BattleTech MechWarrior Dark Age 05 Truth and Shadows 2003

by Martin Delrio

  He'd reached the gates of the mercenary encampment while pursuing these thoughts, and was stopped by soldiers on gate guard with Gauss rifles, backed up by an SM1 Tank Destroyer.

  "Halt and identify yourself, MechWarrior!" A ceremonial threat, given muscle by the SM1. Crow replied over the Blade's external speaker: "Paladin Ezekiel Crow. I need to speak with your commanding officer. At once."

  From the Blade's cockpit, he saw the gate guards put their heads together for a quick consultation. He didn't wait, but began unstrapping from the control seat and getting ready to climb down. The gate guards would have recognized Crow's name by now as that of the person who held the mercenaries' current contract. If Farrell were not already waiting by the time Crow reached the ground, he would be arriving in haste soon after.

  In fact, Farrell showed up at the gate as Crow was stepping off the bottom rung of the access ladder. "Paladin Crow," he said. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

  "The Steel Wolves have landed at Tara DropPort."

  "Huh." Farrell didn't look particularly surprised. "You're the one that's giving the orders, Paladin. What's the word?"

  Crow, looking at Farrell, realized that the man didn't care what answer he got. At Crow's order, he would fight for the Northwinders, or against them, with equal skill and determination. His loyalty-if such was the word-was not to the cause, but to the contract, and to the man holding it.

  The moment between Farrell's question and Crow's reply stretched out into infinity, with time within it for a host of considerations.

  If I stay here and fight, he thought, it'll mean the end of my career. I might as well be dead for any use I'll be to The Republic after what's in that envelope gets published.

  As for the Countess of Northwind-Crow realized with a pang of regret that whatever future they might have shared was lost to him, no matter what happened. Tara Campbell would never forgive the Betrayer of Liao.

  On the other hand, the cold voice of reason pointed out, even without the aid of Jack Farrell's mercenaries, she would be able to hold out against the Steel Wolves for some time before having to admit defeat. Not forever-but long enough for Crow to reach Terra.

  From Terra, he would have access to the resources that would let him deal with the threat of exposure as Daniel Peterson, Betrayer of Liao. The name was the connection, the only loose thread that could be pulled. If he could discredit or eliminate the source of the name, the rest would be nothing but rumor.

  More than that, however-on Terra, he could protect The Republic of the Sphere and Devlin Stone's peace against the threat of invasion by the Steel Wolves. Such protection was the Exarch's responsibility, some people might say, but a crisis was no time for false modesty. If Damien Redburn was good at his job, Ezekiel Crow knew that he would be better.

  "Take your forces," he said to Farrell. "Deploy them to block the roads out of the city. Don't give the Highlanders a chance to break off from combat and retreat."

  "Do you want us to fight them," Farrell asked "or just to get in their way?"

  "If you have to- fight."

  PART THREE

  Burning

  February 3134

  35

  DropShip Quicksilver

  Tara DropPort

  Northwind

  February 3134; local winter

  By the time Ezekiel Crow had brought his Blade from the mercenaries' encampment back to the city, the hour was well past midnight. The city lay in eerie quiet around him. The Wolves would have disembarked from their DropShips by now, and the port complex itself had undoubtedly fallen; now they would be moving cautiously forward, testing the defenses that Prefect Tara Campbell would have begun setting up as soon as the DropPort sounded the alarm. The Highlanders, for their part, were waiting for Farrell's mercenaries to move into position before starting their counterattack. They had a long wait ahead of them, Crow thought, and disappointment at the end of it.

  He took his Blade through the streets leading to the DropPort. He had nothing else with him of his own except his MechWarrior's gear and the uniform-now stowed in the cockpit locker-which he had been wearing when he left the New Barracks for the Armory. The wallet containing his keys and ID and financial-access cards had still been in the pocket of his uniform trousers when the initial alarm sounded, which in retrospect was a good thing. He would not have liked to attempt a journey from Northwind to Terra backed by nothing but his personal charisma.

  He would rather not have been making the journey at all. Running away, leaving a city to its fate . . . I'm making a career of this, he thought.

