Three negative replies, then Moran: "Four enclosed caves facing the lake. What looks like a trail following the river out of the valley."
"Infantry reports no evidence of habitation in caves along approach," Tal reported.
"I don't think there are very many survivors," Jerry said, continuing his own sweep.
Most caves showed no signs of ever having been occupied. But farther along he found a few more abandoned. Like the ones near the main entrance, the doors had a broken and weathered look.
Or maybe just broken.
"Colonel Jamison, I have found the ejected BattleMech pilot."
Sergeant Beral's voice. Jerry realized it hadn't been Fiona riding his brow after all.
"What does he have to say for himself?" he asked.
"Nothing," Beral answered. "He is dead."
Jake grunted. So much for getting answers the easy way.
"He is also gray and toothless," Beral added. "Old enough to be the BattleMech's original pilot."
He almost asked the Elemental if he was sure, but realized it was a stupid question.
A ninety-year-old man got the drop on me'!
"Tal Sender, what's your ETA with the infantry?"
"Ten minutes," Tal answered. "Why?"
"I suspect we have a situation that can't be handled from a cockpit," Jerry said. "Tell all hands: Keep response proportional. No lethal force unless absolutely necessary. We need to figure out what's what pronto."
Jerry turned his BattleMech in place, carefully eyeball- ing every inch of cliff he could see. Only the ones in the cul-de-sac above him had functional doors.
And missile damage. Weathered by time, but still sharp compared to the centuries-old formations around them, the chips and pockmarks of heavy weapons' damage stood out clearly once he realized they were there.
"Want to bet this pocket has its own water supply?" Jerry asked conversationally. "And an overland route to the food plants on the prairie?"
"A stronghold within the stronghold?" Waltra asked.
"I was wrong when I said any survivors we found wouldn't be in condition to wage war," Jerry said. "They've been fighting each other for decades."
Waltra turned her Predator in place, obviously looking over the situation with new eyes.
"What would they fight over?" she asked at last.
"Power, ideology," Jerry said. "Food, division of resources, which fork to use with oysters."
He shrugged in his harness, not caring that the gesture wouldn't transmit.
"If I had to guess, I'd say the old-timers couldn't convince the next generation to stick to the one true way," he said. "People busy with survival usually don't have time for a lot of esoteric doctrines.
"It looks like the colony was doing pretty well— maybe even growing—when the priests decided to enforce their will with the weapons they'd been stockpiling against attack by the ZPM."
A long silence was broken by a single coarse syllable. Moran, Jerry guessed. On the high ground, Molly's auto- cannon swept back and forth, daring a Blakist to show his head.
"I'm thinking this box canyon is where the young rebels made their stand," Jerry said. "The oldsters probably had the west end of the valley, near the lake."
"I'm reading no heat signatures," Moran reported.
"If there are any left, they probably headed for the sea when we wiped out their heavy ordnance."
He sighed heavily. Just the thought of a place like this—hopeless, fragmented, failing—was depressing. To be standing in the middle of it . . .
"We should have stayed home," he said, not caring if his voice sounded weary. "This was one mission the team of specialized ground pounders should have handled."
"You speak in the past tense," Waltra said. "The mission is not over."
Jerry's eye was caught by movement. A door above and to the right had cracked open. Two children, maybe four or five—with remarkably clean faces, all things considered, and braided hair—peered down with wide eyes.
"Tactical question, Waltra," he said. "What weapons mix would you use on the target bearing about thirty- seven mark sixty relative?"
It took a moment, but he knew she'd grasped the situation when her weapons powered down.
They'd done what they could. Cleanup was someone else's job.
33
Holovid broadcast transcript
Solaris Game Watch
Solaris Gameworld Broadcasting
19 April 3136
"Welcome back. I'm Gwen Klornax."
"And I'm David Parmenter. We'll be getting to aerospace finals and the upset at Liao Aerodrome at the quarter hour, but first it's time for Contender Spotlight. Tonight we'll be looking at one of the new faces on the circuit."
"Right you are, Dave. Yulri Wolf exploded onto the BattleMech scene in November of last year as an independent, his entry fees reportedly bankrolled by long-time agent Tommy Gunn. His first two bouts were back-to- back upsets against Taz Arman and Philip Roan, both seeded in the top 100. Too late for the 3035 rankings, Yulri Wolf nonetheless gained a following with the betting public."
"Those first bouts were clean and fast, Gwen. His recent combat experience defending Skye against the Jade Falcons manifested in a straightforward get-the-j ob-done fighting style. But that changed with his third professional matchup."
"Right you are, Dave. Let's go to November 13, 3035,
Boreal Reach Arena, for what was meant to be one of several opening bouts before the semifinal elimination between Herbert Jordan and Fatima Petrovitch."
"This is the first time Yulri fought under the colors of the new Canid Cooperative. A clever play on words as the stable led by Yulri Wolf is underwritten by industrialist investor Simien Fox."
"But what people remember about this match is this savage pounding of Huntsmen's Stables' Arstide Hiser and the loss of his Black Lenner."
