Natural Selection

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Karl finished out the rest of the day and, in fact, did help deliver the centerpieces. He refrained from checking his earlier handiwork. He did, however, take stock of the names on the place cards at each seat within the blast radius. This will be a major blow to Tharkad society, but it will raise the general level of acting on a couple of holovid dramas.

  As he expected, Mr. Crippen did not buy lunch, but Karl didn't protest. Karl wouldn't protest. Karl was a nice, quiet man who kept to himself. He didn't cause trouble.

  That would be how they would remember him, and how they would talk about him to the news media. Karl Kole: assassin or dupe? Historians would debate that question for years.

  The assassin left Karl's place of work and walked on past the bus stop. The regulars on his bus home might notice he was not with them, but Karl regularly missed that bus. Sometimes he treated himself to dinner, but more often he took in a holovid at a local theatre. If anyone had noticed him and actually remembered, they would have seen him head toward the Tharkad Theatre on Chase Street.

  He stopped at the theatre and bought a ticket to see The Immortal Warrior Returns. Glancing again at his watch, he saw he had half an hour until show time. He smiled at the girl in the kiosk and said, "I'll be back."

  He lied.

  The assassin walked down the street to the Argyle Hotel. At the desk he asked for the key to room 4412, which he had rented two weeks before and guaranteed with a credit card in the name of Carl Ashe. The clerk gave him the key and said there were no messages.

  Carl thanked him and took the elevator to the room, where he showered and used colorant to bleach his hair bone-white. He changed into the tailored suits Mr. Ashe had ordered from a nearby tailor earlier in the week. Packing some clothes and a few toiletries into an overnight bag, Carl Ashe donned a long parka and some copper-tinted glasses, then left the room.

  He had the doorman summon a taxi and ordered it to take him to the spaceport. He gave the man a miserly tip and demanded a receipt. Once inside the terminal, he went to the storage lockers and pulled out a larger suitcase and retrieved his ticket from it.

  He returned to the check-in counter with the two cases and waited in line. Things moved slowly, but not so slowly that he began to worry. Glancing at his watch, he saw he had plenty of time. The clerk at the Odinflight Transport counter checked him in efficiently and whisked his bags away.

  "The shuttle to the outbound Tetersen ship leaves from Gate Fourteen at seven-thirty. That's half an hour from now."

  "Thank you."

  He found the gate with no trouble and no delay. Nearby was an empty chair with a holovid viewer grafted onto it. He pushed a Kroner stamped with Melissa's face into the slot and changed channels until he got the public access station. He heard applause from the tinny speaker as Morgan Kell finished introducing the Archon, then returned to his seat on the dais.

  The camera tightened in on the Archon as she started to speak, also catching one of the mycosia pseudoflora blossoms in its frame. The assassin ignored Melissa's words, but drank in her beauty. He could see why she was beloved by billions. She was intelligent and gorgeous. It would be a pity to let her descend into wrinkles and senility.

  He turned from the holovid viewer and walked over to a visiphone booth. He dropped two Hanse Memorial coins into the slot and punched up Karl Kole's apartment. The phone rang four times before the computer answered it. The assassin punched in the numbers 112263, then hung up.

  He was on board the outgoing shuttle when the computer dialed another number. Having done that, it hung up and dialed yet another number. Once it had a connection there, it downloaded a suicide note written by Karl Kole. That note would show up in Mr. Crippen's electronic mail within a day. The computer then wrote zero to every segment on its hard disk, effectively destroying its usefulness.

  The computer's call was the second crucial step in the assassin's plan. The first had come when the water he used on the flowers reached the semi-permeable rubber coat. Enough moisture got through in each pot to allow a timer to use it to power up. These timers, which were set for seven hours' elapsed time, counted down faithfully, and by six-thirty all had opened a circuit that fed power from a small battery to radio-phone circuitry.

  The computer's call to the cellular number that all four detonators shared came at 7:21 P.M. When the circuits detected a signal, they sent out an electric impulse that would normally have rung a buzzer. Instead, the circuits pulsed energy into the magnesium firestarters to which they had been connected. Within two seconds of the call going out, the magnesium started to burn. It, in turn, lit a small thermite charge. The thermite burned through the acrylic and ignited the molded ceramic explosive.