  He shook his head. He was a Paladin of the Sphere. His loyalty was not to one world any longer, but to all of them, and to Terra above the rest. He had to go where he could to deal with the forces that threatened to stain his reputation, and where he could most effectively counter the threat of Anastasia Kerensky and her Steel Wolves.

  Near morning, he reached the last checkpoint before the port: a barrier of wood and barbed wire, manned by combat troops in powered armor with a revetted gun emplacement and a comm set.

  Crow switched on the Blade's external speakers.

  "Paladin Crow, on Republic business," he said to the troopers.

  He'd been able, by means of judicious detours, to avoid alerting any of the secondary checkpoints further in. This one, marking as it did a point in the Highlanders' outer defensive perimeter, could not as easily be circumvented, and he had already made up his mind not to try. The troopers here might send word back that Paladin Ezekiel Crow had passed through the lines in the direction of the port-but, with luck, not until it was too late for anyone to stop him.

  The guards saluted him with their Gauss rifles and stepped back, raising the barrier. His Blade could have stepped over it without any difficulty, but to do so would have raised the alarm. Better to follow protocol, and buy himself time with polite behavior.

  He continued on toward the DropPort. When the sound of gunfire marked the direction in which the Steel Wolves were making their first attempt at the Highlanders' defenses, he swung wide to avoid that sector, coming at the landing field from another angle. Behind him, on the skyline of the city, a column of black smoke rose straight up in the still air, making an ugly streak against the dawn- fresh sky.

  The Steel Wolves held the port, but had not, apparently, expected a lone 'Mech to enter it unsupported. He suspected that they had spotted him early on, and were waiting to see what he would do.

  "Any unit, any unit," came a call over the intra- 'Mech circuit. The speaker was using one of the Highlander frequencies. "Any unit, request support at grid one-five-three."

  Crow reached up and switched off the internal speaker. One-five-three, he thought. The smoke on the skyline would be coming from somewhere near there. One-five-three was in the north-west quadrant, near the suburb of Fairfield, where the Highlanders and the Wolves faced one another across the Tyson and Varney 'Mech factory. He had chosen his route out of the city well.

  There were two civilian DropShips grounded at the port. The Wolves had left them alone so far-Anastasia Kerensky was after bigger game. And while she might not approve of a DropShip leaving Northwind at the moment, the odds were that she wouldn't make more than a cursory effort to stop it. With communication these days increasingly dependent upon ships coming and going between planets, nobody wanted to get a reputation for the bad treatment of independent ships and crews.

  Whether or not a single MechWarrior making contact with a civilian DropShip would strike the Wolves as a threat serious enough to need stopping . . . that was the question.

  The nearest civilian DropShip had the name Quicksilver emblazoned on its hull, underneath the image of a winged sandal. The metal surface glittered in the first rays of the early morning sun. The vessel's cargo bay doors stood open, as if the Wolves' descent had caught Quicksilver in the act of offloading or taking on cargo, and her captain had opted to defuse hostility by remaining open and defenseless.

  Ezekiel Cro
w walked the Blade up to Quicksilver's cargo bay, where a voice hailed him over the ship's loudspeaker.

  "Blade MechWarrior, this is Quicksilver. Identify yourself and state your business."

  "I am a Paladin of the Sphere," Crow replied over the 'Mech's external speakers. "My name is Ezekiel Crow. And in the name of The Republic, I require the use of this ship."

  "You are asking me to lift off from a war zone. Will The Republic compensate me for any loss or damage that might result?"

  "You have my word," Crow said. By now the irony of such a statement coming out of his mouth scarcely choked him at all.

  "And I am a loyal citizen of The Republic. Bring the 'Mech into the bay."

  A crewman was waiting inside the dark cargo bay. Using lighted wands, he directed the Blade forward toward a cargo cradle. Crow walked his 'Mech the length of the bay to face the cradle, then turned and backed into it. He felt the 'Mech's balance shift as it came to rest against the bulkhead, then relaxed, sighed, and took the Blade into hot-shutdown mode. The arms and legs froze in position and the reactor sighed to minimum power drain, with gyros on standby.

