Wolves on the Border

by Robert N. Charrette

  “Dead? No, I am not dead. Nor am I any longer the master of the Kat.” Minobu rose and walked toward his brother. He put an arm around the younger man's shoulder and led him across the room. At the far end, they paused while Minobu slid open the panel that opened onto the veranda. Minobu looked out over the trees that separated his house from the main part of the estate. Beyond those trees were the family mansion, the retainers' barracks, and the training grounds. The Tetsuhara Panther stood on the practice field, its head visible above the tops of the trees.

  “There is your duty,” Minobu announced, pointing at the 'Mech. “You are the approved pilot of that BattleMech. It is to be your sword for battle, a samurai's soul. Do not darken its bright shine by foolish actions or ignoble deeds. Its sheen will reflect your honor as your honor will reflect that of our family. You now have a chance to wipe away any tarnish that my disgrace has placed on that honor. Sufficient restitution has been made. Your orders are proof of that, little brother. The Tetsuhara clan once again has the opportunity to bring honor to House Kurita.” Minobu paused and stepped away from his brother. “Where are you to go?”

  Minobu had hoped his speech would help Fuhito grasp the realities of the situation. Fuhito's steady voice encouraged that hope, but the flat tone revealed his discouragement. “Benjamin District. The Seventeenth Regulars.”

  “Not a Sword of Light Regiment, then.”

  “I was not able to attend the Sun Zhang Academy like yourself, brother. I had no patron. They have little love for country-educated warriors in the Swords.”

  “Sadly, it is as you say. A man's honor and devotion should count for more than his school. It was too much to expect that you would be called to my former position. Still, Warlord Yorioshi is a loyal man and well-versed in the code. The Seventeenth is his own regiment, and he is District Warlord. It is a good appointment. You can prosper there. Show yourself a loyal soldier and a valiant warrior, and you will yet make it to the Swords.”

  Minobu watched his brother, who stood half-leaning against a post. Fuhito's head hung down, and he kicked at nonexistent pebbles on the oiled wood. Though in his twenties, he often acted as though he were still a headstrong child. Minobu felt that their father had shown weakness in allowing their mother to pamper and spoil Fuhito, her youngest son. It had left Fuhito with a fierce strength that could blaze up and often carry him through, but the fires had no reservoir of fuel, no constant source of strength. His skills and control were good enough that he would survive as a ‘Mech Warrior if he enjoyed the luck any soldier needed to last on the battlefield. Fuhito would never rise to command until he could find the inner strength, the calm that permitted action without thought or regret, decision without remorse. Before he could achieve that calm, he would have to accept his place in the universe.

  “I have orders as well. I am to leave for an assignment in a week.”

  Fuhito's head came up, eyes bright. “A command? A new 'Mech? One of the Grand Dragons, I'll bet.”

  “Something other than that. I am to work with the Professional Soldiery Liaison.”

  “Mercenaries!” Fuhito sputtered angrily. “They have set you to babysitting honorless curs. This is an insult.”

  “It is not an insult. It is the order of Lord Kurita. He knows what is best for his realm,” Minobu said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We are samurai and must obey our lord's orders. It is our duty. You must remember that duty always comes before our own desires.”

  “Just as it was the lord's will that you be relieved of your command.” Fuhito stepped from the veranda into the garden. He reached down, picked up a stone, and threw it at the distant trees. 'That your 'Mech be taken from you.” Another stone followed the first. “That you be confined to Awano for over a year.” A third stone. Fuhito turned to receive Minobu's answer.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you agree with his treatment of you.”

  “I did not say that I agree.” Minobu willed his voice calm. How could one agree with what one did not understand? “I accept it. I follow orders because I am samurai.”

  “But ...”

  “There are no 'buts' for a samurai. You will do well to remember this. You are now a Tetsuhara samurai, the pilot of the family's BattleMech. Look to your honor. It is more precious than anything else you possess.”

  “What about your honor?” Fuhito protested, rubbing the back of his neck. “You have been here in disgrace for over a year. Then you get an assignment to work with hired soldiers, credit-hungry dogs with no concept of honor and no belief in the triumph of the Dragon. You are shamed.”

