The legate appeared to hear her words, but he began talking as soon as she stopped. “I was thinking of moving us to the city of Madison. It’s a small city approximately four hunded kilometers from here, but it offers facilities we can use to set up a temporary base.”
She frowned. “Legate, Madison is so far away that we would be unable to respond to Kinross if there was trouble. My plan takes us only 180 kilometers from the city. Also, Madison is an urban setting, and since we are still protecting Tucker, we will continue to draw the attention of Bannson’s people. We do not want to fight them in an urban environment.”
“It’s easier for us to establish our base in a city,” Singh returned. “We’ll have better access to resources.”
We’ll be hemmed in and trapped. “Sir, this is a military unit. It can set up anywhere. We aren’t doing these troops any favors bunking them down in a hotel in the middle of a city. The sooner they realize that this could be a shooting war, the sooner we treat them like the soldiers they are, the sooner they’ll start to believe it themselves and act accordingly.”
“The fight is over,” Singh said. “You lost it for us.”
She didn’t react. “Legate, I assure you, this fight is just beginning. My recommendation that we head north stands.”
He stared at her for a few moments, perhaps thinking that the silence would intimidate her. It didn’t. “Very well, Knight Holt. But should anything else go wrong, I will hold you accountable.”
Alexi wanted to laugh. Plenty had already gone wrong. “I assure you, whatever happens, I will take responsibility.”
* * *
Tucker walked to the massive mobile HQ and leaned in the driver’s-side hatch. It was like a bank-vault door, heavy, thick, mounted above the half-track drive train. He saw his sister heading for the opening and moved out of the way. She swung through the hatch by holding on to the bar above the interior of the door, shooting her legs out first. Patricia dropped to the floor and dusted off the working jumpsuit she had borrowed from Wyatt Militia supplies.
Tucker had been working with Patricia on the MiningMech that was being modified for combat when the techs assigned to continue work on the mobile HQ had encountered a problem with the tracking systems that they couldn’t solve. Like most ComStar personnel, Patricia was trained in basic electronics and communications systems maintenance and repair, so his sister had gone to help troubleshoot it. That had been three hours ago.
“Get it fixed?” he asked.
“A while ago. I was just working with one of the other techs on fine-tuning the satellite relay system,” she replied. “Guess what I found? That vehicle was ComStar at one time.”
He glanced back at the huge, armored cab-and-truck assembly, its new paint job concealing any sign of the age of the beast. “Really? Wow. It’s been a long time since ComStar fielded any military vehicles.” The Jihad had destroyed the Com Guards, ComStar’s military wing, first in battle, then through attrition as the Guards hunted down and eliminated the remains of the Word of Blake out of guilt and anger. Because the Word of Blake considered the Com Guards traitors to the true vision of Blake, the attacks against the ComStar military were particularly vicious, most involving suicide bombs or weapons of mass destruction. Tucker shivered involuntarily at the thought of such wanton destruction. The Com Guards were nothing more than a memory.
“How do you know?”
She smiled. “I’m a researcher. Behind one of the access panels was an old ComStar insignia. It was hard to see, but of course it caught my eye immediately.”
Tucker listened intently. “But how do you know the vehicle wasn’t used by the Word of Blake?”
“I don’t,” Patricia said, as if surprised that he thought it made a difference. “It doesn’t matter.”
Tucker seemed shocked. “It does matter. The Word of Blake killed billions upon billions of people. They almost destroyed ComStar. They conducted a jihad, for heaven’s sake. Hell, you know the stories better than I do, Patricia.”
She glared at him. “I do know them better than you, and it still doesn’t matter to me, Tucker. ComStar is an organization to be proud of. Throughout our history, we have guided mankind to a better future. What the Word of Blake did does not reflect on ComStar, and I’m tired of being forced to apologize for a war that happened before we were born. The Jihad is in the past. We—you—are making the future.”
He had struck a nerve without meaning to. Remembering his treatment by the customs official at the airport when he arrived, he had to concede that there was some justification for her outburst. But he also had to believe that so much death would somehow count against ComStar until that blood debt was paid. As he struggled to collect his thoughts into a convincing argument, someone walked up and stepped between them. At first he didn’t recognize the man. He wore his left arm in a sling and had a bandage over his left ear. Tucker did a double-take when he realized he was looking at Demi-Precentor Faulk. Gone was the immaculate suit, gone was the arrogance that had seemed permanently etched on his face.
“Ms. Harwell, I have been asked to deliver this message to you,” he said, handing her a data disk. He either didn’t see Tucker or chose to ignore him.
“Demi-Precentor,” Tucker said in recognition. Faulk turned to face him. His face showed multiple small cuts, with one or two larger ones bandaged. His eyes were dark and sunken, with bags under them. He had the look of a man who has seen war as he met Tucker’s gaze.
“Adept Harwell,” he replied.
“What happened?” Tucker stammered.
He hefted the arm in the sling. “When those raiders came looking for you, I thought they were coming to seize the HPG or worse, destroy it. I tried to fight them.”
Patricia cut in. “They were in battlearmor.”