  He would do a full, proper shutdown later, after they were in space. But for now, time wasn't his friend. The Steel Wolves had undoubtedly spotted him by now, and-if they were feeling particularly bloody-minded, or if they didn't want the word to get out-a Condor tank backed by Elemental infantry could already be on the way, aiming to cripple Quicksilver before it could lift. Then therewould be unpleasant questions to answer.

  He disconnected and shed the cooling vest and the neurohelmet, and stood, stretching as much as possible in the cramped cockpit. His back ached. Was it possible he had been that tense? Did betraying another world not come easily? Rather than answer his own questions-he'd have plenty of time for that level of introspection on the long flight back to Terra-Crow pushed open the access hatch and climbed out of the 'Mech.

  He'd stripped down to shorts and T-shirt to pilot the 'Mech; as soon as the cold winter-morning air struck his mostly bare skin, he started to shiver.

  "Where is the captain?" he asked the crewman who had guided him to his spot, even as a crew of cargo hands began work on adding extra strapdowns and attachment points to the cargo cradle in order to jury-rig proper transport for the 'Mech. Their tools clanged as the bolts went in and the lines tightened. "I need to make arrangements with him for lifting off as soon as possible."

  "This way, sir," the crewman responded. He turned and walked toward a hatch. Crow followed.

  With the crewman leading, they stepped through an airtight door. Inside the ship the air was warmer, though still chilly to Crow's overheated skin. They went down a long passageway, climbed a ladder, then took a lift up to the maneuvering and control portions of the ship.

  "The captain is on the bridge?" Crow asked as they walked.

  "No, sir," the crewman responded. "While you were berthing the 'Mech, he asked me to bring you to the first-class passenger lounge. He said he'd be waiting for you there."

  I don't have the time for social pleasantries, Crow thought impatiently. The tea and biscuits can wait until later.

  The passageways were nicer here-wood-grained coverings on the bulkheads, carpet over the deck-plates, brass fittings on everything-as befitted a passenger area. The crewman stopped at a door, knocked, and stood aside.

  "Through here," he said.

  Crow went through the door and into a large compartment containing a polished wooden table, dark green bulkheads with framed pictures hanging from them, and a silver tea service on a sideboard.

  The DropShip's Captain was indeed seated at the head of the table-and an officer of the Steel Wolves was standing behind him with a slug-pistol in his hand.

  Two more Clan Wolf troopers moved from their places beside the door to stand next to and behind Crow, each one taking hold of one of his arms.

  "Good morning, Paladin," the officer said. "How good of you to join us. Galaxy Commander Kerensky has asked me to greet you."

  "Good morning, Star Captain," Crow replied. "Give the Galaxy Commander my compliments on her economy of effort-I assume she sent teams to all the civilian ships on the field? -and please inform her that I am on business for The Republic of the Sphere, and shall not be impeded."

  "You can convey your compliments in person," the Star Captain replied. "My orders are very specific, and do not include leaving without you."

  Crow sighed, and relaxed. "I suppose I have no choice," he said, and without pause swung his right leg behind the left leg of the trooper standing to his right. He threw his hip against the man's hip, and felt the trooper's knee snap.

  The man yelped, and fell, and Crow used his now-free right hand to grasp the hand of the second trooper, the one who held his left arm.

  He spun into position behind the trooper and his left arm snaked up and around the man's throat, bending him back, lifting him from the floor by his windpipe. At the same time Crow pulled the trooper's sidearm from the holster at his belt and raised it, bringing the slug-pistol's barrel up underneath the trooper's right armpit.

  The Star Captain raised his own pistol and fired off a snap shot. Crow felt the projectile strike the body of the trooper he stood behind. The man jerked and slumped in Crow's grip. Crow fired back, a double tap. The first projectile took the Star Captain in the chest, the second just under his jaw. He fell.

  The entire exchange had taken only a matter of seconds.

  Crow let go of the man he held; the trooper's body collapsed to the deck. Still holding the slug- pistol loosely in his right hand, Crow walked forward and around the table where the Quicksilver's Captain sat, and recovered the Star Captain's fallen weapon.