  “I am ordered. I will do my duty.”

  Minobu walked down the length of the veranda. With his back still to his brother, he said, “At least these mercenaries have warriors among them.”

  Minobu turned around to find Fuhito watching him, puzzlement on his face.

  “Karma can be strange, don't you think? I am to work with the unit that was my last opponent in battle.” When he saw that Fuhito did not understand the reference, he added, “Now that Lord Kurita has taken their contract, I am to be Chief Liaison to Wolf's Dragoons.”

  “The Dragoons! They're the best fighters in the Inner Sphere,” Fuhito exclaimed. “If the reports from the other states are to be believed,” he added hastily. “And they're big, too. Some say they have more 'Mechs than all the Sword of Light Regiments combined. But you are only a Sho-sa. Wait.. .” He cocked his head and looked suspiciously at his brother.

  “I will wear the bars of a Chu-sa” Minobu stated in confirmation.

  Fuhito laughed. “You have been setting me up. This is wonderful news. A promotion and a position involving such a large force. In spite of all your moping, you have been restored to favor. The lord has remembered your loyalty and set you on the path. A command of real warriors is sure to follow.”

  “Perhaps you are right, little brother.”

  “Have you told Father?” Fuhito's voice was suddenly restrained. “No.”

  “Surely he will relent and see you now.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Then you won't even try?”

  “No. You are not to speak of it, either,” Minobu warned. “You are stubborn.”

  “So is he.”

  An awkward silence fell between the brothers. “I must go now,” Fuhito said finally. “There's much to be done before leaving. Perhaps we can have a final lesson in the Katana Kat in, say, three days?”

  “That would be fine.”

  Minobu watched him go. As the younger man passed out of sight beyond the carefully tended cryptomeria trees, Minobu turned and entered the house. He crossed the room to a tall chest. From the top drawer, he took a case and a ComStar communique envelope. The envelope contained his orders in the form of a shuga-to-hama, a letter of joyous celebration, duly stamped and sealed by the Bureau of Substitution. He did not need to reread the words to remember that the date for his departure was in two days. Minobu knew that Fuhito would wait for their last lesson together to try again to convince him to speak to Father. Since that lesson was not to be, Minobu would be gone before their father even learned of this assignment, which would offend the old man's sense of propriety and confirm his low opinion of his eldest son's worth.

  Minobu moved to his work area and knelt by his pots.

  Laying the orders on the floor, he opened the small box that had accompanied them. On the velveteen lining lay twin rank insignia, the double bars of a Chu-sa. He pulled one from its backing, and it came out with no resistance. Using a work knife, he chipped the thin green metal plating that covered it. The bars were of cheap materials and had nothing to hold them in place, which told him that the promotion was only for show and not intended to be permanent. The new assignment was certainly a calculated maneuver on someone's part. How had he so offended House Kurita that his punishment should go on and on and his requests to atone be refused?

  Minobu replaced the bars in the box. He got up and returned to the chest. Opening a panel
, he activated the compad hidden within and entered a requisition for a senior Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery officer's uniform and rank insignia, both to be paid for at his own expense. He had no doubt that the request would be honored; the DCMS lacked for little in material things. Minobu walked to the outer doorway. Before he closed the sliding panel to the veranda, he looked out. The flowers in bloom held out the promise of the coming heat of summer, and the late afternoon sunlight colored the clear skies. On the horizon, however, beyond the head of the Panther, Minobu could see the racing dark clouds of a gathering storm.

  2

  Bantan Airspace, Quentin IV

  Draconis March, Federated Suns

  13 June 3023

  The primal violence of the planetary storm was a threat even to so tough a craft as Lieutenant Hamilton Atwyl's Lucifer. The AeroSpace Fighter bucked and pitched as it plowed through the turbulence of howling winds. The storm was bad enough without having to worry about the enemy DropShip out there, somewhere. That huge spacecraft would be less disturbed by the winds and pressure shifts that buffeted his own sixty-five-ton LCF-R15.

  The Davion DropShip that he was chasing had broken away from the fight in the orbital space above Quentin IV. Atwyl's Blue Right had been detailed to hunt it down. Even damaged, a Union Class DropShip was still a threat.

