Roberta spoke up with a sharp crack of her voice. "They are not worthy foes. Pursuing them would be akin to hunting bandits, and that is a job for a stinking solahma unit, not the Huntress Galaxy. They should not be accorded the respect due only to true warriors. I say we send the Dark Claw to destroy them rather than fight them as honorable foes, quiaff?" Life in the Clans was harsh and strict, with most warriors considered beyond their pride in their thirties. Her reference to the bandit caste, the lowest form of Clan life, made it clear what she thought of these Fusiliers. The new Galaxy had no old or retiring warriors, nothing to make up a solahma unit.
She does not understand. She has only heard the rhetoric bandied on the home worlds. "Neg, Star Colonel. Do not disregard this or any mercenary unit. I have fought such units before and they are not to be dismissed."
A sneer crossed Roberta's face. "Mercenaries are no match for true warriors."
"Do they not sing The Remembrance on the homeworlds, Star Colonel? Does the name 'Luthien' not fire your blood as it does mine?" Unlike them, Devon Osis had been there on Luthien where the combined efforts of the Kell Hounds and the accursed Wolfs Dragoons had crushed the Smoke Jaguar assault on the capital of the Draconis Combine.
Thibideau broke the tension. "You mean to fight them, quiaff?"
"Aff. But we shall fight them on our terms. This Colonel Stirling's attempt at a batchall means nothing to me. I might do these money soldiers honor by allowing them to die on their feet rather than destroying them in orbit, but I shall not let her corrupt the honor of the batchall."
Star Colonel Patricia leaned across the table and activated the display again, this time tapping codes into the buttons along the edge of the base. "There seems to be little information regarding these Northwind Highlanders to which the Fusiliers belong. What do we know of them?"
Devon Osis leaned back slightly. "They claim heritage with the Star League army. When General Kerensky took our people away, they stayed behind. That betrayal has forced them into the life of freebirth mercenaries. They fight not for honor, but for money. Clan Steel Viper has fought them; I heard the Khan speak of it at one of the Grand Council meetings."
One of the greatest challenges the Clans faced upon coming to the Inner Sphere was the lack of Clan-equivalent honor among their foes. Among the Clans, a batchall was not an exercise in deception, but an honest exchange of information on the forces that would encounter each other. There was no need to gather intelligence because to win by trickery was the coward's way, not that of a true warrior.
Devon Osis spoke with raw anger. "They have shamed and dishonored that memory by selling their skills as warriors."
Roberta smiled, a newly capped tooth gleaming as she did. "All that remains is the bidding then."
"Aff," Devon Osis said. "The asset of the WarShip is mine to control, all others are yours as the Cluster commanders. In the ways of our people since the time of the great Nicholas Kerensky, I open the bidding for the defense of this world against those forces known as Stirling's Fusiliers of the Northwind Highlanders—freebirth warriors all. Battles are won in blood and death, but can be swayed by the tossing of stars in the bid. May your bids reveal your heart and spirit, and may you bloody your claws and fangs on the foe you are about to face." The words he spoke were almost a chant, the kind of ritualistic speech he had heard hundreds of times before. Now, as the Tau Galaxy Commander, they were his words to speak aloud.
Each of the Galaxy Commanders pulled out a small kit pouch and opened it. Inside were sets of deadly throwing stars, made of ferro-carbon and honed to a deadly edge. Each was colored and labeled to represent the forces the commanders had available. Devon pulled out a large round pad with the symbol of the Smoke Jaguar covering it. The pad was marked in many places, like a dart board. There were dark brown spots, old blood, still marking the symbol of the Smoke Jaguar that covered the board.
Bidding for the right to enter combat was done differently by each Clan. The Jaguar tradition called for the deadly throwing stars to be cast by the bidding warrior into a specially designed bidding board. Though to an outsider it might look like a simple game of darts, it was far from it. Nicholas Kerensky had once said that the art of the bid was part mental skill, part warrior prowess—and the Jaguars honored that. The participants involved in the bid held their hands on the bidding board.
