greater glory of Davion.”
“Do you still believe that?”
“From what you’ve told me, the Duke has not forsaken us. I find it interesting, however, that I had to infer that from your reports. You’ve never explicitly said so.”
Erik was quiet for a moment. He steered his ’Mech onto a taxiway running parallel to the north-south runway, and opened up the throttle. There weren’t many places to enjoy the simple pleasure of taking a ’Mech for an all-out sprint. The Hatchetman wasn’t a fast ’Mech, but it could still do well over sixty kilometers an hour in a dead run.
The Arbalest was faster—this was barely above its cruising speed. Sortek had no trouble keeping up, and Erik certainly couldn’t run away from his inquiries.
The smaller ’Mech easily sprinted in front of him. “Look, Commander. People think the Davion Guard is fanatical, but we’re not delusional. The Duke is far from a perfect leader, but he has potential. You know, I’ll let you in on a secret about the nobility. People talk about ‘the divine right of kings.’ That suggests that the nobles are somehow touched by divinity, and therefore are better than the rest of us.”
Erik thought about Aaron’s story about the sword of the First Knight. “Do you believe that?”
He laughed. “Not for a minute. Yet I don’t entirely disbelieve it, either. I know that sounds contradictory, but let’s put it this way: I believe in the divinity part of things—that some people act as conduits to a higher power. It isn’t the frail humans, noble or otherwise, who possess that divine spark. They only carry it, channel it. And being only human, sometimes they lose their way—betray the divinity they carry.
“But that doesn’t mean the light of divinity is gone. It always exists, and we are simply seekers of that light. It’s possible that Duke Sandoval carries it. I think he might.”
“But if he doesn’t?”
“Our allegiances could change, as they did when my father declared his loyalty to Devlin Stone. But our loyalty never changes, Commander. It’s the men and women we follow who sometimes lose their way—or find it.
“You’re a Sandoval, Commander, of noble blood, with your roots deep in House Davion. That means something to these troops. They know, as do I, that the light is always there. It is exclusive to no man, certainly not the Duke. It might flow through you as well. Know that if you are worthy, we will follow.”
“What are you saying?”
“The Duke may return, but he isn’t here today. You are. Liao forces are massing on the north coast of Georama. We know they’re coming. We need you to lead us to victory—or at least to glorious death.”
He laughed. “Don’t flatter me with your optimism, Justin.”
“Things don’t look good, Commander.”
They moved past one of the air-defense emplacements that surrounded the base. They were still largely intact, and at least protected the base from easy air attack. There were nine of them, and, in theory, any three could protect the base against anything but the most massive air assault.
They did nothing to protect from an attack by land or sea, however. With so many troops historically garrisoned here, the base depended on conventional forces for ground defense. But the SwordSworn were far short of that strength—the current troops rattling around in the base like peas in a beer keg.
With morale poor, and fuel for their tanks and IndustrialMechs in short supply, they were ill equipped to resist the inevitable invasion, much less mount an offensive against House Liao’s increasingly entrenched forces on Georama.
Erik looked again at the oil wells. They represented an almost unlimited supply of potential fuel, but there were no refineries on Ravensglade. The crude oil was shipped, by pipeline or tanker via nearby Port Archangel, to Georama for processing.
They were passing the corner of the base used by oil companies and miners. It seemed nothing was ever discarded here. Decades worth of old machinery and equipment were scattered around, some of it parked in neat rows, as though ready to be used tomorrow, more discarded in huge scrap heaps, and still more cannibalized for parts until little more than metal skeletons remained.
Erik’s eye was drawn to a row of IndustrialMechs towering above the rest. They were covered with a dark red crust, a mixture of local red dust, crude oil, and ice. But so was the machinery in current use. Appearances could be deceptive.
He trotted toward them. “What are those?”
“Specialized MiningMechs used by the oil companies. The ones with the big claws and the welding torches are PipelineMechs. The others, with the drills and the arms for handling drill pipe, those are DrillingMechs. There aren’t any new pipelines being built right now, and the fields are all well established, so most of them are mothballed.”
“Have you considered appropriating them for combat use?”
“Sure, but they’re IndustrialMechs. Internal combustion engines. If we had a surplus of fuel, they’d be a great addition to our force. But right now, I think we’re better off putting the fuel into the IndustrialMech Mods already in our inventory, and into our tanks and other combat vehicles.”
“I was hoping that the oil company had some fuel store for these things that we could exploit, but they probably haven’t been used in years—maybe decades. No reason the fuel would still be around.”
Erik could almost hear Sortek shaking his head. “We’ve scrounged all the fuel we can off this side of the continent. Some of the outlying mines and distant oil fields may have stockpiles, but they’re too far out to be worth looking at.”
Erik kept his eyes on the old ’Mechs. They were funny-looking, even beyond the specialized arms and tools. He trotted closer, stopped, and magnified his forward view. In several places, the crusty coating had been scraped off at least partially, usually over access covers or hatches. He spotted one on a bulge below and to the side of the cockpit. He spotted the wordFUEL and a fitting of some sort. He zoomed closer. A placard read:NATURAL GAS .
He laughed out loud. “Those oil companies know how to squeeze a C-Bill, Lord bless them!”
“Sir?”
“These ’Mechs are set up to run on the waste gas from the wells! We’re swimming in ’Mech fuel! Get your mechanics out here and see how many of these they can get running. And get some engineers out to the wells to see what we need to do to tap ourselves a gas supply. We may even be able to scavenge enough parts from the dead ones to convert some of our current IndustrialMechs as well.”