Then she dropped toward him.
The bulk of the battered Koshi missed him by mere meters, managing to club him with its blasted armor on the way down. The extended arm dug into his Penetrator's shoulder, crushing armor plating and tossing Loren and his entire 'Mech hard over and downward as she hit. He saw the fractured hip joint on the Koshi buckle upon landing, bursting outward like a broken bone breaking skin. He thought she was going to fall at his feet, but somehow, even with her 'Mech's leg hanging limp and broken like a battered doll's, she managed to stay upright. She opened fire with her machine gun, spraying a stream of bullets at his cockpit. They danced off of his cockpit glass, and Loren simply looked at her in amazement. What tenacity! Her 'Mech was directly in front of him, its painted-on Jaguar face still leering at him like the face of death. The time has come to end this . . .
Fuller's 'Mechs backed off, unwilling to fire at Marilen for fear of hitting Loren accidentally. Loren knew she was concentrating on staying upright. Rather than have to fight another wave of heat, he opted for a more direct approach. Swinging his right leg back, he then kicked it out, hitting the Koshi's other leg just below the knee actuator. The Penetrator's massive foot dug in deeply, crushing armor and severing the myomer muscle bundles that moved the 'Mech. The sudden impact was more than Marilen could handle. Her Koshi swayed backward, turning to one side, then crashed down, destroying her right weapons pod on impact.
The smaller Koshi attempted to move, but with the loss of a leg and the other damage it had taken, there was little chance of it ever standing on its own power. Like a fish out of water, the 'Mech thrashed on the ground, trying to find some way, any way, to get upright. It was a losing battle. In the distance the other Smoke Jaguars were pressing a fight they could not hope to win either. The Koshi ceased its futile efforts to stand and remained silent.
Suddenly Loren saw the side cockpit hatch open. The figure of a small woman emerged from the smoke and debris. She wore a light cooling vest and shorts, standard thin-sole boots, and no neurohelmet. With a slow, almost exhausted movement, she pulled a laser pistol from its holster.
Loren switched to the external speakers on the outside of his 'Mech as he watched her, knowing what she was doing. "Drop the weapon," he commanded.
Unheeding, she held the pistol in front of her in a perfect firing stance and thumbed the trigger. The brilliant beam of green laser energy hit his cockpit square center, but it was not powerful enough to burn through. Instead it seared the cockpit glass, slowly melting a hole on it. She wants to fight to the death—even if it's her own. She won't stop until I'm forced to kill her. He slowly locked his weakest weapon, one of the medium pulse lasers, on her form.
He activated the single laser. It flashed a burst of intense red light that hit her right arm, burning it totally from her torso just below the shoulder. A trail of smoke rose from the now-cauterized stump where her arm had been, blackened and burned. Marilen wavered for a moment as if she thought she could somehow overcome the pain, then dropped to the ground, near death. A small cloud of clay dust rose from where her body collapsed on the soil of Wayside V. Only a meter away lay what was left of her severed limb.
The defeat of ten Smoke Jaguars had cost him five of his own 'Mechs and numerous others badly damaged. Loren and his people had totally surrounded and outnumbered a mere ten 'Mechs, and still had taken significant damage. These Jaguars would apparently go to any lengths to win, pay any price to achieve victory—giving their lives without hesitation.
Were he and his people prepared to go as far to survive?
18
Bay of Kurita Prime
Wayside V (Wildcat)
Deep Periphery
5 July 3058
As he walked into the portable command tent, Loren saw the first signs of fatigue on Colonel Stirling's face. In the distance, some five kilometers to the south, smoke still rose from the small number of Jaguar 'Mechs left burning—the unsalvagable remains of Loren's ambush. The tent sat only a scant ten meters from Stirling's own towering Grand Titan. He'd taken a short nap, but the combined effects of a full day of argument, preparation, and combat hung on him like a heavy weight.
