Star lord

by Donald G. Phillips

  "I know what I'm doing," Trane snapped.

  "Right. Well, then, better run a check on our long range." Duncan wished he was at the controls. What if these Knights weren't as good as they were cracked up to be? Worse yet, what if Trane didn't know how to pilot an antique like this in battle?

  "Tactical feed up," Trane said as the secondary monitor flickered on. His voice was muffled by the neurohelmet, and the external cockpit speaker enhanced it only slightly, making it even more staticky. There was a permanent ripple on the screen from feedback and lack of maintenance. "I have a force at about two kilometers from here on Murphy Boulevard. It looks like they're doing just what we thought they would."

  Duncan leaned over the seat back and saw the battle computer's readout in greater detail. The small iconic dots representing the raiders were moving toward the spaceport in the center of New Hedon. They were just under a company in size, and Duncan was sure the city's defenders would never be able to fend off their assault. From what he saw, however, they were attempting to do the impossible.

  Trane pivoted the 'Mech just as it ripped through the chain-link fence. Behind them the tiny garrison forces were running, looking frantic and confused. Duncan saw them through the small side window of the cockpit shouting and waving at the errant Warhammer. At least they'll get those tanks in motion to pursue us and hopefully engage the raiders. Not that it'll do much good.

  Trane broke the Warhammer into a trot down the street, ripping through three sets of power lines as if they were mere spider webs in his path. The heat level in the cockpit began to creep even higher, and Trane unbuttoned his shirt and squirmed out of it as the Warhammer entered a straightway. Duncan could barely move in his tiny space, so mostly he just concentrated on watching the controls and the tactical readout.

  "Problems," he said, loud enough for Trane to hear in his neurohelmet.

  The Knight looked down at the secondary monitor and saw the images himself. Two of the raiders, tentatively identified as a Vindicator and a Rifleman, had stopped their drive toward the spaceport, turning to intercept the Warhammer. Either one alone would have been fair game for the older 'Mech, though the odds were not as good against the Rifleman. Together, however, there was little hope for the old Warhammer against the kind of technology these raiders had wielded previously.

  Trane switched on his targeting gear, and a dim red light came on inside the cockpit. He slowed the 'Mech to a walk as he surveyed the area. A city was both good and bad for fighting, depending on how a 'Mech pilot made use of it. At the moment the Rifleman was coming straight at them down the wide avenue while the lighter Vindicator was making its way along their left flank. It was only a matter of seconds before the Rifleman began to open up.

  "I'm going to engage the Rifleman," Trane said.

  "The Vindicator's going to be on your flank any minute."

  "I know," Trane shot back. "I don't have any choice."

  Suddenly the air around the Warhammer seemed to erupt with explosions and flames as a blast of autocannon fire scored huge hits on the old Leviathon Plus armor covering the 'Mech's chest, ripping some of it away as the machine rocked ponderously at the impact. Duncan hit his head hard on the rear wall of the cockpit as the 'Mech jolted backward. His ears rang slightly, but he managed to stay conscious.

  "I'll teach him," Trane said just loud enough for Duncan to hear as he locked on to the target. Then he thumbed the trigger for the 'Mech's two Donal PPCs. Duncan, still somewhat dazed from the head-banging, saw the error and reached out, grabbing Trane's arm. "Let go!" Trane shouted.

  "You'll kill us," Duncan screamed back, his words followed by two laser beams from the Rifleman stabbing through the smoke of the autocannon attack. The red beams reached out like deadly searchlights, just missing the Warhammer as Trane sidestepped their glancing attack.

  "Let me fire," Trane insisted, moving the weapons joystick to a lock on the approaching Rifleman.

  "You've got both PPCs on line. We'll fry in this cockpit. This old Hammer can't vent heat like the ones you're used to piloting!"

  Trane's face went white when he realized what he'd almost done. "Damn!" he said, removing one of the PPCs from the target interlock circuit, then firing the other with a ferocious stab at the trigger button. The PPC bolt cracked like lightning from the Warhammer's left arm, the heat in the cockpit instantly rising to where Duncan's throat burned with every breath, but he knew the shot was true. The bolt slammed into the right leg of the red and silver Rifleman, the sickly gray-green smoke showing that the PPC had hit deep, probably damaging a heat-sink coolant line.

