Twilight of the clans III: the hunters

by Thomas S. Gressman

  With a total lack of regard for propriety or self-consciousness, Ryan stripped off the jump suit. He knew that the men and women of his teams were professionals who considered it beneath their station to ogle each other as they prepared for battle. One of the technicians originally assigned to assist Team Four had been transferred out after serving only one day. The man had made a few off-color remarks concerning Team Four's attractive female communications specialist. Captain Yosuke had to drag three male members of his team off the unfortunate tech before they killed him. The tech was sent home in disgrace, a heavy cast immobilizing his left arm.

  The only consideration Ryan gave to modesty was to step into the shadows as he exchanged the track shorts for a thick gray bodysuit. The close-fitting garment was a modified version of a Mech Warrior's cooling vest. The heavy cloth contained thousands of small tubes, which carried a variant of the coolant used to protect a pilot from the heat generated by operating a 'Mech in combat. The bodysuit, which included a tight-fitting hood, gloves, and boots, also carried a sophisticated sensor mesh, which would transmit movement and combat commands to the suit's onboard computer. The mesh also analyzed the operator's physical condition. The computer could then respond by adjusting the amount and rate at which coolant flowed through the suit, administer pain killers, stimulants, or antibiotics from a small medipack built into the armor's superstructure.

  Once he was satisfied that the bodysuit wouldn't bunch up around the arms, elbows, and knees, or chafe, as it had done in past training exercises, Ryan grabbed a steel bar mounted in the suit ingress/egress module about two-and-a-half meters off the deck. Using this handhold, he swung his les up into the lower half of the powered combat armor. The composite and steel leg armor was always cold and clammy when he first slipped into it, but it warmed up quickly, as the mesh bodysuit fed data to the armor's computers.

  As soon as Ryan's feet were locked into the heavy boots, Nisimura stepped up to help him as he wormed his way into the armor's thick, heavy breastplate. As he donned each piece of the armor, the tech fiddled with the joints, making sure that all seals, circuits, and interlocks had been properly connected.

  Ryan didn't hurry this process. Once, during a training exercise on Defiance, a trooper from Team Four had rushed through the suit-up process. The man's left arm harness failed to achieve a proper lock with the plastron. Private Kee had gotten a lungfull of irritant gas when the seal let loose in the middle of an engagement with the Lyran Guards.

  When the last piece of body armor had hiss-popped into place, Nisimura pulled a bundle of probe-tipped wired from the pouch hanging on his left hip. Shoving the metal leads into jacks built into the suit's outer structure, Nisimura ran a fast, thorough diagnostic and calibration check on the Kage armor's systems. As the tech was coiling up the medusa-like bundle of wires, Ryan used the suit's fully manipulative hands to attach a specially modified Blazer rifle to the hardpoint built into the armor's right vambrace. Another calibration check confirmed that the weapon was aligned properly with the suit's targeting sensors and display.

  The rest of the team members would be armed with Blazers, shredders, and other small arms. Private Teji Na-kamura, the team's weapons specialist, carried a heavy Imperator auto-grenade launcher. Carlotta Sior was the only one who was not happy with the Kage suits. As the team's sharpshooter, she complained that the bulky armor interfered with her marksmanship. Sior even had the team's armorers modify a Minolta 9000 rifle to mate with the suit's wrist-mounted hard point. In training, Lo had managed to hit twenty-three out of twenty-five man-sized targets at one thousand meters, using the suit's improved targeting system. Today, she would be going in armed with a Blazer rifle.

  Each of the troopers had a specially modified vibrokatana attached to his armor's carapace. Though the weapons might seem archaic or foolish in the modern combat arena, the DEST troopers knew better. During commando operations against the Clan invasion, some of them so secret that details had yet to be released, at least one member of each DEST team had killed an Elemental with the high-tech swords. It was rumored that captured Elementals claimed to be more afraid of a vibrokatana than a Gauss rifle.

  Many of the now-armored warriors also carried bulky satchels strapped to their suit's built in cargo points. Some, like Private Akida of Ryan's Team Six, carried a canvas bag loaded with breaching charges. Lance Corporal Ringh of the Team Five carried a small, powerful plasma cutting torch.

