by IIsa J. Bick
Stop! An inner voice, jabbing her brain like a hot spike. You are samurai! Think as samurai! Angry now, Katana blinked against her panic, clamping down with fierce determination on her fear. She was samurai, a Daughter of the Dragon; she was Dragon! Katana’s spirit gathered and bunched at the center of her being; her blood roared through her veins, marching to the beat of her warrior’s heart.
Fight. Katana’s eyes sought out the winking green indicators that were the enemy. There! The Shilone the point of a spear, and the two Slayers forming its body, and they’d made a mistake, yes, the bastards were too confident, and they were not samurai!
“Thank you!” Blood filled her mouth from her wound, and she savored the taste: warm salt and moist copper, and her, her essence, what made her Dragon . . . “Yes,” she hissed, “yes!” Energy, hot and bright, flickered through her limbs, and she grabbed at this, her ki, her energy, focusing a tight cone of determination that she thought on its way, pushing it from her brain with the force of a lion and the speed of a tiger. “Feel me coming for you, you bastards, because here I am!”
She jerked back on her stick and canted the Lucifer y-minus-thirty and z-minus-forty, twirled the craft along its long axis, and then jammed on her thrusters, pushing the ship for all it could muster. A fist slammed into her chest, but she hadn’t felt it as her ki flowed into the machine that throbbed beneath her, and they became one, racing through space. Because she was going to meet the bastards head-on; she would drive right into their midst and give them a taste of their own medicine—and, oh, yes, she just might kill them, too.
Lasers sizzled by in silent streams of death, and she took hits—enough to send the Lucifer’s temperature soaring. And still the fighters came, arrogant in their combined strength, and this, too, was a fatal mistake because they thought that she would break first. Either that—or maybe try to ram.
“Yeah, and I bet you’re counting on that, too; you’re going to sit there and wait and let me come to you. Well, I’m coming, you fraccing sons of bitches, just you wait . . .” Katana toggled her weapons up full, brought her HUD targeting display front and center, drew in a deep breath and then let it loose with a full, keening, battle cry: “DO!”
At that exact instant she cored into their midst, whirling like a dervish, and snap-fired all her lasers at once: full power. Lasers shot from her fighter in a scatter-sunburst of light and energy. Garnet streams streaked through space, unfurling like the deadly length of a thousand serpents, striking with lethal fangs in many places and all directions at once. The fighters broke apart from this demon in their midst; they fell away, twirling, scattering—but Katana was already turning around, whipping the straining Lucifer on its long axis, turning a sharp, hard, inverted loop, slamming her fighter from side to side so they couldn’t line up a shot and then came roaring down, snap-firing again.
And this time, she hit. “YES!” She let out a long whooping war cry as flares bloomed on the port wing of one Slayer. The larger fighter jogged down and then made a hard right, and she twisted, trying to keep the ship in sight and see; how badly was it hurt, had she . . . ?
A stuttering wink-wink-wink overhead and to her right, and then flashes, much too bright to be a laser and the wrong color . . .
“Missiles!” shouted the Old Master. “To starboard, z-plus-sixty!”
“HUNH!” Katana slammed her fighter into a zoom dive, roaring straight for the Shilone that was, at that moment, heading for her belly. She hesitated for a fraction of a second. No time to second guess! Move, move, move, go, gogogogogo!
“They’re still on us! Acquiring! Time to impact, eight seconds!”
“Oh, no, you don’t, you bastards, no, you don’t . . . YAH!” Jamming on the power, Katana bulleted directly into the Shilone’s line of fire, did the calculations with lightning speed, and let fly a burst of laser fire. Then she angled off, hard, skimming in the space perpendicular to the Shilone at the precise instant that her lasers punched through space, stopped short of the Shilone’s nose, and so the Shilone didn’t slow because, of course, the pilot knew that the blasts would come short.
Katana’s laser fire balled . . . and instead of following after Katana, the missiles locked on the roiling coil of laser fire, here and then gone in a second. But a second was all that mattered, and the Shilone’s pilot saw the danger and reacted, whipping around in an evasive zoom just as the missiles detonated.