  Trane zigzagged the Warhammer from one side of the avenue to another, moving backward in uneven diagonal lines. The Rifleman kept closing the distance, firing its Imperator autocannons in a raking fire. Shells ripped across the Warhammer's upper chest, penetrating the torso and right arm. What was left of the old armor sprayed off in every direction, and once again a wave of heat poured up through the cockpit.

  At the maximum range of his Holly six-pack, Trane fired the SRMs. The Warhammer only carried three more reloads, and if he didn't use them they would simply explode should the 'Mech be destroyed. The missiles streaked down-range, one of them wobbling off course and slamming into the side of a building midway in flight. The others plowed into the Rifleman's lower chest, sending up plumes of white smoke.

  "Where's that Vindicator!" Trane asked, his bare chest and arms drenched in sweat from the heat in the cockpit.

  "He's closing in. You've got another couple of shots and then he's on us," Duncan said, the sweat stinging as it dripped into his eyes. Just then another blast of laser fire streaked out and hit the left leg of the Warhammer. There was a slight shudder as the armor plating boiled away, and the secondary monitor told them that the leg could not take another hit.

  Trane moved the 'Mech forward slightly and hard to the right, taking it into a narrow street surrounded by higher buildings, one of which blocked a second laser blast. For now the Warhammer would be out of reach of the Rifleman and away from the Vindicator. Even as the cockpit began to cool slightly, both men knew the heat would spike again as soon as they had to open fire.

  "He's not fighting the heat we are and he's got the firepower to do us in."

  "His leg is hurting. Take out the leg and you take out the 'Mech."

  "Got it. I need a stable firing platform," Trane said. "And it's going to get very hot in here." Trane stopped the Warhammer and methodically began to target the Rifleman as it came into view.

  Seeing Trane switch the short-range missiles and the right-hand PPC to the same target interlock circuit, Duncan knew the heat produced would be worse than before even though the Hammer had cooled considerably. "Let him have it," he said, bracing for the unbearable heat to come.

  Trane fired. The blue bolt of the PPC shed out first, its accelerated particles sizzling like lightning. The shot hit the Rifleman's lower hip region as the 'Mech rounded the corner. Its arms tilted upward at the impact, their aim disrupted and discharging a massive blast of autocannon fire into the air.

  The short-range missiles did the most damage, digging into the hole in the Rifleman's right leg. The explosions went off inside the already badly damaged leg, eating it up. The knee actuator exploded outward as the leg from the joint down erupted in flames, smoke, and shredded myomer. The Rifleman pilot fought to maintain his balance, but it was no use. The 60-ton 'Mech swayed backward and to the right, plunging into the building behind it, blocking the narrow street and crushing most of the structure it fell onto. It was still at a considerable distance, but Duncan doubted the pilot had much chance of getting his 'Mech operational again. "That's one," Trane said.

  "That Vindicator is still—" Duncan was interrupted by a bright blue flash filling the Warhammer's cockpit. The Vindicator had scored against the Warhammer's left arm with its extended-range PPC, hitting it so hard the 'Mech's torso twisted under the impact. Duncan's arms ached as he gripped the back of the command couch even whil
e being tossed about the cockpit.

  The secondary display told the story. The armor had weathered the assault, but what was left was more imagination than protection. The reinforced plating had been charred off and several thick bundles of myomer hung exposed. Duncan looked down and saw them sparking and smoking as Trane tested the arm, trying to realign it for firing. The arm was still operational, but even small-arms fire could take out what was left at this point. They'd been lucky to make it even this far in this old war-bucket.

  Trane backed up the Warhammer as fast as he could, but unlike the wide avenue where they'd first engaged the Rifleman, here there was no room to dodge or evade the enemy. The buildings were five stories tall or higher over intersecting streets so tight Trane would have a hard time getting the 'Mech and its long PPC arms through. He was running out of space and ideas.

