"Some of your inferences about our present job situation were correct," Fiona said as text scrolled under the images. "Izar is a world which has been occupied several times, but always at great cost to the occupiers. The natives are adept at guerilla warfare and resisting greater powers. Ambush, booby traps, sabotage, and assassination are all standard tactics. They are a self-reliant and indomitable people who claim with some justification that they have never been wholly conquered."
"Not the sort of folks to hire mercenaries," Jerry concluded. "No matter what their problem."
"No."
"What happened to the days when a mercenary could trust an employer?" he asked.
The Juggernauts had been hired, supposedly by covert representatives of Izar planetary governor Rowanda, to expel an occupying force that was well entrenched. Their delay on Carnwath, during which they were being paid to conduct exercises and generally be seen, was supposedly part of an attempt to solve the problem without violence. They were a stick to which the governor could point; a consequence if the interlopers did not comply with the vacate order.
The problem for Jerry was that he could find no evidence of unrest or trouble on Izar. True, before the job offer, the planet had been no more than a name on a star chart, but usually when a planet had problems, its neighbors knew something about it. Even if it wasn't being openly discussed, there should have been some hint of trouble. But there had been nothing about Izar in the press or—as nearly as he could tell—in the street.
Of further concern was the fact that sources he was able to develop soon disappeared. More subtly, needs were being anticipated and met. Earlier this week he had discussed searching for a new practice area as a cover for widening their information-gathering net— finding sources a little farther away from the DropPort. Before the search could be organized, a guide, hired by their employer, had arrived with a list of potential practice sites and a rented VTOL with which to conduct them on their tour.
Jerry had tasked Fiona with finding out what she could about both their employment and the potential bugging of their headquarters. He'd circumvented this last by handwriting her orders on a slip of paper. The paper had gone from his hand to hers to lighting her cigar with no chance of being intercepted or photographed.
Arrangements for this debriefing picnic were made the same way.
Fiona didn't answer Jerry's question, instead looking about as though enjoying the scene around them.
"Zebeneschamali."
"Never heard of it."
"It's the third world of this coalition, an equal partner with Carnwath and Izar," Fiona explained, the cut of her eyes telling him she suspected his ignorance was feigned. Scrolling through screens, she brought up a reddish image of what looked like tundra, with dark mountains in the near distance. "Small world; light. Long orbit around an M2V primary."
"Cold?"
"Cool. Twenty-five mean equatorial. This area—South Arragon—stays near zero, though temperatures rise into the low teens in summer."
"And South Arragon, Zeb-est-molly—"
"Zebeneschamali."
"—is where you think we're going."
"Zebeneschamali was originally settled by Terrans from a region called the Middle East," Fiona summarized the text. "Technological minimalists, they settled on the Kirikahmed continent and did not develop their world beyond self-sufficiency. Some decades later, survivors of a failed Unukalhai colony settled the North Arragon continent."
"They settled a colonized world?"
"The Zebeneschamalis occupied only one continent," Fiona said. "The newcomers regarded the space they appropriated as unoccupied."
"Resulting in a few centuries of intercolony war," Jerry surmised. "And now that The Republic's not making them play nice, we're being called in to bolster one side against the other? What's their new planetary government doing?"
"The cultures have coexisted and peacefully intermingled for nearly a millennium," Fiona said. "The united planetary government is funding our retainer and training pay."
"How did you find all of this out so quickly?"
Fiona blanked her face, letting her jaw slacken slightly behind closed lips, and her apparent IQ dropped by fifty percent. She held the expression for a moment, then smiled, her eyes reanimating with intelligence.
"Be a confused messenger sent to ask vague and rambling questions you clearly do not understand about missing materiel and read every data screen while they track nonexistent answers," she said. "Waiting blankly in a well-chosen spot for your master to retrieve you is also very informative."
