"Connect me with Star Captain Demos. Wherever she is."
"It will take me a minute to locate her, Star Colonel," the man said, trying to buy himself time.
"Bargained well." Torrent grinned to himself at the thought of the other man's sudden realization. "You have one minute."
Just to see, Torrent began a slow count of the seconds. He did not set impossible tasks for his crew, but he expected them to perform to high standards where he was concerned. He would give the communications officer sixty seconds, and then he would give him an extra shift.
The man came back within forty. "I have Star Captain Demos, sir. She is on maneuvers near the Taibek Hills."
Torrent placed her on his mental map of the area. Twenty kilometers away, where the Tanager Mountains bent north to go around Hahnsak and the B'her farming valley. "Commendable." His praise was short, but effective. "Patch her through."
"Star Colonel Torrent." Nikola Demos's voice sounded shaky, as if her Mobile HQ was bouncing her over some rough terrain. "How may I serve you?"
"Are you overly busy?"
"No, Star Colonel. Taking an aerial view of our forward posts."
She was in a VTOL. That explained the chopping noise cutting apart her voice-the blades of the aircraft. Torrent nodded. He guided the Fox in a gentle swerve that pointed him directly toward the Okinawa -class carrier. "Nikola. Meet me at the Stealthy Paw. We have matters to discuss." He threw the headset back down onto the floor.
Grounding the Fox hovercraft at the foot of the Okinawa's narrow ramp, Torrent secured the vehicle and cracked his door. The full heat of Achernar's high desert plateau slammed into him with physical force. It felt as if the heat were sucking the moisture right out of his body. He shucked his jacket, stripping back down to field pants and a black tank top, and left the jacket and his service cap in the vehicle.
He paused halfway up the ramp, gazing over the dry lake, and inhaled deeply as if testing the air for the scent of predators, or prey. Achernar smelled dry and abandoned. From his staging area, it was difficult to believe that such an out-of-the-way world had suddenly become so important to Kal Radick and the Steel Wolves. Torrent wiped a large hand over the back of his head, brushing away sweat and dirt. Looks were often deceiving. Reviewing battleroms from the recent assaults had reinforced that old maxim.
The Okinawa's main bay-its largest space with most of the ship's OmniFighters and conventional aircraft grounded outside on the lake bed-had been converted into a primary maintenance area. From the wide-open bay doors Torrent noticed one thing immediately.
No one was working.
His disposition took a dark turn as he walked past torn-open vehicles and infantry battlesuits downchecked for preventative maintenance. He saw an abandoned welder, and only barely picked up the acrid, fading stench of hot metalwork. Grease and paint were much stronger, but then with so many barrels cracked open and bleeding fumes into the air, they would be. Whatever had happened here had stopped work better than thirty minutes before, and there had obviously been no resolution.
His workforce gathered around a Jagatai, the OmniFighter shining bright silver from fresh armor but only partly repainted. He bulldozed through the ring of spectators, shouldering aside those who were in his way without breaking his stride, and walked right up to the side of the craft where the pilot's name was painted.
Star Commander Xera. Just as he'd thought. And instead of listing her command as Ripper Flight, under her name was the new callsign Broken Fang.
No, it wasn't. Torrent yanked the dark glasses off his head, tucked them into his belt. Actually it read Broken Fan with the "g" still missing. Paint and stencils sat on a nearby work platform. That would be Xera provoking the situation by trying to co-opt Star Captain Mehta's flight callsign, slowly assuming his position. Drops of bright red blood darkened toward drier brown on the nonskid deck at his feet. A fight.
He swung about, and the look in his eyes sent most people back to work. The ones who hadn't slipped away after his obvious arrival, that is. The slow-learners. Those who stayed behind shifted about on nervous feet, the techs waiting to finish work on the aerospace OmniFighter.
Except for two.
Star Commander Drake stood closest to him. Torrent studied him head to foot, noting the dark smear of blood under his split lip and the righteous fire burning behind his pale green eyes. The man had fallen into Xera's trap, pulling her away from the Jagatai and earning a fist or foot for his effort.