  Ryan keyed up the suit's helmet-mounted communications link.

  "Comm check, Team Six?"

  "Six-Two on line."

  "Six-Three, here."

  "Six-Four ready."

  Ryan then checked in with the leaders of Teams Four and Five, wanting to be certain that all of the warriors under his command were ready to carry out their mission.

  "All right, attention to orders." Ryan spoke quietly. "Our mission is to prepare to initiate a boarding action. We have been instructed to board the Bisan and be ready to launch.

  "We will not be committed until our target vessel has been disabled. The fleet's major combat vessels will attempt to cripple the target vessel during the approach and cover the teams until they are in grappling range. At that time, the Haruna will move us as close as she can to the target vessel. Then, the assault ship and battle taxis will take us in the rest of the way. After that, it's all up to us."

  "Any idea what the target is?" Captain Yosuke inquired.

  "No, not yet." Ryan's voice held a note of concern. "If it's a transport JumpShip or a DropShip, we should be fine. If they expect us to bag a WarShip . . . there'll be the devil to pay."

  * * *

  "What did you say?" Star Colonel Alonso snapped at the red-haired woman seated at the Shining Claw's primary sensor control station.

  Alonso was the epitome of a Clan Ghost Bear warrior; tall, with a well-muscled frame. He was proud of his strength, stability, and persistence, the traits his Clan admired in the huge ursine predator native to Strana Mechty, and whose name they bore.

  "Star Colonel, there are a large number of unidentified starships emerging from hyperspace, bearing one-six-five, Mark fifty-two."

  "Identify."

  "Sensors indicate seven warships, including one Cameron Class battle cruiser, three destroyers, two Essex and one Lola Class. The other warships are of an unknown class." The sensor operator punched a few buttons. "The rest of the intruders seem to be transports, including a number of Monolith and Star Lord Class JumpShips."

  "Who are they?"

  "Unknown, Star Colonel." The tech worked at her controls in a vain attempt to increase the gain of her sensors. "The intruders are not transmitting a recognizable transponder code, and they are still too far away for a detailed scan. If I were to make an educated guess, I would have to surmise that the intruders are potential hostiles."

  Alonso rested his chin in his right palm for several moments as he considered the perplexing report. His tiny flotilla, which was transporting Clan civilians to the Inner Sphere, was well away from the main lines of communications between the Clan Occupation Zone and the home-worlds. The convoy's route had been chosen specifically because of the remoteness of the planned jump points.

  Perhaps the intruders were Nova Cats or Smoke Jaguars, bringing fresh troops into their occupation zone to deal with the raids being launched by the Draconis Combine.

  Still, standing orders forbade relying upon any such assumption, and Alonso had not reached the rank of Star Colonel by ignoring standing orders.

  "Sensor operator, confirm your scans."

  Seconds ticked by as the black-haired officer watched the technician's fingers race over her instruments.

  "Scans confirmed. One Cameron, one Lola, and two Essex. Scans also suggest that one of the unknowns conforms to the data provided by The Watch on a Draconis Combine Kyushu Class frigate."

  "What?" Alonso knew that The Watch, the Clan version of an intelligence arm, had provided limited data on recent military developments achieved by the I
nner Sphere. He simply could not believe that one of those new WarShips could be here, so far from the Inner Sphere.

  "Fire Fang reports that the lead enemy vessel bears the insignia of the Com Guards . . ." The sensor operator's voice caught in her throat.

  "What is it?" The olive skin of Alonso's face turned an odd brick red as anger sent blood rushing into his cheeks and forehead.

  "Star Colonel . . ." The tech hesitated, perhaps fearing an explosion of Alonso's legendary temper. "The Fire Fang reports that the lead enemy vessel, the Lola, bears the insignia of the Com Guards and the Star League Defense Force."

  Alonso glared at the technician. "Say that again," he hissed.

  "Star Colonel, the intruders all bear the insignia of the Star League Defense Force."

