At the second—which failed miserably to replicate a tropical island environment—Anastasia spent fifteen minutes of intense conversation with a dark-complected older man of military mien and discouraged flirtation from an Amazon of truly heroic proportions. Someone, and sometimes several someones, spoke to her at every stop. But if anything came of these meetings, she chose not to share the information.
As they came out of the fourth tavern, a twentieth- century NorthAm urban speakeasy, Murchison was delighted to see their car at the curb.
"Notice anything?" Anastasia asked as the car eased into traffic.
"Almost all the patrons were more heavily armed than you," Murchison replied. "The last booth on the left at the Bavarian drinking hall is a secret entrance to somewhere else. And a couple at the fourth bar were also at the first and found you fascinating in both places."
"Good."
Obviously satisfied, Anastasia settled back more comfortably in the neoleather seat.
5
Steel Wolves compound, Galatea City
Galatea, Prefecture VIII
Republic of the Sphere
29 June 3135
Murchison did not flinch as Verena Wolf unleashed a long burst of automatic fire from the heavy assault rifle.
The Steel Wolves' compound, one of the largest, was on the edge of the mercenary district farthest from the city. Anastasia had ordered a small arms range set up on the plain outside the wall. Murchison had no idea whether the firing range was approved by the Galatean government: he suspected no one official yet knew it existed. There were certainly no others on the kilometers of barren hardpan that separated the walled enclaves of the mercenary district from the improbable blue of the Amersia Sea.
He stood a few paces to Verena's right, taking advantage of the shade offered by the awning over the firing bench. The smoke wafted his way, of course, just acrid enough to irritate his nose without triggering an actual sneeze. Gunpowder had been smokeless for nearly a millennium, but the residue of the flash-burned casings still had to be vented away from the shooter. He wondered if the technology to eliminate that didn't exist or was just too expensive for military buyers to waste it on enlisted personnel.
He'd never seen MechWarriors fire hand weapons before. Much less heavy slug guns like these. All of them carried laser pistols, of course, holstered in their high boots, and most affected a blade weapon of some sort— which could be anything from a throwing dagger to a bowie knife. But when it came to actual combat, they all made the leap from unaugmented—bare-handed— duels to BattleMechs, with no consideration of the weapons in between.
Murchison had no idea what had prompted Anastasia to require each to fire a magazine at a target now, but it had made for an interesting hour. Accuracy at eighty meters had ranged from sprays governed more by chance than control to Kyle Wolf methodically pumping one hundred single shots into the bull's eye.
Verena's performance was better than most he'd seen. Almost every round in the torso region, most in the kill zone.
What Anastasia thought of the performance was unclear. She gave no indication of her mood as she stood behind the firing line, in the full glare of the white-hot sun, watching her Mech Warriors demonstrate their skill with the heavy infantry weapon.
Murchison felt a little guilty about that. He'd warned her about the dangers of Galatea's sun, particularly for fair-complected redheads. He should have anticipated this would lead to her taking every opportunity to dare the ultraviolet radiation to do its worst. He took some solace from the fact that she showed no signs of burning. Not that he would ever voice the suspicion that she had added wearing sunscreen to her daily regimen.
Rob Juergens was the last shooter in this group. Easily two meters tall and a hundred kilos, Juergens cultivated the cold and deadly air of a professional killer. A scar across his cheek testified that a knife, or maybe a dueling saber, had come within centimeters of robbing him of an eye. Murchison had heard his precise targeting under fire made his Vulture a welcome sight on the battlefield.
Juergens took the rifle offered him by the infantry soldier by the firing position and looked to be sure the chamber was empty before cycling in the first round. The bolt did not move on the first trigger pull. Looking first at the gun. then at the soldier who had handed it to him. he released the safety. Bringing the gun to his shoulder, he sighted for a long second, then squeezed the trigger. The muzzle moved not at all as the magazine's full hundred rounds cycled through at full auto. Murchison was impressed with Juergens' control of the trip-hammer recoil. The single hole in the target could have been covered with a dinner plate.
