Lone Wolves . . .
Anastasia Kerensky has led the Steel Wolves to the planet of Galatea to repair, resupply, and—to the annoyance of her MechWarriors—retrain themselves in infantry combat. Ignoring Clan traditions, she has forged the Steel Wolves into a tighter, more cohesive fighting force with a new agenda....
Declaring the Steel Wolves mercenaries, Anastasia plans to sell the Clan's skills to the highest bidders. Fighting wars for wealth and continuous supplies of upgraded equipment will provide her elite troops an autonomy and strength that almost no other Mech- Warrior battalion can match. But her decision divides the Steel Wolves, with many veterans striking off on their own. Reduced to a mere fraction of their original strength, Anastasia's newly rechristened Wolf Hunters seek worthy warriors to refill their ranks.
Star Colonel Varnoff Fetladral, one of Kerensky's most vocal opponents, believes Anastasia has betrayed the founding principles of the Clan. With his own faction of loyal Steel Wolves by his side, he sets out to hunt down and destroy every member of the Wolf Hunters—and to restore MechWarrior honor....
OUT OF CONTROL
Anastasia Kerensky screamed her rage.
Sixty meters above her head Galatea turned slowly, the barren earth of the live fire field a sky of dun and char.
Yanking the joystick, she stomped her right pedal— demanding an extra burst of thrust from the right leg jet to rotate her airborne Ryoken II through the rest of the unplanned aerial cartwheel.
The computer countermanded her orders as quickly as she gave them, the gyroscope automatically undid her every effort. Feet to the sky, her BattleMech still rose on the last dregs of her initial jump's inertia, the corkscrew of its final flip uncompleted.
Anastasia pounded the cheerfully green diagnostic board with the heel of her hand. The external readout showed her BattleMech flying upright, coasting through the apogee of its jump. The system display complacently informed her that the jump jets were cycling for their braking burn.
A burn that would drive her head-first into the ground with enough force to drive both missile racks down through her cockpit and into the fusion reactor.
Her missiles . . .
Grabbing her fire control as the Ryoken II began its descent, she launched a full barrage, all four of the short- range missile six-packs firing at once. Newton's third law still applied. Free of the ground, her massive machine responded to the back thrust of twenty-four missiles. The BattleMech rotated.
Not much, fighting air and gravity, but some.
Not enough.
WOLF HUNTERS
A BATTLETECH™ NOVEL
Kevin Killiany
ROC
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, November 2006
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Copyright © WizKids, Inc., 2006 All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARC'A REGISTRADA
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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This book is for Valerie, my wife and partner in life. Her stubborn determination to stick with me no matter what makes all else possible.
Acknowledgments
I am a writer who writes—as opposed to a starving artist still searching for his muse—only because Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch lured me to their isolated estate on the coast of Oregon and pounded some sense into me. I shall be forever grateful. I am also grateful to Loren Coleman for introducing the wonder and excitement of the BattleTech" universe to a covey of unsuspecting writers at a long-ago workshop. That conversation around a coffee table laden with TROs and sourcebooks led to my happy relationship with the wonderful members of the BattleCorps and to my gaining the background and experience I needed to be able to tackle Wolf Hunters. Of course, this novel would not have happened at all without editor extraordinaire Sharon Turner Mulvihill, who, against her better judgment, defied common sense and a sea of naysayers to give me a shot at my first MechWarrior novel. Sharon was always ready with advice and guidance as I worked my way through the novel-writing process. And she was not alone. Herbert Beas, Randall Bills, Kelly Bonilla, Paul Sjardijn, David Stansel-Garner, and 0ystein Tved- ten (and others foolish enough to let me know their AIM or e-mail addresses) were always ready and willing to answer questions and offer support. The goodwill and camaraderie that extend throughout the MechWarrior community—from the magically loony offices of Wiz- Kids down to the guys who play the game at FanBoy Comics—are truly exceptional. I'm glad to be a small part of it.
Outside of our shared world, 1 need to thank the baristas at Port City Java, who kept the window table reserved and the organic coffee flowing as I hunched over my trusty laptop pouring my heart into the Wolf Hunters. Also worthy of special mention are my friends and family at Soul Saving Station. Over the course of this novel, they learned more about writing and Mech-
Warriors in my weekly homilies than most folks hear in a lifetime of churchgoing. Finally, I must thank my family—particularly my wife, Valerie—for supporting me when I needed it and giving me the space to write when 1 needed it and having the wisdom to know when to do which.