  "When a pistol is pointed at his head, a man does what he has to," the Quicksilver's Captain said. "But I'm a loyal citizen of The Republic."

  "So he does," Crow agreed, "and so you are. And I think we should depart this planet before the Wolves notice that one of their Star Captains is not reporting back in."

  36

  Tyson and Varney 'Mech Factory

  Fairfield suburb

  Tara

  Northwind

  February 3134; local winter

  The long, low buildings of the Tyson and Varney 'Mech Factory covered several hectares of the ground in the suburb of Fairfield, to the northwest of the city. At the moment, the 'Mech Factory was anchoring the right side of the Northwind Highlanders' defenses. Sergeant Hugh Brodie lay prone on the frozen ground behind the end of the Mech Assembly building, with just his head around the corner, binoculars pressed to his eyes.

  "Movement," he whispered into his throat mike. "Squad strength, Gauss rifles, full packs. Steel Wolf urban cammie smocks. No vehicle. Moving toward me in open formation."

  "Roger," whispered an answering voice in his headset. "If they pass the halfway point, call in mortars. Else stand fast and report."

  "Roger, out."

  The sergeant pulled back behind the cover of the wall. "Right, lads," he said to the fire team that clustered there. "Things may get hot in a bit. Check your gear, check your buddy's gear. If anyone's low, now's the time to reload. Prepare smoke canisters. But don't fire until I do."

  The fire team members nodded understanding. Sentry and security duty along the interface between Steel Wolves and Highlanders was wearing on the nerves-everybody was tense after a night spent waiting for the heavy fighting to break out, either from a full-scale Steel Wolf assault or from a Highlander counterattack-but these troops were good at what they did. They went through the motions quickly and professionally, with no excess sounds. The sergeant crawled back to his position looking around the corner of the building.

  The Wolf troopers were closer, coming up on the midpoint of the long wall. Not a major attack, Brodie thought. Not yet. This looked like just a probe.

  "Company, this is Observation Post Five," the sergeant said over his throat mike. "Twelve in the open. Position alpha. Request mortar support."

  "Roger."

/>   A thump. A black flower of dirt bloomed along the road that connected the Steel Wolves' lines with those of the Highlanders.

  "Left two, add five, ten rounds, fire for effect," the sergeant whispered. A moment passed. The approaching squad had vanished, taking cover along the walls and in depressions in the ground. They knew what was coming. Veterans of many campaigns, the Steel Wolves, too, were good at what they did.

  The ground where the Steel Wolf infantry had stood earlier erupted in more geysers of dirt and smoke. The sergeant pushed himself to his feet, pointed to one of his troopers, then pointed around the corner.

  "Let's see what we got," he said.

  " 'Kay, sarge," the trooper said, swinging tight around the corner, pressing his body up against the wall.

  "Cover him," Brodie said to the rest of the fire team.

  The sun was rising, the day would be cold but fair. The trooper dashed forward, his Gauss rifle at his shoulder, the muzzle swinging to follow his eyes.

  He froze. "Armor!" he shouted, and dashed back toward the fire team.

  "Smoke!" the sergeant shouted. Four canisters rattled as they were thrown, rolling along the road behind the running man.

  "Fire!" The team's weapons shot past their comrade into the screening wall of white smoke. They weren't planning on hitting anything, just on making the enemy keep their heads down and ruining their aim.

  The man got back to the corner. "DI Schmitt tank," he reported to Brodie between gasps for breath. "At least one. Plus dismounts."

  Damn, Sergeant Brodie thought. Maybe this is the big attack, after all.

  "Places, people," he said. "We're going to hold here as long as we can, but fall back. We can't hold against a push on our own." He crawled back to his position observing around the corner.

  "Company, this is Observation Post Five. Schmitt inbound. Soft targets. Mortar support, free fire, same coordinates."

  "Roger."

  Once again the crump of mortars sounded from down the street. Mortar rounds wouldn't hurt armor, but would strip away its infantry support and force the tank commander to button up, limiting his vision.