"According to our esteemed ship captains, the Claymore is ready for decoy duty, and the Bull Run is ready for her sprint. Our little 'surprises' for that WarShip are also ready as well. And Parkensen has sent a transmission to both JumpShips. They're under our command for this mission."
"That must have taken a hell of a lot of persuasion, sir."
Cat Stirling leaned forward, holding up both ends of her jumpsuit collar, presenting her Colonel's clusters to Loren. "That it did, Major," she said. Loren almost wished he'd been there to witness the discussion. "There's still a little magic in these clusters," she added. "But I've got something else on my mind right now."
"Sir?"
"I'm thinking about you, Major. . . you leading this operation against the Nova Cats. You've more than proven your skills against the Clans, and the others have seen that as well. Look at your victory against those headhunters. They did some damage, but in the end, you prevailed with minimal losses, netting us some more salvagable OmniMechs in the process."
Loren heard the words and in his half-awake daze, his reactions were fuzzy. A part of him was overjoyed to be assigned command of the raid. Another part of him was cautious. The old line, "Be careful what you wish for . . ." came to mind.
"Sir, I accept. But—"
Stirling looked at him, tilting her head slightly. "No buts, Major. Yes, I could also use you here with me, but that won't necessarily get us off this rock. Among all my officers, you've got the best chance of somehow pulling this stunt off."
"The Kilsyth Guards," Loren said. "Who will lead them?"
Stirling grinned that devious smile Loren had learned to both fear and respect. "You're the XO. What's your recommendation?"
He didn't even have to think twice. "Jake Fuller is the best I've got in my battalion. I'd rather take him with me, of course, but he could do more staying here and leading the Guards."
Stirling nodded as though he were merely echoing her own thought. "I'll grant him a field commission of Brevet Major. That should be enough to get everyone to follow his orders." She did not mention names, but Loren knew who she really meant—Blakadar, but to a greater extent, Craig.
"I'll want Kerndon too," Loren added. "I'll need every bit of his knowledge and expertise if I'm going to impersonate a Smoke Jaguar commander and deal properly with another Clan."
"I assumed as much. What about technical support? You're going to be a long way from our regimental repair facilities."
Loren hesitated slightly before answering. "Captain Fraser is the only one who might actually be able to repair an OmniMech."
"Mitch? You want my Chief Regimental Tech?"
"No matter how well we do, our equipment's going to get damaged. Being able to repair it could make or break the operation."
Stirling had to know he was right, but Loren could see that the idea of giving him her chief tech disturbed her. "He can go, but he's all you get—your only senior tech. You can take a handful of juniors, but that's it."
Stirling spread out a hardcopy map of the area where the Fusiliers were currently deployed. "I've made some minor changes to your Case Granite battle plan, but overall, it will be the basis of my operations here. Those straits are just too perfect a spot not to use them. The decoy DropShip will draw them there."
"If I were the Cluster commander for the Jags right now," Loren said, "I'd be wondering if my headhunter Stars had achieved their mission goals. Perhaps we can exploit that. Fighting the Smoke Jaguars in the isthmus will buy you some time, but the hard part is to keep from having to engage them in force. They favor big confrontations and use that best. Keeping them on the move will stretch their supply lines as much as yours, maybe enough to even the odds."
Cat Stirling ran one hand back through her hair as she looked at him. "I'm going to bloody them, let them know we can
fight. The isthmus is the best place for that, because it lets us reduce their mobility and weapons range advantages and gives us some strong defensive terrain. Even if we only beat them temporarily, it should infuriate them enough to make them come after us. As long as they keep their dander up, I can force them to react to what the regiment and I are doing. I'll keep them in reactive mode by running the longest retreat I can, springing a few little ambushes along the way. As good Clan warriors, they'll be obliged to come after me, and I'll taunt them every centimeter of the way just to keep them mad enough to keep following me."