  The explosives did not quite detonate simultaneously, though the assassin had hoped they would. The lowest one went off a half-second before the others, boosting the stand into the air by thirty centimeters. Next, the top and right ones exploded in tandem, and the last one exploded a second after that.

  The fact that things did not go perfectly did not matter to the success of the assassin's mission. The bombs converted the decorative pots into lethal shrapnel. The fire and metal literally vaporized the wooden podium, killing Melissa before she ever felt any pain.

  As the shuttle rolled down the runway and pulled up into the night sky, Mr. Ashe could see the flashing lights of ambulances gathered around the reception center. "Looks like some excitement downtown," he said to his seatmate.

  By the time the shuttle reached the DropShip Columbus, Archon Melissa Steiner Davion had been declared dead. By the time the Intelligence Secretariat had begun a worldwide dragnet for Karl Kole, Carl Ashe and the Columbus were a whole star system beyond their grasp.

  20

  Deia

  Federated Commonwealth

  19 June 3055

  Feeling a BattleMech lurch forward with him in the cockpit filled Nelson Geist with more happiness than he had known since his capture. The cooling vest circulated fluid through its tubes and the neurohelmet sat heavily on his shoulders—deliciously familiar sensations to a man who thought he would never experience them again. Being seated high up in the navigation and gunnery seat of the Red Corsair's BattleMaster brought back memories, and he was smiling in spite of what his presence there meant.

  She will spoil it. She will use it against me. Nelson reached out and took the joystick sighting controls in his hands and moved them around. As he expected, the gold crosshairs burning on the holographic display before him did not move. She is not so foolish as to let me to have live weaponry to play with.

  Her voice crackled gently through his earphones. "How does it feel to be a warrior again, Nelson?"

  "It feels right. " The second he spoke he wished he'd said nothing at all, and her laughter told him his caution was correct.

  "Good."

  He heard a click and other voices came on line. "We have a concentration of enemy two klicks south of your position, Red Leader. We count twelve, repeat one-two, 'Mechs. We will drive these Zouaves toward you. Blue Leader out."

  "Red Leader acknowledges, Blue Leader. Red out." The Red Corsair half-turned back toward him. "Ready for battle, Nelson?"

  Outside, through the bubble canopy that covered the enlarged cockpit, Nelson saw smoke and fire from Blue Star's initial engagement with the enemy. He saw several flights of missiles head out away from him, but the alpha point of the salvos moved inexorably closer to the Red Corsair's Star of 'Mechs.

  Nelson clenched his teeth. "I assume you want me to keep score for you?"

  "Quaint, Nelson." She moved her hands, and the crosshairs centered themselves on the display. "What do you know about Zimmer's Zouaves? They are mercenaries, quiaff?"

  "Don't know. Never heard of them."

  "They are supposed to be sponsored by the Kell Hounds. You have heard of them?"

  Nelson allowed himself a smile. "Yeah, they kicked the Jade Falcons around on Twycross, then busted up the Nova Cats and Smoke Jaguars on Luthien. I've heard
of them. They're so tough that the son of their leader became a Khan of the Wolf Clan."

  "So, you would expect these Zouaves to be better or worse than you, as Inner Sphere MechWarriors go?" Her radio clicked open. "Red Star, hold your fire until I shoot."

  "Not as good."

  The running battle kept getting closer. If not for the thick jungle between Red Star and the Zouaves, Nelson knew the raiders could have used their superior Clan technology to pick them apart. He could feel the Red Corsair holding back until the mercenaries were at point-blank range. It was not that she was afraid of missing them, but that she wanted to see the devastation up close.

  "Then you would be able to defeat them?"

  "With a lance or even-up in firepower, yes."

  The Red Corsair hit a switch down below and Nelson's auxiliary and secondary screens started scrolling weapon-readiness data for him to inspect. His hand brushed one of the joysticks and the crosshairs responded to it. "What are you doing?"

  "You are my gunner, Nelson."

