He has been storing this up, waiting to expel it when the opportunity presented itself. Petr withheld his response, to see where this might lead.
“Now half a week has passed, and though the Trial of Grievance against scientist Kif was a diversion, once more we sit, wasting time.” He began to pace and the flow of humanity smoothly bowed around his tight path of agitated walking—a stone the water gave no heed to beyond making room for its presence.
“ovKhan Petr, I do not mean to second-guess your decision, but why else did saKhan Sennet send us here? Are we not tasked with contacting these worlds? They have been in the dark for almost two years. They will be desperate, hungry for outside contact. Their economies will have suffered and we will be their salvation: merchant gods to rain gold upon their heads and bring them news from afar. The potential is enormous. And—yet—we—sit!” Stopping, facing Petr, Jesup held his head up and met his ovKhan’s gaze unflinchingly, knowing Petr might challenge him on the spot for such insolence. The man was no coward. If a fight were to come, so be it.
Petr could not help but admire his aide; he knew how upset he must be to have gone through so many words without a single sarcastic comment. He took pity on him. “Think, Jesup. I know my directive. I know the other Aimags are already gathering, like shivers of sharks hunting for the choicest feeding grounds. Why would I pass three worlds, any of which could be the beginning of more glory?”
A long moment passed as Jesup struggled within for the answer he knew to be there; he had been Petr’s aide far to long to believe a reason did not exist. The slow light of understanding began to blossom. “You have information.”
“Of course I have information. Of what?”
“That a world ahead of us is the key to this region. You bypass these worlds because they will only become important later. Once the real prize has been taken.”
Petr applauded silently, as though rewarding a first-year cadet who’d answered correctly. “Now you begin to understand. And as much as I believe only I hold this information, I cannot discount the possibility others may have obtained it and are already on their way. I curse this ship for not having a lithium-fusion battery to double our speed. We make good time, nonetheless.”
He turned and began walking again—the deliberate, careful steps natural to those accustomed to microgravity and magnetic slips—with Jesup close behind. “The feeding ground is near Jesup. Very near.”
The river of castemen closed and swallowed them into their current without a ripple.
5
Clan Sea Fox DropShip Ocean of Stars
Atmosphere, Adhafera
Prefecture VIII, The Republic
15 July 3134
The demilitarized Clan-built Overlord-C-class DropShip shook lightly as it made interface with the upper atmosphere of Adhafera. From this altitude, the blue-green ocean spread below like a living mat—a sponge deceptively beckoning for an incoming DropShip to land on its benevolent surface. Of course, the ship’s captain ignored the siren song that would end in death as surely as being ensnared by a randall’s rose. Began the long lateral trek across the ocean, toward the continent of Vanderfox, the waiting city of Halifax and the world’s only DropPort.
The ship raced the sun as it dropped lower and began to make final preparations for landing. Those up this early on Vanderfox witnessed a false dawn as the drive plume of the Ocean of Stars pumped out plasma in a miniature star that kept the 11,550-ton vessel aloft and descending at a manageable velocity.
Star Captain Jotok sat in his command chair as though astride a throne, viewing his miniature kingdom and its industrious citizens: the labor and technician castemen who crewed the vessel and kept it in top operating shape.
OvKhan Petr sat strapped into a jumpseat in a forgotten niche of the bridge as it hummed with the activity necessary for a landing vessel. Incoming transmissions were already verified, the appropriate landing codes transmitted and authorization received. Acknowledged.
Petr was Star Captain Jotok’s superior, but even in the rigid hierarchy of the Clans a man did not lightly intrude upon the domain of another’s vessel. He waited. The captain would deign to tell him soon enough.
Time bled away like the velocity the ship sloughed off, and finally the captain nodded once, firmly. He turned to Petr and gave him his attention for the first time in almost an hour.
“We will be grounded in fifteen minutes, ovKhan.”
“I see that,” Petr responded. No impatience shaded his tone—a victory.
The man leaned away slightly, a speculative look in his eyes—perhaps not such a victory after all.
