Kyle thought for a moment, then said. "Give the common people food and entertainment and they will cause the ruling elite no trouble?"
"More like a gilded cage," Murchison answered. "If the prison is pleasant enough, the prisoners don't mind being prisoners. There has to be some level of discomfort before people make the effort to improve their lot."
"A critical mass to trigger motivation?"
"Something like that," Murchison said. "Until it's hit, people don't change."
By unspoken agreement, the two men passed the garage, continuing toward the DropPort on foot.
Their choice had been anticipated.
Toran, an Elemental who had proven surprisingly adept at piloting a BattleMech, fell in step with them on the next block. Two buildings later Aurora, one of the few aerospace pilots who had remained, and—Ping, Murchison thought his name was—a scout-sniper of Ca- pellan heritage who had joined the Wolf Hunters on Galatea, joined them.
Still considering the issue of beauty and poverty, he noticed the twining vine pattern that had adorned the doorway of their apartment house also framed the doors of the two tenements the other Wolf Hunters occupied, the local primary school, and the municipal free clinic. These buildings were also free of murals. He wondered what sort of artistic sensibility decreed vines could not share buildings with mountains, oceans, or forests.
The new arrival at the DropPort was apparent as soon as the five Wolf Hunters cleared the block building that enclosed the pedestrian-traffic service entrance to the field. An Overlord-C towered over Anastasia's Outpost as though crowding it, the effect emphasized by the fact that the two vessels were far from any other craft on the field.
"Clan Sea Fox," Kyle said, reading the newcomer's markings.
There was a DropPort personnel carrier parked near the door of the block building, its diesel engine muttering. Murchison glanced at it and met the eye of a blond man wearing a dress uniform of some sort peering out the passenger window. The stranger seemed fascinated by the Wolf Hunters, but other than nodding stiffly when he realized Murchison had seen him he made no effort to get their attention.
From the puddle of water beneath the air-cooling unit, Murchison surmised the personnel carrier had been sitting there a while. Following the others, he put the vehicle and its curious passenger out of his mind.
As they approached the two DropShips, Murchison wondered if they were to board the Coeur du Loup, wait in its shadow, or proceed to the entry ramp of the Overlord-C. Before he could voice his question, however, Anastasia herself, with Alexia Wolf at her elbow, appeared on the Outpost"s ramp.
The pair strolled in a leisurely manner, not pausing at the base of the ramp. Alexia carried a case similar to Murchison's medical kit, only more square, on a shoulder strap. Neither glanced toward his group, yet somehow their saunter and the businesslike pace of the group from town converged exactly at the base of the Overlord's gangway.
Without a backward glance, Anastasia led the party up toward the open cargo bay door.
Looking past Anastasia, Murchison saw an olive- complected man of holovid-star build and ravaged looks standing arms akimbo, front and center at the top of the ramp. There were rank and maybe faction insignia he didn't recognize on the man's collar, shoulder, and breast, and while his uniform did not look significantly different from those around him, it hung as though professionally tailored to his figure.
Those around him were worthy of note, as well. Mech Warriors, Elementals, and infantry, their differing uniforms clearly marked, were ranged behind their leader in positions that no doubt reflected their places in the pecking order.
And all were armed.
Murchison almost glanced around at his companions to confirm what he already knew, but he kept his face forward and blank. None of the Wolf Hunters carried a weapon.
This was wrong. This was not how one Clan leader went calling on another. They should be armed, perhaps in a vehicle of some sort. Reckless driving was traditional, as he recalled. A show of force—or at least parity—with neither side admitting that was what they were doing. That was how Clan met Clan.
The leader of the Sea Foxes was evidently as confused—or at least bemused—as Murchison. The plasma or chemical burns that had scarred his face, scalp, and neck, had miraculously spared his eyes. Clear and sharp they ran over the Wolf Hunter party, seeking every detail. His mouth, still as holovid-star perfect as his physique, was curved in a quizzical smile as though trying to sort out the mismatched group.
