Target of Opportunity

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  Fortunately, he got to spend some time with the technical team, Paula Kursk and her—no, their—people. They didn’t treat him like a superstar; they just got down to working hard to document exactly how they had started up the new core, transmitting multiple reports to Terra. His reports on the harmonics tuning had gone through the most scrutiny and had generated the most questions from the technicians and theoreticians on Terra. He felt sure they would never be satisfied with his reports. They want me to explain instinct. I just adjusted the settings until they felt right. How do you explain that?

  Four days after the restart the city threw a parade for him. He tried to get out of it, but the demi-precentor insisted. “This is a public relations coup for ComStar, Mister Harwell. Embrace it!” He found the entire event acutely embarrassing. Crowds cheering, bands playing—it was a small parade, but it seemed strange that people would be clapping and cheering for him, for Tucker Harwell. His image on the news and in print, his private life impossible to live—that was surely something he had not predicted when he slipped that tiny disk into the HPG computer and ran his program.

  As he sat slumped in a chair in the compound cafeteria across from his sister, nursing a bowl of soup, he brooded over the attention.

  “I should have suspected something was wrong when the demi started treating me nice,” he commented dolefully, stirring his spoon around and around in the thick, white chowder.

  Patricia chuckled. “I agree, that should have been a big clue.” She went on, “Tuck, you’ve got to lighten up. The media attention will die down—eventually.” She took a bite of her hero sandwich—which Tucker suspected she had ordered just to tease him—and finally got some eye contact from under his unkempt, spiky hair.

  “You don’t sound too reassuring there, Patricia,” he muttered, finally taking a sip of his soup.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m happy about the attention you’re getting,” she replied. That made him sit up. He straightened up in the hard plastic chair and frowned at his sister.

  She didn’t wait for a response. “Tucker, you know the history of ComStar. For years, we were revered by the people of the Inner Sphere as the keepers of technology and the source of interstellar communications. They treated our adepts with the respect and honor normally reserved for religious men and women.”

  “I know our history, Patricia,” he replied, trying to figure out where she was going with this train of thought. “Our family was part of ComStar back then. And they were not just respected like religious leaders; they acted like religious leaders. It was that quasi-religion that eventually led to the Jihad.”

  She shook her head. “I disagree. You may enjoy history, Tucker, but it’s my career. What hurt us was not the religious overtones of our organization, but that fact that some of us broke with the old ways. That’s what led to the Jihad.”

  She waved her hand above the table, both acknowledging and dismissing their difference of opinion on the subject. This same debate had been waged over the dinner table in their parents’ house many times. Patricia Harwell continued. “But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is that ComStar has been blamed for the crimes and sins of the Word of Blake for decades. When the HPG net went down, there were people in the media who said we did it on purpose, who accused us of destroying the very source of our own influence. Now, because of you, they hold parades in our honor. At least on Wyatt, ComStar is no longer a villain.”

  “I think you’re overstating my part in this,” Tucker replied, gently tipping his bowl to get the last spoonful of soup.

  Patricia shook her head. “I went to the market this morning. People greeted me on the street on my way there and back. Every shop I went into, they treated me like royalty. That was what it used to be like to be part of ComStar. I have to admit Tucker, I enjoyed it.”

  Tucker frowned. “I’m glad at least one of us is.”

  * * *

  Knight Errant Alexi Holt settled into the small room in the ComStar compound used for sending and receiving private messages. The room was dark, lit only by tiny recessed ceiling lights, its walls soundproofed with a dull gray-black material. It was a cramped space that felt more like a videophone booth than a communications room. It had three seats facing a flatscreen that dominated the entire wall in front of her. The ComStar logo floated in the center of the screen in front of her, the twin-star points stretched downward against a dull, royal blue background. In the lower right-hand corner of the display, a countdown ticked away the seconds until her connection was established.