  The Vindicator, at the far extent of their vision, fired its jump jets to leap over the fallen Rifleman. A glimmer of silver paint caught the light as it went. "Now!" Trans said, triggering the PPC in the Warhammer's damaged left arm.

  The weapon made a snapping sound as it discharged its azure bolt at the Vindicator. The air seemed to crack with thunder as the shot found its mark, ripping into the raiding 'Mech's left torso, just under the long-range missile rack. The Vindicator's movement had ceased, but only for an instant as the pilot reeled from the attack. Duncan licked his lips; the air stank of sweat, heat, and the smell of burning insulation from somewhere in the 'Mech. Only the steadily humming throb of the fusion reactor seemed to deaden the sounds of war around them.

  Obviously angry, the Vindicator pilot let go with a blast of long-range missiles in response. Duncan and Trane could see the missiles coming, but there was little they could do to avoid the incoming fire. Two of the missiles missed, hitting the ground just in front of them. The others dug into the legs of the Warhammer, the impact rattling the 'Mech and increasing the discomfort inside the cockpit.

  "We've got to take him out or our mission is a scrub," Duncan said loudly and firmly. We're not here to win a battle, just to confirm their attack and regroup on Marik. With all this fighting, we're losing sight of our real mission.

  "One PPC shot at a time?" Trane said. The sensors showed the Vindicator barely damaged and keeping its distance while firing its long-range weapons. The tactical readout was clear enough: the attacking 'Mech's center torso was damaged but not enough to stop it or force it to disengage.

  "If you can fire both PPCs at once, can you hit him with both?"

  "Yes, but how—"

  "Open the cockpit hatch manually. It will give us the cooling we need when you fire."

  Even through the narrow protective plate of the neurohelmet, Duncan could read the look on Trane's face. With the forward cockpit hatch open they would be totally exposed, with no protection against anything the Vindicator might throw at them. But surrender was the only other option, and they knew that thus far the raiders had taken no prisoners.

  The Vindicator closed in to where even the short-range missiles could be brought into play. "Do it!" Trane said.

  Duncan contorted his frame and cycled the side access door to the cockpit. It opened and almost immediately a wave of cold air bathed his sweat-soaked skin. Rising to his knees, he manually cranked open the overhead hatch nearly four feet. The Vindicator was now even closer, moving in for the kill. He's cocky. He thinks we won't open up with everything because we'll fry in this old Hammer.

  Duncan saw Trane combine the short-range missiles and the two Martell medium lasers on the same target interlock circuit along with both PPCs. With one press of the firing stud, the Warhammer would let go with almost everything it had, short of the machine guns. Under normal conditions the 'Mech would either shut down or blow from such overheating. But Duncan and Trane were hoping that the open hatches would at least keep them from cooking alive as the temperature in the cockpit soared.

  "For the Captain-General ..." Trane said, hitting the trigger on the joystick at the same time the Vindicator pilot opened up with his own PPC. The air in the close quarters of the narrow street burst into sparking, showering, blinding life like a star being formed. With the cockpit open Duncan felt the hairs on his arms and head stand on end as the shots passed and struck. His ears ached from the roar of the missiles racing out of the rack only two meters from his head, their flames lapping at the open cockpit's glass viewpoint.

  The Vindicator's PPC struck a full milisecond before the Warhammer's, hitting the Hammer's already crippled left arm just after its PPC there discharged. The elbow joint buckled under the hit, snapping off with a noise like bones breaking. The entire Warhammer swayed to the left, tipping under the impact until Duncan thought they might be crushed when it fell into a nearby building. But somehow Trane managed to keep the huge machine upright. The steady crackle of frying myomer filled the air, and the heavy taint of ozone and the sooty taste of burnt insulation coated his tongue and mouth.

  The cockpit panels flickered out for a moment as a wave of long-range missiles slammed the legs of the Warhammer, vibrating the 'Mech in mid-list. The secondary display popped, imploding as the heat in the cockpit spiked upward. Duncan strained to get near the hatch for even a breath of cooler air. Suddenly the throbbing under him from the fusion reactor stopped, accompanied by a sick grinding of metal against metal and a steady hiss like steam venting somewhere in the distance. The emergency lights in the cockpit came on, and through the smoke and haze Duncan knew the reactor had shut down, either from heat or damage. No matter what happens now, this BattleMech is dead—at least for this battle.