No, not mismatched, Murchison corrected. Exactly matched. Medical technician, infantry specialist, aerospace pilot, Elemental, and MechWarriors—all of the Wolf Hunters wore exactly the same gunmetal gray fatigues with the bloody red paw print. Only the alpha and omega pins on Anastasia's collar and her position out front set her apart from the people she led.
From a Clan cultural standpoint, there was literally no way for the Sea Fox leader to sort out what he was looking at.
And as for walking into the DropShip unarmed—after approaching over open ground under the DropShip's guns . . . The corner of Murchison's mouth twitched as the penny dropped. Nothing could have announced disdain for the newcomer's military might more loudly.
Perhaps going to those theatrical productions hadn't been such a waste of time after all.
"Petr Kalasa," Anastasia formally identified the Sea Fox leader by way of greeting, "OvKhan of Spina Khanate."
"Anastasia Kerensky," the ovKhan responded, then paused, a question in his dark green eyes.
"Alpha," she supplied. "Of the Wolf Hunters."
"Alpha Anastasia Kerensky of the Wolf Hunters," he said formally.
"You have something for me."
The ovKhan grinned, an expression rendered disconcerting by his disfigurement. Turning, he invited Anastasia to accompany him with a sweep of his arm.
Without waiting to see where the ovKhan's people felt they fit in the entourage, Murchison stepped off in Anastasia's wake. He was pleased that the other Wolf Hunters fell in step. Seeing the Sea Fox leader from behind, he was surprised to note the man wore the black hair that still grew from the left side of his scalp in a ponytail that reached halfway down his back. Unusual for a man who spent most of his time in space.
The party turned a corner and Murchison felt the MechWarriors around him go to point. He thought a small "ah" might have escaped Kyle. Pristine in gray primer, lit by banks of lights from every angle, stood a BattleMech.
"The Savage Wolf" ovKhan Kalasa announced. "Fourth generation of the Timber Wolf design."
The machine towered nearly eleven meters high, with a jutting cockpit and two forward-thrust arms. Above and behind the shark shape of the central fuselage rose two rectangular cases Murchison knew were missile racks. Murchison thought the general design was similar to 'Mechs he had seen in the Steel Wolves' forces, but the Savage Wolf seemed leaner, more aggressive.
"Seventy-five tons, maximum armor, hip assemblies moved back and up for better mechanical efficiency and protection." Kalasa pointed to each feature as he spoke. "There are four six-tube racks of short-range Streak missiles, two of them pointing aft. The missile rack housings elevate and depress independently. Each arm has full rotation and an extended-range particle projector cannon."
"You don't have to sell it to me, Petr Kalasa," Anastasia said dryly.
The Sea Fox smiled, conceding the point.
Anastasia extended her hand toward Alexia. The young MechWarrior produced a neurohelmet from the case over her shoulder.
With no other ceremony, Anastasia took possession of the new BattleMech, climbing the chain ladder without a backward glance.
Murchison noted she wore no cooling vest, but neither did technicians when they maneuvered 'Mechs about the service bays. Evidently she was not planning an extended mission.
The Savage Wolf came alive, announcing Anastasia's hands on the controls with a forward cant to its long fuselage and a slight widening of the arms. The difference between mena
cing machine and menacing presence was subtle but real.
Everyone but the ovKhan made way without ceremony as the BattleMech stepped forward.
Murchison wondered at how quickly Anastasia had made the Savage Wolf so completely hers. He had thought a protracted period of synchronization was necessary to match MechWarrior to machine, but the 'Mech did not move with the stiff tramp of a technician's limited control.
It prowled forward, a predator ready for blood.
Either he did not understand the process, or the Sea Foxes had used a recording of Anastasia's brain wave patterns to precalibrate the Savage Wolf. What did having that recording say about their relationship to the Wolf Hunters?
For his part, the Sea Fox leader showed the same disregard for the threat the machine posed that the Wolf Hunters had displayed in strolling into his presence unarmed. He did not flinch as one massive foot of the war machine came down meters from him. Turning casually, he watched the Savage Wolf negotiate the turn and disappear in the direction of the cargo ramp.
