Bovos nodded.
"Good. I'll meet you there at twenty-three hundred hours."
Bovos stood up, a smile widening across his face. "Thanks, Mister—er, Duncan. I'll be there."
As Hermann Bovos turned and made his way down from the stands, Duncan followed him with his eyes. When he was out of sight, Duncan pulled a small communicator from his breast pocket.
"Rogue One to Tin Man," he said, relishing the call sign he'd picked for Rod Trane.
"I read you," came back the voice.
"Run a check on the DropShip's computer files on Shiro III. See what you come up with on a 'Mech pilot name of Hermann Bovos with the Oriente Hussars. Give me a buzz when you've got something."
"Understood and out," Trane said, his tone wooden. Duncan knew that Trane was still struggling with his resentment over command of the operation going to a knock-around like Duncan instead of to him. Trane was just going to have to get over it, and Duncan wished he'd hurry up and do so.
* * *
The light on top of the old wooden pole went from yellow to red as Duncan watched the Crusader move forward. Its opponent, a bright green Thunderbolt, stood at the opposite end of the muddy embankment that marked the arena. Both weighing in at 65 tons, the 'Mechs were equally intimidating. The stocky Thunderbolt displayed an imposing solidity, looking as difficult to knock over as a deeply rooted tree. The Crusader, with its Lindblad anti-missile system protruding from the center of its head, resembled the fabled unicorn of the ancients. The spotlights from towers surrounding the area cast odd shadows in the night, making the 'Mechs seem even more menacing.
The Crusader closed cautiously on its opponent, while the Thunderbolt pilot wasted no time opening fire with his large laser and long-range missiles. The laser sliced through the Crusader's right arm with surgical precision, burning through the armor and destroying myomer muscle and sensor equipment as it went. The missiles also found their intended target, most slamming into the Crusader's boxy chest. Watching these first few minutes of fighting, Duncan wondered if this match was going to be any contest at all. The Thunderbolt was mauling its opponent, whose armor was already pitted with gaping holes and severe burns.
Despite the damage he'd taken, the Crusader pilot hung in with the fight, answering the Thunderbolt's attack with a wall of thirty long-range missiles. A few missed, but the rest punched into the Thunderbolt's green armor, turning its chest into a bed of small explosions. A wave of fire and smoke engulfed the Thunderbolt, but when the smoke cleared, it emerged still functional and in the fight.
Facing the slow-moving Crusader, the green 'Mech released a trio of medium lasers from its left shoulder and a deadly large one from its right arm. Duncan cringed. He knew the heat generated during such a salvo was tremendous, and in an instant saw the results. The Crusader took two of the laser hits on its lacerated right arm, the last of its armor sizzling and then falling into the mud with a giant splash. A secondary explosion finished the arm.off while the large laser ate into the Crusader's chest like a voracious electrical beast.
Duncan was shocked that the Crusader pilot didn't give up, despite the heavy damage to his 'Mech. This, he knew, was a critical moment. Any more damage and the Crusader was a goner, while the Thunderbolt was hanging tough. It was almost over.
The pilot of the burn-marked Thunderbolt apparently decided to toy with the Crusader. He moved in close, venting heat and getting ready for the final blow. The Crusader seemed to waver, and for a moment Duncan thought it was all over for him.
But, just then, bright blue, red, and yellow flames streaked from the 'Mechs lower torso. The Crusader had fired its jump jets, lifting sixty-five tons of death and destruction up into the air. Duncan could hear the whooshing roar of flames all the way up to where he and the others sat in the stands. The Thunderbolt was racing to reposition, but the Crusader's flight was rapidly picking up speed. At a height of about fifty meters, it suddenly began to descend on a collision course with death—and the Thunderbolt.
The pilot of the green 'Mech tried to defend himself, firing a salvo of long-range missiles upward at the Crusader, but every warhead fell wide of the plunging battle machine. Duncan knew why. At that close range it was difficult to aim the missiles accurately at a moving target—there wasn't enough time. The besieged Thunderbolt drifted back, trying to evade the Crusader. But the jumping 'Mech anticipated the Thunderbolt's tactics like some massive bird of prey. The Crusader sailed just over the Thunderbolt . . . then dropped.
