“How would you and your techs like to take a crack at repairing the gear in that HQ? Having that vehicle operational would give us a big edge in a fight. We could tie in the command-control-communications systems and get some leverage from having a coordinating command unit.”
Tucker smiled. “I can’t make any promises on the results, but I’m sure they’ll all agree to try. It’s better than sitting around and waiting for the action to start.”
Alexi gave him a somber stare. “Don’t get anxious, Tucker. The action will happen soon enough.”
11
Wyatt Militia Headquarters
Kinross, Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
12 May 3135
The prime mover was a massive truck carrying heavy-duty winches and cranes and a deep bed, deep enough to carry a BattleMech. Prime movers were crucial in battlefield operations for salvaging ’Mechs and damaged vehicles and bringing them back to repair stations. This one had seen its prime at least two decades ago, if not longer. The flat, brown-and-green striped paint scheme was deeply scratched, scraped and chipped in many places, revealing other colors buried in the layers of paint. Pockmarked dents from rounds that didn’t penetrate the metal marked its sides, scars of battles long past. It rumbled down the long tunnel into the bay, its transmission rattling like a baby’s toy, the engine straining. Four mechanics rode on the truck bed next to the cargo that was tied down under tarps.
Alexi Holt moved alongside the old hauler as it clattered to a stop. Lieutenant Johannson hopped down from the passenger seat to stand next to her, and pointed up to the bed of the hauler. “That was a hell of a dirty job,” he cursed. The logistical officer’s jumpsuit was muddy, splashes of bright green coolant staining both legs. It had been torn, and black smears of grease splotched it everywhere. Alexi barely registered that he smelled as if he had been in the field longer than the two and a half days he had been gone.
“What were you able to recover?”
He shook his head and reached up to grab an armful of slick, bright yellow decontamination suits from the storage compartment, tossing them to the concrete floor of the bay. “Not as much as I’d hoped. I have parts that should allow us to rebuild two ’Mechs, a miner and a construction.” As he spoke, the mechanics in the bed of the hauler removed the tarps. Alexi was surprised to see not ’Mechs, but parts. Huge industrial ICEs—internal combustion engines. A drilling arm. Nearly every part in the truck showed signs of black scarring and cutting.
“Looks like parts, all right,” she said, unsuccessfully trying to keep her surprise out of her voice.
“Knight Holt,” Johannson said, sounding exhausted. “There were almost a dozen IndustrialMechs out there. They’ve been there since the war. We decontaminated them as much as possible, but in the end we had to cut off most of the exterior metal—it was more efficient than decontaminating it. Most were in such disrepair we couldn’t salvage anything. What we have is enough to build two ’Mechs, if we’re lucky.”
She reached up and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You did a good job, Lieutenant,” she replied. “How is your rad count?”
“We’re good as long as my team stays out of the contaminated zone for a few days.”
“You did a good job,” she repeated. “I’m pleased with the results. Two additional ’Mechs is a big improvement. I’m not worried about the plates you had to strip off—the exterior bodywork had to be fabricated with fresh armor plating anyway, because IndustrialMechs aren’t armored the way we need them to be. You think you can assemble those parts in the next few days?”
Johannson wiped his brow on his sleeve, smearing a streak of grease on his forehead in the process. “I’d like to tell you no, but something tells me that you won’t accept that answer. Somehow we’ll pull it off.”
“I know.”
“Anything pop while we were gone?”
She shrugged. “We’ve heard nothing from the Spirit Cats. They’re three days out and still heading toward us.”
“Damn.”
“There is some good news. Tucker Harwell and his people have managed to restore that old Browning Mobile HQ. They’ve gotten the electronic countermeasures and sensor array working and they’re tying in all of the IFF transponders so that it can assist in coordinating operations.”
“The cowlhead pulled it off, eh? I’m impressed.”
Alexi frowned at his words. “Cowlhead” was a phrase that dated back to when ComStar had been a religious organization and when adepts like Tucker had worn hoods and robes and prayed to the technology they operated. Since the Jihad, the phrase had become derogatory, usually aimed at ComStar. “Lieutenant, I’d ask that you not use that word when you talk about Tucker Harwell. I’ve been camped out with ComStar since I got on Wyatt, and they’re a little sensitive about comments like that. He’s on our side, remember?”
