Fire at Will

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Desperately, she pressed her hand flat against the tile and tried to buck her hips to shift him, but he knocked her hand out from under her, slapping it back toward her torso. Her hand landed against her thigh, and she felt something hard in her pocket. She scrabbled at her pocket, then stabbed at her attacker’s face with the object in her right hand.

  The Cameron star necklace.

  Blood spurted over her hand and the policeman swore, but he did not release her.

  She bent her knee and dropped the necklace, reaching for her boot. There! Her pistol! He grabbed for her hand as he belatedly realized what she was doing, but she fired blindly behind her back. She had to hit something, he was so big. He convulsed against her, cursing and hitting her hand, knocking the gun away. He rolled off her.

  Trillian twisted onto her back and saw that he was pressing his hand against his side—she must have hit him. She lunged at him. Grabbing the cord for the walkie-talkie clipped to his collar, she used it as a garrote. His thick neck muscles tensed as he tried to lean away from the cord, but she moved with him, maintaining the pressure on his throat.

  She arched her back, focusing every atom of her strength on choking the policeman. His eyes bulged as she pressed harder and harder, crushing his windpipe. Blood from the cut she had given him with the Cameron star shimmered as he tried to turn his head. Trillian threw all of her weight against the cord. It dug into his flesh and he made a deep, throaty gurgling noise. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if to yell. She could smell his breath, her face was so close to his. Her jaw ached with tension. A roar of pure rage filled her ears.

  His free arm hit her three times, each strike weaker than the last. His face was purpling, but she did not let up. He had been going to beat her, maybe kill her, probably rape her. He was not worthy to live. In a few more heartbeats it was over. His body rocked once, then suddenly went limp, but she didn’t let go of the cord.

  Finally, Trillian let go. Every muscle ached. She stared at the dead man. He was a brute, ugly, dead. She staggered the few steps across the walkway, breathing raggedly. Sweat washed her body and soaked her clothes, making her hot, sticky, dusty. She stopped when she noticed Klaus standing in that same doorway. He looked down at the body, then at her.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, bending over to pick up her pistol and the necklace and handing them both to her. “We have to go!”

  She didn’t even wonder how he had gotten away from the other officer. Taking the gun, she slid it back into her boot. She examined the necklace, then squatted by the dead body and wiped most of the blood off the star onto his uniform. She found her shawl and carefully arranged it over her head. “Yes, we must go.”

  Taking Klaus’ hand, she followed him back into the bustle of the street. She didn’t notice the people around her. Her mind’s eye was filled with the crumpled form of the police officer whom she—Trillian Steiner—had killed.

  As they made their way out of the market, a new thought filled her head. She realized that when the man had died, she’d felt the same rush she got from sex. The same sweat, the same exhilaration. She didn’t want to think about what that might mean.

  Eighth Lyran Regulars Staging Area

  McAffe

  Bolan Military Province, Lyran Commonwealth

  Colonel Drew Quentin climbed down from his Orion and suddenly found himself flanked by two men. They looked out of place—obvious civilians on a military base—but with their close-cropped haircuts, they could have been MechWarriors. Each took him by one elbow. He instantly resisted, and one of them flashed a badge in a small hard plastic case. Glancing at it, he saw the ID badge was for Loki. That explained a great deal. Numbly, he allowed himself to be led to a small, empty office off the ’Mech bay.

  One of the men leaned against the door. The other rolled the dull gray office chair out from under the desk and pointed at it. He sat.

  “What’s this about?” Quentin demanded. “What’s going on here?”

  “We are with Loki,” said the man who wasn’t covering the door. He moved to stand in front of the colonel. He could have passed for a common office drone, but spies were like that—and they made Quentin nervous.

  “I saw your ID. What does intelligence want with me?” The mere mention of Loki created an atmosphere of tension.

  The man paced across in front of him twice, silently. “We’re here about Algorab.”