The move was known as Death from Above and was considered one of the most deadly attacks a 'Mech could perform in full-contact fighting. The one-armed Crusader drove feet first into the back and shoulders of the Thunderbolt with a grinding and screeching that was terrible to hear.
The Thunderbolt doubled over at the waist, then collapsed under the Crusader's weight. The Crusader almost toppled too, a risk in such an attack. But the pilot somehow managed to keep the 'Mech on its feet. The two 'Mechs were motionless for ten long seconds as both pilots regained their bearings and their wits.
As if to emphasize its victory, the Crusader fired one of its short-range missile packs downward into the mangled form of the Thunderbolt. The missile pair ripped up the armor on the 'Mech's muck-covered back, but Duncan was sure the pilot took the shot more for dramatic effect. Suddenly the lights of the arena flashed once off and back on. The light on the wooden pole went from red to yellow. The Thunderbolt had signaled surrender. The match was over.
"Villiers," Duncan said to his nearest companion.
"Yes, Duncan?"
"Who's that Crusader pilot?"
Villiers studied the program sheet for a minute, tracing his finger down to the match they'd just witnessed. "His name is Garth Hawkes. There are the letters 'DPI' after his name."
Duncan's brow wrinkled as he tried to remember the term, then he recalled that it stood for Damn Proud Independent. "That was one hell of a move. You don't see Death from Above too often in your career, let along this close."
"You interested in him?"
"Let's meet him first," Duncan said. "Tell him we'd like to talk. We can meet at the arena entrance."
As Villiers went to do his bidding, Duncan took another sip of his beer. This Garth Hawkes DPI looked like just the kind of man he needed. Not only a skilled pilot, but one willing to take extraordinary risks.
Cavern of the Skull
New St. Andrews, The Periphery
Rimward of the Circinus Federation
Outside, morning was breaking, but deep in the bowels of the cavern it was always night. Kemper Varas sat at the desk waiting. He didn't like to bring his lord bad news, never sure what form his anger might take. As Stefan Amaris VII entered, Varas rose and bowed slightly. "You look well today, Star Lord."
Amaris lowered himself into his chair slowly and carefully, leaning his forearms on the desk. "You have received word from our forces who hit Herotitus?"
"I have."
"Tell me, Varas, were they successful?"
"We lost no personnel, but three of our 'Mech pilots were injured enough to end up in sickbay on the return trip. Our BattleMech losses, however, were unacceptable, sire. One 'Mech was a total loss, and two others suffered enough damage that the Captain says they should be scrapped for parts rather than repaired."
The Star Lord's nostrils flared and he balled his hands into fists, slamming them into the table with such force that it seemed the heavy wood would crack under the blow. "I am building an empire, Varas! You are my general and you keep telling me of losses. Do you have any idea what all this costs? I've already funded the formation of the Republican Guards. Now, with these losses and those of the other raids, we're down several lances worth of 'Mechs."
"But, lord, the raids thus far have all been successful." Varas wanted to stem the tide of rage rising at him from across the table.
"Victories that are costing me a fortune. I want you to contact our recruiters and tell them to send us at least two companies wor
th of mercenaries. Make sure they have their own equipment, though—ships and BattleMechs. I'm growing weary of having to build this army one stick at a time. Caesar ... Alexander ... McKenna ... none of them ever had to deal with the difficulties I've been forced to endure. If not for the noble blood flowing though my veins, I'd have given up long ago."
Amaris was ranting rather than speaking, his thoughts and words seeming to wander with each sentence. There was a dark fire burning in his eyes, and Varas couldn't help but wonder if it was the same rage that had maddened Amaris the First. He cringed, knowing he had yet to conclude his report.
"I will order the recruiters on Galatea to sign up more troops. We'll replenish our ranks and equipment and bring the Republican Guards to well over regimental size."