“Sorry,” Johannson said, blushing red at the rebuff. “I meant what I said as a compliment. We wrote off that battlewagon downstairs a long time ago. The fact that they’ve got the comm gear working is remarkable.”
“Yes, it is,” she replied. “Because of their work, I’m assigning two of their people to your team for rebuilding the ’Mechs. They’re not much on mechanics, but from what I’ve seen, these ComStar techs are pretty good with electronics and power plants.”
Johannson smiled. “Great. Anyone who could fix that hunk of junk is welcome to work with my people anytime.”
Alexi smiled. “Glad you feel that way.” Now my biggest problem is the Spirit Cats.
* * *
Legate Singh stepped out of the ComStar private communications cubicle and slid the data disk back into his vest pocket. It had cost him quite a bit to send the messages he had transmitted, but the cost was well worth it. The accounts he had used had been set up years ago. At that time, no one expected to use the accounts for the kind of situation they currently faced. But with the Spirit Cats heading toward his planet, he was willing to take extraordinary risks to keep Wyatt safe.
That was his charter as legate . . . the protection of the world. If his resident Knight Errant wanted to plan for an all-out war, a war he knew they would lose, that was her prerogative. He intended to make sure that Wyatt was safe, and if that meant taking extraordinary risks—well, he was willing to do that. History will vindicate my actions . . . and if not, my parents would.
As he stepped into the hallway, he heard a rumble from outside the compound. For a moment, Edward Singh convinced himself it was distant thunder, but it was too short—too sharp. A heartbeat later, he knew the rumble was an explosion. Another heartbeat later, he heard shouting and the sound of gunfire.
Reaching down, he felt the comforting weight of his Settles Mark II slug-thrower. Weapons were banned inside the ComStar compound, but his position as planetary legate granted him some latitude in the rules. He was thankful for that. He unclasped the leather holster strap and rested his hand on the weapon.
The Spirit Cats . . . but how did they get here so fast? No. It couldn’t be them. He tensed and moved along the interior wall, cautiously starting down the corridor. The realization that someone else was on-planet, someone unknown, settled over him like a wet blanket. What are we up against? More important, who?
There was another roar, this one much closer. A ceiling tile jostled loose and crashed to the floor right in front of him, and he jerked his pistol loose. Every muscle in his body tensed up, and blood roared in his ears with each beat of his heart. Whoever it was, they were getting closer.
The corridor in front of him ran straight for ten meters then turned, paralleling the outer wall on this side of the compound. Legate Singh moved forward, one cautious step at a time. From around the corner ahead, he heard the rattle of a submachine gun and the whine of ricochets off metal or concrete. Yelling—someone calling for reinforcements. He pressed his spine tight against the wall and waited.
There was a rush of wind, then a sucking sound as a blast ripped the air in front of him. Singh fe
ll and something heavy draped over him, trapping him. His vision filled with spots, as if a camera had flashed right in front of his eyes. He felt the grip of the Settles slug-thrower still in his hand, but it was difficult to move his arm.
It took a second for him to figure out that he was covered with a length of the hall carpet. Pushing and crawling, pistol still in hand, he got free. The blast down the corridor had torn up the carpeting and tossed it right over him. Looking down the hallway, he saw that the pictures decorating the walls were gone, and a black burn mark lapped along the exterior wall from the blast. Feeling dazed, he stood in the middle of the hall.
He could see forms moving in a cloud of smoke. They were massive shapes, obviously not human but oddly human-shaped. One was walking toward him, and Singh held out his pistol with both arms in front of him, shivering slightly from the rush of fear and adrenaline. The figure moved steadily through the darkened section of corridor, the lights blasted out in the explosion.
