by IIsa J. Bick
“That we can see. Our sensors are for shit.”
He had a point. “I know that,” she said. “Listen, there’s no way he’ll be able to take us both. He opens up on me, you take him out. Simple as that. Do it.”
“Whatever you say.” Smith sounded unhappy. But he obeyed; out of the corner of her right eye, she saw the Thunderbolt backpedal until he was well back, out of her peripheral vision. “Okay, I just unzipped my fly. Now what?”
“We make nice.” She tongued sweat from her upper lip and tasted salt. Her stomach was doing flips. She was burning up from nerves; her systems weren’t even close to running hot. Drexel wished she was sure what she was about to do was the right thing. There were her orders, yeah, but there was self-preservation, too. Only the Shiro hadn’t made a move. They were close enough for Drexel to see through the rain. She picked out the Shiro’s pilot, his image fractured by rivulets of rainwater drizzling over the canopy. He sat still as a statue, as unmoving as his ’Mech and she squeezed out a small sigh of relief when she saw that the tip of the Shiro’s blade was aimed skyward. They were so close she was fairly certain that if the Shiro attacked, it would be with that sword and its legs, or the autocannon. They were evenly matched there, autocannon against autocannon, and neither one had an edge in missiles since they both sported LRMs. Plus, she had an ER large laser. Her adversary’s biggest advantage lay in the fact that he outweighed her by a good twenty-five tons. But the thing that still niggled at her brain? A new, top-of-the-line ’Mech like that cost a lot of money, and so, either there was someone in there whose family was very rich . . . Or really important.
Drexel hauled in a deep breath, let it fill her lungs, smelled the tang of metal and sweat. Okay, and now we get to play chicken. She said, “Listen, switch over to a general frequency. That way, he can hear us.”
“Oh, that’s bright. Want me to talk about all the reinforcements on the way?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Then, without waiting for a reply, she thumbed over to a general frequency. She was winging it now; she’d had no orders about what to do if the bad guys didn’t shoot first. “This is Chu-sa Viki Drexel of Dragon’s Fury. We’d like to talk about . . .”
Her cockpit erupted with the clang of alarms. Stunned, she saw the Shiro suddenly flex its right and left arms, the tip of its blade and the bores of its autocannon taking aim. Smith yelped something into her ear, but she was already reacting, dropping into a crouch and spinning counterclockwise, bringing her autocannon to bear. “Don’t fire, Smith, don’t fire!” she shouted, and then she prayed she knew what the hell she was doing—and jammed her thumb down hard. A stuttering burst of armor-piercing rounds rocketed from her Shockwave’s right shoulder mount as the Shiro simultaneously returned fire.
The next few seconds were a blur. Smith was yelling; she was still screaming for him to hold his fire, hold his fire! She felt the flinching shiver that ran through her ’Mech and into her legs as the rounds left their chambers, and her ears caught the muted boom-boom-boom of her autocannon, the sound like faraway thunder rolling over mountains. Her eyes caught the stuttering flashes of autocannon tracer fire streak for the enemy ’Mech—wide of the target, precisely as she’d intended. In the next instant, tracer fire licked the space above her canopy, dazzling her eyes, but the slugs were too high, and there was only that one burst—with no follow-up.
They’d each had a shot. They’d each missed. Her mind flashed through the equation even as she was shouting for Smith to hold his fire; even as her targeting crosshairs dropped over the Shiro’s torso; even as her HUD lit up when the crosshairs turned red-gold; even as her thumb cocked, then hesitated over her pickle . . . she knew. The Shiro’s autocannon would’ve missed, even if she hadn’t dropped. The Shiro’s pilot had deliberately aimed above her head, and he’d known, somehow, that she would fire high. Carefully, she eased her autocannon to standby.
“Viki?” It was Smith, his voice ratcheted tight with anxiety. “Viki, you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Drexel sagged into her pilot’s couch, tension dribbling from her body like water from a leaky bucket. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she became aware again of how loud the rain was . . . and then she saw something else moving just beyond the Shiro. A quick check with her HUD confirmed: three SM1 tank destroyers.
Her lips went numb. The tanks must have been hidden, lying in wait to take them down if they came in fighting, and between the Shiro and the tanks and whatever else was out there, waiting, in the dark, they’d have been outnumbered from the start . . .