"Before the bout began, with repair and cleanup crews from the previous match still on the arena floor. Hiser made this illegal preemptive strike. Those are ten long- range missiles and a bolt from his extended-range large laser. A substantial point penalty for the early shot, which the Huntsman must have thought was a fair trade for drawing first blood."
"A mistake in judgment that became apparent as soon as the last tech left the arena floor. Wolf makes this long jump to get in medium-laser range and: alpha strike, alpha strike, alpha strike, and—wait for it—alpha strike. The Black Hawk has to be close to thermal shutdown— note the jerky movements and the near stumble—but the Black Lenner has lost both missile racks and its left arm."
"ECM is no help when the other guy's close enough to throw rocks, Gwen."
"Right you are, Dave. Hiser tried to rely on his 'Mech's myomer accelerator system to get enough distance to escape the medium lasers and use his own ER large laser, but it was all over."
"Until Yulri Wolf earned some penalty points of his own in what has become the hallmark of the Canid Cooperative. Here you see Hiser has surrendered, but Wolf continues to methodically dismember the Black Lenner. Hiser escaped injury by ejecting, but Wolf did not cease fire despite officials' orders until he had reduced the Huntsman's BattleMech to useless scrap."
"From that point on, the word was out. You cheat against Canid—whether Yulri Wolf or one of the six other MechWarriors who have since joined the co-op— and you lose your 'Mech. Even if it costs Canid Cooperative the match."
"Right you are, Gwen. Yulri Wolf's three losses to date have all been judgments resulting from his vigilante tactics."
"And the game fans love it. Dave. MechWarriors from all over Solaris—even whole stables like Wraiths and Zellbrigen—have publicly declared voluntary compliance with the so-called Canid Code of Honor, a document of MechWarrior chivalry many critics—and admirers—compare to the precepts of the late Galahad Stables."
"Gwen, with the win streak mounting, the man many credit with reviving the original spirit of the Solaris games has crossed the magic threshold into the top sixty- four. The
gaming commission's not talking, but betting parlors all across Solaris City have Yulri Wolf on the fast track for the final four."
"Right you are, Dave. And tomorrow noon we'll have live coverage of his nontournament match against Gemini Stables' Fatima Petrovitch. Rumor has it Silverlake Customs has worked the bugs out of her jump-jet equipped Maelstrom, so it looks to be quite a battle."
34
Tesla City, Miaplacidus
former Prefecture VII
12 May 3136
Ian Murchison stood for a moment on the stoop in front of the apartment building to which he'd been assigned watching a group of children play in the street. This was a borghetto, a poor neighborhood, with almost no vehicular traffic to disrupt their game. He could make out no rules to the match beyond that it apparently involved elements of soccer and dodgeball, but the preadolescent children played it with shrill abandon.
The buildings in the area were painted in a rainbow of complimentary and contrasting colors. The overall effect reminded him of advertisements he had seen for tropical island resorts, though the climate was not tropical and the area certainly not a resort.
The scent of uncollected garbage wafted past as the breeze shifted. From where he stood he could see three rusted and partially stripped vehicles parked against the cracked and broken sidewalk—though one had been painted with a mural of potted plants.
There were other watchers on other stoops or leaning out of upper-story windows, cheering the teams on or calling out friendly comments on a particular play. Mur- chison recognized the phenomenon. A sense of community that kept an impoverished neighborhood like this from sliding into the soul-numbing despair of a true slum. These were poor people, glad of the innocent diversion the children offered. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence that these were people with time on their hands.
There were several murals along the walls—evidently not part of the buildings' original designs—depicting forest, ocean, or mountain scenes. No doubt hugely exotic to people who seldom got beyond the confines of the city.
A flowering vine was carved into one side of the frame around the double door leading into his apartment building. The shallow grooves had been inlaid with bright metal that proved on close inspection to be nothing more than bits of scrap wire, silver and copper against the dark-painted wood. The other side of the frame and the lintel were covered with a similar vine painted in such detail he'd had to touch it to be sure it was not carved in bas-relief.
Murchison had discovered tiny symbols—stars and crosses and crescents—from every religion he knew. He suspected some of the other images represented faiths with which he was not familiar.
The Wolf Hunters had been on Miaplacidus for nearly a month. Anastasia had told them they were waiting for a rendezvous, but had not gone into any detail beyond that. This concerned no one.
On most worlds, a protracted wait would not have been a problem. They would have used the time honing their weapons skills on the live-fire ranges or developing new maneuvers on the practice fields.
But Miaplacidus was a peaceful world, a world devoted to the creative arts, and they quite deliberately had no facilities for housing a military unit. Remaining cooped up in the DropShips was not an option—the long period of enforced immobility would have dulled their reflexes and no doubt frayed their nerves.
Excursions were arranged. Not en masse, but in small parties, the Wolf Hunters explored the activities the artists' world had to offer.
Wilderness-survival camping—living off the land in the extensive natural areas—was a sport practiced by the peaceful Miaplacida. As was skiing, both downhill and cross-country. And rock climbing. And snorkeling along the great reefs. And kite boating—in which one stood secured to a shallow bowl about two meters across by stirrups and held the control cords to a small parachute tethered to the torso in both hands and traveled for kilometers over open water.
