Natural Selection

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Phelan saw a light start to blink on his radio control panel and he punched the button beneath it. A bandit stared up at him from his secondary monitor. "Treacherous dog. Come to your monument and we will show you how real warriors die."

  "If you were real warriors, I would." Phelan's green eyes narrowed. "You are bandits. You will die like bandits and you shall be remembered as bandits." Then he broke the connection and reopened his link to Ragnar. "The school, then the municipal building. Drive them south so they won't harass Alpha Battalion."

  * * *

  When the plan was first proposed, Chris and his people had not liked the idea of being sent into the foothills after the Sidhe. The hills were a bonus to the defender, both because the aggressor had to attack uphill and because the defenders could arrange ambushes by lying in wait. The Red Corsair might be leading bandits, but in that terrain, even bad pilots could amass kills.

  A blue light flashed on Chris's command console as telemetry began to scroll up his secondary screen. He opened a radio channel and sent the data out to his fire support lances. "The fix is in. Fire at will."

  * * *

  Deep in the foothills, hidden halfway down a wooded ravine that ran north to south, Evantha held the laser built into the right arm of her Elemental armor steady on the Vindicator. The bandit 'Mech's red and gold color contrasted sharply with the surrounding foliage, but it did not matter because she watched him on the infrared setting of her armor's holographic display. In addition to the normal heat radiating from the charging coils of the PPC that replaced the bandit 'Mech's right forearm, a small dot rode on the junction of its torso and right hip.

  It came from the invisible infrared beam of her laser. She had not been at all comfortable with the idea of sacrificing one of her main weapons for a spotting laser, but the Khan had approved the plan, so she accepted it. Each of the five Elemental Points had one member acting as spotter, with the rest ready to pick off any survivors.

  She saw a blue flash at the lower corner of her view-plate. Incoming. Holding her arm rigid, she braced herself for the blast. She knew it would not be long in coming and would be devastating when it hit.

  To Evantha it looked as if a volcano had opened up beneath the Vindicator's broad feet. One moment the 'Mech was walking through a forest and the next it had become a black silhouette in the center of a fire spout. Missile after missile pounded the Vindicator, crushing armor into sharp ceramic shards, stripping the right arm of armor, and mangling both the shoulder and elbow joints. The PPC twisted out of line with the 'Mech's flank and pointed down toward the ground.

  Amazingly, as the smoke cleared and burning trees toppled, the Vindicator remained standing. The armor on its body and both legs had been damaged, but the pilot had managed to keep the war machine upright. Evantha knew that meant he was very skilled—better than any bandit should be.

  Evantha kept her laser trained on him. Glancing at the row of icons beneath her holographic display, she triggered one and sent out another burst of telemetry. Hit him again, Chris.

  * * *

  As Carew covered the Hellcat with his crosshairs, once more, the warning klaxon started to blare. Someone has a lock on me! He glanced at his display and saw a Trident swooping down on him in his four. He rolled his Visigoth over on its right wing, then pulled back on the stick and came up into an Immelmann. As he headed back toward the Trident and passed beyond it, he again hugged the stick to his stomach and completed the full loop.

  The Hellcat came up into his sights again, so he punched the PPC off and added in twin medium pulse lasers. The PPC blasted away at the engine cowling while one of the lasers smoked another heat sink. The second laser ripped up the armor on the right wing, burning away some of the paint job.

  Carew blinked as the Hellcat came up and over on its left wing. As it whirled away to his port, he got a good look at the insignia previously hidden by the bandits' burning red and gold paint. No, that could not have been! No one would be so bold. No one would be so insane. The flames consumed the insignia, but Carew could not forget it.

  Before the true import of what he had seen could sink in, the warning klaxon again sounded in his cockpit. Damned Trident! Carew fixed it with his rear lasers and was about to trigger a blast when three energy beams shot up from beneath the Trident and raked through it like shrapnel through fog. A PPC beam opened the fuselage from nose to tail like a giant blue can opener, while twin large lasers scissored through the right wing. The wing folded up and in toward the cockpit, then snapped off and dropped away as the smoking fighter began to spiral down toward the ground.

  "Eagle Leader says thanks."