When the legate heard the crushing, grinding noise on the exposed concrete floor in tandem with the enemy’s footsteps, he knew he was facing power armor, but he still couldn’t tell who it belonged to. He wanted to fire, shoot right at the face plate or the neck, but he knew that was a pointless gesture. If it was power armor, he was facing a ton of killing hardware that would shake off anything his slug-thrower might toss at it.
The lead figure stepped into the light and the legate got his first good look at what he was facing. Standing more than two meters tall, it had a domed helmet and a reflective face plate that shined like a curved mirror. A huge jump-jet tank covered the back of the armor, making the infantryman look like a hunchback. Singh knew the armor was reflective just under the paint; he could see the shiny surface where the camouflage had been scraped. Great protection from lasers, somewhat less against firearms. Still impenetrable by a handheld slug thrower. The shape of the power suit told him everything he needed to know: he was facing Raiden battlearmor.
Its left arm was humanoid looking, like a massive mailed gauntlet on a knight from a different era, though Singh knew it was more than armor. Augmented with myomer muscle fibers, microsensors and datafeeds to the CPU, it was capable of grappling a moving BattleMech and holding on for the ride. At the same time, the gauntlet was so delicate that it could be used to manipulate weapons, toss grenades and perform any function of a normal human hand.
The right arm was a barrel mounting a massive heavy machine gun—definitely not humanoid. It was not aimed at him, but he knew it could be in a millisecond. He kept his pistol aimed at the head of the battlearmor, and for a moment the two soldiers stared at each other.
His eyes dipped down past the light tan and gray urban camouflage colors of the armor to the left chest. Right above the ammo feed mechanism that led to the machine-gun arm, he saw the logo of a unit named Chaffee’s Cut-Throats. He frowned. Who the hell was Chaffee?
“Who are you?” he demanded, taking a step back. The Raiden battlearmor took two steps forward, closing the distance between them.
A hiss and pop came over the shielded external speaker, followed by a deep, distorted voice that sounded as if it were broadcasting from a cave rather than the power suit standing in front of him. “You’re not Tucker Harwell,” it stated flatly.
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?” it crackled back.
“No.” He lied. It came naturally.
“Too bad,” the voice responded. The Raiden suit stepped forward one more step and swept its machine-gun arm forward. For a millisecond, Singh thought he was dead. Reflexively, he fired off one shot, hitting the head of the battlearmor, but the hollow-point slug just burst and ricocheted down the hallway. Pain exploded in his temple, and Legate Singh thought he had been shot. His ears rang as he smashed into the exterior wall and dropped to the floor. Just before he blacked out, he realized that he had been thrown aside like a rag doll in the hands of an angry child.
* * *
Deep in the interior of the mobile HQ, Tucker leaned back against one of the few consoles that was not open, in pieces, or draped with fiber-optic wiring or cables. The work on the mobile HQ was progressing, but the way the officers were talking, it was already done. There was clearly a difference in the way that technicians and military personnel defined operational.
That thought flitted wildly through his mind as Tucker stared at Alexi Holt. The Knight stood at a loose parade-rest, the position she had chosen for delivering the news of the attack on the compound. Patricia had moved to Tucker’s side as soon as the Knight had entered the vehicle. It was obvious Alexi Holt had experience in delivering bad news. There was no sugar-coating it. She had been blunt and to the point, dealing only with the facts.
Tucker was stunned by what he’d heard.
“How bad is it?” he finally managed, his voice barely audible.
“Three dead. Six wounded, including Legate Singh, who apparently was there on personal business. I guess we’re fortunate that the legate only suffered a mild concussion. One of the attackers was killed by ComStar security—a lucky shot through the collar on the battle armor.” Her voice conveyed no emotion, just the facts.
“Why?” he stammered. “Who did this?”
“ComStar and the local police are still picking up the pieces, but it appears that the units were marked with the logos of a mercenary group. As to the why,” for the first time Knight Holt hesitated. “Tucker, they were looking for you.”
“For me?”
“By name. No damage was done to the HPG itself or any of the operating equipment. They arrived in a converted commercial vehicle, two squads of battlearmored troops. One secured the perimeter while the other penetrated the compound searching for you.”