  Days ago, the JumpShips of Wolf's Dragoons had flickered into existence at the system's nadir jump point. They had come for their first mission in the employ of the Draconis Combine, a raid on the Davion planet of Quentin IV. Officially, they had been in House Kurita's employ for three months, time spent crossing the volume of space from the realm of their former employer, House Steiner, to their new employer's border with the Federated Suns of House Davion.

  When the Dragoon JumpShips had unleashed their cargo of DropShips for the in-system trip to Quentin, the Davion ship had abandoned its own course toward the jump point and had fled from them. Flight Colonel Jason Carmody had suggested that it could be carrying cargo that might prove troublesome. It had also been close enough to get good data on the strength of the forces the Dragoons had brought to the Quentin system, something Colonel Wolf did not want revealed so soon. Carmody had advocated the immediate destruction of the Davion ship, and Colonel Wolf had agreed. Carmody's AeroSpace forces had mounted a pursuit, but the DropShip's Captain had been skillful enough to elude their fighters in deep space. Reaching Quentin IV, the DropShip had joined the hastily organized defense that the Federated Suns had mustered to oppose the sudden Dragoon raid.

  When a DropShip had pulled away from the battle and headed planetside, the main battle computer aboard Wolf's Overlord Class DropShip, the Chieftain, had identified it as the one that had run from the raiders earlier. The orbital fight was still undecided, and all Carmody could spare was the hastily organized Blue Flight. Lieutenant Atwyl's aerolance of two Lucifers and two aerolances of SPR-H5 Sparrowhawks had orders to chase it down.

  Against an intact Union Class DropShip, they would not have had a chance, but Colonel Carmody had informed him that the six AeroSpace Fighters would be sufficient for a ship estimated to be seriously damaged. Carmody had not counted on the severe storm that caused the flight to lose track of its quarry.

  With the way the Lucifer was being tossed about now, Atwyl was glad he was not in a Sparrowhawk. The thought of that tiny, thirty-ton ship that was little more than a cockpit strapped to an engine reminded him to check the formation. This was his first mission as a flight commander, and he was still getting used to having to worry about more than just himself and his wingman.

  Atwyl's radar screen was fuzzed with junk readings, but showed several intermittent blips that should be the rest of his flight. His visual scan of the airspace outside his cockpit only picked out AeroPilot Gianni Bredel in the other Lucifer, glued to his left wing tip as usual. Raising power to punch through the interference, he called over the channel reserved for Blue Flight, “Let's close it up a little, children. There's a big, bad DropShip out there. Crippled or not, it can swat a Sparrowhawk out of the sky. I don't want anyone finding it by himself.”

  He received acknowledgement from Gordon, Hall, and Reischaur, but not from Morris. Shifting more power to the comm circuit, he tried again. “T.J., you out there, girl?”

  “Sure am, boss man. What you want?” The words were distorted and barely audible, but T.J.'s jaunty tone came through. Hamilton was surprised at the relief he felt. AeroPilot T.J. Morris had just graduated from the Dragoon AeroSpace pilot program and was on her first mission. Her high scores and outstanding simulator performances did not keep him from worrying about her, however. Enthusiasm and training often counted for little in the field, especially with conditions as bad as they were now.

  “Close up with Reischaur and the rest of the flight. Can't have you taking down that DropShip all by yourself, hotshot.”

  “Roger, boss man.”

  Atwyl looked for the closing fighters. Off to the right, he could see the shapes of Beta Lance's craft break through the clouds. The bright yellow paint jobs of both fighters made them easily visible against the storm clouds. The dark, anodized metal sheaths of the Martell lasers that jutted forward on either side of the fuselage gave a Sparrowhawk the profile of a winged bullet. It took a lightning flash to reveal the dark wolf's-head against a red circle that decorated the tall, vertical stabilizer rising behind the cockpit of each ship.

  Unable to see the fighters of Gamma Lance, Atwyl switched his communicator over to the band he shared with his wingman.