  "Not a problem, Eagle Leader," he heard Caitlin answer him. "Just returning a favor."

  * * *

  Under the cover of his fire support lances, Chris and the rest of Alpha Battalion entered the foothills. The paths left by the bandits were easy to follow. Radio messages from the Elementals made locating the enemy 'Mechs easy, and the first ones he saw were the burning, smashed hulks of those the LRM-equipped 'Mechs were destroying from afar.

  Bringing his Thunderbolt around a hillock, Chris saw an improbably slender BattleMech move into the meadow from another little valley off to his right. He swung the Thunderbolt to the right and centered the crosshairs on the Ostsol. He kept the sights on the 'Mech's torso, and when he got the dot confirming a weapons lock, he fired.

  The large laser mated to the Thunderbolt's right forearm sent needles of green energy through the Ostsol's right arm armor, stripping it completely and even chipping away at the ferro-titanium bone beneath. But Chris knew better than to take comfort in that damage. The Ostsol's arms were used only for balance and, apparently, absorbing damage that would have been more harmful elsewhere.

  The trio of medium lasers mounted in the Thunderbolt did more damage. Two melted away armor in the Ostsol's chest, and the third savaged the left leg armor. Another shot or two in those places and he could cripple the enemy 'Mech.

  The Ostsol gave back better than it got, however. The twin large pulse lasers mounted high in the torso superheated armor over the center of the Thunderbolt's chest and on the left arm. One of the medium pulse lasers in the 'Mech's belly added more damage to that on the Thunderbolt's chest, reducing its armor to 40 percent of the original, while the other one burned a nasty gash in the armor on the Thunderbolt's left thigh.

  The Ostsol had burned off more than two tons of armor plating, and the Thunderbolt's gyros sought to compensate for the weight loss. Chris managed to keep the 'Mech upright, tracking the Ostsol with his sights. The assault had left him running hot, but he could see that his enemy had also pushed his heat high in hopes of scoring a crippling blow.

  In a split-second Chris decided not to push his heat again. He knew his 'Mech was better-suited to a slugging match than the Ostsol. He triggered his three pulse lasers and felt a heat spike gush hot air into the cockpit. Sweat covered his exposed flesh, but he was concentrating too hard on the damage his shots did to worry about heat.

  The medium pulse lasers all hit, but they failed to punch through the Ostsol's armor. Two continued his assault on the center and right sides of the chest, but the third burned armor from the 'Mech's vestigial left arm. The pilot kept his 'Mech upright and returned fire with a vengeance.

  The Ostsol pilot had decided to take no chances. One of the two large pulse lasers he directed at the Thunderbolt missed high, but the second burned almost all the way through the armor over the 'Mech's heart. A medium pulse laser followed it up and melted away some of the center torso's internal structures. Warning klaxons screamed throughout the cockpit, then more of them sounded as the second pulse laser blasted into the Thunderbolt's head, vaporizing virtually all the armor.

  Chris reflexively shied away from the brilliant head-shot, and his Thunderbolt recoiled with him. It stumbled and went down to one knee. Chris jerked forward, held in his command couch by the restraining belts, then arched his back and pulled the Thunderbolt upright. I
ts right leg kicked out to stabilize it—dirt clods flying and trees falling as the foot dug into the dark loam for solid traction.

  My chest armor is breached! Chris looked at the glowing circle of red on the auxiliary monitor's picture of the Thunderbolt. He knew a shot there or to the head with anything the Ostsol carried would finish his 'Mech and likely kill him. He swung his large laser over to cover the enemy 'Mech, prepared to trigger everything. Now is no time to be cautious.

  As he dropped the crosshairs on the Ostsol, he noticed it was not moving at all. Shifting his holographic display over from vislight to infrared, he saw the machine glowing like a supernova. It's overheated. The computers shut it down.

  He tightbeamed a message to the pilot. "Pop your canopy now and surrender. The fight is over for you."

  Chris got a reply, but not the one he expected.