Jerry looked pointedly at the mistaken pyramids. She grinned, catching the reference. Knowing most people did not expect Elementals—especially female Elementals—to be clever was one of the reasons he'd given this assignment to Fiona. It was no surprise she was adept at manipulating anti-Elemental stereotyping—showing people what they expected to see.
Eating slowly and taking care to appear deep in personal conversation, they reviewed the data Fiona had downloaded. Nothing in the information or the images gave any insight into what the Zebeneschamalis wanted with a regiment of mercenaries.
"Theories or recommendations?" Jerry asked at last. "The Zebeneschamalis are going to these lengths either to mislead us, or—if they fear their own security is compromised—to misdirect another observer," Fiona said. "Izar is cooperating fully in this deception."
"They are not going to try and throw off the Jade Falcons," Jerry said. "Even with the best mercenary outfit in the business. So what threat could be worth our price tag?"
Fiona frowned, clearly considering her words.
"Since the Blake Jihad there have been rumors that Blakist refugees went into hiding on Zebeneschamali," she finally said. "Specifically, the undeveloped South Ar- ragon continent. This is something of a regional legend, and was actually a sticking point in the formation of the coalition.
"At that time, Zebeneschamali Governor Wesisa Kisa announced that she would lay these rumors to rest." An image of a square-jawed woman in late middle age appeared on the display. "The planetary militia would conduct a meter-by-meter search of the entire continent, establishing once and for all that the continent is uninhabited."
"Four months later, with the help of some neighbors, they hire an augmented mixed battalion of mercenaries, move them to a planet one jump away, then pay them to keep in top shape and be ready to move on a moment's notice." Jerry finished. "They found snake tracks."
"Evidence of occupation, but no hard contact," Fiona interpreted.
"And they want a big stick handy just in case they find a bigger snake than they can handle on their own," Jerry went on. "But they very much do not want to upset the balance with the Jade Falcons by inviting a large force to come clean up a 'domestic issue.' That fits." He nibbled on a stalk of local celery. "And if they're afraid the Blakists are as spy savvy as history paints them, all this cloak-and-dagger stuff to hide us makes sense, too."
"But they are unskilled at misdirection," Fiona pointed out. "Penetrating their deception was child's play."
"Which means if—//—Blakists are on Zebeneschamali, they probably know all about us," Jake said. "However, we don't want to openly discuss the issue with the Izar representatives in case they don't."
"If there is a Word of Blake enclave," Fiona said, following her own thread, "they would have been in hiding—in seclusion—over fifty years. We would face second- and third-generation survivors."
"In other words, fanatics who have been conditioned their entire lives for one last battle," Jake said. "They're going to need us."
"It may be wise to invite a representative of the Izar government to a picnic."
Jerry nodded. They needed to be preparing a coordinated response, not simply waiting to be thrown into a battle. On the other hand, there was no way to determine to what extent the Zebeneschamali government might be compromised. Working through Izar would be the way to go.
"You said some of my inferences were co
rrect," Jerry said. "Where did I go wrong?"
"There is no evidence of any form of electronic surveillance in our compound," Fiona replied, finishing a last bit of fruit. "The Izari anticipation of our needs and moves seems to be based solely on close observation from a distance and competent analysis."
Jerry looked at her in surprise.
Ignoring him, Fiona wiped fruit juice from her hands and dropped the scrap of napkin back into his pack.
"So if there is no surveillance equipment inside the compound," Jerry asked at last, "why go through this charade?"
"I had never been on a picnic."
"Ah." Jerry glanced around, indicating the high, white sky, the rock formations, and the tourists. "What do you think?"
"I am concerned about distant observers recording our actions," Fiona said, shifting her eyes to cover the perimeter. "I recommend we couple to divert their suspicions."
29
Tennessee Valley Arena, Roland Fields
District Solaris City, Solaris VII
Lyran Commonwealth
26 February 3136
"Jazz."
"Sir?"
