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“I have to go out,” he told her. It was the start of something, whether an apology or a promise he wasn’t certain.
Tassa cut him off with a simple shrug. “I am not surprised.”
ComStar HPG Station: Stryker-A7
Achernar
Two MiningMech conversions dominated the courtyard of the River’s End ComStar compound, their weapons covering the broad avenue. Dark patches the color of wet concrete augmented their usual utility gray paint, putting together a rudimentary cityscape camouflage. Short-range missile packs sat double-stacked over the MiningMechs’ left shoulder. A pair of anti-infantry machine guns replaced the grinder heads normally found on the left hand. Both converted IndustrialMechs stood in frozen profile as Raul rounded the corner. Arriving in a military jeep, though, he quickly drew their attention.
And their aim.
From the corner to the compound’s main lobby Raul was stopped three times, asked for identification twice, searched once, and generally made aware that Erik Sandoval-Groell had invested more security around the HPG station than the militia base used to cover their main gates. A Demon medium tank guarded the front door, parked in the shadow of the large parabolic dish that rose over the bunker-style compound, angled crosswise across the sidewalk. Hauberk armored infantry walked posts around the station perimeter and Raul spotted another squad on the roof.
Just inside the door a uniformed squad bearing assault rifles inquired to the business of every customer, adding further intimidation to any traffic not daunted by the outside show of force. No customer was about to forget that the station was under Sandoval “protection.” Raul submitted to a second check of his identification and stated his business very simply as a personal—not military—pick-up. A corporal checked to see that Raul Ortega did have a post waiting care of general delivery. With a glare the duty sergeant let him pass.
Hanson Doles met Raul at one of the two dozen service desks, taking over for a customer service agent who wore the white mantle so commonly known on Achernar as the duty uniform of Stryker Productions. There was no way to tell if Doles was a ComStar corporate officer or part of the local affiliate in charge of caring for the massive station—as before, Doles wore a simple suit, although Raul noticed up close that the showing tail of his breast-pocket handkerchief was monogrammed with the globe-and-ante
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ortega. May I see some identification, please?” His voice was cultivated for calm assurance, but the man did not even try to disguise the suspicion that clouded his hazel eyes. “And for a requested secondary verification, can you provide the verbal key? ‘The Swordsworn are not necessarily here to help…?’” he began, trailing off into the question.
After so many security and I.D. checks, Raul began to question whether he was really himself. Then he remembered one afternoon at the Officer’s Club. “They were just here first,” he finished, wondering how Janella Lakewood had known of his conversation with Kyle Powers. He must have passed it along to her. Which meant that Powers had been looking ahead toward his own injury or death days before Torrent challenged him.
“They are still here, Mr. Ortega.” The way Hanson Doles pitched it, Raul felt certain the man was simply voicing his own negative opinion of the situation. “Thank you for your patience. You may use this terminal to view your message. I have a dedicated earpiece for you,” he passed over the plug-shaped device, standing, “and if you would sit in my seat, no one else should be able to view the screen. When the message has played through, a computer glitch will erase it automatically.”
Raul stood, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then moved slowly around to the working side of the desk. “Do you perform this kind of service often?” he asked.
“Twice since Kyle Powers’ arrival on Achernar. Before that, the records show our last reception of a heraldic code to be more than five years ago.” Doles moved off with casual aplomb, stationing himself several meters to one side.
Heraldic! Of and for the Knights of the Sphere. Raul slipped into the vacated seat, hands itching to reach for the video controls but stayed by a touch of nerves. Lady Lakewood wanted something from him. He wondered if he had anything left to give after this last chaotic week. Exhaling sharply, Raul reached forward and tapped the playback controls.
He expected trumpets and regalia, Heraldic crests, the public trappings that usually followed around a Knight of the Sphere. Instead, Janella Lakewood winked into existence without flourish or fanfare, the picture flat and dark. The transmission had not even come in as a holographic message.
It was difficult to tell, with so little detail besides her face and shoulders captured by the camera, but Raul thought it very likely that Lady Janella had used a BattleMech cockpit vidcam to record her message. Her thick, black hair looked matted, as if she had only recently removed her neurohelmet. Her green eyes were bloodshot with dark circles beneath from lack of sleep. Even so, she radiated something, even through a transmission that had originated forty light years away. Competency, perhaps. Trust.
“Raul Ortega.” She nodded at the screen. Even through a poor recording, she showed an animation that had Raul believing she stared back at him, knowing him on sight. “I have, only a few short hours ago, learned of Sir Kyle Powers’ unfortunate and tragic death. I will confess to you that I did not immediately see the necessity for Sir Kyle to sacrifice himself in the ma
It was a lot to take in over a very short count of words. Raul had felt some guilt over the loss of Kyle Powers. Lady Lakewood’s efforts to assuage that guilt helped, but also showed how little Raul himself actually knew about the enemy, the situation on other Republic worlds, and even about the Sphere Knights. Wanting to think over her words, he reached forward and tapped the view-screen’sPAUSE key.
It flashed twice, but Janella Lakewood simply shook her head.
“Do not worry if you don’t understand everything I tell you at once, Mr. Ortega. We do not have a lot of time, and I have several directives with which I hope you can assist. First and foremost, do not trust Legate Brion Stempres. If he has not shown his true colors by now, he will do so at the most inopportune time. Stempres is a Sandoval man, bred and bought.”
Raul nodded, mainly to himself. His eyes roamed back toward the main lobby, where a distrustful sergeant continued to glance over with dark suspicions. “That has become more than apparent,” he said aloud.
“Which is as we feared, but could do nothing about.” Janella Lakewood could just as easily have been answering Raul’s comment. “If he is actively working against Republic interests, you may be forced to collaborate, for the sake of remaining involved. Do not let this discourage you, Raul. I have already forwarded by JumpShip a report to the Exarch on such possible tactics. You will be absolved.”