Amaris smiled suddenly. "Yes, my Guards. They are the key to the victories we must forge. I am the hammer, and the Guards are my anvil. Between them lie the Clans and the House Lords. They will perish, swept away by the people of the Inner Sphere. They will follow me because I offer them an age of enlightenment, an era where wars and petty lords do not exist. No invaders, only liberators. That is what I bring to them."
"Of course, Lord," Varas said, being careful not to meet Amaris's eyes. "But there is another matter I must bring to your attention."
"Yes?"
"I spoke with the Clave Lords last night—"
"And?"
"They expressed their displeasure at our presence on their world—again. They claim we have not lived up to our promises for the use of this mountain base and that they may revoke their permission. They say they will be forced to remove us from New St. Andrews."
The laughter that came from Amaris startled Varas, who had expected another tide of fury. "Remove me from New St. Andrews? Don't they realize who they are dealing with?"
"They know who you are, Star Lord."
The laugh stopped and changed to a twisted, crafty expression. "They know me, yet they do not fear me? They will, though. They will, or my name is not Amaris. When we came here, they had nothing. I clothed and fed them. Now they want more. Well, they won't get it, not from me. New St. Andrews is my world now. I rule here as I will rule the entire Inner Sphere. They must be made to understand their position in relationship to me. Don't you agree, Varas?"
Varas nodded slightly, not sure where this discussion of the Claves was going.
"Good. Who is the strongest of their leaders?"
"Markelonis Kav of the Red Dog Clave."
"Excellent. Send one of my Guards there tonight to poison their precious water supply. Let them drink and die in their beds. When the others see the price of resistance to my will, they will fall to their knees before me."
"This will harm many innocents, Star Lord. The wells are used by the entire community. It would be easy enough to dispose of Kav."
Amaris's face grew even darker, a storm cloud ready to burst. "You have your orders, Varas. Make it happen. No one will interfere with the forging of my empire, especially not these petty little shepherds. New St. Andrews is mine, I tell you. I claim it, just as I will lay claim to the whole of the Inner Sphere!"
15
Galaport
Galatea
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
15 May 3057
Standing in front of Duncan was a man with his hair tied back tightly into a pony tail and wearing a black leather vest. Though a few gray hairs were visible, the face was one of those boyish ones that seemed perpetually young. The man hadn't shaved in a while, but was otherwise well kept.
"Garth Hawkes?" Duncan said, extending his hand.
"The same. And you are?"
"Duncan Kalma." He gave the man a firm handshake, then gestured toward his companions. "And some of my people." Garth saluted them with a slight wave of the hand, then turned back to Duncan.
"Your man Villiers says you're here looking to hire."
"Possibly. I was impressed with your work in the arena tonight. It was damned gutsy, especially at the end. Death from Above can often backfire on a pilot. You took a big risk taking out that Thunderbolt."
Hawkes nodded slightly.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to win," Hawkes said simply. "I've only lost one battle in my life and I have no intention of ever losing another."
Duncan could tell there was definitely a story in all that, but this wasn't the place or the time to pursue it. "We're three men shy of a full company, but we've got a full complement of 'Mechs and our own DropShip."
"Equipment isn't my concern," Hawkes said.
"That so?" Duncan studied the other man for a moment. "Where have you served?"
"I've been around. I just finished a stint with the Federated Commonwealth. I was a company commander."
"And now you're here on Galatea looking for work."
"That's right. My unit was attacked while I was away from my post. They were caught totally off guard—hell, half of them were in for equipment upgrades. They went into the fight without me. By the time I got there it was too late."
"So what happened?"
"They cashiered me." Hawkes shrugged. "Maybe some of my men would still be alive if I'd been there."
"What unit?"
"I'd rather not say."
Duncan could understand why Hawkes preferred to keep that to himself, but he also needed to know more about him. "Where did all this happen?"
"The Capellan March. So now you know something about me. But what about your little unit? Like who are you going to try to hire on with?"
"That's an odd question," Duncan said slowly, still trying to feel the other man out, "but I guess I don't mind. We've met a few of the recruiters on this rock so far, but we're waiting for the right job. We'd like to sign with someone who's putting together a private army or a large-scale raid. A bigger unit, none of this single-run stuff. Does that answer your question?"