The Shilone was too close. Shock waves and molten plasma boomed out in concentric circles. The smaller craft stuttered, then skipped, then tripped nose-first, out of control, spinning end on end the way a knife flies toward a target. The Shilone’s overtaxed systems gave, and the fighter tore itself apart in a silent, fiery shower.
She’d barely blinked before she heard the alarm. Target lock! Katana broke right, then left, angled off, but she’d waited a fraction of a second too long. She couldn’t hear the Slayer’s laser hissing through space, but she felt it: a jolting finger of death that torched a seam of destruction down the belly of her craft, opening the guts and cooking them at the same time. No, no, nonono, not now! Lasers functional but no starboard thruster at all, and port down to half . . . Grimacing, neck cords popping, she tried grabbing air that wasn’t there, because this was space after all, and she’d run out of luck and time . . .
And then another shriek of an alarm, and she saw it, an avatar from Hell: the sleek, deadly form of an Achilles DropShip—headed straight for her.
“No,” she said. The targeting alarm went off again, but she hardly heard it. She stared straight ahead, watching as Death lunged for her. She was surprised that she wasn’t frightened or resigned. Instead, her warrior’s heart beat more fiercely and, with fingers that barely shook and an iron will, she cut power to her remaining thruster and brought what energy remained to weapons. Maybe she couldn’t kill the beast, but she would wound it, oh, yes.
But Death struck first. A thick, bright tongue of PPC fire spurted from the Achilles’ nose, blistering through the blackness of space—past her.
The particle beam smacked the Slayer square on the nose, burning a trough of ionized plasma, and simply cut the ship in two. There was a brilliant flash as the Slayer’s missiles ignited, then a soundless explosion, and somewhere in there the pilot must also have screamed as his cockpit disintegrated. The pilot fell in silence, all of space a cold, impersonal witness, and Katana’s cheeks were slick not with blood but tears.
Then a voice she hadn’t heard in months fizzled through electromagnetic distortion: “Hang on, Tai-sho, we’re coming!”
McCain. My God. She stared, blinked, and looked again, but it was there and no mirage: her Fury trailing in the Achilles’ wake.
“Tai-sho!” McCain again, frantic now. “Katana, Tai-sho, do you copy?”
“McCain,” she whispered. Dimly, she saw the lone surviving Slayer limping for Klathandu IV, and her Fury jumping to the pursuit—and it was this that finally jarred her voice loose. “McCain, no, let it go! There’s been enough bloodshed for one day.” And then she couldn’t help it, but she was grinning like a madwoman. “And Shu-sa McCain, once I am aboard, let us have a chat about your timing. Shall we?”
25
Nagumo-Class DropShip Black Wind, inbound for Al Na’ir
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
20 June 3135
And you, little Al Na’ir, are next.
Sakamoto was drunk, not on wine but power. Two highly successful attack waves; his last devastating assault on Yance, and now a flotilla of five Legion of Vega DropShips peopled with Benjamin Regulars hurtling toward Al Na’ir. Pleased, he inhaled hugely, filling his lungs with the slightly metallic, slightly sweat-tinged aroma of the ship’s recycled air, laced with just the faintest wisp of ozone. He preferred the astringent smell of ’Mech coolant on a fine winter’s morning. But, alas, no ’Mechs; today, death would come from above and without.
Al Na’ir was a wretched place: clotted atmosphere rich in sulfur dioxide layered over, esse
ntially, barren rock. Yet people insisted on living there. Sakamoto’s keen eyes picked out the glints marking Al Na’ir’s two domed cities, Phoenix and Homai-Zaki. Each had a defensive array of four weapons turrets studded at compass points on the dome’s outer skin. Yet domes were, by their very nature, inherently indefensible. Each dome had perimeter weapons’ bays but only two ’Mechs per station, the others pulled into service against the Capellans; aerospace fighter lances were down to half strength for the same reason. Any defense would be mounted well away from the cities, likely at DropShip docking sites that connected to underground maglevs because, once an enemy penetrated a dome, the battle was lost.