Each star represented a Star—five BattleMechs or aerofighters, or twenty-five Elementals. To reduce a bid, the points of the stars would be broken off as well, each representing a single fighter, 'Mech, or five Elemental warriors. The individual points, if necessary, could be jabbed into the pad at the time of the bidding. The colors told their nature. Red represented 'Mech forces, blue for fighters, and gray were the Elemental Points. Each of the Star Colonels' stars was marked in the center with the unit insignia for their individual three Clusters.
Part of the Jaguar ritual was plain, the lowest bid earning the right to take on the Fusiliers. The secondary and unspoken object of the bidding was to attempt to damage or break a previous bid when you threw your stars into the bidding board. Any commander's star shattered in such a way was taken after the bidding as a prize of the bid.
The elements of risk were high. The bidding warrior never faced the board. He or she looked away, taking a martial arts fighting stance in preparation for the throw. To bid, the warrior pivoted quickly and let the stars fly as if being thrown at an advancing foe. If the star tips cut the fingers of any of the other bidders, that entire star was automatically removed from the bid. This forced good aim. But the scars on Thibideau Osis's fingers showed that, on occasion, even the best Jaguar warriors missed. If a deliberate miss was suspected, a Trial of Refusal on the bid could be waged, as was often the case. One of the worst losses of honor was for a warrior to pull his or her hand away from the bidding board. It almost always removed them from the bidding totally.
Thibideau Osis spoke first after pulling out his star tokens. "As the first and only Bloodnamed among my fellow Star Colonels, I evoke my right to pass on this opening bid. I pass to Roberta so that she might show her claws to us now." As the commander of the 25th Strike Cluster, his Deathstrike forces were the smallest cluster in the Galaxy. By passing the bid, he reserved the right to bid again at a later time, perhaps when the bidding was low enough that he could enter with a chance of winning. He and Patricia moved to the board and placed their hands on it, with full confidence and bravado.
Roberta did not answer with words. She walked away, then spun around with blinding speed, casting her bidding stars at the round pad. She had held back just over one of her Stars—breaking off several of the points a second before the throw, mostly Elemental and 'Mech forces. One point from the lethally tossed bidding star hit less than a centimeter from Patricia's hand.
Devon Osis leaned forward and studied her bid. It was neither impressive nor as bold as he had expected. She has a plan, something only she knows and which is not obvious now. She has left room to lower her bid, but, like Thibideau, is forcing Patricia to now bid the most boldly.
Patricia worked on her bidding stars silently as she walked to the throwing position while Roberta took her place at the board. Then, like a skilled martial artist she turned and threw the stars at the bidding board. Had she been throwing at a human target, the target would have been felled by the deadly barrage of razor-sharp stars. One of her bidding stars hit but did not damage those thrown by Roberta. She had pared away equal amounts of fighter, 'Mech, and Elemental support, undercutting Roberta's bid by another Star.
"Your bid showed lack of imagination, Roberta," Patricia said. "I have evened the odds, no matter what the venue."
Having noted their respective bids, Devon Osis returned the stars to the two Colonels. He turned then to Thibideau Osis.
"It is time for the Deathstrike Cluster," he said. Thibideau half-jumped, half-leaped into the air as he thrust his stars at the board. He had removed all of his aerospace fighters and most of his Elemental forces, unde
rcutting Patricia's bid by several points of a star. Devon studied the bid carefully. Thibideau apparently planned to fight on the ground only.
Roberta seemed amused by his bid. She manipulated her stars out of sight of the others, facing away as was the tradition. Then, like a samurai of old Terra, she cast the stars at the board with the force of a hurricane. Her aim was good, breaking one of Thibideau's bidding stars in half and narrowly missing Thibideau Osis's hand with one of her 'Mech stars. Devon looked at her bid and was surprised to see that she had removed several Points of her BattleMech forces and a full Star of both 'Mech and Elemental forces. Then he saw her plan. It had risks, but also promised her much glory if she could pull it off. She is as dangerous as I suspected. She plays this part of her role well.