Tucker drew a deep breath. They were looking for me. If I had stayed in the compound . . . “They were going to kill me.”
Alexi shook her head. “Doubtful. Chances are the merc leader, or the unit’s employer, realizes the same thing I did—you’re a valuable prize. If he can secure you, he can control the fate of many worlds suffering from the blackout.”
Patricia put her arm around his shoulders. “Tucker,” she said firmly, “it’s going to be all right. You’re safe here.”
He shook his head, his hair springing in every direction. “I thought I was safe there. But now people have died for me. Others are hurt, who knows how badly. All because of me.”
Tucker’s entire life had been spent studying, learning, researching, searching for knowledge. He had lived on Terra since the day he was born. It was the safe, comforting heart of humanity. Now, suddenly, everything had changed. He had come to Wyatt to help apply what he knew to help the people who lived here. Now some of those same people were dead. Total strangers had been killed because of him. His whole body sagged against the console. Patricia’s arm around him was the only thing keeping him from curling up into a ball on the floor.
Alexi paused, then spoke again. “Tucker, this didn’t happen because of you. This happened because people are corrupt and greedy. You’ve got a gift, a gift that can bring hope and a future to billions upon billions of people. It’s typical that some people would want to corrupt that for their own benefit. Don’t blame yourself. Blame them.” Patricia caught her eye and mouthed, “Thank you.” Alexi Holt spun on her heel and stepped out of the mobile HQ.
Patricia settled in beside Tucker, tipping his head to her shoulder. “Tucker, you know she’s right. This isn’t your fault.”
“It’s not right that people should die because of me.”
“Most everyone feels that way,” she soothed. “Do you remember when Grandpa used to tell us stories when we stayed at the cabin on Stuart Lake?” Tucker nodded. He couldn’t guess her point, or what memories she hoped to conjure. At that moment, he felt that nothing could relieve the pain he felt.
“He loved to tell us stories about the old days of ComStar, and you used to really enjoy those stories. Remember his stories about Jerome Blake? He was just like
you, a technician. He was handed control of an entire interstellar communications network after a devastating war. All he ever wanted to do was to help people. Evil people rose up against him and ComStar over the years, causing wars and worse, but he never lost sight of what he was doing—helping trillions of people stay in touch.”
“I’m not Jerome Blake,” Tucker said sadly.
She chuckled. “I agree, Tucker. But you are special. You have a skill that no one else understands. Until we do understand what you know, we have to protect you. In that process, people are going to get hurt. Some may die.”
“I don’t want their blood on my hands. There’s got to be another way for this to go.”
“Unfortunately, you don’t get to make a choice anymore; this is bigger than you. Events will become violent no matter what we decide.” She paused. “Our family has been a part of ComStar for generations. Mom, Dad, even Grandpa would want you to hold true to your commitment to ComStar. You’ve made all of us proud. Don’t give up now, Tucker.”
He gave his sister a hug. “You’re right, Patricia. You always are.”
She sighed. “Don’t worry, Tuck. ComStar takes care of its own.”
JumpShip Halsey
Nadir Jump Point
Irian
The Republic, Prefecture VII
Captain Ivan Casson hovered above the floor of the bridge while the comm officer watched the data retrieval status scroll past on the screen. Casson would have preferred to pace, but in the zero-G of the bridge, he had little choice. Even worse, he was waiting. He hated waiting. Fighting, that was something he understood. Waiting, that was something for junior officers to contend with.
The Halsey had used false transponder codes to pose as a commercial JumpShip and was now sitting at the jump point, waiting for an update of information to be relayed to the tiny satellite that SAFE, the intelligence arm of the now-dissolved Free Worlds League, had placed in the system. No one seemed to care much about the provenance of the JumpShip and its attached DropShips, as long as they were willing to relay news from the Oriente Protectorate and everywhere else they had traveled to or from. Even the Dragon’s Fury, which had seized the ’Mech production facility on Irian, did not seem to care about the Oriente ship—as long as it did not attempt to land any DropShips on-planet. News and data was a commodity that everyone respected.
Target of Opportunity Page 13