Still facing the bridge’s viewscreen, he said, “What a horrible little planet. Look at it: moth-eaten, pockmarked, sulfur for air.”
“True,” said Worridge. She’d glided to his right shoulder and stood even with him now. Her tone was infuriatingly mild; the voice of reason that put his teeth on edge. “Therefore, I’m mystified that you bother with the planet at all.”
“Question a strategy, and you question me, Worridge.” Sakamoto paused to let that sink in. Besides, he saw them all listening, watching, judging . . . Sakamoto’s eyes roved over the sleek backs and blank profiles of Black Wind’s bridge personnel. No one turned, no one spoke, but Sakamoto knew that they knew he was wise to them all. Think your thoughts, and plan your little coups, but I will always be one step ahead.
Seemingly unfazed, Worridge said, “I meant no disrespect, but merely asked after Al Na’ir’s strategic importance.”
“The importance is not what’s above but below. Scarsborough Manufacturing’s there, and even though the plant doesn’t make BattleMechs anymore, the works remain. Our techs will put them to good use. Besides, the troops deserve a rest before the next attack wave.” Privately, Sakamoto didn’t give a damn about the troops. Yet he was a realist. If they were to perform well, the men needed a breather. Besides, they had taken heavy casualties on Ancha (expected) and Biham (unexpected). Eriksson, that old devil, had wrecked three ’Mechs single-handedly before they’d brought him down. Sakamoto’s tai-sho in command of the Biham spur, the Crimson Scourge Company of the Second Sword of Light, assured him that all necessary repairs would be completed in time for that spur’s next stop, Deneb Algedi. Highly likely then that the old knight’s Orion would see action just as soon as the ’Mech techs wiped its computer identification system. A delicious irony, there. Still, Eriksson was more trouble than he was worth. Sakamoto was inclined to execute him, and now he said as much to Worridge.
“But, as you’ve pointed out, Tai-shu, Eriksson will be a very effective bargaining chip, if and when Katana Tormark shows up. She’s got a soft spot for that old man.”
Sakamoto snorted. “With any luck, she’s eating sand. Damn this outage anyway; it slows everything down. But no matter how skillful her people, Ancha and Sadachbia fell fast enough.”
“We lost our fair share of ’Mechs and men.”
“Inconsequential,” Sakamoto piffled. But the Fury had fought much better than he allowed, and he knew it. No match for his forces, of course, but still. Devil take it, but their victory had come at an obscenely high cost: a full company of aerospace fighters from the Sixth Benjamin Regulars, seven ’Mechs—three in a bog, a swamp, no less—and all because of the quick thinking of that wizard Crawford. Sakamoto could use a man like that.
But he won’t be turned; I’m sure of that. The Fury’s loyal to one commander, and she’s pledged her loyalty now to the Dragon—and that’s not me. Yet.
As if she’d read his mind, Worridge said, “Do you think the Fury would turn if you appealed to them in the name of the Combine?”
Damn her good sense! Always testing, always reasonable . . . Sakamoto’s eyes shifted again over the faces and backs of the bridge crew. What none of them knew was how very hard Worridge had argued with him—in private, before the campaign.
She’d chosen his quarters for the confrontation. “The Fury’s our kin, brothers and sisters,” she’d said, those gray eyes bright and swimming with emotion. “Tai-shu, I beg you to reconsider. You have already violated the Ares Conventions and . . .”
“Damn the Conventions!” Sakamoto had been ready to explode. “I am the law here, and I answer to no one!”
“But the Fury could be our ally.”
“They’re a nuisance.” Good for Worridge. He hadn’t been drinking that day else he’d have killed her where she stood. Bringing up the Conventions and now the Fury . . . damn her, why did she have to be so valuable? “Why such the bleeding heart for Tormark?”
“Our troops admire her. Fighting the Fury will just make her more sympathetic.”
True, and how that had galled him. Only a few months into battle, and already he’d had to arrest a dozen or so of Kobayashi’s men, devil take it. Mutinous pirates. Well, let the rest of the troops see how he dealt with that.