Unsmiling, but clearly pleased with himself, Juergens handed the empty assault rifle back to the infantry trooper with exaggerated courtesy and turned to go.
"Stop!"
Anastasia took two steps forward, snatched the assault rifle from the startled trooper's grip, and threw it at the MechWarrior.
Juergens caught it easily, looking mildly surprised. He swung it around to the port position.
"Field-strip it," she ordered.
"Galaxy Commander?" Juergens looked from her to the weapon in his hands.
"You take a weapon from a soldier, you fire it, then you give it back to the soldier," Anastasia said. "Any sibbie can point a gun at a target and squeeze the trigger. Prove you know that weapon."
Juergens raised his chin slightly. Murchison could see the struggle as he tried to decide which was greater: the insult to his pride or his duty to his Galaxy commander. Pride won.
"I am a MechWarrior," Juergens began. "I—"
Anastasia hissed between her teeth. Without looking she extended her hand to another infantry trooper. The soldier cleared the chamber of his weapon and surrendered it. Without breaking eye contact with Juergens, she broke the weapon down, slapping each part on the firing bench. Finished, she held the bare frame at eye level, making sure the MechWarrior saw it.
Then she began reassembling the rifle as quickly as she had taken it apart. Murchison was impressed by the display of peripheral vision as she snatched each component from the bench without fumble. With a no-look thrust, she shoved the completed weapon back into its owner's hands.
"If you are a warrior only within the safety of your 'Mech, you are no warrior, she said. "A Wolf can fight anywhere with any weapon. And fighting with a rifle in the battlefield means being able to clear it when it jams."
She looked around at the crescent of Mech Warriors, then turned further to include the infantry troopers. No one dared move. Murchison saw, and none dared look away.
"All of you learned to use these weapons in the sibco. Each of you fired rifles and cannon, operated trucks and tanks," she said. "But when you attained your Battle- Mechs, you thought yourself elite, above the weapons of lesser warriors. But without your mighty 'Mech, you are at their mercy!
"From this moment on, no Wolf will be powless!" she declared. "Everyone will qualify on every weapon. Everyone will master every weapon."
She rounded on the firing instructor, holding his eye as she pointed toward the MechWarriors.
"Teach them to field repair and maintain every weapon in our infantry arsenal," she said. "Then teach them to shoot. The full course."
Turning to look along the length of her extended arm, she leveled her laser glare to look at Juergens, Alexia, and each of the others in turn. "You," she said. "Obey your instructor."
Expressions ranged from MechWarrior Kyle Wolf's grin to Verena's blank shock.
Juergens' white eyebrows stood out against the sudden red of his face. Murchison wondered idly about the upper limits of the man's blood pressure. The MechWarrior opened his mouth to speak, but Anastasia forestalled him with a raised palm.
"You have not been singled out," she said. "Every MechWarrior, every aerospace pilot, every tank crewman will be trained. And the infantry will be taught to operate the machines."
Juergens, who had shown signs of calming at her first words, shifted from red to p
urple with her last. Even Kyle lost his grin. But none spoke out against her.
"No Wolf," said Anastasia, "will be less than the best with every weapon."
Turning on her heel, she headed back toward the compound. Reluctantly leaving the shade, Murchison fell in step. The hundred meters in open sun felt like a forced march.
Star Colonel Varnoff Fetladral was just inside the gate. From his air of purpose and evident surprise at discovering Anastasia coming in, Murchison surmised he'd been on his way to meet her at the firing range.
"You sent for me. Galaxy Commander?" Varnoff confirmed by way of greeting.
Murchison expected Anastasia to keep walking; require Varnoff to keep up. Instead she stopped, evidently content to hold court at the edge of the vehicle lot.
