"You're listening like a Clanner," Tommy said. "Which is not. There ain't going to be a trial because they ain't going to let you in one of their BattleMechs."
"Then I shall use my own."
"Right," Tommy said, drawing that one word out longer than he did most sentences. "You are going to have to do a lot better than you've been doing—
"No. Strike that," Tommy corrected himself. "You've got to keep doing as good as you've been doing, only three times a day, and for bigger purses, for about a year and a half before you can afford a BattleMech. Stick with what you know and leave the dreaming to me."
Jazz went on alert.
Nothing changed about the way Yulri was sitting. But everything changed. His face had gone from pleasantly noncommittal to dangerously blank without twitching a muscle.
The agent prattled on about something, unaware the big man beside him had just gotten cold-killer angry. One backhand move and the edge of Yulri's hand would be driving fragments of sinus bone through Tommy's brain before Jazz could stop him.
Not that she cared that much about Tommy. She just hated the idea of losing her best partner ever to murder charges.
As quickly as it had hit, the mood was gone. Yulri was once again Yulri, listening with polite detachment as Tommy spun some tale of finance and market positioning.
"Order Clarence to drive us to the DropPort," Yulri said, cutting across Tommy midsentence.
"What?"
"The DropPort," Yulri repeated. "Have Clarence drive us to the transient BattleMech storage hangars."
"Why?"
"Because he is your man," Yulri said. "It is not my place to give him orders."
"I meant," Tommy said, giving Jazz a "do you believe this?" roll of the eyes. "Why should we go to the BattleMech hangars at the DropPort?"
"You stated that you did not believe I own a BattleMech and thus would not arrange my Trial of Position with Jordan, champion of New DeLon Stables," Yulri said with the air of one restating the obvious. "I will show you my BattleMech. Then you will arrange the trial."
16
DropShip Roofvogel
Ululani Orbit, Rochelle
Former Prefecture VIII
22 November 3135
Star Colonel Xera did not attach the Clan name Wolf to her own. Nor did she permit those under her command to do so. Not that she did not revere the name Wolf—quite the opposite. But her Bloodname was Ch'in and until she earned the right to bear it she would take no other that might distract her from that goal.
She took her commitment to being Wolf more than seriously—it was her heart. Her commitment to protect all things Wolf had given her little choice but to attach her command to Varnoff Fetladral and the band he now called the Steel Wolves.
It had not been her intention to ally her aerospace warriors with Varnoffs forces. In truth, his Steel Wolves were over half of the original—the Steel Wolves of five months ago. A strong cluster of Mech Warriors, but with few support personnel, insufficient armor, few infantry. And no aerospace.
She did not believe Varnoff was the best fit to lead, but she lacked the power base or the position to challenge. And she lacked the heart to abandon the Steel Wolves. So she had done what she could for the greater good of Wolf: She had attached her aerospace command—pilots and ship's crews who had followed her—to Varnoff's MechWarriors.
Now she sat in the Aerospace Command station on the bridge of the Titan-class Roofvogel as it hung in the shadow of Rochelle's largest moon, coordinating two Stars of her cluster as they supported Varnoff's latest conquest. Watching, actually. Her warriors knew their work.
Rochelle was another world of tech and materiel raided to make up for the supplies Varnoff had neglected to secure on Galatea.
And the personnel he'd neglected to woo. One benefit of Anastasia Kerensky's egalitarian reforms had been the devotion of the lower castes.
At the zenith jump point the Gier and Cazador—two Merchant-class JumpShips of her personal touman—held station in loose formation with the Steel Wolf fleet. The Havik, the Carrier that transported her command Star, and the Miraborg-class Hibou were both docked to the Cazador.
"Star Colonel," reported Star Commander Tally, "planetary defenses have been stripped from the sky."
Xera glanced at the chronometer. Twenty minutes from orbital drop to sole possession of the sky. A fair performance.
"Well done," she said. "Return."
"Star Colonel." Tally's voice was troubled. "Galaxy Commander Fetladral is ordering us to make a strafing run."