Murchison decided Petr Kalasa either already understood the finer points of theater or was a quick study.
Aurora, closest to the exit, stepped off first and the
Wolf Hunters fell in around her. Murchison caught one exchange of glances as the Sea Fox warriors tried to sort out their fluid pecking order.
Halfway down the ramp he realized Anastasia had bypassed her flagship. The Savage Wolf was several hundred meters away, evidently bound for the pedestrian entrance they had used. He wondered what preparations the unarmed security guards were making for her arrival.
"Where is she going?" Kyle asked.
"An Irian general arrived last night," Alexia answered. "Apparently with a job offer."
Murchison remembered the man in dress uniform watching them from the parked personnel carrier.
He ran through his information store on Irian. BattleMech—general ordnance—production, high mean temperatures, inedible local vegetation . . . That was it. Nothing that would require specialized medical supplies.
He wondered what problem the Iriani faced that required the Wolf Hunters. Probably another turf war between gangs that had sprung up since the collapse of The Republic. They'd just have to go read the walls, check out the gang signs, and see what was up.
His chuckle caught the others' attention.
"We missed what we were looking at because we were looking at it," he said. "We weren't considering how others saw it."
"Come again?" Ping asked.
Murchison would have expected a man used to convoluted Capellan culture to follow him. Then again, he had no idea what the others had been discussing while he was lost in thought. No doubt his outburst was a complete non sequitur.
"It's like birdsong," he said. "What we hear versus what birds hear."
"We hear music, they hear territorial challenges and war cries," Toran said. "What has that to do with the Savage Wolf design?"
"Nothing," Murchison admitted. "I was thinking of the decorated slums."
"Meaning they are not decorated," Kyle guessed.
"The mural we saw of ocean waves washing into a forest," Murchison said, "was a declaration of war.
"On a world that esteems art above all else, is it any wonder their gang signs are beautiful?"
"The vines with all the symbols combined mark neutral territory," Ping said. When the others looked at him in surprise, he pulled up his left sleeve, revealing a geometric pattern of scars. "Foundry District, Bellings, Sar- maxa. Gangs, I know."
"You mean to tell me Fve lived six weeks in deplorable conditions," Aurora asked, "just to learn—all over again—that things are not always what they seem?"
"So it would seem," Kyle Wolf answered.
35
Solaris City, Solaris VII
Lyran Commonwealth
31 May 3136
Tommy slowed as he approached his limo.
No Clarence.
His eyes slid to the corners of the garage, checking shadows—and there were a lot of them despite the sodium lights ringing every pillar. No parking attendant in the booth. No other drivers in the glass-walled chauffeurs' lounge. No nobody nowhere.
Tommy spun for the elevator. And found himself face- to-face with Garnet.
For a half second he considered reaching for his pocket comm, but as quickly decided he liked having two arms. He opted for a friendly smile instead, making it clear the New DeLon Stables manager was the most welcome sight in the world.
Garnet responded with a micromillimeter smile of his own, a twitch at the corners of his mouth. He was flanked by two local goons who towered over him. Tommy figured those two had a real good idea what had happened to Clarence. Of course, the heavy-worlder between them could've folded them both up and put them away without breaking a sweat. But physical power wasn't what made Garnet dangerous.
"The Commission's got some concerns," Garnet said by way of greeting.
Tommy knew he didn't mean the Solaris VII Gaming Commission, the governing body charged with keeping the Games and the gambling industry honest. He meant the Commission, the one that kept things profitable. Using the same name as the agency that was supposed to be keeping them out of the business was as close to a joke as anyone on the Commission ever got.
"Anything I can do to help relieve those concerns," Tommy said. "You know all you gotta do is ask."
"I'm glad you feel that way, Tommy," Garret said with no sign he was pleased. "Because our concerns have to do with that co-op of yours."
"It's not my co-op, Mister Garnet, you know that." Tommy's smile was sincere. "I'm an agent and they are my clients."