Not even the five minutes it must have taken Torrent to arrive had slackened his fury. Or it had been incredibly strong.
Xera stood a more relaxed post off to one side. A master tech and two apprentices separated the two pilots. Not keeping them apart-lower-castes did not interfere in a fight between warriors-but showing support in the way they stood closer to Xera than Drake. Torrent noted that, too.
"You two should have taken care of this three days ago." He kept his deep voice under careful control, simply pointing out the facts. "A hot stick is not enough. If either of you had an ounce of Laren Mehta's leadership potential, you would have challenged sooner."
Neither Star Commander said a word, which was to their credit. He glanced at Xera. "You struck Drake outside a circle of equals?"
She nodded. "He laid hands on me without permission. That is an attack."
As Torrent had already surmised. "Do either of you have an official challenge?"
Xera preempted Drake by being faster off the mark. "I have restored my own honor. And, as I was the one Star Captain Mehta last placed in command, I assume his authority."
"Then I challenge," Drake argued at once. "The position is mine."
Torrent nodded. "I forbid augmented combat while we are on a military footing." By custom, choice of hand-to-hand or live-fire combat belonged to the 'hunter,' the one who challenged. "Drake
For that, I offer you choice of venue."
"Here. Now." The pilot couldn't wait to think if he enjoyed an advantage someplace else
Torrent glanced to the remaining technicians. "Give them five meters." Starting near their star colonel, the six remaining men and women formed a loose circle around the pilots, leaving them approximately five meters for their circle of equals. "First one forced out of the circle," Torrent said, a time-honored condition of victory. Then he set himself in a wide, comfortable stance, and waited.
The two combatants circled each other warily, watching for any telltale sign of weakness.
Xera's sharp, hazel eyes missed nothing. A warm anger radiated out of Drake, who was beyond patience. He rushed in, coming low and fast to maintain his center of gravity and not get simplytoreadored out of the makeshift circle.
Xera accepted the full brunt of his attack, protecting herself by balling up and rolling away, losing skin from her hand against the nonskid deck and coming dangerously close to the circle's edge.
By intention, as it happened. Greedily, Drake pursued, thinking to kick her the rest of the way out of the Trial. Xera rolled back toward him, speared out one leg in a low sidekick and connected solidly with his knee.
He stumbled forward and Xera could have won the Trial right then if she had helped him to fall over and past her. Instead, the female pilot struck out again, bringing her foot up fast and cruel, spearing Drake in the groin and stopping his fall cold.
Torrent couldn't help his wince of sympathy.
Drake backed off, doubled over and trying to catch his breath. Jumping back to her feet, Xera gave him no time to recover. She danced in graceful as a striking snake, throwing a roundhouse kick into Drake's stomach, folding him in half and then bringing her elbow down on the back of his neck.
Then she waited for him to rise again.
The star colonel had Xera's measure now. Rather than take the victory when she could, she was winning this challenge and any future challenges of her new position. She waited for Drake to concede. Torrent respected that, even if it might cost him a pilot for the better part of a week. Such a com
manding tactic was one of many reasons why women were considered the most dangerous competitors for a Trial of Bloodname or any other rough contest. They simply did not try to win. They tried to destroy.
Drake didn't know enough to thrust his hand out of the circle and slap the ground. Instead, Torrent watched him crawl painfully back to his feet. Dogged persistence was an admirable trait in any warrior stock, the star colonel granted Drake that.
Xera moved in again. This time Drake threw every ounce of his remaining energy into one vicious punch. His uppercut caught the female pilot a glancing blow as Xera rolled her head in the same direction. She sagged forward as if falling, grabbed two handfuls of Drake's coveralls, and then rolled backward dragging him with her. Planting her foot into his gut, she used their combined momentum to throw Drake up and over, slamming him down on his back against the cargo bay deck.
The air rushed from Drake's lungs in a forced exhale.
Still on the ground, Xera pivoted on her shoulder blades and threw a backfist that connected with Drake's nose. Torrent heard cartilage and bone crunch. A gout of blood splashed down over Drake's mouth and the man lay still.