Prologue
Terra, Prefecture X
Republic of the Sphere
27 May 3135
Thaddeus Marik rested his hands on the cool stone of the balcony railing and stared ou
t over the walled garden. He identified calla lilies and gladiolus native to Terra, Scythian fire tulips, Stewart roses—smaller and more densely petaled than their Terran namesakes—and a dozen other blooms the names of which eluded him. The dark red ferns lining the paths were new to him, as were the umbrella-like flowering trees shielding the artfully placed benches from the early afternoon sun.
Of course, it was possible none of the plants were as exotic as he supposed. He knew palm trees were native to Terra, for example, but though he had seen them on a dozen worlds, he had never visited the region of man's home world where they grew.
Whatever the origins of the flora within the wall, he did not see the locally native heavy oak and elm that had scrolled past the windows of the limousine that brought him directly here from the DropPort. Nor did he see the pale yellow-green foliage he had grown accustomed to on New Aragon, that once verdant world still fighting its way back from the Blakist chemical assault that had almost sterilized the planet. And nowhere beyond the wall of the garden, beyond the screening cedars, or beyond the fold of rocky hills that rose to mountains, could he see any evidence that war and rebellion threatened the Republic of the Sphere.
How many gardens like this were there? he wondered. How many enclaves of cultivated flowers, protected from the ravages of nature and man, and hidden from the eyes of those deemed unable to appreciate their beauty?
Diversity, exclusivity, nature, the wall. Together and separately the elements could be seen as metaphors for so many things that it was either profound or banal. He couldn't quite decide which.
Things fall apart, he quoted the ancient poem, the center cannot hold.
Yeats had been writing about revolutions in the early twentieth century. A time when people in the ancient nation-states of Ireland and Russia fought for what they thought of as freedom. Neither group would have recognized what the other was fighting for, yet both were remembered by history as threatening order with anarchy. What would that long-ago poet—or the victors who had labeled the revolutionaries—make of these modern times, Thaddeus wondered.
He was spending too much time wondering.
"You understand our purpose?" asked Tyrina Drum- mond behind him.
"Do you mean metaphysically?" he asked without turning. "Or just in the current campaign?"
She laughed—the carefree, bell-like tone oddly incongruous with the circumstances. Stepping forward, his fellow paladin leaned to prop her forearms on the stone rail next to him. Closer, perhaps than formal courtesy would dictate, but not overly familiar.
Thaddeus wondered if there would ever again be a time when he did not have to parse every word and action for its hidden meaning. He doubted it.
"Our job in the coming months is not so much a campaign as a holding action," Tyrina said, looking out over the garden. "Holding things together."
The murmur of voices, the disorganized babble of a meeting broken up, reached them dully through the open French doors. It sounded to Thaddeus like a distant ocean. Or a river rising to flood.
"Does that"—Tyrina indicated the garden with a jut of her chin—"look to you like the world?"
He glanced at her. Leaning forward brought the crown of the taller woman's head level with his chin. From this unfamiliar perspective he saw blue highlights in her helmet of closely cropped black curls. He'd never noticed that before.
"An enclosed space with many choices and no real options?" he asked. "I think that will illustrate our lives for quite a while."
"Hopefully not for too long," she said, straightening.
Thaddeus shook his head, but didn't bother to contradict her assessment.
When I was a child I thought as a child and I spoke as a child, he thought. But now that I am grown, I have put away childish things.
Like faith my leaders know best.
He had plans to see to. Arrangements half completed because he'd hoped to never need them. His hopefulness had cost him valuable lead time, time he was going to have to struggle to make up.
His eye was caught by Tyrina's Nova Cat tattoo, blue- black against the cinnamon-copper of her skin it rose like a vine from her collar—twining close to her ear before ending at the corner of her right eye. Having seen her dressed for the cockpit of her Loki, he knew the latticework of tribal markings extended down her right side, covering her arm and disappearing into the top of her boot.
Thaddeus had met Nova Cats with tribal tattoos so slight and spare as to escape casual notice, and others with blocks of what appeared to be text in unknown tongues, but none as extensively and intricately marked as his fellow paladin. He had no idea what the symbols represented, but he found himself hoping they offered Tyrina some protection against the coming upheaval.
He couldn't afford to rely on such mysticism.
With a start he realized she'd been speaking and he hadn't retained a word.
"Excuse me," he said, cutting across her words. "I should be going. There is much I need to prepare."