  Real-time communication between two or more HPGs using intermediate stations was a rare, expensive and complicated procedure. When the ComStar techs alerted her to the incoming message, it reinforced her suspicions of the level of importance The Republic gave to the events on Wyatt.

  The counter ran down to 00:00:00 and the screen suddenly flickered to life. The face of her mentor and current mission commander, Paladin Kelson Sorenson, came into focus. His features were rough and weathered. Deeply furrowed wrinkles marked his forehead. The light gray eyes that she had come to know and trust stared back at her. She noticed that his hairline was freshly shaved, to give his BattleMech neurohelmet good contact with his scalp.

  “Greetings, and congratulations, Knight Errant Holt,” he said with a nod.

  “Thank you, Paladin Sorenson. I have to say, though, my contribution to the work of getting the HPG up and running was minimal, at best.”

  “I read your report, Alexi. Humble as always. I grant you, you may not have been involved with the technicalities of getting the HPG up and running, but your presence there definitely had an impact with ComStar—even here on Terra.” His voice hinted at the political pressures that he was putting on ComStar at the behest of the new Exarch, Jonah Levin. Wyatt was simply the first of what should be many such restorations.

  “The adept ComStar sent from Terra, Tucker Harwell, was the key to the repairs here. Apparently, he exceeded his direction from the local demi-precentor in his repairs, but what he did worked.”

  Sorenson nodded. “Better than you may realize. I met with Precentor Malcolm Buhl in Australia just yesterday to discuss this matter. ComStar is keeping their cards pretty close to their vests, but Buhl did admit that the fix this Harwell came up with may allow ComStar to reactivate numerous HPGs.”

  “I’ve heard similar comments here.”

  “I’ve also managed to confirm they have not been able to duplicate here on Terra whatever it was Adept Harwell did when he tuned the core. Obviously, they’re not sharing their data openly, but it’s clear that they don’t fully understand what he did, or how he did it.”

  “I’ve met Harwell several times, Kelson, and I don’t think it’s an overstatement to call the man a genius.”

  Sorensen shifted in his seat. “Then it’s even more critical that you hear what I am about to say, and understand me clearly. If Tucker Harwell is the only person who can perform this tuning procedure, he is now one of the most important people in the Inner Sphere. I want you to stay close to him, Alexi. His safety is critical to the survival of The Republic. And if we’ve figured this out, so will everyone else.”

  And when they do, they’ll come for Tucker in force. “I understand, sir,” she replied.

  “I’m arranging for a JumpShip and DropShip to come to the Wyatt system to pick up you and Harwell. I can have reinforcements in your system on 25 May at the earliest. Until then, it is your job to secure Tucker Harwell.”

  “That won’t be easy,” she replied. “He’s become a minor media sensation.”

  “We don’t send Knight Errants on easy assignments,” the Paladin replied with a grim smile. “Do whatever you have to. I’m giving you wide latitude in the execution of this assignment. Until ComStar can figure out what he did, we can’t afford for anything to happen to Tucker Harwell.”

  “Understood.”

  “Best of luck,” Sorenson said, and broke the connection.

  I hope I don’t ne
ed it. “Thank you, sir,” she said out loud. The image of the Paladin disappeared, and the ComStar logo returned to the screen in front of her. Alexi stared at it for a moment and tried to regain her composure. The feeling in the pit of her stomach convinced her that the nature of her mission on Wyatt had become much more complicated. She stood, moved to the door at the back of the room and opened it, her mind still focused on the new instructions from her superior. As Alexi stepped out into the hall, she bumped into someone, sending a flurry of papers to the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, bending down to help gather up the printouts. Adding to her embarrassment, she bumped foreheads with the person she had run into. As she straightened up to apologize again, she realized she had collided with Patricia Harwell.

  “It’s all right,” Patricia said, quickly grabbing at the papers on the floor.