Garnet's glassy stare tipped him verbal hair-splitting was not the way to go.
"Of course, if that's a problem—"
"No," Garnet forestalled the offer. "We like having you in position. It's good to have someone familiar involved."
Tommy nodded at the wisdom of this and kept his mouth shut.
"A lot of interesting innovations," Garnet said. "Requiring all 'Mech jockeys to be scrappers, sort of a vertical consolidation of assets, is very interesting. Opens a lot of spread options."
He paused, inviting comment, but Tommy knew better than to volunteer an opinion. He continued to beam his profound interest in Garnet's monologue with deeply felt sincerity.
"That code-of-conduct thing they got going, that's been getting a lot of good press," Garnet went on after a moment. "S.C. Game Beat has been drawing parallels with the old Galahad Stables and their code of chivalry. Yulri Wolf is getting mentioned in the same breath with Kai Allard-Liao. Contenders at every level have noticed the PR value. We've got grunts, kiters, can men, and jockeys—independent and contract—publicly announcing they're following the code."
Tommy frowned thoughtfully. Like it takes an Einstein to figure out where this is going.
"It does play well with the public," he said. "But it is a bit inflexible."
"Inflexible," Garnet savored the word. "Well put."
It's what I do.
"There's no problem with 'Mech jockeys saying they're going to act like knights in shining armor—that's half the sizzle we sell to begin with," Garnet was saying. "There is a problem with jockeys who actually start believing the hype."
Tommy's mind boggled slightly at the thought that contenders were actually taking the Clanner's code seriously. If they were interpreting integrity to mean not accepting direction on point spread or damage order— the unregulated side bets that paid for half the mansions in Solaris City—things were more serious than he'd thought.
He'd better make it real clear he was no part of the madness biting the hand that fed the business.
"I honestly had no idea the effect had spread that far," he said truthfully, knowing Garnet would probably believe him. Agents can't gamble, so there would have been no reason for Tommy to track something like that. "It was just supposed to be a publicity gimmick. Something to make the new co-op stand out with the fans."
&nbs
p; Just made it sound like I was in on the plan.
"Personally, I thought it was a waste of time—might backfire and make them look self-righteous," he segued smoothly. "But I never thought it would interfere with business."
Garnet held his pose for a lifetime, waiting for Tommy to squirm under his level gaze. Tommy wasn't a squirmer. True, there was icy sweat trickling down his ribs, but nothing showed in his face but sincere concern for any inadvertent inconvenience caused by an innocent act.
"There's worry your Clanner might take this conduct thing one step further," Garnet said. "Talk he might be thinking of organizing. We won't have another Morrison."
Tommy nodded sagely. It had been almost a century since Daniel Morrison, founder of the Dismal Dispossessed cooperative, had tried to organize the MechWarriors of Solaris against the stables. He'd disappeared without a trace.
"Don't think twice about it," Tommy said with an easy confidence he could only imagine. "That's not his style, doesn't even sound like him. He's got some ass- arrogant Clan idea that some special quality separates real warriors from the rest. He likes to meet folks face- to-face, looking for that warrior aura or whatever. But organizing? Pffft/"
Tommy waved the notion away. "That's too much like a labor union," he said. "And the only thing a Clanner hates worse than bad genes is being mistaken for someone who works for a living."
"Perhaps," Garnet said. "But just to be safe, you might want to tell him the history of Morrison. Explain to him that the world is not kind to those who would interfere with the way things are done here."
"Good point," Tommy said with sincere appreciation. "He's a Clanner bottle baby. Doesn't know how the world works. Maybe I'd better do what I can to keep him from making stupid mistakes in his ignorance."
"No maybe about it," Garnet corrected. "You do exactly that. And make sure Fox understands the situation as well. A new co-op stable is a shaky thing. The loss of its best contenders—and its agent—could bring the whole thing crashing down."
Tommy nodded again, agreeing wholeheartedly. He was still nodding when a limousine pulled smoothly up and whisked Garnet and his silent partners off to places unknown.
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