"Get me Varnoff Fetladral," Xera snapped at the communications officer. To the Star commander she said: "What target is he requesting?" She bore down on the verb.
"Mining and transport infrastructure," Tally replied. "Rail juncture."
"Not military?"
"Neg, Star Colonel."
"Communications reports Galaxy commander is in battle on the surface and cannot respond to personal messages," the Roofvogel's communications officer reported.
Xera glared in his direction and saw the technician braced for her verbal onslaught. Her fight was not with him.
Rochelle was a blasted hulk of a world—half its land- mass a radioactive wasteland from wars waged centuries ago. What benefit could there be in destroying what little infrastructure the people had managed to rebuild?
"Star Commander Tally, Star Commander Roche," she said into the aerospace command frequency, "Shut off ground-communication channels. Return to Roofvogel. Weapons free to return fire only."
"Aff" and "Aff"—both sounding relieved.
Xera rotated her webbed chair to face the DropShip's Star captain.
"Star Captain Goddard," she said. "When the aerospace fighters are secure, set course to the jump point."
"Are we—" Goddard broke off. Then continued: "Are we leaving the Steel Wolves?"
Words unthinkable five months before. An unthinkable thought Anastasia Kerensky had made thinkable— had made a consequence every commander now had to consider.
"Neg," she said. "You will redock with the Gier and we will await the return of the rest of the conquest force.
"There is nothing more for us to do here, but our duty—our calling—remains."
17
Overlord Stables
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Lyran Commonwealth
24 November 3135
Jazz had never realized 'Mech battles smelled.
She'd seen 'Mechs in combat before; this was Solaris VII. Even though she was immune to whatever it was that transfixed the tourists, media-hyped images of man- made lightning and swarming missiles had been part of the backdrop of her life ever since she could remember.
But she had never been this close to a BattleMech firefight, standing behind the low wall surrounding a practice pit as two of the war machines had at each other less than forty meters away.
The noises she'd expected, of course: the electric crackle of the particle projector cannon and the pop of displaced air as lasers burned their way to target had been accurately replicated on holovids for generations. And the explosions battering her earplugs, the gush of missiles and the rattling roar of autocannon, weren't much different from infantry combat once you factored in scale.
But no one had mentioned the frisson of thunderstorm ozone that rolled over her like a wave when the PPC discharged. Or the sickly sweet stench of whatever that green-gray mist was spraying from the man-shaped 'Mech's shoulder. The tang of chemicals—gunpowder and missile fuel—was mixed with an overheated-frying- pan smell she assumed was hot armor.
She stole a glance at Tommy, practically lounging next to—McAllister?—the Overlord Stables assistant manager. In fact, both of them looked relaxed, their body language testifying to absolute trust in the mesh-covered grid of charged cables that was supposed to keep them safe from the hellacious weapons fire in the pit. Jazz disguised her own opinion of the gossamer curtain by resting both elbows on the chest-high wall and propping her chin on a fist.
Jazz had never been touch-the-metal close to a Battle- Mech until Yulri had stalked his out of the darkness of the hangar to stand nose to nose with Tommy's limo. Tommy's dark brown face had taken on a dirty dishwater tinge as he'd stared up at the thing. She knew because she'd looked to see if he saw the monster, too, when it stepped into the sunlight.
Clarence, bless him, had his hand halfway to his shoulder holster before he came to himself.
Yulri's BattleMech was a good eight meters tall, maybe nine, and at least a dozen broad. The body was flat, like a crab, but with a forward-thrust head. Two heavy arms hung down and out with a dozen very deadly muzzles held low and aimed straight ahead, as though the 'Mech was about to shoot from the hip.
"Black Hawk," Tommy had said at last. "The crazy Clanner is playing scrapper and he's got a Black Hawk."
"That's good," she'd said, like she understood what he was going on about. The thing was honking huge was all she knew for sure.
Tommy had looked at her like she was crazy, then seemed to realize who he was talking to.
"If he can pilot that thing the way he scraps, that 'Mech could take him to the championship," he'd said. He'd followed this up with some convoluted prattle on weapons load outs and pod space that she had followed not at all.