Xera climbed back to her feet.
Drake lay prostrate near the circle's edge, but still no part of his body had broken the perimeter.
Torrent stepped forward, violating the circle. Xera would now be within her rights to attack him as well, taking his interference as a slight to her own honor. It depended on how much respect she held for her commander. Torrent did not even glance at her as he stepped past, giving her his back with full confidence. He paused near Drake and used his foot to shove the pilot's hand so that it fell outside the circle. Then he stepped over the unconscious man and left the circle behind.
Star Captain Demos jogged over from the bay door, her sharp gaze flying past Torrent to seize upon the ended Trial. "You did not wait?" she asked, obviously upset. "I would like to have seen that."
"And gamble on it, no doubt." Torrent shook his head. "As I recall, you still owe . . . Yulri . .
on a previous wager."
"I have not forgotten. I took a bondsman yesterday, after the skirmish near Taibek Mines. But he is an infantryman and is proving . . . intractable."
Taking defeated enemy warriors asisorla, making them bondsmen to the Steel Wolves, was a Clan practice Kal Radick encouraged among his forces. Torrent was less sanguine about the idea, looking only for those who truly supported the Steel Wolves. They were out there on Achernar, and they would come over to him at the right time.
He merely needed to provide it for them.
"You had something you wished to discuss?" Demos asked him after several paces in silence.
"I do." Torrent mentally thumbed through the Achernar briefings he had memorized. There were two local reservists who had once petitioned for active duty under Kal Radick's command, citing their blood ties to Clan Wolf expatriates. Freeborn, but still of warrior stock. It was a guess, where he'd find them, but the briefing mentioned their dissatisfaction driving LoaderMechs and short- haulers
"I would like you to take a run over to the San Marino spaceport," Torrent told his second, "and pick up two packages for me."
8 - Rendezvous
San Marino Spaceport
Achernar
23 February 3133
Strapped into the ConstructionMech's cracked vinyl seat by an ordinary lap belt, the militia's newest MechWarrrior wrestled with unfamiliar postures and controls as he tried to pick up the tangled section of chain link fence. His left-hand vise grabbed at the wire mesh, pulling it to one side so that his bucket hand on the WorkMech's right arm could dig out the buried pole. For the third time he misjudged, bringing the bucket down on the fencing and tearing it out of his own grip. Biting down on his frustration he pulled back on the controls, preparing to start again. The going was slow, but there was little hurry.
"Not like we'll be using these landing pads anytime soon," he whispered.
He had certainly seen this section of the San Marino spaceport in better shape.
The military's "secure landing" zone was neither after the Steel Wolf raid two days before.
Bunker-thick walls lay in untidy piles, protecting nothing better than a fire-gutted hangar and two collapsed warehouses. The trio of landing pads were scorched and scarred by errant lasers and artillery-made craters. A section of tunnel-one of two that connected the once-secure site to the underground service area on the larger, civilian side of the spaceport-had caved in, forming a long, deep depression into which a Republic militia Marksman had fallen. The second tunnel would need an incredible amount of shoring before safe access could be guaranteed.
Work teams, mostly civilian volunteers, had spread out over the ruined area in an attempt to clear the debris and recover whatever useful material remained to be salvaged. Like ants toiling to rebuild their shattered colony, people carried and fetched, formed a brigade line for moving dirt and rock out from around the second tunnel entrance, drove dozers and cranes and one of the ever-rarer IndustrialMechs. One team worked with body-sniffing dogs, searching for any of three missing reservists who might be buried under a pile of rubble.That was a duty Raul had no stomach for.
Fortunately, there were other options.
Volunteering some of his off-time, today Raul substituted for the ConstructionMech's usual operator who was now being trained to drive a combat-converted WorkMech. Soon, he knew, this vehicle would be pulled in to the base. A rocket launcher would be mounted over the top of the engine housing, and one of its arms might even be modified to carry some kind of light autocannon or small, one-shot missile system. In the last week Erik Sandoval had proven that converted IndustrialMechs could hold their own against ground vehicles, and The Republic militia was not too proud to learn from the ambitious noble.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Raul said to himself, and sounded half-convinced.