  Not Algorab! Quentin chuckled nervously. “There must be some sort of mistake. That matter is closed. There was a court-martial and I was cleared. The man you are looking for is Roderick Frost.”

  “No mistake, Colonel,” the agent assured him. “We have been sent here at the personal behest of the archon—on her specific orders.”

  “The archon?” It didn’t seem like it should be possible, but that added to the tension. He shifted in the old office chair. “What does the archon want with me?”

  The agent stopped pacing and leaned on the arms of the chair so that he was face-to-face with Quentin. “The archon wants to offer you a unique opportunity, Colonel. One to which you should pay close attention. “

  “Opportunity? Well, I . . .”

  The agent flashed him a fast grin. “You see, Colonel, the archon is not convinced that your testimony regarding the affair on Algorab was entirely accurate. That certain details may have been left out, particularly in reference to the actions of then-First Hauptmann Frost.”

  “I already testified to what I di—what happened there.”

  “We know,” the agent at the door spoke up. “The problem is that we think you lied.”

  “I—”

  The first agent cut him off. “You see, Colonel, the archon believes you may have accidentally omitted details about that operation. She is much more polite than we are—we’d just call you a liar. We all wonder if perhaps you, shall I say, exaggerated Frost’s role in the events. She wants to know the truth. So you are being given a unique chance to amend your testimony, right here—right now. This is your last chance to tell the full truth.”

  His heart pounded in his ears. This was never supposed to happen. He had connections. They had assured him that this wouldn’t happen. Frost was supposed to take the fall, and he had. Why did the archon care about him? He had no doubt that the two Loki agents were serious. “I won’t change my testimony. It would ruin my career. You’ve got to understand—”

  The agent got a little closer to his face. “But I do understand, Colonel. Your career is over, regardless. If you tell us what really happened on Algorab, you walk away with your pension and at least a hope for a normal life.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  The agent shook his head. “There is an old saying about the truth setting you free. I suggest you embrace that adage, Colonel. Because if you don’t—you will never understand true freedom again. Loki’s reach is long, surely you know that.”

  “Why does the archon care about this?” he stammered.

  “They didn’t tell us that. We simply serve at her pleasure—as do you, if you remember your induction oath.

  “So, Colonel, have you decided? Will the truth set you free?”

  He sobbed . . . he actually sobbed out loud. Reaching for the noteputer that the agent held out to him, Colonel Quentin began to relate the true events on Algorab.

  24

  The Zanzibe Pocket

  Harvison Flats

  South of Zanzibar, Tamarind

  4 December 3137

  Roderick came up on the levee and used the earthen ridge to protect his lower torso as he fired. The two arm-mounted autocannons spat out a stream of armor-piercing rounds into the approaching JES missile carrier. The shots tore into the soft armor on the side of the vehicle. It had been positioning itself to fire a shot at one of his infantry squads but was suddenly and very deliberately distracted.

  The autocannon rounds ate the armor plating on the side and tore into the missile casings. The JES pivoted to face him, which was what he was counting on. Anot
her attack from a little farther down the levee, from a Mars assault tank, poured long-range missiles into the JES, catching the other side of the Duchy vehicle. A flame, really no more than a flicker, appeared near the rear of the vehicle, then turned into a hot red-orange glow. Suddenly the JES rocked violently as some of its ammunition cooked off.

  The JES driver fired off the missiles he had. Three, damaged from the shots Roderick had fired, dove into the ground right in front of the JES, spraying shrapnel everywhere. The remaining missiles flew wildly about, like holiday fireworks. The JES shook again, and then the hatches popped. Three crewmen half crawled, half fell out of the tank. Dark gray smoke rose out of the open hatches, followed a heartbeat later by a burst of flame. His infantry scampered forward and apprehended the new prisoners, rushing them back behind the levee.