Jazz couldn't see Yulri through the glare on the canopy, but she didn't have to. The machine stood like Yulri. Not that his arms hung like that. But there was an attitude to the thing; you could tell the man and machine fit together. Or maybe she was just letting her schoolgirl crush romanticize her vision.
Once he'd shaken off the initial shock—and earned himself a deadly glare by requiring Yulri to prove he had full control of the machine and wasn't just walking the BattleMech in maintenance-tech mode—Tommy got on the comm.
Jazz had made slow circuits of the machine, checking out everything she could see from ground level. Demolition wasn't her long suit and she'd never considered taking down a 'Mech before, but by her second time around she had spotted a couple of joints that might be vulnerable. On her third orbit she'd discovered what had to be a tech access port disguised as another plate of armor.
She'd felt eyes on her. Yulri was watching her, knowing what she was doing, knowing what she'd found, and approving. Her hunter's grin was answered with a micro- millimeter smile and a half nod.
By the time Tommy was off the comm, she'd sauntered back over to stand at Yulri's elbow.
Tommy told them he'd bypassed New DeLon and set Yulri up with a good middle-of-the-pack medium-'Mech jockey at Overlord. Said she'd be a good test of Yulri's bona fides.
Yulri hadn't liked that. The two had gone around in circles about it a few times before Tommy finally laid out that Yulri could either trust he knew what he was doing or find a new agent. Yulri had said that was well bargained and shut up.
Then Tommy had made sure Yulri understood it was not a Trial of Position—he wasn't going to take anyone's job if he won. Yulri said he understood, but kept calling it a Trial of Position anyway.
Jazz guessed "audition" wasn't in the Clanner dictionary.
Now, a week later, she was staring down into a pit and trying not to flinch while Yulri in his Black Hawk traded fire with a . . . she couldn't remember what it was called. It was taller than the Black Hawk, shaped more like a man. with only two lasers to Yulri's twelve, but a missile launcher and PPC seemed to more than make up for it. At least they were hitting at ranges the lasers couldn't seem to match.
The Overlord pit was twice as large as New DeLon's, with stone and metal barricades the 'Mechs couldn't see over. Which was good for Yulri since the other 'Mech's missiles and PPC had more range than his medium lasers. He was having to do a lot of dodging and maneuvering to get his shots in.
A wave of heat rose out of the pit, parching Jazz's throat as the two machines traded fire. She hoped they'd move to the far end of the pit while she still had eyebrows. The beams of Yulri's lasers, already ghostly in the sunlight, were almost washed out by the blue lightning of the PPC.
"Look how he's leading, letting the lock float," Tommy was saying to Mc-whatever. "Lets him change up fast, catch any dodges."
The Overlord Stables assistant manager made a noncommittal sound. Jazz couldn't tell if she was agreeing with Tommy or thought he was an idiot. She was watching like Jazz was, taking in every move. The difference was that she knew what she was looking at while the whole thing looked random to Jazz.
One thing Jazz knew for sure: Strutting across a battlefield atop a giant weapons platform may be the glamour job of warfare, but unless you could see your enemy's eyes, feel his breath on your face, you weren't really fighting.
At least these were medium 'Mechs. There was some science and skill involved in how they went at each other. Not just the toe-to-toe slugfests of the assault 'Mechs. Those were just tests of how well the BattleMech's technical crew had prepared it for the pounding. The guy bolting down the armor had as much to do with the win as the jockey pulling the trigger. Or pressing the button, or however the jockeys made the big guns go boom.
One of Yulri's arms looked bad; it jerked back and forth and only two of its lasers fired. If he was going for the win, he'd better do something fast.
Almost in response to her thought. Yulri swung his
Black Hawk out from behind a barricade in a bow- legged pivot that brought it nose to nose with the other 'Mech. If his opponent was surprised by the move, it didn't show. Missiles were streaking from the man- shaped 'Mech's chest before Yulri's foot was properly planted.