  “Yo, Gianni. I don't have a visual on our little Gamma birdies in this soup. My scanners show them off to the left, I think. Can't be sure what's a real echo and what's a ghost. This storm has really screwed things up. Hope it's as bad for the groundpounders holding this rock.”

  “I'll give it a look-see, Ham.” The speaker crackled and popped in accompaniment to his wingman's voice, which was calm and steady as ever. It took more than a bumpy ride in a wild storm and playing hide and seek with a hostile DropShip to fluster Aerospace Pilot Gianni Bredel.

  “Not too far, Gianni. Don't want to lose you in this murk, too.” Atwyl watched as the other ship vectored thrust and shot away from his side. In the patched and cross-wired technology of the Successor States, things had a too-common tendency to break down. Even in the long-ago era of the Star League, Lucifers had been notorious for the fragility of their communication and sensor systems. Fearing that the recent communication problems might be due to more than the storm's interference, Atwyl didn't want his wingman out of sight.

  “You and me both, boss man,” said Bredel, but the rest of his words were drowned in a burst of static. Atwyl fretted while the other Lucifer moved out 200 meters, then pulled up even with him. As it did so, Atwyl's visual angle changed, making it seem as though he were being paced by a flying skeleton. The other Lucifer's wings, both the canards under the cockpit and the main vee, had disappeared against the midnight blue of the ship's color scheme. The dark fighter's shape blended with the stormy sky, leaving only the white bars and shapes of highlighted panels and structural elements.

  “Got 'em, Ham.” Bredel's call snapped Atwyl from his musings. “Safe and sound.”

  “Roger, Gianni.” Switching over to the flight frequency, he said, “All right, children. Let's keep it this way if we can.” Resolving to hold his own attention on the job at hand, Atwyl returned to watching his sensor sweeps.

  Minutes crawled by while the tempest tossed the flight's fighters about. Twice, Atwyl had to call for the young pilots to quit grousing about the rough ride and keep the comm frequency clear. During a brief lull in the storm, AeroPilot Friedrich Reischaur was the first to pick up the DropShip's readings. “Big mark on MAD sensor, Lieutenant,” he reported.

  “I've got it, too, Friedrich,” Atwyl said. The Lucifier's bigger computer had been even quicker at registering the target, but he revealed little of his excitement in finding the quarry. “Reading matches the Davion DropShip, and comp places it
on the surface just shy of the Batan spaceport. If that's our baby, she'll be an easy target as long as we keep clear of the port's guns.”

  Atwyl punched in some numbers and waited for the fighter's battle computer to confirm his estimated flight plan. When it did, he laid out his plan to the flight. “We're going to go down on the deck and come in low. That should put us under the spaceport defenses. Comp says there's a forest that will screen us most of the way to the DropShip. Beta and Gamma, when we're down, stretch out your lead on us. I want you in fast with your eyes open for hostiles. Recon only on the first run. Bredel and I will come in hard and rip up the sucker after you give us the all-clear. After we've softened it up, it's an open turkey shoot. Questions?” Morris's channel lit up.

  “What's a turkey, boss man?”

  Atwyl laughed. Intentionally or not, T.J. had broken the tension that had been rising in him since he'd first caught the readings on the DropShip. He hoped her words had loosened up the others, too. “Never mind, T.J. What it means is that after Bredel and I hit the ship on our first pass, you guys can make your own attack runs.”

  “Roger, boss man. You crack the shell, and we take the turkey.” That got laughter from Bredel and Hall. Atwyl quieted them down.

  “Let's all go down together. Make it a six-eight degree glide slope down to three-zero meters off the deck. Then open throttles and go in. Got it?” Five voices chorused acknowledgement, while Atwyl keyed the final figures into his battle computer. It set up a countdown timer in the left corner of his head-up display.

  “O.K. Recorders on. Three. Two. One. Punch it!”

  Acceleration pushed Atwyl back into his flight couch. A small whine came from behind him as the pressure equalizer cut in. The system was supposed to infate bladders in his flight suit to prevent blood from pooling in his limbs under the weight of the tremendous gee forces of dives and highspeed maneuvers. If he lost power in the system, he could black out and lose control. Though the equalizer was noisy, it did seem to be working.