  A Marik Phoenix Hawk rose on jump jets to the top of the levee near the Mars tank. It had no idea what it was facing on the other side of the earthworks. The Mars opened up with its front turret, as did Leutnant Vaughn’s Blade, catching the Phoenix Hawk in a devastating crossfire. A nearby SRM squad unleashed a wave of short range missiles into it as well, ripping into the Hawk’s legs. Chunks of armor rained down on the Marik side of the berm. The Hawk fired its laser into the Mars tank, searing a deep black scar into the top armor of the vehicle. It then slid back down the levee and tried to make a run for the Zanzibe River.

  At long range, a Broken Swords Catapult covered with replacement armor plates let loose a splatter of autocannon fire and hit the Phoenix Hawk. The shots plowed into the waist of the machine, mangling the armor and sending the ’Mech facedown into the riverbed. The soft mud piled up on either side of the ’Mech as it hissed into the water, sizzling from the heat of running and firing. Its MechWarrior struggled for a moment, got it upright, then ducked under the water out of target acquisition. Roderick doubted it was down for good, but it was damaged badly enough to keep it out of the current fight.

  “Good work, Swords,” he said, looking out on the narrow strip of land where the battle had taken place. One of his Demon armored cars was flipped on its side, probably beyond repair. A Wasp was down as well, mangled but salvageable.

  “Savage One, get some teams out there and recover those vehicles. Emphasis on the ammunition and reusable parts. Concentrate on the ’Mechs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie Kroff replied. He was impressed. Days of fighting and her ’Mech was still operational, though its armor was nearly a complete patchwork of replacement plates.

  Roderick popped open the visor on his neurohelmet and rubbed his eyes. They had been fighting for days, and he hated the fact that he had been right about Duke Vedet failing to bring the relief force. They were two days overdue and there was no sign of them burning in. The Broken Swords had managed to secure a pocket along the Zanzibe River south of Zanzibar, but their hold was tenuous.

  He was outnumbered three to one, and the Duchy’s First Regulars Regiment kept coming at him, day and night. Roderick had the terrain on his side because he could leverage the river and the hills beyond to whittle away at the Regulars. The defenders had numbers to their advantage, but so far they had sent in their troops piecemeal—like the attack he had just beaten off. A reinforced company had forded the river and attempted to run the gauntlet to the levee. The attempt failed and cost the Duchy a lot of men and materiel, but they seemed to have plenty to spare.

  He signed and closed his visor. This was one of those times he hated being right, but the duke had hung him out to dry. His ammunition reserves were as low as his patience. The odds remained strongly in favor of the Duchy forces. At any time, they could send their forces in all at once and easily take out his remaining troops. They could be planning that move right now.

  Even worse, he’d heard nothing from Trillian. The news broadcasts from Zanzibar said she was a fugitive, and there was an unconfirmed report that she had slain a police officer. Roderick wasn’t sure what to make of that report. He wasn’t convinced that Trillian was capable of killing another human being, but he did know she wouldn’t go down without a fight. It was within the realm of possibility that she had killed someone in order to remain alive and free. I pray that she’s okay. . . .

  Roderick closed his eyes, nearly succumbing to sleep for just a moment. We can’t survive fighting defensively. We have to take the initiative. But how . . .

  and where? He reluctantly opened his eyes, and keyed in a strategic overlay map on his secondary display. With twenty percent of his own forces either down or being refit, he needed a fast solution. While the Regulars had suffered more losses, they had more they could afford to lose. He studied the map.

  Did he want to try to take Zanzibar itself? He didn’t have enough troops to hold one of the seats of Marik power, not against a potentially hostile population. No, the real target was the First Regulars Regiment. Wipe out their ability to wage war, and he wouldn’t have to invade the city—the local government would find itself unprotected. They could retreat to Padaron City, but the loss of Zanzibar would be a staggering blow to their morale. Such a retreat would be so demoralizing that the government would be better off leaving the world entirely.

  So, how do you take out a regiment operating on friendly ground? He considered what he knew about the enemy’s assets based on data from a signal bouncing off a communication satellite. At this point, both forces had roughly equal aerospace assets. They would have to be taken out. Any operation he conducted would have to be done in secret . . . that was doable as well if he used one of his fighters. He would need to hit their supply depots, steal what he could and burn the rest. Most importantly, his Broken Swords would need to keep moving. He needed to abandon the conventional, stand-up war.