Petr continued. “The local governor will be meeting us at the DropPort, quiaff?”
“Aff. It would appear that way. I note that they referred to the man as first governor.”
Petr shrugged. “We have seen more drastic changes since the collapse of the HPG network. If that is the only change, we will be lucky, quiaff?”
“Aff, my ovKhan.” The man’s eyes returned to the activities of his crew and for just a moment Petr lost the battle with his patience, though he managed not to speak aloud. I granted you your due before, but now your attention needs to be focused on one thing, and one thing alone.
Jotok looked again at Petr and cleared his throat at his ovKhan’s expression. “They also wanted to know why, if the ovKhan of Delta Aimag of Spina Khanate actually orbited their world, he did not accompany the DropShip downside.”
Petr smiled. Already it had begun. “They did not ask straight out, quineg?”
Jotok laughed, a good-natured sound that filled the bridge. “Neg, ovKhan. None have ever been so bold, in my experience. The day they are, is the day I have found a spheroid worthy of my respect. For now, I answered their question as indirectly as they asked it.”
Petr nodded. “We have a world as open as a Jade Falcon heart is cruel. It is time to get to work.”
Petr unstrapped himself, nodded once to acknowledge the man, moved off of the bridge and began to make his way toward the only remaining ’Mech bay on the vessel.
Yes, time indeed to get to work.
The crowd of nobles stood several hundred meters back from the blast pit as the DropShip made its final thunderous entrance into their lives. The hiss and crack of cooling metal filled the air with its gentle rhythm after the brutal onslaught of the mammoth plasma drives.
Like peacocks come to market, the nobles were decked out in their finest. Silks, heavy clothes brocaded and festooned, capes and feathers and jewel-encrusted hats: a jarring eyesore. They moved among one another, nervous of the new element arrived on Adhafera, yet to take its measure. For more than a year now, not a single vessel had made planetfall; for all they knew, the rest of The Republic had ceased to exist, sucked into an astronomical maelstrom. Many of these nobles, including the first governor who quietly seized power, would just as soon it remained that way.
The abrupt shaking of feathers and tinkling of dangling jewels marked the flocks’ increased agitation as the screech of metal and massive whine of hydraulics broke across them like an incoming wave.
A wave that would drown them—they just didn’t know it yet.
The group grew even more agitated as the main DropShip ramp descended to clang onto the ferrocrete, looking for all the world like the opening of a mouth into the black maw of some metal beast who’d come down from the stars to tear away at the power base they’d built.
Not a warrior among them, they did not immediately recognize the slow, rhythmic pounding and the whine of servo actuators that echoed out of the ghastly hole. Only once it emerged into the full light did a woman scream and most of the nobles take several steps back, panic written large on their pallid visages.
The Tiburon—a Sea Fox–designed BattleMech—stood at the top of the ramp and raised its arms, as though stretching after a long slumber, luxuriating in the warmth of the new dawn sun. The move further terrified the nobles, and only the first governor’s steely grip on the situation k
ept the flock of birds from taking flight.
Of course, the Tiburon only weighed thirty-five tons and its mere nine-meter height marked it as a light BattleMech—a good design, but it could not stand up to a heavy or assault BattleMech. To the shivering flock of nobles, however, it might as well have been a metal god, they had so little experience with BattleMechs. Even the legate of this world (who had “accidentally” been left off of the list of those notified of the incoming vessel) did not ride a ’Mech, but instead commanded the local militia from the open hatch of a vehicle.
The ’Mechs began to move down the ramp, its thundering steps echoing across the landing field. Once more, the steel grip of the first governor stayed the flock, though his control became more tenuous as the monstrous machine towered closer and closer: the thudding of the reaper come to claim his due. Unnoticed, a small hoverjeep moved along in the ’Mech’s shadow, a puppy at the foot of its master.