Patricia looked at the bid that had been cast, and Devon saw a flicker of concern on her face. Roberta could not let that pass without comment. "Come now, Patricia, surely you can beat my bid? You have so often bragged how superior your forces are to mine. Now you can prove it. If you can beat this bid, I will bow out."
Patricia stared for a moment at the bidding pad, then put her stars back in her pack. "Your bravado is uncalled for and unbecoming of a true Jaguar. I do not believe that you can defeat this foe with the forces you bid for the battle."
"Poorly bargained and done," Thibideau chimed in. "If that is indeed your bid, Roberta, you will perish. Your 'Mech forces are too weak to score a victory against even this free-birth bandit-trash. You are reckless in your bid, and I, like Patricia, will let you pay the price. By the time these Fusiliers land and square off against your Cluster, you will be beaten and will forfeit your honor."
Roberta laughed out loud, a sinister sound. She reached down to the broken bidding star she had just shattered and held it in front of her by the points. Then she took the broken halves into her hand, squeezing them in her grasp until blood dripped onto the table. She was showing them her power of will.
She continued to smile. "You are weak and do not see why my bid will win. You think this battle will take place on the ground, but I will shatter these Fusiliers before they can land. Whatever is left of them when my fighters are done will be easy to crush."
Devon Osis slammed his fist on the table top to get their attention. "This is not some game between sibkos we are playing," he shouted. "Do not discount this threat. The Tau Galaxy was raised with the sole purpose of ending the blight known as the Nova Cats. Now we are plagued with this raid. We must defeat these mercenary trash, but in the doing we cannot so weaken ourselves that we are unable to fulfill our ultimate mission against the Nova Cats."
The Galaxy Commander turned his gaze to Roberta, whose face had grown somber at his display of anger. "These Fusiliers are a threat to our plans and the will of our Khan. The time for bravado is over, Star Colonel. You have won the bid as you must now win the fight. I want these freebirths destroyed, utterly, do you hear? No survivors."
11
DropShip Claymore, Approach Vector
Wayside V (Wildcat)
Deep Periphery
3 July 3058
Loren sat in the cockpit of his Penetrator and rechecked his 'Mech's diagnostics for the fifth time. The gentle throbbing of the 'Mech's fusion reactor and the blanket of warmth in the cockpit could not take the chill from his thoughts. His communications feeds to the Claymore's bridge were open, but remained oddly quiet. The deadly silence only seemed to add to the tension. As much as he found Captain Spillman's manners and speech irritating and disrespectful, they would have been a lot more welcome than the low hiss of static that filled his neurohelmet. Things had gone seriously wrong from the moment they'd first detected the Jaguars.
A front-line Galaxy of Clan troops! A part of him was angry at having their plan disrupted by the unexpected presence of so large a Clan force. But another part of Loren Jaffray thrilled to the challenge. He was best under pressure and forced to improvise, making up his moves as he went along.
He also knew that the Fusiliers were in serious trouble. The odds were against them, and not many Inner Sphere forces had survived being outnumbered by the Clans. But if they tried to flee now, there might never be another chance for this mission. The Jaguars would know their base had been discovered. Worse, the unexpected presence of this new front-line Galaxy represented a direct and present threat to the Draconis Combine—the Highlanders' new employer.
A voice shattered his thoughts as the ship began to drop toward the low atmosphere of Wayside V. "Satellites deployed. We are under reentry blackout for three minutes." Spillman's voice sounded different, almost totally calm. They were on his playing field, the bridge of his ship. He was in total command now, no matter what Colonel Stirling or the regulations had to say.
Loren looked out of his cockpit viewscreen at the massive deployment door in front of him. The bay was only dimly lit, as was normal during a combat drop. On both sides of him other 'Mech pilots of the Kilsyth Guards were sitting just as tensely in their cockpits, waiting for the ship to land and the DropShip doors to open.
Suddenly the Claymore rocked as if batted by the hand of some giant. Loren felt the restraint straps bite into his shoulders despite the foam pads. This is it! There was a roar as the turrets of the DropShip rotated and began to fire. Colonel Stirling's voice came over the communications channel. "Report CIC."