  “It’s entirely my fault,” Alexi replied, gathering papers as she spoke. It struck her as odd that anyone would carry printouts when a data cube was so much more convenient, then chalked it up to some quirk of Patricia’s historian nature. She could not help looking at the papers in her hand. They were pre-coded transmission packets; hard copies of messages scheduled to be sent. These were marked Crimson Priority, routed to Terra with a secondary routing address of “L.” From what little she knew of ComStar’s systems, Crimson was one of the organization’s highest internal security ratings. Then she caught herself, and handed them to Patricia as she picked up the last of the handful of printouts.

  “Don’t worry about it—really,” Patricia said, bundling the material into a stack again.

  Alexi forced a smile to her face. “Your work as a researcher must keep you quite busy, Ms. Harwell.” Why would a researcher have such a high level of security clearance?

  “Patricia,” she corrected. “And yes, Knight Holt, my work does keep me busy.” She seemed flustered. Her nervousness, added to the high security clearance she apparently enjoyed, suddenly made Alexi very curious about Tucker Harwell’s sister.

  “You and your family must be very proud of your brother.”

  Now Patricia forced a smile. “Tuck is a smart kid. I think everyone in ComStar is proud of what he’s done.”

  “And that’s exactly why I’m planning to keep an eye on him, to make sure he stays safe.”

  Patricia’s grin disappeared. “I’m sure that that’s not necessary,” she said stiffly.

  “I understand your feelings. No one likes to think of their loved ones being in any danger. But there is a chance that—” Her words were cut off by a beeping from her wrist communicator. She turned slightly and activated the connection. “This is Holt,” she stated.

  The voice on the other end of the transmission was curt and to the point. “Knight Holt, we have a problem.” She immediately recognized the voice of Legate Singh, and he sounded nervous . . . maybe even scared. It didn’t take a seasoned warrior to pick up on the quaver in his voice.

  Patricia nodded, acknowledging that she was not part of the discussion. She stepped into the private communications booth that Alexi had just exited and closed the door behind her. Alexi looked after her thoughtfully. “What is it, Legate Singh?”

  “Satellites picked up unscheduled activity at the nadir jump point,” Singh replied. Alexi understood the implications. Jump points were the gravity wells located at the poles of a star’s orbit. JumpShips could fold space and arrive at these well-charted points, safely outside a planet’s gravitational pull. Many planets also had less well-charted jump points, so-called pirate points where JumpShips could arrive closer to the planet, but these were secrets well-kept by those who used them. The unscheduled arrival of a ship at a jump point was always a matter for concern.

  “What data do you have?” she queried.

  “According to the satellite signal, the JumpShip arrived and immediately deployed a Union-class DropShip. The JumpShip has begun recharging operations and the DropShip is inbound.”

  “Merchant?”

  There was a pause. “I think you should come to HQ, Knight Holt.”

  Alexi closed her eyes, focusing her thoughts. “I take it you’ve identified the incoming ship.” Stormhammers? Possibly. Clan Jade Falcon? She felt her stomach muscles clench at the thought.

  “Both the JumpShip and DropShip bear the markings of the Spirit Cats.”

  The Spirit Cats? That was a wrinkle she hadn’t considered. Word had it that their leader was scattering his warriors across the Inner Sphere on quests to find the Clan’s destiny—a safe haven where they could ride out the storm they were convinced was coming. They were tough customers: skilled warriors, deeply spiritual, and highly motivated. When the Spirit Cats acted, they did so as if the survival of the Clan depended on their success. It galvanized them, turned them into a dangerous force.

  She looked again at the door that Patricia had closed behind her and sighed. “I’m on my way,” she said. She shut off the communicator.

  Checking into Patricia Harwell would have to wait.

  * * *

  Legate Singh was nervous. It showed in his darting eyes, and how the faked smile Alexi had come to expect had been washed from his jaw. He leaned on the operations table in the Militia headquarters, his hands flat against the tabletop and his arms stiff, and stared at the holographic image displayed for his command team. The air in the room smelled ripe, a mix of nervous sweat and humidity. Singh said nothing, but let the image sink in for everyone in the room.