Twenty meters from the crowd of terrified nobles, the Tiburon stopped. A long moment stretched, and a true silence smothered the DropPort, too early for any other activity. Almost four minutes passed before the nobles realized a single man had already crossed half of those twenty meters. A few elbows unglued eyes and brought them down from the magnificent pinnacle of seven centuries of warfare development . . . to a simple man.
He was of average height, his physique obvious in the deep blue single-suit he wore; his thin, almost emaciated body spoke of years in zero gravity, but the whipcord strength belied such apparent weakness. He had a ready smile (if they’d not been so dazzled by the spectacle of the ’Mech, they likely would’ve noticed the arrogant cast to the grin), and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. As the man strode up to the first governor, several of the attendant women admired the deep jade eyes; their glances lingered and knowing looks ignited.
The men, of course, saw only a man—a pale shadow of the giant at his back. The verdict? Instantly and thoroughly dismissed.
It wasn’t really their fault. After all, they simply were outclassed.
Petr sized up the gaudy group of nobles and dismissed them. He’d already won. He just had to show them.
He came to a stop only a meter from the man who obviously held power on this world, and bowed deeply. The first governor appeared to be in his late fifties, with a distinguished goatee and short hair beginning to gray at the temples. His dark brown eyes and sharp nose spoke of intelligence, but the effect was spoiled by the sycophants even now surrounding him with useless service and petty needs. The blue satin jerkin the man wore, coupled with the white trousers and the flowing carmine robe, made the governor appear to be the jester of the court, not the king.
“First Governor Jeffries, I greet you and bid you thanks from Spina Khanate of Clan Sea Fox. We thank you for the hospitality of your world. More, we thank you for your august presence at our first meeting.” Enough flattering filled Petr’s voice for ten men.
The man stared at Petr, determined to dismiss the messenger as quickly as possible and speak with the real power just grounded; his gaze kept sliding impatiently toward the ’Mech. He finally inclined his head.
“On behalf of the people of Adhafera, I greet you and bid you welcome to my world. It has been long since any have made planetfall here and never in my memory has the vaunted Clan Sea Fox set foot on our shores. I hope your stay will be beneficial to us all.”
Petr almost laughed out loud. The governor’s voice might have been filled with utmost respect, but Petr could tell it was pitched to reach the ’Mech, not his ears.
Just then a clang rang out as the cockpit hatch of the Tiburon spun open on the back of the head. The collective breaths of the nobles were indrawn—several in outrage, most in admiration—as the MechWarrior climbed out onto the back of the ’Mech and made her way around the shoulder to a steel ladder that had just dropped to the ground.
MechWarrior Jesica—in the standard MechWarrior outfit of short boots, skin-tight briefs, a small, thin T-shirt and a cooling vest—began to make her way down the ladder; she displayed more bare skin than most of these men and women likely ever had seen in public. Her hair ruffled in the slight wind that picked up in the brightening morning, and Petr felt a smile pull at his face as several of the waiting men subconsciously swayed to the movement of her narrow hips.
“First Governor,” Petr began. The collective group of nobles almost jumped at the interruption; they pulled their eyes away from the approaching female and gave them contemptuously back to Petr. He gloried in their dismissal. “As you no doubt know, Clan Sea Fox prides itself on helping worlds to achieve their potential. With the loss of so much due to the collapsed HPG network, we have redoubled our efforts to find those worlds that need our aid. To find those worlds that can benefit from our expertise, that can prosper with our guidance. There are many markets and much to be gained in this new darkness. Though it saddens us to see what the darkness has wrought, there will also be a silver lining. We wish to help you find that lining.”
Their eyes said it all.
He continued. “I could not help but notice your local merchants do not appear to be in attendance. Would it not be wise to have their advice at this, our first of what will surely be many, many beneficial meetings?”
If possible, their collective eyes became more frigid. Why did this errand boy continue to annoy them, when the obvious power of the Sea Fox Clan on their world strode toward them? Several of the men began ogling her once more. He could also read the further disdain on their faces at the mention of the local merchants. The nobles, of course, did not need factors, the Clan equivalent of business agents, to negotiate for them. They were the power on this world, after all.