  As he watched in horror, the canopy exploded outward in a shower of smoky glass fragments. A fireball ignited in the cockpit and he expected to see the command couch shoot out on an ejector rocket. He knew that ejecting into the woods was suicidal because the trees would crush any escaping pilot against their boles before the couch could correct its course. Instead of the command couch and pilot, the fire spat out bits and pieces of both. The spherical head plumped at the edges, then the top of it blew clean off.

  The Ostsol fell forward, spilling burning sparks from its cockpit like glowing coals bouncing from a toppling barbecue.

  Chris's mouth went sour. He knew that what he had seen could have been a failure of the escape rocket to ignite properly, or else the failure of restraining bolts to pop free on the command couch. Deep down he hoped that was what he had witnessed, but he knew it was not.

  That pilot committed suicide to avoid capture. Chris swallowed hard. We've always known these bandits were unusual. Just how unusual we underestimated by a parsec.

  * * *

  Phelan acknowledged the radio call from Dan Allard with a nod. "Roger, Colonel, the Sidhe have broken and are heading north. I will have Conal's people move in and cut them off from the DropShip out there to pick them up." Phelan twitched his right hand and brought his crosshairs onto a Rifleman lining up a shot at Ranna's Warhawk. He punched his thumb down and sent a large laser beam slicing through the Rifleman's exposed knee joint. The beam melted away the ends of the ferro-titanium bones, pitching the big 'Mech to the right and spoiling its aim at Ranna.

  The Clan Khan keyed his radio to Tac Three. "Star Colonel Ward, the Sidhe are headed in your direction. Stop them."

  "They will not pass, my Khan."

  Conal's reply bothered Phelan briefly, but then a bandit Vindicator took notice of him. The 'Mech's PPC swung into line with the Wolfhound and let fly with a bolt of cerulean electricity. The energy whip flayed all the armor off the Wolfhound's right arm and started to work on the pseudomuscles and bones. Phelan rocked back in his command couch and felt a static tingle over his arms and legs.

  A glance at his auxiliary monitor told him that the 'Mech's arm still functioned and that its large laser mounted was still useable, but not whether the Vindicator had hit it again. Can't take that chance. He gritted his teeth and spitted the Vindicator on his crosshairs.

  The combination of the Clan targeting computer and Phelan's steady hand kept all the Wolfhound's weapons tight on target. The green beam of the large laser punched into the left side of the Vindicator's chest, reducing more than 60 percent of its armor to vapor and liquid droplets. Then the trio of medium pulse lasers sent a hail of red energy darts through the armor steam. Flames jetted back out through the quintet of LRM firing ports in the 'Mech's left breast and a greenish tinge in the smoke told Phelan that a heat sink had been blasted away. The 'Mech's left arm sagged as the shoulder girdle evaporated.

  The sheer violence of the assault against it twisted the Vindicator around and dumped it on the ground. As the pilot tried to lever the 'Mech back up, pushing off the ground with its PPC, two green energy spears passed through it, one reigniting the fire in its chest and the other obliterating its head. Decapitated by the beam, the 'Mech flopped onto its back, with twin smoke plumes drifting upward.

  "Thank you, Ranna," Phelan gasped as heat shot into his cockpit. His heat sinks labored to purge it, and brought the temperature down quickly, but the burst of heat from his attack left him breathless for a moment. "Good shooting."

  "It would not do for the Khan's Honor Guard to allow him to die."

  Conal's face appeared on Phelan's secondary monitor. "The bridges have been blown. Old Connaught is safe."

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "I have blown the bridges, as you ordered. Your home is safe." Conal's image vanished and was replaced with a gun-camera feed showing the two bridges over the Kilkenny sagging into the river. "The bandits will not cross!"

  "What have you done, Conal?" Phelan slammed one fist against the arm of his command couch. "I told you to stop them, not blow the bridges!"

  "And I have. You placed us here to guard Old Connaught. I have made certain they will not reach the city."

  "I wanted you to prevent the Red Corsair from reaching her DropShip, Conal! Quickly, get there before she does."

  "We cannot, we are north of the river. We cannot cross it."

  "Why would you blow it before you had crossed?"

  "She has access to a DropShip. She could have gotten to Old Connaught had we crossed before blowing the bridge."