  "That cannot be. There is no Star League. Terra has not yet fallen. This is a trick. A dirty, blasphemous trick of those filthy, stravag Inner Sphere barbarians," Alonso said furiously.

  "Star Colonel," a freeborn technician called out. "The enemy commander is hailing. He is calling for our surrender."

  "The hell he is."

  In response to Alonso's curt gesture, the tech routed the incoming message through the Shining Claw's bridge holotank. The image of a tall, dignified man, wearing the drab uniform of a Star League general officer, snapped into existence. Alonso focused first on the uniform. Four tiny gold pips gleamed on the left shoulder of the jacket. Numerous campaign and award ribbons adorned its breast, including a glittering Diamond Sunburst. Above these loathsome displays of vanity, which Alonso considered degrading to a true warrior, was the ultimate obscenity. The man was shamelessly wearing a silver Cameron Star.

  Finally, Alonso's senses expanded to take in the rest of the man wearing the uniform. Green eyes flashed out of a face that was proud, handsome, and strong. The man's red hair was streaked heavily with gray.

  "Attention, Clan WarShips, I am Marshal Morgan Hasek-Davion, commander of the Star League Task Force Serpent. Let this be my batchall." There was pride in that strong, clear voice. "I call upon you to prepare to defend your fleet and yourselves. We will be attacking you with all but one of our WarShips. I name as isorla any ship that is rendered unable to fight or maneuver, and claim its passengers and crew as bondsmen. What forces do you bid in your defense?"

  The sheer force of the man's presence caused Alonso to hesitate for a moment. It was as if he was looking through a magical window, back over three hundred years, and seeing one of the ancestors his Clan had always sought to emulate. Then, reason cleared his mind of such foolishness, reason that replaced indecision with a burning rage. If the Inner Sphere surats wanted to play at being the Star League, let them. They would suffer all the worse for this outrage.

  "I am Star Colonel Alonso Gilmour, of Clan Ghost Bear. I do not recognize your claim to the Star League." Alonso felt a grim satisfaction in calling this Morgan Hasek-Davion a liar. "I accept your batchall. I will defend my fleet with every asset at my disposal."

  Alonso slashed his finger across his throat, prompting the commtech to sever the connection. Before the holographic image faded, Alonso began barking out orders in a voice raw with fury.

  "Send to all commands. Battle stations. All WarShips are to finish furling their jump sails if the task can be accomplished quickly. If not, they are to cut their sails adrift. They will be recovered later. Once the fleet is free to maneuver, they are to engage the enemy as he closes."

  This is not good, not Clanlike. It is the angry bear who is trapped by the hunters. I must master my anger. Alonso paused, taking deep breaths to clear away his wrath and focus his thoughts. Gradually, the aching tension he felt began to ease.

  "Star Colonel, should we not send the Winter Wind back to Arcadia? Should we not get word to the Khans?"

  Alonso rounded on the crewman who had spoken.

  "Neg! They have named all of our ships as isorla in this fight. We will destroy these blasphemous surats who claim the mantle of the Star League. Then, once we have washed out the sacrilege of their presence in their own gore, we will roar out our triumph to Arcadia and to every other Clan homeworld and to all Clansmen wherever they are."

  Before Alonso had finished speaking, a dozen voices erupted across the Claw's bridge. Orders were passed to the other ships of the flotilla. Warriors were called to battle. Star Colonel Alonso surveyed the controlled pandemonium and sighed with pleasure. Though not every member of his crew was of the warrior caste, in that moment every Clansman in his tiny flotilla was preparing to fight.

  Looking at the holographic representations of the Inner Sphere WarShips as they made their deliberate, ponderous way across the cold, lifeless space separating the two fleets, an unfamiliar cold shiver ran down his spine. Along with it came the realization that he, Star Colonel Alonso, was about to be involved in the first battle of a new phase of warfare.

  His lips moved as he silently recited a portion of The Remembrance:

  None stronger, none more fearless Than the Ghost Bear. None can hold against him. What we know to be true: The Ghost Bear conquers all.