  "No!" Nelson shoved both joysticks forward, making all the 'Mech's weapons point at the ground. "No, I won't do your killing for you."

  "If you do not, we will die."

  "Then we die."

  The Red Corsair's sigh told him he was doomed. "If we die, so do your friends. Spider, Jordan, the lot of them. If we die, I have given orders that they are to be ejected into space."

  "You can't. ..."

  "I can and have, Nelson." Down below she raised her hands and folded them behind her head. "The weapons are live. The targets are yours. Fire at will."

  Nelson looked from the consoles to the holographic display. The Zouaves were falling back in good order, but they were stumbling back into a trap. Attacking them would be a slaughter. Not attacking them would kill his friends. But even fighting against the Zouaves wouldn't guarantee the Red Corsair's survival.

  "Think about this, Nelson. For each kill you get, I will release one of your friends."

  "And if I kill them all? What is my reward then?"

  "A chance to kill more, and if the Wolf Clan arrives in time, a chance to kill some of them."

  Nelson sent the BattleMaster crashing forward through the brush. Both arms came up, and the sights tracked with his hand movements. The crosshairs settled on a retreating Griffin. Nelson hit the right trigger and sent a sizzling bolt of azure lightning out from the pistol-like PPC in the 'Mech's right hand.

  The particle beam boiled all the armor off the Griffin's right arm and started to work on its ferro-titanium bones. When Nelson hit the left trigger, another PPC bolt ripped away great chunks of armor on the Griffin's chest. Armor vapor wreathed the afflicted 'Mech as the war machine staggered back. The pilot managed to keep it upright, but only just barely, winning both admiration and pity from Nelson.

  Two things surprised him in his first attack, and he hated himself for reveling in both discoveries. The first was that the Clan weapons did more damage than even the best weapons manufactured in the Inner Sphere. The devastation wrought on the Griffin was easily half again as much as he would have expected from a comparable Inner Sphere weapon.

  The second thing was that the Red Corsair's Battle-Master cycled heat better than its Inner Sphere counterpart. A normal BattleMaster boasted only one PPC, a weapon prone to running hot. After two PPC blasts he still felt no heat building up. Glancing at the heat monitor, he saw it had not risen past the cautionary yellow zone.

  "You are in a real 'Mech now, Nelson. You can do more."

  Nelson tracked the Griffin again and fired. Both PPCs hit the 'Mech square in the chest. The armor over its heart melted away to nothing, exposing the ribs and internal structures to the particle beam's incendiary caress. A gout of black smoke shot out, followed by a spike of silvery fire. Nelson unconsciously cataloged those as an engine hit and the death of a jump jet, respectively.

  The large pulse laser in the BattleMaster's center torso spat out a storm of green energy darts, which peppered the Griffin's naked right arm. Chipping away at the ferro-titanium shoulder joint, they filled it with fire and it evaporated. The arm dropped off, flames trailing from the glowing end, and started a brushfire.

  The Griffin, reeling from the hammering it had taken, tottered and spun. It landed flat on its back, its head tipped back and staring skyward. The canopy shattered as a string of small explosions around its perimeter blew it away. Up out of that dark hole the pilot blasted free, riding his command couch on a jet of argent flame. Nelson couldn't see the man as he shot up through the dark treetops, but he hoped he had gotten clear.

  There, now Spider's free.

  All around him Red Star had joined in the fray. Trapped between two opposing forces, Zimmer's Zouaves fought gamely, but the raiders ground them down. With an almost careless pair of shots, Nelson melted a Hermes from breastbone to spine, then turned and dueled with a Hunchback. The other 'Mech did some damage, but went down after two exchanges, leaving Nelson with un-breached armor and a hunger for more targets.

  As the radio reported all resistance ended, Nelson stared out at the war-battered, early morning landscape.

  What had been jungle now resembled a garden plot in which a robotiller had gone mad. Trees that had once stood tall were snapped like so many little twigs. Fires burned everywhere and BattleMech corpses littered the ground like armored knights fallen in some ancient battle.