“I don’t understand,” Smith said. “Why haven’t they killed us?”
Before she could reply, there was a loud click and then a man’s voice, firm and authoritative. “Ah,” he said. “Let me explain that to you.”
33
Homai-Zaki Dome, Al Na’ir
Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere
15 August 3135
“It was terrible.” Fusilli raised his streaming face, and Crawford read his pain. The man had lost a lot of weight; his torn and grimy uniform hung on his shoulders like empty rice sacks. A wonder that Fusilli was alive at all, come to think about it. “Wat . . . watching Magruder duh-duh-die like that . . . choking, and . . . and then there was blood, there was so . . . so much blood.”
Katana put a hand on Fusilli’s shoulder. “There was nothing you could do, Wahab.”
Struggling for control, Fusilli drew in a shuddering breath, and Crawford felt a twist of sympathy. They’d winked in at the system’s jump point two weeks ago. There were no JumpShips to greet them, and although there’d been plenty of time for an intercept, their DropShip made the journey planetside without incident. When they were two days out from the planet, they’d received a message: not from Sakamoto’s troops, but from Governor Tormark, whose troops had retaken their city. They also held DCMS troops in custody—as well as survivors from Dragon’s Fury. Tormark had vowed to fight his second cousin; he would never surrender Homai-Zaki to invaders.
Katana’s reply had been swift, stern and compassionate: Fight and Tormark’s people would die. Surrender and they could expect help. “I mean what I say, Cousin. Your name will not protect you; our shared blood will not protect you, and your people have already suffered enough. So have mine. I hold you blameless thus far. Neither you nor your people, nor the people of Phoenix Dome, deserved what happened to you, and you have my sympathies. But harm my people, and I will reconsider.”
Tough talk, honest talk, and in the end, Tormark did the only prudent thing he could. He accepted her terms.
Crawford knew she’d meant every word. Phoenix Dome was utterly, completely dead, the dome little more than a blasted egg, and there were bodies—lots and lots of bodies, tens of millions wiped out in the blink of an eye. Eventually, perhaps, they would be cremated. But, for the time being, they lay, rotting: mute and horrible testament to Sakamoto’s savagery. Katana’s expression then had shifted from disbelief, to horror and finally, to naked fury.
It was the expression she wore now, staring down at Fusilli, the small muscles of her jaw bunching with rage at her impotence. Still, her voice was soft as she asked, “Why do you think they kept you alive?”
“I don’t know,” said Fusilli, and then; “No, that’s a lie. I do know. Sakamoto wanted information about the Fury—our troop strengths, locations, intentions. Magruder wouldn’t give them up, and neither would I. I think he left me alive because he was counting on you to come after him. Word got back from Klathandu IV.”
Katana’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And why would he think I’ll go further than here?”
“Because he’s counting on . . .” Fusilli trailed off, looked at his hands, and then blurted, “He’s got Sir Eriksson.”
“You know it’s a trap,” said Crawford. They were alone in an office adjoining Governor Tormark’s. The office was lavishly appointed, with a collection of antique paintings in gilt frames, a tan leather couch strewn with elegant gold-embroidered pillows and match
ing wing chairs. Katana stood, arms folded, looking out a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that formed the eastern wall. The dome’s day and night cycles were precisely controlled, and the dome’s skin was shading to a twilight hue, the first streetlamps sputtering to life. Crawford ran a hand through his blazing red mane, and blew out in frustration. “Sakamoto must be stopped. Going to Saffel isn’t the way.”
Katana turned and her eyes were sparking. “Then tell me another plan, and I will do it. Tell me how to have my vengeance, and I will listen. Explain to me how or why the coordinator would stand for the barbarism we’ve witnessed, and I will put aside my emotions. But you can’t, and you know it.”
“I agree. Sakamoto’s gone rogue. But this isn’t your fight.”
“The coordinator has done nothing.”
“Maybe he can’t.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then, believe this, Katana: You launch a strike against Sakamoto and he’ll crush us. And for what? Dying for nothing is a fool’s errand.”