In short, the Wolf Hunters kept in shape with some of the most rigorous physical activity many of them had ever experienced. What was more, in the course of every group endeavor, no one was in charge. Cooperation came through seeing what needed to be done and doing it. Decisions were made through consensus and expediency.
While the value of these excursions was clear to all. the purpose of some of Anastasia's other mandates was not so transparent. They attended theatrical productions—a thoroughly novel experience for warriors raised in a culture that eschewed literature—and creative dance performances. both null-gee and traditional. They also journeyed to concerts and art museums.
A general cheer went up along the block. Apparently one of the young players had made a particularly exciting play. The champion of the moment marched proudly in a circle midfield, holding the ball triumphantly over his head before tossing it to the opposing goalie to resume play.
Across the street, a huge rat slunk from a storm drain and made its way to a broken basement window.
Only the physical discipline and gymnastic expertise of the dance seemed to make a lasting impression. The chief martial-arts trainer had gone so far as to suggest a dance instructor be hired to teach what she called transition movement.
Murchison had heard the classes were well attended.
The housing of the Wolf Hunters was of a piece with the rest of their training, though like the theater and the concerts, its utility was not immediately clear. Though their budget could have born better accommodations, Anastasia had gone to the Tesla municipal housing authority to secure blocks of apartments in the poorest section of the city, abutting both the DropPort and the cargo docks for the city's minor seaport.
Nor had she acquired an entire building that could be secured and defended. Wolf Hunters were housed in a dozen tenements scattered through the district. The only tactical advantage Murchison could see was that they could all reach the concrete expanse of the DropPort in minutes, having only to negotiate a drainage ditch and a wire-mesh fence to gain access.
Anastasia had taken an apartment like any other—a one-bedroom chosen at random.
Murchison's quarters had not been so randomly selected. He shared the apartment closest to her— immediately across the hall—with three MechWarriors who did not seem to mind rooming with the Alpha's coregn. Beyond the discovery that Rob Juergens snored at a decibel level that made him a threat at close ranges, the period spent in the city had been uneventful.
Until this morning when Murchison discovered Anastasia had already departed. A quick comm call revealed she had gone to the DropPort. Whatever the Wolf Hunters had been waiting for had arrived. In—he glanced at his chronometer—an hour, she wanted him and others she had selected to meet her at the pad adjacent to the Coeur du Loup, her Outpost-class flag ship.
A group of children—to his unpracticed eye somewhere between four and six—came chattering up the stairs. The Wolf Hunters had become such fixtures in the neighborhood that none took notice of him as they flowed past his legs into the building. Their smocked and embroidered clothes looked as though they'd come from an upscale folk-art catalog.
One of the children's arms had clearly been broken at a young age and never properly reset. "She does nothing without reason."
Murchison turned to find Kyle Wolf at his elbow. Like Murchison he was dressed in the charcoal gray duty fatigues of the Wolf Hunters, no emblem or sign of rank other than the single bloody paw print. With a gesture the MechWarrior invited the doctor to precede him down the steps.
"Any thoughts on what we are to learn here?"
"No," Murchison said, stepping around what appeared to be the remains of a cooling system compressor. "Or, perhaps, is this to remind us of who the people are? That no matter what we do, the final purpose of the Wolf is to save the people?"
"Doubtful," Kyle said. He jumped a box rather than walk around it. "Perhaps housing us in a district taxis avoid is part of our physical fitness training."
Murchison snorted. It was just over a dozen blocks to the secured parking garage where the Wolf Hunter t
roop carriers were parked. The DropPort itself was a similar distance beyond. Hardly a trek by any standard.
He noticed that a forest mural he'd admired the evening before had been altered. Waves of seawater now washed around the boles of the trees. Small forest creatures had been added, some fleeing the onrushing water, others apparently greeting it with great joy.
"That is a cohort." Kyle said.
Murchison followed his glance to a group of local youths—male and female, in early adolescence—who were regarding the altered mural with apparent anger. He was about to ask what the MechWarrior meant when he realized for himself. All of the young people wore a bit of forest green—whether a scarf, hat, or armband— that matched the leaves of the redwood trees in the mural. Apparently their art had been altered without their permission.
"You mean a gang," he said.
As he said the word, it triggered an unaccustomed flashback to the slums of Tara on far away Northwind. Scurrying back to the apartment from some errand his mother had sent him on too late in the evening. Needing to know which streets were safe when, reading the graffiti, looking for the gang signs to know when the turf lines had changed.
If those grimy streets had been as festive as these, would he have worked so hard to get out? Worked so hard to ensure he never went back?
The pylon supporting the traffic lights at the intersection had been supplemented. Bits of scrap metal—some hammered into convoluted shapes, others apparently just as they'd been found—had been welded up its length. The utilitarian pole had become a fanciful abstract sculpture.
These people were trapped in a slum every bit as bad as his had been. But where the ugliness of his had driven people like him to work their way out, here people had worked to make the community beautiful. Perhaps the decorative arts improved the quality of life for the slum residents, but didn't the art also remove the horror that motivated the residents to work their way out?
He explained his insight to Kyle.
Wolf Hunters Page 24
