“Thanks. I graduated at the top of my class—I guess that’s why they picked me for this,” he replied as they stepped outside. The air was warm and humid, but not as oppressive as in the customs office, and the sun felt good on his skin after the artificial light inside. From what he could see of the city it was old; the brickwork and roof lines spoke of a different age, a different century.
Old cities, at least big ones, were a rarity now on Earth, because the Word of Blake Jihad had destroyed so many of them. For someone like Tucker, who had spent his whole life on Terra but never traveled, the weight of the construction was awe-inspiring. “It’s pretty,” he commented. “But do all of the locals feel the same as that customs agent?”
“What do you mean?” Patricia’s tone was carefully neutral.
“Hating ComStar. Do they all hate us?”
“No,” she said reassuringly. “Not everyone. But you have to remember, Tucker, with the network down on most worlds, we’re not treated with the respect that we deserve. Most people are suspicious of us at best—memories of the Jihad die hard. And if they’ve lost money as a result of Gray Monday, they are also more than a little angry at us. I guess that’s just part of the burden we carry until the network is back up.” He wished he could dismiss her words. As a brand-new graduate of the premier HPG education in the Inner Sphere, it was hard to accept that, as a member of ComStar, he was seen as tainted. He hoped that attitude wouldn’t factor into the job he came to do.
“I suppose I should get to the compound and report to the demi. How is this Demi-Precentor Faulk to work with?”
Patricia grimaced. “Well, let’s just say he isn’t a fan of outside interference.”
No problem. “No sweat, Patricia. I’m here to help him.”
She reached up and ran her fingers through his disheveled hair, messing it up even more. “That’s one of your more endearing characteristics, Tucker . . . your innocence. You think you’re coming to Wyatt to help him out, and on paper that’s the way it is. But don’t let your naivete cloud your thinking. Put yourself in the demi-precentor’s shoes. Everyone has an ego, and he’s been working on this problem for three years. . . .”
Tucker cocked his head and smiled back, not completely sure what she was warning him about. Within an hour he understood.
* * *
From the shadow of a gantry, she watched Legate Edward Singh as he stood in front of his Panther BattleMech, watching the technicians swing the gantry into place so that they could gain access to the torso of the massive war machine. Standing three stories tall, the Panther was the epitome of warfare technology. The ’Mech’s stats scrolled across her brain. Capable of moving at 43 kilometers per hour, in the hands of a good Mech Warrior it could blast a city block into slag in a matter of minutes. At thirty-five tons, Panthers were classified as light ’Mechs. The Lords Light 2 Extended Range Particle Projector Cannon (ER PPC) that dominated its right arm was ominous even with the ’Mech powered down and secured. Even idled in the Militia’s repair bay, the Panther was menacing, its humanoid shape seeming to lean forward, as if ready to rush out into battle.
Knight Alexi Holt surveyed Singh as he micromanaged the technicians. He occasionally ran his hand over the top of his head, pulling what few long strands of hair he had remaining over the encroaching bald spot that crowned his brow. She watched him carefully, soaking up details. His position on the planet made him someone to be reckoned with. He had been on maneuvers since she arrived on Wyatt, and had offered her only a short holocommunication greeting in that time. Not even an invitation to join him in the field.
Deciding she had seen enough, she walked toward the legate, exuding the confidence of years earned through disciplined military training and experience. The legate made eye contact with her just as she extended her hand to him. “Legate Singh. I am—”
“Knight Holt,” he said, cutting her off. “Pleased to meet you. I’m only sorry that you had to come under such circumstances. Arthur Faust was an honored Knight and colleague.”
“He will be missed.”
“Yes, he will.” Singh paused for a moment. “Regardless of the circumstances, however, welcome to Wyatt. I trust your accommodations meet with your approval?”