Faulk gave a wry smile. “I am aware of that.” For the first time since he’d met him, Tucker felt sorry for the demi-precentor. Worse, Tucker felt a pang of guilt. It’s because of me that he’s hurt.
“What are you doing so far from the compound?” Tucker asked.
“I’m just following orders,” he said. “I received a coded message for your sister along with orders to deliver it, by hand, in person.”
Tucker was confused. “I’ve never heard of any message that had to be delivered in person by a demi-precentor.”
“I have, but it’s rare,” Faulk said. “My orders came from Precentor Buhl. As you know, it’s not good to question Precentor Buhl. My duty is to serve.” Faulk’s spine stiffened as he spoke, like he was coming to attention, but Tucker would swear that there was a hint of humor in the man’s eyes.
“Thank you, Demi-Precentor,” Patricia said.
“I’ll take my leave of the two of you,” Faulk replied. “And Mr. Harwell?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.” And with those words, Faulk walked away. Looking puzzled, Tucker turned to Patricia. “Do you have any idea what that was all about?”
She shrugged, tucking the disk in her shirt pocket and snapping the flap shut. “I asked for some data from Terra a few days ago. I’m sure that’s what it is.”
“But delivered by person?”
Patricia’s smile seemed forced. “Tucker, just chalk it up to the vagaries of my profession and leave it alone.” Before he could ask anything else, Patricia had started back through the hatch into the mobile HQ.
* * *
Alexi stepped off the gantry platform onto the back of the MiningMech. The dump-truck back of the ’Mech had been converted into a missile bay, now filled with eight meter-long missile tubes. Tucker stood down at the loading end of the missile rack, attempting to sort through the colorful, tangled mess of wiring harnesses. Knight Holt walked carefully down the length of the missile rack until she was standing over him.
Tucker didn’t notice her, he was buried in his work. He pulled gently on one harness, tracing it to where it wired into the missile tube, and clipped the feed back on. He held up his wrist communicator. “I just resea
ted number ten. Run a systems check.” Tucker stretched his back and suddenly saw the Knight Errant standing over him. He managed to fumble to his feet without getting caught in the harnesses.
“How’s it going, Tucker?” she said, for once using his first name.
He seemed tongue-tied for a moment, probably wondering how long she had been watching him. “Uh, fine. Just some last-minute wiring issues for the TICs.”
“Will she run?” Alexi asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Tucker replied enthusiastically. “We’ve got most of the replacement armor welded into place. The autocannon weapons system that Lieutenant Johannson salvaged from storage turned out to be a good addition. She’s not a BattleMech, but this old miner has a few surprises that I think will catch anyone going against us off guard.”
“Excellent,” she said, putting her hands on her waist in a relaxed stance. “From what I understand, you’ve been a big help to the teams here. I wanted to thank you, and to let you know we’re moving out soon.”
“Where are we heading?”
“North. First thing in the morning.”
“That’s not much time,” Tucker frowned. “We haven’t had a chance to really test out the IndustrialMechs at all.”
“We’ll have to test them on the road,” she replied. “I struck a bargain with the Spirit Cats, and I intend to honor it.”
“Were you hurt in the trial?”
Her expression didn’t change. “I was injured, but I’ll recover.”
Tucker stared at her for a moment. They were both silent. She kept thinking of Tucker as a kid, but he was fully grown. He had restored Wyatt to the HPG network and had the potential to perform the same miracle on hundreds of other worlds. Saving this one man might just save The Republic from the chaos that it had been struggling against since the HPG blackout.
“I wish none of this had happened,” Tucker finally said.
“I understand the way you feel. At the same time, I’m glad you came here and did what you did.”
Tucker knew he looked confused. Alexi continued. “Tucker, we’ll get through this . . . I’ll make sure of that. And when it’s all over, you are going to help restore The Republic and the rest of the Inner Sphere. The universe fell apart when communications broke down. You are the only person right now that has the aptitude to fix this.”
“It’s not easy,” he said wearily.
“Great things rarely are,” Alexi replied. She reached out and squeezed his shoulder.
17
Adam Steiner Memorial Park
Kinross, Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
16 May 3135
Star Captain Cox stood at the feet of his Warhammer in the center of the city park and surveyed the surrounding area. Kinross enfolded the ten-acre park at its exact center, its buildings creating a perfect set of walls from where he stood. It was an old city, its architecture dated, but somehow it seemed quaint. As the sun set in the distance, fresh understanding rushed through him of what it meant to be a Clan warrior . . . master of all he surveyed, his dominion won in combat. Things could not be better, quiaff?
Cox stared up at Harbinger and saw the replacement armor, primed a dull black-gray, not yet painted to match the rest of the ’Mech. His memory of the battle with Knight Alexi was still fresh, as fresh as the repairs. He had won because he had suppressed his instincts as a Clansman. While his training dictated that he rush in for a fast victory, he knew that his foe would expect that. Instead, he had lived up to the insignia on the torso of his ’Mech, a leaping black cat—a Pouncer.