The Star colonel cut his eyes toward Murchison as though willing the medic to excuse himself. He'd been about to do exactly that—prompted by thoughts of air- conditioning and the fact that he was not wearing sun screen—but Varnoff's glance was enough to ensure he stayed.
"Why do you field an unarmed Mark II AgroMech?" Anastasia asked.
"That is Kyle Wolfs machine," Varnoff said. "He is a freebirth, and too old for a BattleMech. He has been told there is none for him."
"He has been told," Anastasia repeated.
Murchison was surprised Varnoff did not seem to register her tone.
"The expense would be wasted." the Star colonel said as though explaining the obvious. "He is old. He's welcome to serve out his useful time in the AgroMech."
"Yes, he has grown old," Anastasia agreed. "He aged piloting an unarmed AgroMech in combat against the Swordsworn on Acamar. He grayed battling Highlanders in an unarmed AgroMech in the mountains of North- wind. He entered his dotage taking heavy fire on the frozen tundra of Terra in an unarmed AgroMech. And he had one foot in the grave when I saw him pull the laser turret from a Jade Falcon Demon on Skye with his unarmed AgroMech."
Varnoff grew straighter with each sentence. Murchison expected to hear his spine pop audibly, but the Star colonel held together.
"You were there, Varnoff, beneath the Falcon Drop- Ships on Skye," Anastasia said. "In your heavily armed Sphinx."
"Yes, Galaxy Commander," the Star colonel said, retreating into formality.
"And you have denied Kyle Wolf a Trial of Possession because of his age?"
"Galaxy Commander," Varnoff answered. "I made clear to him that his age prevented such a trial."
"Yet he routinely defends his position in your Cluster's recon Star against younger warriors."
Varnoff said nothing.
"That he listened to you is the only thing I have heard against Kyle Wolf." Anastasia said. "I have acquired new BattleMechs. One of them is a P-5 Havoc. It shall be his."
"I will tell him he may enter the trial—"
"No trial," Anastasia cut him off.
"No trial?"
"Is there a dispossessed MechWarrior who has demonstrated greater skill in combat?" Anastasia demanded. "His service has been trial enough."
Without waiting for Varnoff's response, she stepped off toward the command center. Having recognized the exit line, Murchison was in perfect step.
6
Randersville, Shiloh
Prefecture VIII
Republic of the Sphere
30 June 3135
Mako DuBois turned the collar of his duster up against the chill breezes whipping around the corner of Governor's Tower. In the urban-corporate style, the knee- length coat was little more than a wind breaker, designed more to drape stylishly from the shoulder or fold neatly over the arm than keep the constant winds of the desert at bay.
The sun was setting, already filling the empty, after- hours streets at the foot of the planetary administration complex with shadow. To the south and east the tall condominiums fronting Blessed Lake were outlined in blazing, copper-gold fire.
Those buildings were mostly empty, Mako knew. Shi- loh's nascent tourist industry had died ignominiously with the loss of the hyperpulse generator network. Without artfully persuasive advertisements to counter generations of prejudice, people were unwilling to invest their vacation C-bills in a world of religious fanatics and terrorists.
In the southeastern sky, darkening toward the blue of night beyond the fiery buildings, Mako could see one of Shiloh's new daystars. In full night, he knew, it would be easy to see the orbital water purification plant's movement against the field of stars, but now, with nothing to compare it to, it seemed to hang motionless.
Which it was, in a sense. Once the great hope of Shiloh, the last hurrah of The Republic's great revitalization program was just another victim of the loss of the HPG net.
For hundreds of years the desert world of Shiloh had imported water from neighboring star systems. Efficient recycling and conservation made sure water that arrived was well used, even cherished, but no open system could be self-sustaining. The world's single greatest expense, above education, health care, even defense, was importing water.
The irony was the Shiloh system as a whole was rich in water in the form of ice asteroids so thickly contaminated with heavy metals that the few that breached the atmosphere in the course of natural events released clouds of toxic dust.