"Adrienne and the fire team need position here." Tomlinson pointed to a promontory on the topomap. "Bad news is, only a complete idiot wouldn't realize that's where they need to be. Worse news: Intel is Cenotaph company fields very few idiots. Known Cenotaph positions are here, here, and here. Which means unknown positions are everywhere else. Get Adrienne's team where they need to be and keep everyone off their backs while they work. Got it?"
Jazz took a long second studying the map. She'd have a small one on her field noteputer, but seeing the big picture at this scale gave perspective.
"Got it," she confirmed.
"Do it yesterday."
Jazz sketched a salute and bugged for her squad.
Tomlinson still talked like a holovid action figure, but he balanced company assets in his head and could revise tactics on the fly faster—and more intelligently—than soldiers with twice his experience. Giving him overall command of infantry matches had been a good move, and she felt good serving under him.
More to the point, she'd seen him on the live-fire range. She felt a lot safer out here knowing she was the one with the gun.
* * *
Tommy Gunn sauntered casually from the Sportsman's Club's infantry room.
With Canid firmly entrenched on the high ground, it was only a question of time. There were still a few side- bet issues hanging in the balance, but that wasn't enough to hold him. Being an owner's rep lacked the frisson of agenting. He no longer had individual clients to watch over; the cooperative's own analysts dissected the recordings of every match. And there was no hunting here at the club. Now other agents came to him—not the same thing at all.
A short stroll down a lushly soundproofed corridor to the BattleMech gallery. Until a few months ago unfamiliar territory. The shine hadn't quite worn off the experience, but Tommy could see it coming. In the not too distant future this was going to be a job. A job he hated. Agenting, the art of the deal, that was his life. He should never have taken on this midwife job. bringing a new- co-op into the world.
Tommy felt a stab of ice as his eye slid across the New DeLon rep, but there was no hitch in his casual survey of the room. He didn't know the predawn comm calls came from them. Just like he couldn't smell the oxygen in the air he was breathing. But New DeLon was just one arm of the shadowy cartel that ran the fringes of the Solaris Games beyond the reach of the gaming commission.
I'm trying, you bastards.
The BattleMech gallery was circled by a dozen large screens. With fewer variables to track, one screen per match was usually enough. The ticker crawls across the bottom and top of each screen were sparse and the data files on either side of the displays were simpler than the infantry boards. It was easy to see why the flash and boom of 'Mech combat was the joy of the tourist and why the professional gambler who liked to play the subtle spreads preferred infantry action.
On the Steiner Coliseum screen, Yulri was methodically pounding a Cestus to death with his Black Hawk.
Defeating opponents above his weight had become a tradition with the Clanner, hardly worth comment. It showed in the odds tables and the bottom line. Against anyone with less than twenty tons on him. Yulri was the favorite. Which meant less return for those who bet on the co-op. which meant fewer bettors—the off-the-books kind, the ones who kept Solaris running—which hurt the cartel, which meant Canid paid premium prices and waited longer for necessary goods and services, which cut into the profit margin, which . . .
No sense of strategy, that Yulri, no understanding of the long game. If he kept going at this rate, by the time the championships rolled around he'd be handicapped to fighting only assault 'Mechs. Tommy'd tried to explain how to pace his performance and profit from the betting/ marketing structure, but the Clanner hadn't been interested.
Concerns like budgets and bills didn't concern him. It was all about honor.
Typical Clanner arrogance. For all his talk of purpose and elevating humanity, taking responsibility for paying the people who kept his 'Mech running the wages they'd earned was beneath him. Like they should live on the pride they gained by being his slaves.
Thank God Simien Fox didn't mind operating at a loss.
Being a warrior type himself. Fox evidently hadn't tumbled to the fact that partnering up with a demigod who found the business side of Solaris contemptible was financial suicide. The clowns in the big walking toys were just widgets, commodities to be bought, sold, and traded by the likes of Tommy Gunn—the real warriors of Solaris VII.
Tommy shook the mood off with an effort, schooling his features to be pleased and interested in his surroundings.