Victory belonged to him and to the Spirit Cats. Victory opened the city of Kinross to his Clan. He was pleased with what he had achieved, but not arrogant in the defeat of the Knight Errant. Defeating her had been a matter of calculation and skill. If he fought her again, he was not sure the end result would be the same. Alexi had demonstrated great skill in fighting. The damage to his Warhammer had been sufficient to validate the prowess of his opponent. He had lost a heat sink in the trial, and another hit to the torso would likely have damaged his fusion-reactor housing.
His forces deployed in the park, posting a light perimeter guard around the clump of trees and fountain that marked the center of the green fields. The fountain was centered on a statue of some figure from the history of the world, and from the look of it, a military man. He wore a uniform and a stern expression. Star Captain Cox frowned. Only the Inner Sphere sought to pay such tributes. In the Clans it was much easier. Honored leaders did not seek stone effigies; instead, they considered their honor complete if their genetic heritage was passed on to future generations.
Star Commander Monique stepped away from the footpad of her Black Hawk and stood next to him, attempting to see the park through his eyes. “Are you sure that this is where you wish us to set up our encampment, Star Captain? There are plenty of structures that we can commandeer, including the militia headquarters.”
“We will camp here,” he replied. “I believe that sleeping here under the stars will help us in our search.”
“As you wish,” she responded, as a Condor hovertank came to rest on its armored skirt nearby. “Though I expect that wherever we set up our base, we will disturb the locals. Did you see the lower castes stare at us as we entered the city? They are afraid of us.”
“Neg, Star Commander,” he replied coldly. “They hate us. It is a somewhat more dangerous emotion than fear.”
She seemed unimpressed, and that worried him. He was well-versed in Clan history, as every warrior should be. When the Clans first returned to the Inner Sphere decades ago, on the Great Crusade to liberate the citizens of the Inner Sphere from war, their experiences taught them much worth remembering. While the populations of some worlds submitted peacefully to Clan rule, others rose up against the Clans, taking up arms and successfully using guerrilla tactics against the warrior caste. But the Crusade ended without any Clan claiming the prize of Terra, and the younger warriors had begun to display some of the overconfidence that had cost the Clans so dearly early on. “Post pickets,” Star Captain Cox replied. “I want our Elementals positioned for rapid response should trouble arise.”
“Do you feel that it is necessary, Star Captain?”
He nodded firmly. “See to it personally, Star Commander. We will enjoy the fruits of my victory here, but we will not place ourselves at unnecessary risk.”
“Where will you be, sir?”
“I am going to meet the ComStar administrator for Wyatt. The reactivation of this HPG may be the root of the visions that Galaxy Commander Rosse and I have experienced. Understanding what has happened here may help me interpret my visions.”
* * *
Reo Jones sat comfortably on top of the Fisher Building, an old office building near the edge of the park. From his perch, some twenty stories up, he had full view of Adam Steiner Memorial Park in the twilight. Using his e-binocs, he was able to identify every detail of the Spirit Cat deployment and camp. He sighed as he looked at the ’Mechs and tallied the number of armored infantry that he saw—for the tenth or twelfth time. It was something to do and it made him feel useful.
You faced a lot of problems when you were labeled as incompetent or a traitor, chief of which is that no matter what, you are never fully trusted. The Republic, formally, had turned its back on him. Jacob Bannson kept his leash fairly tight, and Reo didn’t blame him. Rutger Chaffee trusted him as far as he could throw him, and the feeling was mutual. Lack of trust didn’t consume Reo’s thoughts, it was simply something that came with his job—his life.
Today, lack of trust was making Reo’s job more difficult than usual. Reo knew that Chaffee was planning something. There was something in that yellow-toothed grin that told Reo plain as day that the mercenary commander was holding something back. He refused to share his plans, so Reo went to plan B. Spying on Cut-Throat’s force would only cause problems. Spying on the Spirit Cats, however, would eventually reveal what Chaffee was up to. If Chaffee was goi
ng to make a move, it would be here.
Only a Clan warrior would camp in the open in the middle of a hostile city. And then he had the gall to make his next move a meeting with the planetary leader of ComStar. Reo had seen the news broadcast of Cox meeting with the bandaged form of Demi-Precentor Faulk an hour ago on his portable holovid viewer. He leaned back in the folding chair, pulled out a drink and popped the top, taking a sip. Even though the conversation between the two wasn’t broadcast, he was sure that the Star captain didn’t learn anything useful from Faulk. The real brains behind the restoration of the HPG was Tucker, and he was unavailable for comment. Which made him wonder just how much the Spirit Cat commander had learned about Tucker Harwell, and if the Clans now considered him as much of a prize as did Chaffee and Bannson.
At the edge of his field of vision he saw something moving toward the park. The early evening twilight made it hard to identify without visual aids. He grabbed his e-binocs and brought the image into focus. The digital enhancement system built into the binoculars corrected for the lack of light. It was a Fox-class hovercraft. This one was not the gray, white, and black of the Spirit Cats. This one was painted in an urban camouflage pattern of greens and browns. Flickers of firing lasers flashed in the early evening darkness and he saw at least a few Elementals light their jump jets and rise into the air on plumes of orange flame, casting odd shadows.
Reo had seen this vehicle before, in Chaffee’s warehouse. This is very, very bad. He drew in a long breath. “What in the hell are you up to, Cut-Throat?”
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