  He looked out, but instead of seeing the Vindicator fallen, he saw the raiding 'Mech still upright, looking more like a statue than a weapon of war. With no readout possible, Duncan visually surveyed their foe. Its frontal armor was charred black—what was left of it anyway. Several missile craters showed near the cockpit, which probably explained why the 'Mech was not pressing further attack. The pilot was either injured, dead, or somewhere in between. Even though the 'Mech was still a distance away, the small pockets of smoke rising from the torso told the story. The 'Mech had been badly damaged, maybe enough to buy them enough time to escape. The extended-range PPC hung limp as Duncan checked Trane's condition.

  The Knight was alive, sucking in air as fast as his lungs would allow. He struggled to remove the neurohelmet, then let it fall to the floor of the cockpit. His dark hair sparkled with sweat and his face was red from the heat inside the helmet. He looked stunned, almost in a daze.

  "You all right?" Duncan asked, releasing the restraints holding Trane into his seat.

  Rod Trane nodded. "You?"

  "Alive," Duncan said. "We've got to get out of here in case that guy comes to and decides to finish the job he started."

  Trane nodded. Slowly, as if each joint and muscle ached, the two men climbed out the hatch and began to descend the footholds down the side of the Warhammer. Now they could see the 'Mech's damage up close and personal. Massive plates of armor torn like paper. Internal structural supports of foam aluminum melted like wax. Several of the rungs were missing, making the descent even slower. They skipped the last few rungs, jumping down onto what had been a sidewalk before the battle. Now it was blackened, cracked, and reduced to worthless rubble, thanks to the weight of the Warhammer standing on it.

  Duncan looked down the street and saw the Vindicator moving slowly backward, almost staggering. "Looks like our friend is moving on to other opportunities," he said. For all intents and purposes the Warhammer was no longer a threat to the Vindicator. "Let's check out that Rifleman. See if we can find the pilot or any evidence."

  Trane nodded, still drawing in long, deep gulps of air. "We must also render assistance to the people." Duncan wanted to protest, but he knew Trane was right. He'd seen the damage the raiders had already done just from his little corner of the attack. These people were definitely going to need some help.

  * * *

  The two men moved across the tar
mac near where the Herotitus militia were cleaning up the remains of one of their Galleon tanks. There was a crowd of on-lookers, some looking stunned, others huddling to see what had happened. The tank had been gutted from the top through to the interior. 'Mech fire at very close range, Duncan realized. The Galleon never had a chance, none of the local militia did. Most of a day had passed and the sun was finally setting over New Hedon. The two men were tired, near exhaustion, having pressed on throughout the battle, hoping to find some clue to the origins of the raiders. There was none. As with the previous raids, the attackers did their damage to the place and to the reputation of the Knights, and then escaped. Trane and Duncan had destroyed the Rifleman, but the pilot had gotten away. No other enemy 'Mechs had been felled in the fight, but the press was already portraying the attack as the work of the Knights of the Inner Sphere.

  "Did you get the message off?" Duncan asked as they watched the recovery crew try to pry the tank's melted metal off the tarmac with heavy picks and bars.

  "Yes, but Herotitus isn't a Class A station, so it will take a few days for our people to get the word." Trane was careful not to mention the name of Thomas Marik. They'd been careful to encrypt their message as well.

  "We did pretty good today," Duncan said.

  Trane shook his head and wearily pointed to the tank where one of the crewman, burned to death in a contorted position of pain and death, was being hauled from the remains of the Galleon. "No we didn't."

  Duncan wanted to argue the point, but was too tired from the battle and the mop-up. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and his nose was clogged with dust and smoke debris. He, like Trane, was running on his last reserves of energy.

  "We should get back to the hotel," he said, rubbing at the stiffness in the back of his neck with both hands.

  "While I was sending the message, I had our bags delivered to the DropShip," Trane told him.

  "You think we should leave right away then?" It didn't matter to Duncan that Trane had acted without consulting him, even though Duncan was technically in charge of the mission. He was just too tired.