Some indefinable emotion chased across her features, but then Crawford saw a new hardness in Katana’s eyes. “Listen to me, Andre. We are going to Saffel. Period. Even if the Ares Conventions were so much tissue paper, the blood of my fallen warriors screams for vengeance. They pledged their lives to me, and I to them. One way or the other, Sakamoto must die. You understand me? I would never stand against the coordinator, but Sakamoto is not my coordinator, and he must die!”
Her words hung in the silence that followed. Finally, Crawford broke it. “You know what you’re saying.”
“Absolutely.” Katana pinned him with a look. “I want him dead, Andre.”
Crawford nodded. “Yes. I thought you might.”
34
DropShip Black Wind, inbound for Saffel
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
4 September 3135
Ah, how good to do battle again in his No-Dachi, standing tall and proud, with its gleaming five-ton katana flashing in Saffel’s sun! Sakamoto lovingly fingered the raised ridges of his cooling vest. The fluid-filled cavities dimpled when he pressed down with a fingertip, and he inhaled the faintly astringent aroma of coolant. He’d been gone from the battlefield too long.
That was the problem with conducting a war on multiple fronts. Sakamoto took up a pastry, a tiny nest of honeyed walnuts in paper-thin dough, from a round silver salver. So many issues, and coordinating all these attack waves without HPGs! Frighteningly difficult. He popped the pastry into his mouth, chewed, then sighed as a burst of rich, buttery sweetness exploded on his tongue.
And how tedious, having to divert to Deneb Algedi instead of driving on toward Saffel with the advance troops. Nayaraptors! Who’d have imagined the Blues could be so resourceful? But that was all past now and, tomorrow morning, he would lead a contingent of his troops as a warlord should. Of course, there would be resistance on Saffel, unlike Al Na’ir, and the terrain would be difficult, half the land still locked in ice. Besides, Bannson’s men hadn’t deserted the world and were fiercely defending a key defensive installation on the Dovejin ice cap. Well, he would deal with the Raiders; crush them, down to the last woman, the last man—finally, completely, irrevocably.
But then . . . there was still Katana Tormark. Sakamoto’s mouth worked as if he’d bitten into something foul. Tormark, always Tormark! At last report, her accursed Fury had landed at Iwanji, south of the Raiders’ base on the Dovejin ice cap. How had they come so far so fast? That the Fury had known where he’d strike next was never in doubt; that snake Fusilli would see to that. But the speed . . . Sakamoto chewed another pastry without tasting it. How had they done it? For that matter, which contingent battled his advance forces? Surely, Tormark herself wasn’t leading them; her BattleMaster was nowhere to be seen. Otherwise, he’d have changed his plans and taken charge of Worridge’s people at Iwanji and destroyed the girl himself.
“But how did you do it, you little witch?” Sakamoto asked the empty room. “What magic did you pull off this time?”
There was a discreet knock at his door. Startled, Sakamoto looked at the time and remembered what he’d ordered not a half hour ago. At his command, Sir Eriksson tottered in a half step ahead of his guard. “You wanted to see me,” said Eriksson.
“Yes. Come! Sit, sit!” Sakamoto urged, shooing away the guard and adjusting an elegantly carved cherrywood straight-backed chair, lacquered with red chrysanthemums.
Drawing himself up, the old knight clasped one hand behind his back and steadied himself on his cane with the other. “I prefer to stand.”
“Still playing the tough old soldier? Bah, your time’s come and gone, Eriksson—though you’re hard to kill, I’ll grant you that.”
“And what of it? The worst you can do is kill me once.”
Sakamoto’s dark eyes flashed with menace. “There are many things that make death pale by comparison.”
“But you won’t do any of them, Sakamoto, and you know why? Because I’m insurance. Because people will be willing to make concessions . . .”
Sakamoto broke in with an edgy laugh. “Is that what you think? That I worry at all about The Republic? Bah!” He aimed a forefinger at the knight. “Let me tell you something. You stay alive so long as it pleases me . . .”
“You mean, as long as I’m useful.”