  He activated his command circuit. “Attention, all company commanders. Deploy your forces to repel another assault, then meet me at the LZ.”

  “Trouble, sir?” Trace Decker asked.

  “Not for us. But the time has come to put these Regulars in a world of hurt.”

  “ ’Bout damn time . . . sir,” Kroff piped up.

  They stood under the shade of the Archon’s Pride near one of the massive landing struts. Repair crews were hovering over his Rifleman IIC, quickly attaching replacement armor to the left shoulder, which had been mangled during the last assault. Roderick ignored them. His focus was on the officers gathered around the map.

  “It’s time we take the initiative. I propose to split our command. The two units will operate essentially as independent companies. We will avoid the Regulars to the north and instead head south. About thirty kilometers from here is a bridge we can cross. One company will hold the attention of the Regulars, keep them on the river. The other will sweep to the south, cross the Zanzibe there and move up to hit them. At the same time, we will use every transport we have, VTOL and otherwise, to take a fast-moving force and sweep to the west. They will strike at these two supply depots. Their mission is to steal what they can and destroy the rest.

  “Finally, we will deploy our DropShips to the north along the western flank of the enemy. They will drop directly on the airstrip designated as Randolph Field and take out the Regulars’ aerospace assets, then come back.”

  “Sir, how can we move those VTOLs with them watching us?” Jamie asked. “I guess the same question can be asked about any part of this operation. There are satellites over us all the time—hell, we’re bouncing signals off them to get a picture of the Regulars.”

  “Simple,” Roderick said. “We remove those satellites. “

  “I like the idea of being on the move,” Trace said. “But risking the DropShips seems a little radical.”

  “We need to negate that airfield. They are using it to maintain and arm their aerospace and VTOL assets. Most military commanders coddle their DropShips. We don’t need them. This is the fight for the entire Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey, right here. I don’t care if the ships are ruined in the fight. Their turrets are damned powerful and we are outnumbered and outgunned right now.
They can help level the playing field. If they get destroyed in the process—well, I never had plans on us leaving Tamarind in the first place.”

  “Where are our reinforcements, sir?” Kroff asked.

  Roderick had the same question, but didn’t want her to know it. “It doesn’t matter, does it? They aren’t here yet. Until they get here, we’re the only show in town.” He eyed his officers carefully. “Look, this is not going to be easy. So far we’ve been forced to react to a superior enemy. Tomorrow morning, I intend to shake up the Duchy commander—force him to dance to our tune.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Trace put in.

  “I prefer attack to defense,” Kroff added.

  “All right, then,” Frost said with a broad grin. “Get your people moving. I will coordinate the larger elements of this operation.”

  Warrant Officer Zachery Dorn angled his Stuka aerospace fighter to high orbit. It felt good to be back in space. He and his wingman, Francine Burns, were on an orbital approach to the commercial satellite band. So far there had been no pursuit.

  He toggled his targeting and tracking system. Yup, there they were. Ten satellites either in geosynchronous orbit over Zanzibar or crisscrossing the area. Dorn punched in the coordinates of each target and tagged some as his, some as Burns’.

  “Go faster,” Burns said, a hint of urgency in her voice. “No sign of the Duchy fighters yet, but they did see us take off.”

  “I don’t want to be caught up here alone either, Francine,” he said, finishing the last of the tagging. “Targets are designated. Break to your two o’clock and begin the sweep.”

  He arced his Stuka over and spotted the first of his targets, a small news-service satellite. Barely a meter in diameter, the tiny satellite was hard to spot visually, but his sensors picked it up. Switching his four large lasers to his primary target interlock, he let go a blast of energy. He could hear the whine of the capacitors as they began the recharge cycle. The satellite disintegrated, momentarily becoming visible as a cloud of bright, shiny pieces.