  The Red Corsair shifted control of the 'Mech back to her section of the cockpit, then stood and looked up at him. "Perhaps you were a warrior after all, Nelson. I am impressed. You have done well."

  Her tone was patronizing, yet tinged with respect. Nelson at first took pride in her praise, then remembered what he had done to earn it. Those were people on my side. Not only did I destroy them, but I enjoyed it! This is what it is to lose your compassion.

  The Red Corsair resumed her seat in the command couch and refastened the restraining belts. "However, there are more mercenaries to kill. I will show you what a true warrior can do, Nelson, and you will understand why the Inner Sphere can never stop us."

  Her arrogance irritated him. "But you said there are Wolves coming after us. The Inner Sphere won't have to stop you, will they?"

  "We will see, Nelson. The Wolves are not here yet, nor are they invincible."

  * * *

  Twelve hours later Kommandant Israel Zimmer stormed into the communications wagon that had become his command post. He wanted to be out in the field, but when his Marauder lost a leg in the losing battle for Shasta, he was left waiting for either his 'Mech to be repaired or a 'Mech whose pilot no longer required use of it. Though the latter would likely happen well before the former, he did not look forward to getting back into the battle that way.

  "Leftenant, have you got a secure line to those incoming DropShips yet?"

  The young commtech nodded and vacated his chair in front of a patched-together visiphone set. He pointed to a button. "This one will activate the link, sir."

  Zimmer winked at the boy. "I've used them before, Leftenant."

  "Yes, sir." The young officer blushed, but Zimmer waved it away. The boy still wore a shirt with corporal stripes on it, and the Leftenant's bars on his lapels showed a spot of blood. "It's ready now, sir."

  Zimmer hit the button and got a picture of a stern-looking man. "This is Kommandant Israel Zimmer of Zimmer's Zouaves. We could really use your help."

  The man on the screen frowned ferociously. "You are mercenaries, quiaff?"

  Zimmer narrowed his eyes. "Yes, we are. To whom am I speaking?"

  "I am Star Colonel Conal Ward, commander of the Thirty-first Wolf Solahma. We will be grounding ourselves to engage the bandits. Our landing zone is in your Sector 3342. Please vacate it."

  "Say what?"

  Conal stared straight out of the visiphone screen. "Sector 3342, I want it vacated. This is where I have agreed to meet the bandits."

  "Star Colonel, I have my battalion dug in throughout that sector. If I move them, I will lose t
hem. If you land in 3244, you will ground yourselves to the northwest of that position and catch the bandits between us. We're not too mobile, but we can still shoot."

  "Kommandant Zimmer," the black-haired Clanner began coolly, "if you do not move your troops, you will lose them. I will not have your people interfere in our battle."

  "Your battle?" Zimmer hammered the arm of his chair and made the Leftenant jump. "You listen to me, you son of a bitch, my command is now what is left of my mercenary battalion and the local militia. We've fought these raiders for sixteen solid hours and have just now managed to regroup under cover of darkness. We're good troops and we won't be dismissed."

  "Very well." Conal lifted his head up. "With what are you defending 3342?"

  "What are you, a moron?" Zimmer thumped his fist against the screen. "I just told you, I'm defending it with every last frigging thing I have."

  "Excellent!" Conal smiled at Zimmer. "I shall look forward to meeting you, Kommandant. We land in an hour. Bargained well and done."

  The screen went blank and Zimmer stared at it for a second before he realized the conversation was over. "What the hell just happened there, Leftenant?"

  "I dunno for sure, sir." The younger man shook his head ruefully. "But isn't 'bargained well and done' what the Clans say when they've offered a battle challenge and had it accepted?"

  "I hope you're wrong, Leftenant." Zimmer left the chair and looked out the doorway toward the sky. High up, like a constellation shifting its position, he could see the Clan DropShips burning their way into the atmosphere. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid you're not."

  21

  Fort Ian Training Center, Port Moseby

  Federated Commonwealth

  20 June 3055

  Victor Davion hit the space bar on his computer keypad, and the holographic display of a battlefield froze above the black briefing table. On it an inordinate number of red BattleMechs had succeeded in surrounding a blue force. "This is not good, Galen."