The Republic—using orbital water-purification satellites built by engineers from the ice world Phecda—was going to free Shiloh from its dependence. Empowered to progress, the public relations campaign had declared.
Then the HPG had blacked out. In the local economic panic—the economic panic on Phecda—construction on the equatorial ring of satellites had ground to a halt. Leaving moonless Shiloh with three orbiting reminders of what could have been.
What will be.
The service door behind Mako clicked. He turned to see a nondescript security guard holding the metal door open against the wind. Having recently learned to take special note of nondescript people, Mako looked the guard in the eye and smiled.
The man seemed startled—apparently being acknowledged by the people he served was a novel experience— then smiled in response. If nothing else, Mako reflected as he made his way up three flights of stairs, his new watchfulness might earn him a reputation for being courteous to the underclass.
Planetary Governor Yvgenny Kubeyshev was a great bear of a man, easily twice Mako's mass. He was such a perfect caricature of the giant Russian that Mako, in his newfound suspicion of all things, wondered if the name might be an alias.
"Come in," the governor said, rising to extend his hand across his desk. "Sit, sit."
Mako sat, aware his carefully prepared persuasions would not be needed. Kubeyshev had reviewed the data and accepted the premise. Paladin Marik had assured Mako the governor would be receptive—what had Mar- ik's man Green called it? "An easy sell."—but he'd had his doubts.
"So," the governor said after Mako had been settled and equipped with a quarter-liter bottle of imported water. "Annexation."
"Rather, a coalition." Mako said. "And then only if The Republic is unable to recover. Or worse . . ."
"This civil war everyone is afraid of develops," Kubeyshev finished. "I'd feel better about it if Milton or Wing were involved. We could use their resources."
"They have resources enough for themselves." Mako pointed out. "They do not need us. Alhena is a water- starved world like Shiloh. And Gacrux, though its industrial base is stronger, is also hard-pressed for useable water. Both worlds import water from Phecda and both—up until the Blackout—were looking to Phecda water-purification technology to end their dependence."
"And with the current upheavals panicking Phecda ..."
"Sir, you know there's ample evidence that Phecda has not panicked at all," Mako said. "I believe—and it's supported by the data—that once they realized The Republic could not enforce its mandate to provide us with the technology to be self-sufficient, the Phecdans simply reverted to selling water. More profit for less effort."
Kubeyshev conceded the point with a small wave.
&nb
sp; "What of Alchiba's involvement?"
Mako wondered for a moment at the governor wanting him to go over material that was already on the data crystal. Was there some recording device at work—was the governor trying to get him to incriminate himself?
He quickly dismissed the notion. Between the data crystal, communications logs and personal movements, his involvement in the coalition process was already too thoroughly documented to make recording this conversation worth the effort. Kubeyshev was just a man who liked to talk through decisions.
"While they do not need water and are economically viable, Alchiba is an agricultural world," he said. "Their concern is that in the face of a collapse of The Republic, powerful, industrialized Milton may choose to annex them as a food source."
Kubeyshev stared at his desktop for a long moment.
"You say the other governors are on board?"
"Quentin, Quinnaton, and Helchi have all agreed in principle," Mako said. "All that's left is the nuts-and- bolts discussion of who does what."
"All that's left?" Kubeyshev echoed. "You make it sound like it's all downhill from this point. I'm thinking this is when the real work begins. What does your boss think of this?"
"None of the planetary legates are aware of the coalition," Mako answered.
"Nor anyone on Phecda, I imagine," Kubeyshev added. "Even if this civil war comes, I wonder: Will the Republic of the Sphere sit by and do nothing when four of its member worlds form a coalition to annex—to invade and control—a fifth?"
7
Steel Wolves compound, Galatea City
Galatea, Prefecture VIII
Republic of the Sphere
3 July 3135
Yulri made his way across the compound, his stomach churning in sympathy with his mental turmoil.
Wolf Hunters Page 4