She returned his handshake and surveyed him up close. His dirt brown hair was combed over his bald spot. Shaved circles on the side of his head interrupted the remaining hairline, indicating where his neurohelmet, the device that connected the BattleMech to the pilot and allowed him or her to keep the war machine upright and balanced, made contact with his scalp. That he shaved for the contact points supported the impression made by the comb-over, the pressed uniform, the hint of expensive cologne in the air near him, and the fact that he returned from field maneuvers without any sign of sweat. As a ’Mech pilot herself, she knew that there was no measurable improvement in neurohelmet contact by removing hair from the contact points. The legate appeared to be in good shape, but there was something soft about him that she couldn’t quite identify. She wondered how that softness affected the performance of the Militia.
“My quarters are fine, thank you. I took the liberty of loading the hardware I brought into the south garage.”
He smiled absently, glancing back at a technician who was removing one of the armor plates on his ’Mech’s torso. “Whatever you need is yours to take, Knight Holt.”
“I had hoped,” she said neutrally, “that you would invite me to join you in the field. I would have liked to observe the Militia’s performance.”
The legate’s head swiveled back toward hers in surprise. “Really? I apologize for not inviting you. The message the governor and I received stated that you were here to work with ComStar.”
“That’s true,” she replied. “But like Knight Faust, I am also charged with the defense of Wyatt. If ComStar succeeds in reactivating the HPG, Wyatt becomes a tempting target.”
The legate chuckled, then stopped when he saw that she was not joking. “No offense, Knight Holt, but I doubt that. Since the Jihad and the destruction of that Bowie Aerospace plant, Wyatt has ceased to be of interest to anyone . . . working HPG or not. From what I’ve been told, we disappeared off most of the star charts when the network went down, making attacking us even more difficult.”
She allowed herself a courtesy smile, one she had practiced often for just such situations. “I understand your viewpoint. But I made it here, as do merchant ships on a regular basis. Wyatt is not hidden. And a functioning HPG would make you a prized world—a member of a very select community of planets.”
Legate Singh shrugged off her words. “I suppose I should trust what you say, since you are an expert in such matters. Rest assured, Knight Holt, the Wyatt Militia is ready and able to defend our world against any incursion.”
“Just to be sure,” she returned, “I brought with me some additional hardware and vehicles. It’s not much, but it may be enough to trip up anyone foolish enough to come here.”
“That’s good news,” Singh replied. “We can never have too much defense. Perhaps we can meet later and look over your inventory. I can assemble my key officers and they can brief you on our readiness and unit efficiencies. For now, I need to oversee the work on my Panther.”
“I look forward to our meeting.” Alexi stepped away, a little nervous with what she had learned about the man responsible for defending Wyatt. He was a micromanager, yet he didn’t know his unit’s readiness—he relied on his subordinates for that information. Looks were important to him, not actions—otherwise she would have been invited to the field to watch the maneuvers. There was more than his cologne that bothered her.
* * *
The older man tossed Tucker’s paperwork to the control panel as if it were garbage. “So I’m supposed to give you full run of my HPG. It is not my fault that the last HPG core failed. I ought to send you packing back to Terra to tell those cube-heads that they aren’t going to pin these problems on my personnel record.” Demi-Precentor Faulk’s face turned deep
crimson as he spoke. Anger ran with each word. The other technicians in the HPG control room looked up, and the fear on their faces told Tucker they were used to these outbursts.
Tucker was flustered. “With all due respect, sir, I’m here to help you with the installation.”
“You? Some snot-nosed college puke fresh out of a classroom is going to walk into this HPG and help me? My family has been with ComStar for fifty years. My father was the demi here and I was practically raised in this control room. When our HPG was up, I could tell by the sound of it if it was working at peak efficiency. You walk in here and say you can help? Pah!” He turned away, and Tucker wondered just how close the demi-precentor was to throwing a punch at him. The three technicians in the control room rose in unison and left the room as quietly as mice. He was alone with the precentor.
Patricia had been right. That stung, too. His older sister had always seemed to be one step ahead of him when it came to matters of common sense. He tried again.