The governor replied almost absently. “Though Clan Sea Fox has not previously touched our world, word of your preeminence had spread far and wide, long before the current troubles. I look forward to speaking more on the subject.” The emphasis was almost painful.
With that, the man turned to face Jesica, who’d crossed almost the entire distance. As usual, her timing was impeccable.
The first governor stepped forward, a warm smile blossoming on his face. He opened his mouth to speak just as Jesica stepped slightly past him and thumped fist against chest, with a slight forward lean. “At your command, ovKhan.”
The angry look that began to form on the first governor’s face slammed hard against confusion and the two warred as Jesica’s words fell among the flock of birds like a grenade. Realization dawned cold and brutal.
The first governor struggled to regain his composure, stiffened and turned back to Petr, a false smile pasted on his face.
“ovKhan, we are honored by your presence. Please accept my hospitality. We can relax, dine and discuss matters at our leisure.” His voice sounded as if a mule had just caved in his manhood.
With a smile that revealed the predator within, Petr replied, “First Governor, I have named already the people I want to see. The merchants of Halifax will just be rising for the day. I would speak with them in a location of their choosing.”
The governor flinched as though struck in the face, and quickly turned to a lackey to hide his expression. After giving a brief order, the man glanced once more in Petr’s direction; hate flashed in his eyes.
It was the expected reaction. It was of no significance. Petr did not need this one’s approval. He sniffed the air and reveled in the aromas flooding his senses. The smell of alien flora and fauna. Of a world untouched by Clan Sea Fox. Of new possibilities.
The new deal had begun well.
6
New Edinburgh
Lothian, Stewart
Prefecture VIII, The Republic
15 July 3134
Snow hugged the shadows like a lover desperate for the warmth of an embrace. Yet the shadows betrayed as easily as they saved; danger came.
Moving down Fourth Street of the lower Eastside, Snow found a moment in the desperation to chuckle. The Earl of Stewart tried so hard to ignore this part of his bel
oved city and yet it sat like a canker sore, irritating and infectious. If he didn’t do something about it soon, he’d find it a lot more than just irritating, especially now that the local economy was going bad. Then again, it made her life easier, so she shouldn’t look a gift branth in the mouth.
Coming to the intersection of Fourth and Harold, she paused with her back against the wall, waiting. The blare of a far-off horn sliced through the night; a baby’s cry drifted from a nearby apartment complex; machinery hummed (the ever-present vibrations every city created but that citizens failed to notice); a night trawl screeched close by, almost causing Snow cardiac arrest. But her pursuers had not discovered her latest backtrack.
They’d be on her trail soon enough.
Moving onto Harold, she passed Fifth and then crossed the street in the dim light of an equidistant point between two streetlights; if she held one wish in the world, it would be that whoever created streetlights burned a long time in Hell.
Passing an alley entrance, she froze as a sound caught her attention. She flattened against the wall. Her black clothing—thick wool to mask her heat signature without announcing the depth of her resources by the blatant use of a sneak suit—blended well into the depths of the alley’s blackness.
Closing her eyes, she marshaled her will and centered herself as she’d been taught. Choosing one distraction after another, like a master weaver whose nimble fingers pick apart the skein of a complex weave, Snow pulled herself loose until only the twin threads of her hearing and the sound remained. In practice, such trancelike concentration would allow a person to strike her and she’d not immediately feel it. As such, she played a dangerous game in an alley where any wino might come looking for a dime and find easy prey, leaving her beaten . . . or worse.
The thumping of her heartbeat came from a remote location, but served as a metronome for the passing of time. No other sounds intruded, but she knew; she’d dealt too often with these particular people to not know they hunted her as surely as a Sea Fox who smelled blood in the water when a good deal materialized. She’d tried flight before and that failed. Only made her sloppy. For just a moment her concentration shifted and a third strand tugged: the caress of the plastic-coated verigraph scraped against the taut skin of her belly.
Hunters of the Deep Page 4