Another massive impact rocked the ship as Loren tightened his grip on the throttle and firing joystick to steady himself. "Fighters," Spillman answered. There was a pause, then another lesser impact off in the distance. "We're being hammered by ten of the bastards," he added.
Loren linked up to the Claymore's tactical display and began to get the target feeds from the ship's battle computer to his own BattleMech's secondary display. The fighters were mostly made up of Sabutai OmniFighters, with Bashkir fighters as escorts. These two classes of fighters made up the core of the Smoke Jaguar aerospace fighter forces. The Sabutais were a mixed bag of configurations, most mounting massive Gauss rifles. The slugs from those powerful weapons would rip terrible holes in the armor of the Drop-Ships. As he tried to get detailed information on one of the fighters, the secondary monitor went blank, then returned to standby mode. He knew what it meant. They'd lost either the ship's battle computers, sensor feeds, or the lines between here and there. Whatever it was, this wasn't a good sign.
After a long, ten-second pause the Claymore suddenly rattled under a mighty barrage. Despite its incredible size, the ship seemed to vibrate under the assault of the Jaguar's fighters. Loren felt the adrenaline jolt, then something else kick in within his body and mind. He called it The Sensation, a name his beloved grandfather had given to the mix of emotions and sensations of battle. It came to him as a rush of hot and cold flashes, bringing all of his senses alive. His eyes widened with excitement and his heart raced. A low hum filled his ears, and his mind and body seemed to be working in overdrive, as if he were having some sort of out-of-body experience where his being was working at light speed.
The attack was not like a punch but more like a series of blows that didn't seem to end. He heard the massive Overlord Class vessel moan as its internal structure buckled under the damage somewhere beyond his field of vision. The sound was disturbing, and Loren reminded himself, uncomfortably, that they were still kilometers above the planet's surface. Outside of his cockpit the bay went dark as the internal electrical systems apparently were disrupted. His hands were hovering near the deployment controls. The press of one button would allow his Penetrator to break free of its restraints and move to the door. He could use his jump jets to land unless the ship was in some sort of violent spin. His survival, however, did not mean that the rest of the regiment would survive.
The steady series of impacts on the ship made the Claymore pitch hard to one side. Without warning the upper portion of the deployment door in front of him buckled inward, then seemed to explode. The blast was not so much from explosives, but from a massive rush of explosive decompression. The dark bay sudd
enly erupted with light, and the Penetrator experienced a massive tug forward as the air from the bay rushed out through the two-meter-hole and everything loose in the bay was sucked out into the hold and beyond.
The local chatter on the ship's channels went on for another minute or more. Emergency calls. Problems with bulkhead doors. Fires. Loren heard them all and they told the story of a ship that had taken a lot of damage, though he couldn't see much of it. Captain Spillman, from his high roost on the bridge, coordinated it all, and Loren waited to inquire as to the rest of the regiment.
His patience finally giving way, he activated his own channel. "XO to Spillman. Damage report."
"Just a bloody minute, XO, I'm still sorting out what's still in one piece up here," Spillman's voice returned, filled with frustration and raw anger. "We've had six hull breaches. One of the bays was hit bad. 'Mech damage was light, but they canna drop deploy—we're gonna have to cut them out. Tactical sensor feeds are damaged so I canna send you a picture. We lost two turrets and our engine shielding has been badly torn. We're a goin' down approximately thirty kilometers from our designated LZ."
If things were off that much, Loren knew the damage must have been pretty bad.
"Reports from the other ships?" cut in Colonel Stirling's voice.
"The Bull Run is currently engaged. With this turbulence and storm front moving in, we can't provide cover support and our pilots can't spot the Jaguars until they're on top of them." Spillman paused and Loren imagined him looking over the tactical feeds from the other ships.
"Damn. The Stonewall's been hit bad. Engine and maneuver systems are on manual override. Bloody demons—" He was meters away on the bridge, voice filled with shock, "They've been rammed! Communications are marginal— heavy static."
"Will she make it?" Stirling asked over the line.
Impetus of War Page 9