Eventually Worridge had backed down, but now, here she was, throwing down the gauntlet again by invoking the Combine—and, by extension, Vincent Kurita—in front of the crew, emphasizing that she knew he had no authorization from the coordinator. Very well played: Argue, and he put Worridge on a level playing field, elevating her in the troops’ eyes. That would not do. So Sakamoto chose his words with care: “There is an old saying, Worridge. A tool does not boast of its handler. We are tools, nothing more.”
That stung, Sakamoto saw. A faint flush stained Worridge’s pale cheeks. She’d followed his orders all along. Discredit him now by invoking Kurita, and she did the same to herself. “Well said, my Tai-shu,” she murmured. “Of course, you’re right.”
She might have said more but Black Wind’s tai-sa said, tentatively: “A thousand pardons, Tai-shu, but I estimate five minutes to outer atmosphere.” A pause. “And there are five aerospace fighters on approach.”
“Excellent,” said Sakamoto, turning aside from Worridge, effectively dismissing her. “A little warm-up; they’re bugs, nothing more. DropShips Crystal Rain and Honor’s Pearl are to engage the fighters. Deploy our own fighters only if necessary. I want Blood’s Tide and Dragon’s Sword to target Homai-Zaki. As for us and Serpent, set course for Phoenix Dome.” He paused, inhaled that wonderful scent—and yes, it was the scent of battle—and said, “Now.”
26
Phoenix Dome, Al Na’ir
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere Midday,
20 June 3135
Five hundred and fifty meters at its highest point, Phoenix Dome was a semirigid, bacterially derived plastic monomer, protected by a latticework of titanium steel and milky duraglass, injected with microscopic slurries of crystal steel built to withstand small meteor strikes. Al Na’ir’s atmospheric pressure was a fifth that of Terra and principally consisted of sulfur dioxide clouds that clotted in dingy clumps the color of egg yolk. By contrast, the dome’s air was sweet and always a balmy thirty degrees Celsius, except for occasional manufactured rainy days, and snow in December. Today, from the apex of Phoenix Tower, Prefect Priscila Recinto peered out her smeary office window at unscheduled rain and thought, Right season, wrong color.
There was a curfew in place; marshal law had been declared when the riots spiraled out of control two weeks ago. Columns of flak-vested police threaded through thoroughfares and alleys like busy ants scurrying through an immense hill. But the damage had been done. Soot mixed with rain drizzled in a gray curtain, slicking the streets with ash and glazing buildings and windows with a patina of grime.
A voice, hushed, male, at her shoulder: “It’s Armageddon.”
Recinto turned her soft brown gaze onto O’Mallory. The legate had lost weight, and the angles of his shoulders tented a dull slate-blue jacket. O’Mallory’s cheeks were hollow, the hazel eyes just above set into deep sockets smudged with crescents of purple. “I think so,” she said. She backhanded an oily shank of dull blond hair from her forehead. She was filthy; her nails were ragged and ridged with crescents of black. She hadn’t showered in two days, eve
r since the water had gone out when the treatment plants blew, and all emergency water had gone for the fires. She wore the same sour-smelling clothes she’d slept in for the past two days, curled on her office couch.
O’Mallory said, “You should go to the shelter.”
“Someone has to stay above ground, monitor the troops, lock out the sub-tee maglevs if necessary. I’m the only one who knows the codes.” She managed a wan smile. “Anyway, how would it look, the prefect turning tail?”
“You shouldn’t care a fig for what people think.”
“But I do. Besides, I’m not sure I could face those people now, knowing that I’ve turned others away, decided who was important enough to live, and who wasn’t.” The words tasted bitter as ash in her mouth, and she grimaced. “Governor Tormark says it’s the same in Homai-Zaki, and they have more police.”
“Maybe we’ll save the Dracs the trouble by killing ourselves off.” A pause. Then, angrily: “This is my fault. If I hadn’t staked everything on the word of . . .”
“It’s not as if you acted alone. Fuchida agreed with you. Central Command agreed.”