Stirling smiled. "Everything hinges on two things. One is you getting the Nova Cats to come here and deal with the Jaguars for us. The other is me being able to hold out with a functional fighting force long enough that you've got something to come back to. Fortunately, I think I've got the right people on the job—you and I." She spoke with complete confidence and the serenity that only comes with knowing you don't have much choice in a situation. "Now, then, Major, let's get some shut-eye. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day for all of us—you, me, the Guards. Let's hope it's an even busier one for the Smoke Jaguars."
* * *
The Fusilier medic bent over and carefully replaced the bandage on Kerndon's forehead. The former Star Captain said nothing as the medic worked. The pain did not matter. The many tests and trials he had endured in the course of bis warrior training had hardened him. The pain he felt was of another order entirely.
Not in his wildest dreams could he have imagined the fate that had befallen him. To be claimed as a bondsman to another Clan was one thing, all part of the life of any Clan warrior. But bondsman to a gang of money soldiers? He found not an iota of consolation in the skill these Northwind Highlanders showed as warriors. No, he had lost something he could never replace. His entire existence had been focused on serving the Smoke Jaguars. Now he had been stripped of the reason he'd been born.
And not just him. Lying in the bed next to him was another Jaguar warrior. Thick burn-gel bandages covered her, yet she too refused to show her pain. Kerndon watched as the attendants adjusted her position in bed and hooked up the three intravenous feed bottles that were keeping her alive. He knew her face.
"Star Captain Marilen," he said, showing neither positive or negative emotion.
The woman rolled her head and looked at him with a scowl. "Kerndon, you live."
"Aff, as do you," he returned. Her being there meant that the Smoke Jaguars were continuing to attack the Fusiliers.
"Is it true you have become bondsman to these barbaric freebirths?" Her voice dripped contempt.
Kerndon's face reddened. "Aff, I was defeated in honorable combat by one of their officer warriors. I asked and was refused the rite of bonsref. I remain his bondsman until I am slain."
It was obvious that Marilen was in extreme pain despite the medication and her bravado. She had to be. The burns she'd received, probably from a laser burst, covered most of her upper torso. Half her hair had been singed off too, and her facial scoring and oozing blisters were visible despite the bandages. "You were always weaker. If not for all this, I would have crushed your skull during the next Trial of Position."
"True warriors do not boast idly of battles that will never take place."
A wave of agony rippled across her face. "You see these mercenaries as your master now. I refuse to"—she fought back another burst of pain—"be a part of these Fusilier free-births."
Kerndon understood her defiance. He too had felt the urge to resist, but the chance to fight once more as a warrior was the one thing that was holding him together. "You were defeated in honorable combat, quiaff?"
"They fought like a pack of bandit-caste children, using excess firepower," she spat back. The effort of speech made her move slightly in the bed, and Kerndon saw that her wounds were bleeding through the bandages. "They had to trick us to win."
"Have they claimed you too?"
Marilen made a sound like laughter. "Let them try," she scoffed.
"They plan to fight the starred-cat," Kerndon told her. "It is a chance for us to die in a cockpit fighting." Like a warrior... "You are considering this?"
"Aff."
"You can follow your path to honor with these Fusiliers. I will follow my own." Marilen looked over at the guards standing nearby. They were involved in conversation, paying little heed to their injured prisoners. With her free hand, she yanked the IV tubes from the stump of her arm. Her mouth opened to scream, but no noise came out. Her eyes flared wide and her face turned red beyond what Kerndon would have thought possible. Blood poured from where she'd ripped out the needles and tubes. She roiled her head further into the pillow, burying her face to keep any sound from being heard. But Kerndon was sure she would not cry out in pain. It was a sign of weakness she would never show, neither in life or in death.
Kerndon watched and understood. She refused to yield. She had found her own bonsref rather than compromise what she believed to be her honor. By the time the guards noticed anything and rushed to her side, it was too late. Marilen was dead. Her honor had taken her.