  I know you are not so obtuse, Conal. Did you suffer brain-fade, or are you out to tarnish my victory here? Phelan's hands tightened into fists. "Pull back to Old Connaught at full speed, Conal. If the Red Corsair does reach her DropShip and gets behind you, I will meet you in a Circle of Equals and rip your heart out with my bare hands, do you understand?"

  "Aff, my Khan. It will be as you desire."

  Phelan stabbed the commlink button to Tac Two. "Eagle Leader, can you get at the Red Corsair's DropShip and stop it?"

  "Negative, Wolf One." Carew's voice carried a note of caution. "The Tigress apparently carried with it a Point of Stukas, a Point of Transgressors, and a Point of Corsairs. They are flying CAP for the DropShip and we are all running light on ammo. They seem content to let us strafe stragglers, but I am not confident we can get through. If it is what you desire, I will try."

  Phelan knew that he had only to give the order and Carew would give his life trying to accomplish the task. "Stand by, Eagle Leader." Phelan switched to Tac Four. "Star Captain Fetladral, report on the Sidhe."

  "Less than a Star running. The Red Corsair is one of those in retreat. They are within a kilometer of the Tigress. Alpha Battalion has the rest of them under control or dead."

  "Roger, Star Captain. Wolf One out." Phelan reestablished the link with Carew. "Eagle One, initiate ground-support operations. Let the DropShip go . . . mop up. No reason for more of us to die today."

  Bates again broke the darkness of Nelson's improvised planetarium, but that was fine with him. "The battle is over, Kommandant. The good guys won."

  Nelson smiled unconsciously. "She escaped, didn't she?"

  Bates hesitated, then nodded. "How did you know?"

  The maimed MechWarrior curled his half-hand into a misshapen fist. "There are times, Mr. Bates, when God does answer prayers."

  37

  Tharkad

  Federated Commonwealth

  12 September 3055

  Victor Davion looked up with relief from the crop reports as Galen Cox entered his office. The smile on Galen's face raised a cousin on Victor's lips despite the late hour and his fatigue. "You have heard some good news?"

  Galen nodded and a laugh escaped him. "Report from Arc-Royal. The Corsair's raiding days are finished."

  "Yes!" Victor slapped the top of his desk and gave Galen a thumb's-up. "That's the best news I've had in months. Did they get her? Will we have a trial?"

  "No, she escaped with a half-dozen or so fighters and two other 'Mechs." Galen frowned slightly. "The rest of the bandits were k
illed, to a man. The Hounds are hedging their estimates of salvage. ..."

  "Who cares? They can have it all." Victor allowed himself a half-smile. "The Hounds were created with money my grandfather gave Morgan and Patrick Kell, and doubled in size with a bequest from my grandmother's will. Given their success rate and their loyalty to the Steiners, I should pay them enough to establish two more regiments."

  Galen shook his head slightly. "I believe your mother would applaud that decision, but I do not think it is a good public relations move. It reinforces your image as a cold militarist."

  "We wouldn't want that, now, would we?" Victor sighed and glanced at the agricultural printouts stacked on his desk. "On some worlds we have to protect the price of grains because they are so abundant and on others we have to discount the grain we import so people can afford to buy bread. And I thought the logistics of running a military unit were bad."

  "I shall leave you to your work, then."

  "No, not so fast. You're not getting off that easily." Victor stood up and stretched. "What did today's briefing from Curaitis say?"

  Victor saw a spark of annoyance in Galen's eyes, but his aide acquiesced and sat down heavily in a wingback chair. Galen had offered to filter reports on the investigation to Victor, and the Prince had taken him up on it. It freed Victor for the important business of running the Federated Commonwealth, but sentenced Galen to informal daily briefings.

  "Curaitis says that they have completed the third round of narco-interrogation of the assassin. It was, by far, the most satisfactory of the rounds because they are no longer giving him medication for the fat embolis."

  "The assassin will live, then?" Initially the doctors had feared that the assassin would not survive because the fractures to his leg had released bone marrow into the bloodstream. The fat from the marrow had clogged the man's coronary arteries, resulting in a massive and very unexpected heart attack. The fat embolis had come very close to killing the assassin and had delayed his interrogation for what, to Victor, was an intolerable amount of time.