He was in luck. On the New Hartford Gardens screen was a match he really wanted to see.
Julia Wallace was having one of the best early seasons of her career. Right now she was up against a Tandrek Stables' Bushwacker— Ling? No, Whuang. A slightly lighter machine, it was faster and better armed than her Merlin, but it couldn't jump. Tommy would have expected Wallace to pump that advantage, but she was staying low—going for the degree-of-difficulty points. Very frosty.
The Bushwacker uncorked a flight of missiles. Whuang twisted torso left as they cleared the tubes, bringing his autocannon up to catch Wallace when she tried to jump clear.
But Wallace never left the ground. Stepping high, the Merlin rattled through half a dozen sidesteps, turning as it moved aside with uncanny speed.
Jazz's stutter step! Tommy boggled.
The Merlin took two missiles low on the torso. Wallace ignored the hits. She extended the left arm straight from its shoulder and canted the right across the chest. Before Whuang could react, Wallace punched double lasers into the underside of the Bushwacker"s autocannon rotator assembly.
Scoreboards flashed and odds numbers spun on the payoff ticker across the bottom of the screen. An inset popped up, looping a slo-mo replay of the ammo feed to the Bushwacker's upraised autocannon shattering under the onslaught.
One for the highlights crystal.
Wallace had always been good, but she'd never had that flash. Or that nerve. She'd picked those up since joining Canid. Might actually be something to the Clan- ner's cross-training requirement. Tommy hoped it would be enough to make up for his lack of business savvy.
Actually, having heard the oath of honor speech a half-dozen times, he'd picked up a little sympathy for Yulri. If the lug nut really had believed that romantic load about the cowards who'd abandoned the Inner Sphere serving some noble cause, catching a glimpse of their true nature—which is what Tommy figured had happened—must have been quite a shock. Too bad the lesson hadn't extended to actually becoming one of those humans he was so determined to elevate.
Stop it!
Getting a grip, Tommy smiled at Adella Stevenson, part owner of a half dozen 'Mechs. Not a stable owner, she underwrote solos who wanted to keep their independence. She might need
a good agent. Not yet; he'd committed to shepherding Canid through the 3136 championship season. But after that . . .
No more middle-of-the-night comm calls. No more reminders of where the real power of Solaris VII lay.
Signaling a waitress to meet him at Stevenson's table, Tommy slid into hunter mode and circled in.
30
Ur-Kabal, Kirikahmed
Zebeneschamali, Jade Falcon Territory
18 March 3136
Jerry Jamison tried to adjust to the experience of seeing his beloved Sagittaire go through its paces without him.
Though some would argue the 95-ton assault 'Mech was a shadow of the avatar of death it had been in his grandfather's day, the earth still trembled with its every step. Lack of funds, not neglect, had reduced the Sagittaire from what it once had been. The rare and valuable—and difficult to maintain—Stalker targeting module had been traded away decades ago, during the nadir of his father's career. Also gone were the extended-range particle projector cannon and the eight state-of-the-art pulse lasers.
His father had not left the massive BattleMech defenseless, of course. He had simply traded the high-ticket systems for needed supplies, including more common, low- cost, and easily maintained weapons. With its torso- mounted PPC, large laser-medium laser pair in the right arm and trio of mediums in the left, the Sagittaire was still a machine to be reckoned with. The head's rear-facing medium laser discouraged attacks from behind as well.
Shedding the heavy pulse lasers had freed up nearly ten tons of load capacity. Jerry's father had used it to swap out the too-vulnerable 285 XL engine for the tougher and more reliable standard version—keeping everything cool with thirty-two standard heat sinks.
Perhaps it did have to get a little closer to hit—and hit a little more often to do the same damage—than it once had, but today his Sagittaire could stand up to fire that would have crippled it seventy years ago. And fire all weapons—while riding its Hildco jump jets— continuously with no fear of overheating.
Wolf Hunters Page 20