“Sir, I assure you that no one on Terra mentioned you in relation to the problems with the last HPG core. I was told only that they wanted to make sure you had all of the assets necessary to pull off this installation.” Tucker paused for a moment, and tried following the path Patricia had suggested. “Personally, I was hoping this opportunity would allow me to learn some fieldwork techniques from you, since you’ve been working this hardware for so many years.”
Demi-Precentor Faulk smoothed the lapels of his suit. “I want you to understand your position here, Adept Harwell,” he said in a more normal tone. “This is my world, my HPG. You take your orders from me. You do what I tell you to—nothing more, nothing less. You don’t take a dump around here without clearing it with me first. It’s bad enough I have to nursemaid that damn Knight Errant poking through my operations; I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with some kid telling me what to do.”
Tucker recoiled slightly at his words. The reference to the Knight Errant just confused him; he’d have to figure that out later. “Sir, I’ll do what I was sent here to do. Precentor Buhl’s orders were to oversee the installation of the core, coordinating my work with you. I’m not sure that those orders are open to interpretation.”
“Buhl? Malcolm Buhl?”
“Yes, sir,” Tucker said, retrieving his paperwork from the control console. “It’s here in the transfer orders.”
This time Demi-Precentor Faulk stared at the orders intently, actually reading them through. It took a painfully uncomfortable minute, while Tucker stared silently at him. The HVAC in the control room kicked in, humming enough fan-borne white noise to make the room seem even quieter.
Faulk set the paperwork back on the console. “So Precentor Buhl sent you personally, and your orders are clear. Fine. I’ll work with you, Harwell. But there are two things you should know. First, if anything goes wrong with this HPG core, I’ll make sure you’re the one to blame. Second, you should know that the man you’re working for is a real political beast. You hitch your career to his coattails, and you may just find yourself sweeping reception lounges.”
Tucker nodded. He was not leveraging Precentor Buhl for anything, so the words were empty for him.
“Very well, sir. I guess the first thing we need to do is get the new core moved here from the DropShip.” Faulk turned away, grumbling some sort of agreement. Tucker wondered what he meant by his comment regarding Precentor Buhl, and made a mental note to ask Patricia about it. If anyone would have insights to Buhl and Faulk, it would be her.
The Mill Tails of McPherson
Marcus
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
Galaxy Commander Kev Rosse of the Spirit Cats sat cross-legged by the bonfire and embraced its warmth. Around him, stretching for kilometers in every direction, were enormous piles of mining debris. Most of these were dotted with clumps of scrub brush and trees, brittle and bone-dry. Marcus had long been a mining world, and the mill tailings, the debris left from the mining operations, had dotted this continent for centuries. A cool breeze shifted the heavy air, stirring up tiny tornadoes of black dust. Each gust whipped ashes and embers into the air from the fire.
Star Captain Cox felt that the mountains of waste rock were a perfect place for the Galaxy commander to hold an enclave of the Spirit Cats. Prying eyes from the local population would not come to such a wasteland. Any military force trying to spy on their gathering, including Marcus’ planetary militia, would find their scans hampered if not completely blocked by all of the mineral and radioactive element traces in the mill-tailings. Here, in these badlands, the Spirit Cats could meet in private to discuss what was important to their Clan.
Their future.
Kev Rosse was a tall, gaunt, imposing figure. Even in the light of the bonfire, his eyes seemed deep and brooding. Dressed in a warrior’s jumpsuit, his body seemed so skinny that you could count his ribs. As Star Captain Cox approached the fire, he studied his commanding officer with appreciation. Much had come to pass since the collapse of the HPG network in The Republic, and Galaxy Commander Rosse had led the Spirit Cats far in that time. Star Captain Cox gave him a silent nod as they made eye contact, a greeting of respect. He took off his half-cloak and dropped down in front of the fire. Two other Star captains emerged from the shadows and did the same.