"Hot loaded!" Tommy exclaimed, losing his cool as Yulri took all five missiles from the Overlord 'Mech's rack.
Still covered in flame and smoke, Yulri fired all his lasers in answer—the nine that were working—focused on the other 'Mech's left knee. The beams seemed to hold for long seconds, which Jazz thought had to be a trick of her own perceptions. There was a staccato rattle of falling fragments of superheated armor, then a loud pop. With a long creak, like God's own gate swinging in the wind, the Overlord BattleMech's knee bent backward. With majestic solemnity, the huge machine collapsed, kicking up a great billow of dust that reached Jazz and the others at the wall above.
"What do you think?" Tommy asked as they watched the techs help the Overlord pilot from his fallen machine.
Mc—Astor, that was it—nodded her head thoughtfully.
"I'll have to see a few more matches to see if that was nerve and timing there at the end, or bravado and luck," she said. "But there was some solid work there."
"He's got skills," Tommy agreed. "And battlefield experience."
Jazz would have added that Yulri had been a Star captain with the Steel Wolves, but she left it. Maybe emphasizing Yulri's Clan heritage wasn't the best idea marketingwise. She had no idea how many people shared Tommy's attitude. On the other hand, it was pretty clear he was Clan and all things considered, making it clear he was Wolf and not Jade Falcon might be a good idea.
On the third hand, Tommy understood negotiation and she was having trouble getting her earplugs out. Better let the one who looked like he knew what he was doing do the job.
Yulri's head appeared at the top of the wall. Just like him to ignore the elevator twenty meters away and climb the service ladder up from the pit floor. He levered his body over the wall as easily as though he'd been standing on flat ground instead of at the top of a six-story climb.
Jazz admired the glint of sunlight off the sweat along his biceps and the way the soaked ringlets of black hair framed his brown-green eyes. Mech Warriors fresh from combat looked delicious. As long as you were upwind. Keeping her distance, she consoled herself with the sure knowledge that he'd appreciate some help with his shower.
McAstor shook Yulri's hand, making some comment he accepted with a solemn nod. A compliment he agreed with, then.
The three headed for Clarence and the limo. Jazz in her usual flanking position.
"Pretty work in there," Tommy said. "Played Wallace nicely."
"She w
as a competent MechWarrior." Yulri pronounced. "She fought as one accustomed to battle."
"She's a vet," Tommy confirmed with the same lack of detail he'd given McAstor. "That's why I teamed you up with her."
"She is their champion?"
"Where do you get this champion stuff?" Tommy asked. "Even I know that's not Clan talk. You sound like one of those cheesy action holovids. . . . You didn't watch those as a kid, did you?"
"No."
Tommy let the matter drop until they were all in the limo. The fans of the usually silent air conditioner kicked up to audible levels as it scrubbed the air in the little cabin.
"Wallace is a competent midlist performer with a solid reputation," Tommy said. "Not a headliner—which is what I think you mean when you say champion—but she's no slouch. Made you work for the win, didn't she?"
Yulri didn't answer, simply waiting for Tommy to complete his explanation.
"When I saw your Black Hawk I knew sparring with an intern was out," Tommy went on. "But there was no point in putting you up against a headliner or a serious contender, either."
Yulri continued to sit.
"Don't you want to know why?" Tommy prompted.
"Why?" Yulri asked.
"Because if a top contender beat you, it would prove nothing because that's what top contenders do," Tommy said. "And if you beat a top contender you would throw the entire betting structure of the thirty-five championship into a tailspin and give the money people nothing they could use."
"Ah," Jazz said despite herself. That was a side of the coin she hadn't considered. And one she should have, considering how figuring odds was a big part of how she earned her living.
Tommy nodded at her, acknowledging her enlightenment.
"But fighting Wallace, whether you won or lost," Tommy went on, "would give a good measure of what you had without upsetting any applecarts."
Yulri frowned slightly and nodded. Jazz's translation: He didn't know what an applecart was but he understood the intent of the metaphor.
Until she'd met Yulri she'd never imagined how much fun Clan-watching could be.
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