  It was imposing. A Clan Union-class DropShip filled the display against a dark field of stars. The ship was painted dull gray with the growling cat-head of the Spirit Cats emblazoned on its side against a shield of blue. There was no mistaking it. The Clan was on its way to Wyatt.

  Legate Singh shut off the projector. “So there you have it. The Spirit Cats are inbound on a fast-burn trajectory. We have five days maximum before they arrive.” His voice rang like a bell of doom.

  “So what’s the plan, sir?” Captain “Fox” Irwin asked, stroking his gray goatee.

  The legate’s eyebrows seemed to collapse, as if they were surrendering. “Thus far, the Spirit Cats have refused to respond to our attempts at communication. We won’t know where they are going to land or their targets until they get here.” His answer gave his officers nothing to work with.

  So Alexi jumped in. “What we need to do,” she said in her firmest command tone, “is mobilize our forces. Based on their usual operating procedure, it is unlikely the Spirit Cats are coming here for a fight. But if we have to engage them, we need to be ready to do it.”

  Singh stared at her. “Do you really think we might be able to avoid a fight altogether?”

  Alexi shrugged. There was no sense in hiding the truth. “Probably not. We don’t know why they are coming here. When we learn the goal of their mission, we may be able to negotiate with them. However, they are violating the sovereignty of The Republic and of Wyatt by landing here. That alone may force us into a confrontation. If we do fight them, we need to keep the citizens out of the way.”

  “I believe it would be best for all involved if we could avoid a battle,” the legate replied.

  I’m sure everyone agrees on that. Alexi nodded rather than say what she was thinking. “We are talking a single Union-class ship. That’s three Clan Stars’ worth of troops on board, slightly more than the size of a company of our troops. Given our current numbers and the additional hardware and armaments I brought, the odds are about even—in fact, we may have an edge in numbers. But these are Clan warriors. We cannot afford to underestimate them.” The officers around the table took her words very seriously. They all knew that the Clan warriors were genetically bred for combat and trained from childhood to fight and win.

  Legate Singh sucked in a deep breath. “I’ve informed the governor of the situation. He has scheduled a broadcast to let the general population know what is happening.”

  Knight Holt gripped the edge of the table and squeezed hard. Making an announcement of the
Spirit Cats’ arrival was premature and would only cause panic. But she knew it was out of her hands. She had to work with the cards she had been dealt. “In that case, we can go to full alert. Cancel all leaves. Recall all the militia. Prep the vehicles and load them out.”

  Legate Singh slapped his hand on the holotable. “Don’t worry, Knight Holt. We will be ready.”

  If we’re not, we’re all dead. Alexi scanned the faces of the officers in the room. She wondered if any were asking themselves why the Spirit Cats had come to Wyatt. She knew the answer: she had been sent to Wyatt because if the HPG was repaired, there was the risk that some faction might make a grab to control the planet. Of all of the possible threats, the Spirit Cats had been a distant worry. Now, that distant worry was burning in-system.

  There was more to worry about than just the HPG. There was a gawky technician who was an even greater prize.

  * * *

  Reo Jones hated rain. He stood under the striped awning of the newsstand, leaning back to avoid a drizzle running off the edge of the flimsy canvas covering. He pretended to study the long racks of newspapers and magazines, and the owner, a bald, older man with a grungy salt-and-pepper beard, cast him a wary glance. Reo suddenly realized the rack nearest him was filled with pornography, and just for a moment wondered if the owner figured him for a pervert. He’d been called many things over the years, but that would be a new one on his record.

  Rutger Chaffee ran under the awning and collapsed his umbrella. The long scar on his pockmarked face was wet, and it looked artificial. Reo knew differently. Any scars this man had acquired as a mercenary, he had earned with his own blood and the blood of others.

  “So, Reo,” he said, taking one of the more brazen magazines off the rack and flipping through it as if it were a sporting publication. “You heard the news broadcast tonight?”

  “I did. And ten minutes later, you called me to meet you here.”