The Spirit Cats had fought with Devlin Stone to free the Inner Sphere from the Jihad. Warriors of Clan Nova Cat, those naming themselves the Spirit Cats followed Kev Rosse on his quest to find a sanctuary for the Clan—a goal that might seem a contradiction for a society bred for war. Rosse saw the collapse of the HPG network as the beginning of a great storm that would surely consume The Republic of the Sphere, if not all of the Inner Sphere and, led by a vision, sought a new home for his Clan. The men and women who followed him believed his vision would lead the Nova Cats to great glory, but until that day respected Khan Jacali Nostra by pursuing their quest apart from the main body of the Clan.
As the last of his Star captains arrived and sat down near the fire, Rosse gazed solemnly at each leader. When he spoke, his voice was deeper than his physical frame would seem to allow. “I bid you, as Spirit Cats, seekers of the true vision, welcome to our meeting. May our forebears grant us the vision and wisdom to do what is best for our people.”
“Seyla,” they responded in unison.
“I have called this Clave of my command to convey important news to you,” Rosse said deliberately, as if he were preaching. “The providence of the Great Kerenskys came to me five months ago. I experienced a vision . . . one that I wish to share with you.”
Cox glanced at the other Star captains gathered around the bonfire and saw each of them transfixed on their leader. He understood their loyalties and feelings. The Spirit Cats were true to their past and heritage. Kev Rosse saw to that, and they respected his insight. That he was planning to speak to them of his vision stirred all their imaginations: the Spirit Cats placed great weight on the visions of their leader.
Rosse closed his eyes as he spoke, as if he could still see the scene of his dream. “I awoke and saw the stars above me, spread throughout the heavens in their ordained places. As I watched, one star disappeared from the night, its light extinguished as if it had never shined. That star called to me. I heard it call my soul. When I awoke, I considered this vision, meditating on its meaning. I believe my vision means this: we must investigate this star and determine it is the sanctuary for our Clan. This star is the planet Wyatt in this Prefecture.”
One of the Star captains, a slender woman named Caitlin Bauer, spoke first. “Galaxy Commander, how are you so sure that Wyatt is the world that called to you?”
Rosse smiled before answering. “When the HPG network collapsed, the virus responsible for its collapse did something unexpected. It deleted Wyatt from the stellar cartography atlases in hundreds of thousands of databases—including ComStar’s own maps. Thus, the star disappeared.
“I further learned that, the week I experienced my vision, ComStar had atte
mpted to restore the HPG on that world, but it had failed. This star has disappeared two times, and the second time it called out to me. Also in my vision, I saw a man holding the light from this star in his hands, and I knew he was a Lightbringer. My vision bids our Clan to investigate this planet. We must learn if Wyatt is the world where our Clan can survive the coming firestorm of war.”
His words stirred Cox’s heart and courage, for he had had such a vision himself. He considered if he should support his leader’s vision with his own, but held his tongue.
“That planet is only a jump away,” said Star Captain Falstaff Taylor. “We should have convened there rather than here. We could have learned the truth together, quiaff?”
“Neg,” Rosse replied. “We must conserve our strength for the day we fight to earn our sanctuary. One may go to Wyatt, along with his command. The rest must continue searching other worlds.”
Star Captain Taylor smiled. “Then we shall settle this according to Clan traditions. Galaxy Commander, I am prepared to fight for the right to take my command to this world. Honor me by accepting my opening bid of two Stars to prove I am most worthy.” Kev Rosse nodded.
Star Captain Caitlin Bauer spoke up next. “Such a bid for the right to fulfill the geas of our people insults the honor of the Spirit Cats. I bid one Star of my warriors to prove that I am most fit to fulfill this quest.”
Star Captain Franks, a tall black-skinned warrior, spoke next. “Surely my fellow Star captains are not serious. The Purifiers Black Stallion Trinary is of tougher mettle. I bid three Points for the right to go to Wyatt in our Clan’s name.” Spirit Cat units followed the standard Clan organizational structure, plus each had a name that was earned on a vision quest. The naming of each Trinary and Star in the command structure required a ritual of fasting, battle, tests of endurance, and the vision of the commanding officers.
Target of Opportunity Page 4