Tyrina gazed into his eyes, held him with her look. "We both have much to prepare," she agreed.
She extended her hands at waist level, palms up. Without thinking, Thaddeus placed his hands over hers, barely touching. One of her people's rituals, he surmised—centering the spirit or some such. He had little patience with esoteric religions, but he was loath to break the mood of the moment.
"Good luck," she said, suddenly smiling. She gripped both of his hands in a farewell squeeze.
"You, too," he said, returning the pressure. He realized he meant it—for all of them.
Leaving was not that simple, of course. There were last-minute confirmations of plans, exchanges of encouragement, and a brief consultation with Anders Kessel, before he was able to make it to his limousine. It was full nightfall by the time he reached his offices.
Once at his secure computer, physically unconnected to any other machine or network, he encrypted a dozen data crystals, filling them with files it had taken him months to prepare. Each was tailored and honed to meet the very specific needs of its recipient.
He muttered under his breath as he worked, angry he had not prepared them weeks before. But part of his mind acknowledged weeks ago would have been premature. Not only would that have increased the risk of discovery, but they would not contain the information he had acquired at today's meeting of paladins.
And the senators—
He let that thought go. He hoped—no, he prayed he was wrong. And it took events of this magnitude to drive him to prayer. But if his analysis of the files he'd received was correct, and unless there was some miraculous option of which he was unaware, the Republic of the Sphere was less than a year from total civil war.
He might not be in a position to save The Republic, but there were steps he could take—should have been taking—to salvage what he could.
At last satisfied with his work, Thaddeus buzzed for his aide. He would have preferred to go himself, but with Victor Steiner-Davion's funeral only days away— and the current crisis brewing—he could not afford to be far from the exarch's side.
Green was a man who had put a great deal of effort into becoming invisible. Of medium height and color, with nondescript hair cut in no particular style and unremarkable eyes, he could be overlooked in plain sight. His soft-spoken voice was forgotten moments after he spoke. He was also very good at doing whatever task Thaddeus set him.
Green blinked once as Thaddeus explained what was required and to whom the data crystals had to be delivered. A massive display of emotion by his standards. But in the end he simply nodded and accepted the packets.
Thaddeus Marik sat alone for long minutes after Green had gone, staring at a future that hung somewhere between his eyes and the wall.
1
Practice Fields, GalateaCity
Galatea, Prefecture VIII
Republic of the Sphere
2 June 3135
Anastasia Kerensky screamed her rage.
Sixty meters above her head Galatea turned s
lowly, the barren earth of the live fire field a sky of dun and char.
Yanking the joystick, she stomped her right pedal— demanding an extra burst of thrust from the right leg jet to rotate her airborne Ryoken II through the rest of the unplanned aerial cartwheel.
The computer countermanded her orders as quickly as she gave them, the gyroscope automatically undid her every effort. Feet to the sky, her BattleMech still rose on the last dregs of her initial jump's inertia, the corkscrew of its final flip uncompleted.
Anastasia pounded the cheerfully green diagnostic board with the heel of her hand. The external readout showed her BattleMech flying upright, coasting through the apogee of its jump. The system display complacently informed her that the jump jets were cycling for their braking burn.
A burn that would drive her head-first into the ground with enough force to drive her missile racks down through her cockpit and into the fusion reactor.
Her missiles . . .
Grabbing her fire control as the Ryoken II began its descent, she launched a full barrage, all four of the short- range missile six-packs firing at once. Newton's third law still applied. Free of the ground, her massive machine responded to the back thrust of twenty-four missiles. The BattleMech rotated.
Not much, fighting air and gravity, but some.
Not enough.
Anastasia cycled and fired a second volley just as the computer, sure in the knowledge it was executing a perfect jump, ignited the jets.
Cockpit-down, her BattleMech accelerated at a shallow angle. Flinging her PPC and laser wildly, she tried to impart spin. A zero-gee spacer trick that did her little good. But some. The Ryoken II's left shoulder rose slightly, her cockpit rotating a few precious degrees away from the ground now rushing past a few dozen meters beyond the ferroglass.
Anastasia scissor-kicked, one of the few moves the computer allowed, and twisted the torso left. Again the third law of motion worked in her favor. The leg assembly rotated as far right as the upper body turned left. Combined with the scissors kick, the realigned jump jets brought the leading end of the Ryoken II up. The gyroscope read this as the machine tilting backward, but she was ready for it, countering its "corrective" commands.
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