  The verses withered on his lips. For some indefinable reason, the high-sounding, powerful words left a bitter taste on his tongue. The sudden attack of doubt was so uncharacteristic, so startling that the lines seemed to ring as hollow as a spent shell casing.

  Suddenly, Alonso felt a sensation he had never known in his short, violent life as a Clan warrior.

  And the feeling was fear.

  23

  ISS Ranger

  Unnamed Star System

  Deep Periphery

  15 December 3059 1810 Hours

  Captain Mercia Winslow stood beside her command console aboard the Ranger, hand wrapped tightly around the grab-bar attached to the panel's steel housing. On the bridge viewscreen, she could easily make out the quartet of open white circles that the WarShip's targeting and tracking computers had drawn to represent unknown contacts. As soon as the targets were classed as hostile, the icons would automatically shift to red triangles.

  The Ranger had come out of hyperspace thirty seconds after the task force flagship, but had been the first to spot the unidentified vessels. Being the nearest to the bogies, she had been ordered to close with the unknown ships. Winslow, along with everybody else in the task force, knew that the contacts were hostile. The task force had now traveled six hundred thirty light years beyond the coreward edge of the Outworlds Alliance. Except for the small Scout Class JumpShips piloted by the Explorer Corps, no Inner Space vessel had ever penetrated so deeply into uncharted space since the Exodus. Still, the task force had to follow the procedures developed during exercises prior to their departure, procedures honed to a fighting edge with each successive jump into enemy territory.

  As the order to close with the unknowns came in, Winslow ordered the crew of her Lola III destroyer to battle stations. Immediately, a pale blue glow replaced the white light shed by the overhead panels. Winslow knew that the light change was supposed to make it easier for the sensor and weapons operators to pick out the fine details of their displays.

  She also knew that the real reason ran all the way back to Terra's first global war. In the early days of naval warfare, the primitive submarines operated by the feuding nations would, by preference, launch their attacks at night. In those days, the ships used a soft red light to allow the captain's eyes to adjust to the dim light of the surface before looking through his periscope. In the later part of the twentieth century, they found that a blue light was easier on the crew's eyes. Winslow suspected that the real reason she was not getting a mild eye-strain headache was because most military planners and ship builders were a hidebound lot. If tradition called for blue lights when battle stations sounded, then blue lights there would be.

  As her eyes were adjusting to the lighting change, a low, sexy female voice sounded throughout the ship.

  "General quarters, general quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. This is no drill. General quarters, general quarters." />
  Winslow was less annoyed by blue lights than she was by the seductive tones of the computer-generated announcement. She was aware of the years of research indicating that crew members, male and female alike, paid more attention to the husky female voice than the sharp, raspy, male bellow popularized by endless trivids and holodramas. That didn't stop her from feeling irritation at the nonexistent woman's unnecessarily suggestive quality.

  It wasn't a strangely misplaced jealousy, she told herself again and again. Winslow was a good-looking woman by anyone's way of reckoning. Young, fine-featured, with long, shiny chestnut hair pulled into a tight braid at the base of her neck. She looked more like an actress in a low-budget holovid playing the part of a naval officer than the genuine article. No, Mercia Winslow disliked the phantom seductress because this was war, and war was a serious business.

  One by one, the various departments reported in, using the same format heard for centuries on ships of war.

  "Weapons officer reports all stations manned and ready."

  "Engineering reports all stations manned and ready."

  And so it went, until her executive officer, Commander Jackson Ross, said, "All departments report stations manned and ready, Captain."

  "Very well, Mr. Ross." Winslow gestured toward the flickering white circles. "Engage maneuvering drive. Close to firing range with the targets."

  "Captain." That was the voice of the chief petty officer manning the long-range sensor panel. "I make the unknowns to be one Invader Class JumpShip and three War-Ships: two Whirlwinds and one Congress. All bear the markings of Clan Ghost Bear. The targets are furling their jump sails. Looks like they're going to make a run for it."

  "Or close for a fight," Ross put in from his station next to the helm panel.

  "Mr. Held, are we close enough for a visual?"

  "Yessir," the sensor chief responded. "On screen now."