Well, this was the right planet for making such conversions, he knew, with Achernar IndustrialMechs one of the planet's largest companies. Loaders, Forestries, Miners, ConstructionMechs . . . and that brought him back to his volunteer job.
He gazed through the scratched ferroglass canopy, studying the violently-disassembled fencing.
This was his last task for the day, before having to report back to base. With a sharp exhale, he grabbed for the mesh again and tried to dig out the connecting pole.
Missed
Raul levered up the 'Mech's throttles until its combustion engine roared with new life. The chassis shook and dark exhaust smoke belched into the air. Raul opened the vise wide, gathering as much of the fencing mesh as possible in one giant handful, then tightened down on the grips as he shuffle-walked backward. The ConstructionMech ripped the fencing out into a long carpet of tangled metal, quickly winning a brief tug-of-war match against the buried post. That accomplished, he balled up the chain and posts into one ungainly mess, grabbed it in an awkward hug, and lifted it high overhead ready to carry it to the waiting dump truck.
Jessica Searcy stood on the far side of the ruined ground, hardhat perched awkwardly on her head and a portable cooler in hand.
From twenty meters away she likely missed Raul's guilty start. He quickly waved her over toward the truck, using exaggerated gestures she was sure to catch. Raul shuffled the WorkMech into a wide turn, careful of his load, and marched over to the waiting vehicle where he 'Mechhandled the ungainly mess of fencing into the back. Stepping back, gritting his teeth at the obnoxious bleating alarm that sounded to warn others of the backpedaling machine, Raul found a clear area to park the Worker.
Grounding both long arms for stability he shut down the engine, feeling as if the entire world had come to rest without that laboring rattle at his back. Shucking his earplugs and tossing them to the littered floor, he kicked open the stuck door and jumped down to the ground, ignoring a short ladder.
Jessica didn't look ready to work. Her casual blouse would never stand up to the abuse and she had chosen slacks i
nstead of jeans. But she was here, and that alone left Raul feeling better. He had called her this morning, asking her to join him on the work party. This time their old argument had turned on a sharper edge, and she had eventually slammed the phone down on him.
"I thought you hadreal work to do?" he asked. Not mean, but not completely forgiving either.
Jessica shrugged, and had the good manners to look a bit ashamed at her earlier, heated words.
"I thought someone told me this was real work." She sounded apologetic. Leaning forward, she kissed Raul's sweaty cheek. "I made up my mind too late to be of much help, so I made a large lunch and brought it out. There's plenty." She glanced around, counting the number of volunteers. "Maybe not, actually."
Raul took the cooler and set it aside. "It's appreciated." He was glad she'd come, talking through the vidphones wasn't enough to ease the ache of missing her, but her timing left a great deal to be desired. Pulling a rag out of his pocket, Raul wiped down his face. "I wish you had come out earlier." He nodded toward a waiting shuttle bus. "I'm about to be relieved."
"Early day?" Jessica frowned. "Have you at least eaten something?"
Raul glanced guiltily at the container of food. "I'm taking a meeting this afternoon where there will be food provided. I'll eat. Honest." He even sounded guilty, and there was no reason to.
She nodded, skeptical. Likely remembering the last time she had come after him with an offer of dinner and found a half-eaten doughnut. "Are you being careful?" she asked suddenly.
Now that was a loaded question. "As careful as I can be, Jess."
He couldn't think of anything else to say, especially after their argument on the phone. Raul knew that his fiancée worried for him. This was not the kind of life Jessica had in mind to lead. He saw his replacement walking over, took Jessica's arm and pulled her aside.
"Look, I know this is hard. I trained for this, once, and it's hard on me too." Raul had tried to tell her about his misgivings on the battlefield, that first day, but it was like they spoke different languages. "Help is on the way, Jess. There's a Knight-Errant coming over from Ronel to survey the situation and call up additional support as needed. That's the advantage of having a working HPG station."
BattleTech : Mechwarrior - Dark Age 02 - A Call to Arms (2003) Page 10