Hawkes nodded. "Sounds right up my alley."
"So, what do you say? I think we could use someone like you."
"Could be. How's about we iron out some of the details over drinks?"
Duncan nodded. He was sure Hawkes would sign on, and he took it as a good omen. Just as he'd been going down to meet with Hawkes, Trane had transmitted word that Hermann Bovos had checked out. The big man would be a valuable addition to their ranks and Duncan was sure he'd stay on even if he learned the truth. Now along came Hawkes.
Two down and one to go to fill out the last slot. After that it was only a matter of time ...
Still exhilarated from her match, Dawn had decided to walk part of the way home, and was rounding the corner toward the hotel where Mordoc had rented her a room. He'd invited her to a celebration with the other members of the Minutemen, but she had declined. They celebrate victories here, but we of the Clans know better. We honor victories by adding verses to The Remembrance and the passing of our genetic legacy to another generation of warriors. These Inner Sphere freebirths live only for the now. They do not look to the future of our species, to what would serve the good of all, even the generations to come. The imbibing of alcoholic drinks was a rare experience among the Clans. Dawn had tried it only once, and the memory of the sickness that followed was enough to cure her of the desire for a lifetime.
Rounding the corner she came suddenly and unexpectedly upon a group of men who seemed intent on blocking her path. There were five of them, each with some kind of hand weapon, ranging from blackjacks to a section of chain. Their uniforms told a story as well. All showed the insignia of Carmody's Cavaliers, one of whom she'd defeated earlier that evening. Now it looked like they wanted to fight her again, with the odds stacked to boot.
"Lookie what we got here," said one of the men. He was holding a blackjack. "The bitch that killed Jay."
"I hear she's a Clan-head. Hey, blondie, you really a Clanner?" another one mocked. Dawn had trained since her earliest years in the arts of war, had survived test after test until the final Trial of Position that had finally made her a Clan w
arrior. After a lifetime of learning to master fear, these trashborns did not frighten her. Instead she was assessing each one, their weapons, the terrain, possible exit routes they might take, anything and everything about the situation. It was the mark of a warrior to understand and use whatever was at hand. The idea of retreat never crossed her mind.
Also hanging about a little ways off were three or four more Cavaliers. Seeing how they kept their distance, she dismissed them scornfully as freebirth cowards who only fought when they didn't fear getting hurt.
"Aff," she said proudly. "I was once of Clan Steel Viper."
Another one of the men came up along her right side, holding a blackjack. "This is going to be even more fun than I thought. I'm from Rassalhague and I haven't seen or heard from any of my family since the planet fell to you Clan bastards. We're gonna get you good, Clan girl, but not just for Jay—this is for everybody who's had his life cranked over by you and your friggin' Clans."
Dawn dropped into a fighting stance. "There are five of you. Do you wish to bid away your numbers or shall I take you on all at once?"
"This isn't one of yer frigging batchalls, baby. You're gonna fight all of us. And we'll give you plenty to remember us by, except you'll be too dead to do it." The man laughed harshly and grabbed at his crotch, leaving Dawn no doubt about what he had in mind. So it was true what the Crusaders said about the Inner Sphere, she thought. These freebirths were truly barbarian.
"You will not kill me," she said, her voice cold and utterly confident. "But some of you will surely die."
One of the men held up a knife. "Time to pay, bitch," he said, rushing forward with the blade lifted to strike.
In one fluid sweep Dawn spun to the left on one leg and threw him a hard kick to the groin. The man dropped the knife in mid-swing and literally flew backward into the dark street. By now another of the Cavaliers was swinging a heavy club at her, but she was too quick, ducking and jumping back. The move also gave her a chance to grab the first man's knife off the ground. Dawn had become totally alert, every fiber of her being tuned to this moment, this fight, these opponents. A lifetime of training had honed her reactions to the sureness of pure instinct. She did not fight with logic, but with the deadliness of any creature that knows its own power.
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