“As long as I decide!” Sakamoto shouted. His right hand shot out, cracking Eriksson’s left cheek in an open-handed slap as loud as a pistol shot. The knight stumbled back; his cane hand went out from under him, and he crashed to the floor. Sakamoto was on him in a second, fisting Eriksson’s lapels and twisting them tight. He brought his face an inch from Eriksson’s. There was a smear of crimson leaking from the left side of the knight’s mouth, and Eriksson’s skin was pasty—not from fear, but pain, and this pleased Sakamoto greatly. “Where is your precious Republic now, eh? Where are the armadas to scatter my atoms across the vacuum? Nowhere to be seen, old . . . man! Look at you: used up, weak, finished! It would be child’s play to wring your scrawny neck!”
“Then why don’t you?” Eriksson choked. “You keep . . . bragging about how mighty you are, how many of our worlds you’ve conquered . . .”
“They belong to ME!” Sakamoto roared, shaking Eriksson as if he were nothing more than bones stitched into a sack of skin. “Those are the Combine’s by right!”
“Don’t invoke . . . the Combine . . . like . . . some . . . magic formula!” Eriksson managed. Sakamoto didn’t just have him by the lapels now; his hands were around the old man’s throat. Eriksson’s voice thinned to a wheeze. “You . . . you said it . . . yourself, Sakamoto. This is . . . this is about you . . . this is . . . is . . .”
“SILENCE!” Sakamoto roared. He clamped his hands down hard, and Eriksson’s tortured breath rattled, then stopped completely. Sakamoto’s vision reddened until he could scarcely see the old man’s bulging eyes and gaping mouth; was barely aware of Eriksson’s fingers scrabbling feebly at the backs of his hands. No, he was burning up with rage, and he would kill this knight, he would squeeze the life out of him! He felt the brittle nub of Eriksson’s Adam’s apple and thought that maybe if he broke it, yes, that would be very pleasant, because then he’d step back and watch the old man die like a beached fish . . . “Old man,” he seethed, fists bunching, “old man!”
What saved Eriksson’s life was not a sudden flash of conscience, or the old man’s resilience. What saved Eriksson’s life was the guard who, hearing the commotion, dared to find out what was going on. Sakamoto heard a click, saw the door sigh open and then the pale, frankly amazed face of the guard.
“What are you staring at?!” Panting with fury, Sakamoto flung Eriksson away and stepped back as the old man writhed, hands at his throat. “Did I summon you? No? Then get out!” Then, after the guard had hastily withdrawn, Sakamoto threw a dark look at the prostrate knight, who was still trying to suck air into his lungs. “Bah!” Sakamoto said, and spat. His spittle arced through the air and sp
attered against Eriksson’s cheek. “You are not worth the energy.”
He stepped over Eriksson’s body, reached for his flagon, splashed wine into a waiting goblet and tossed it back with the satisfaction of a man having done thirsty work. “Get up,” Sakamoto said, his words lost as he drank deep. “Before I change my mind.”
Slowly, achingly slowly, Eriksson got to his feet an inch at a time, his words coming in tortured whispers. “You . . . you’ll . . . wish, wish . . . you’d . . . killed me.” A fit of coughing shook his frail body, and he bent over double, gagging.
Sakamoto’s eyes slitted like a watchful lizard’s. “You think? Well, I think not . . . for the time being. You’re a prize piece of bait, Eriksson, an irresistible fly.”
“For Katana?” The old man shook his head in a feeble negative. “She’s too . . . too smart for you. She’ll never . . . never . . .”
“Come?” His fury spent for the time being, Sakamoto dropped into a chair. “Wait and see, old man. She’ll come.” Suddenly, Sakamoto exhaled hugely, clapped his hands together, gave them a good scrub. He reached for a dainty puff pastry and said, conversationally, “I have a new chef, Shujin Nanashi. He’s quite talented. Do you know what he calls these? Inzanami’s Delight. Do you know who Inzanami is, Eriksson?”
“Hell,” Eriksson managed. “She’s the guardian of Hell.”
“Yes. Hell.” And then Sakamoto gave a lazy smile that would have been beatific if it hadn’t been so very awful. “And I bid you welcome,” he said, and ate.
35
DropShip Black Wind, inbound for Saffel
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
4 August 3135
“What?” Still sleep-muddled, the MechWarrior, a loose-limbed man named Evans, squinted. The tan blob resolved into a Mech Tech, roughly his height and weight, in a wedge of inky shadow and hard to make out. On the other hand, it was ship’s night, his brain was muzzy; and his mouth tasted like the floor of a hovercar.