"You've landed yer butt in some serious trouble," the guard said when one of them finally realized something had happened, but two medtechs were not far behind and they confirmed her death.
My fate lies elsewhere. Perhaps death at the hands of the Nova Cats can release me in a more honorable way. "You will inform Major Loren that I wish to speak with him," Kerndon said.
* * *
"I heard what happened," Loren said.
"Marilen sought death because she could never have accepted life as a bondsman to your people." Kerndon's tone was matter-of-fact, betraying neither regret nor judgment.
"And you?"
"I am your bondsman, though not formally bonded. I would fight by your side as a warrior when you face the age-old foe of the Smoke Jaguars."
Loren nodded. "Colonel Stirling has offered me command of the operation. I take it you wish to go with me?"
Kerndon nodded. "If you will not grant me bonsref, I would seek death in battle. Between then and now I will break the bonds that keep me from dying a warrior. Once the three bonds have been cut, I will fight by your side for your Clan, your Fusiliers. I will meet the Nova Cats and help destroy them before I die.
"Besides," Kerndon added, "you will certainly fail without me. Would you know that our scientist caste samples each fallen warrior in battle, to verify their lineage for our records? None of your people can be left behind dead or alive, for it would tell the Nova Cats that you are not Clan. Those that fall must be burned, all genetic samples charred beyond testing. If someone survives but cannot be removed immediately, you will have to destroy him."
"You mentioned something about three bonds?" Loren said, knowing he would have to think hard about this most recent bit of information Kerndon had given him.
"Smoke Jaguar bondsmen wear their bondcords wrapped three times around the wrist. The loop closest to the wrist is the bond of integrity. Once I have proven my trustworthiness to you and your Clan, you will cut that cord.
"The center cord represents the bond of fidelity. You can sever this cord only when I have showed you my faithfulness.
"The last cord is for prowess. Once you are assured that a warrior's blood runs in my veins, this bondcord is cut.
"When all three cords have been severed, I am no longer your bondsman but am a member of your Clan as a warrior. It is my desire to accompany you because I was born to fight as Jaguar. I wish to test my skills against the Nova Cats in battle."
Loren stared into Kerndon's eyes and understood. "You'll go with me, Kerndon. I'll bind you and mark you as my bondsman as well. Help me, and I will cut those cords so you can fight as a warrior for the Fusiliers. But mark my words, we will come back here and save this regiment—very much alive."
* * *
The almost gentle rapping at his door caught Star Colonel Santin West off guard, something that did not happen very often. The hour was late and qu
iet hung over the Nova Cat Planetary Command Headquarters in the city of New Lorton on Tarnby.
Santin West wondered who was coming here now, knowing that the only people about at this hour were the night guard shift. If not for his nightmares, he too would have been asleep. But this night, as over the past few, he had stayed awake as late as possible. He had also doubled his daily workout routine in hopes that exhaustion might keep the nightmares from occurring.
Thus far it had not worked.
What bothered him perhaps more than the dreams was the fact that he could not remember them in detail. There were images of fighting, of battling an enemy he could not topple. He also remembered feeling an emotion that was almost alien to him, one he had experienced only rarely, one that left him shamed. It was a feeling of fear. A fear so great it awakened him from the nightmare before he could learn who it was he was fighting. It enraged him that it was fear that woke him and kept him from seeing his enemy. And the rage prevented him from falling back asleep.
He rose and opened the door, surprised to see Biccon Winters, Oathmaster of the Nova Cats, standing before him. She wore the usual garb of her office, the flowing black robe and the armored chest plate emblazoned with the image of Clan Nova Cat, the fierce beast with its jaws open, surrounded by a field of stars. Impressed and raised on the body armor, it stood out as if the cat were springing at him.
Other Clans did not place the emphasis on spirit that the Nova Cats did. The role of Oathmaster had been created by the first Nova Cat Khan to ensure that all Clan rituals and other practices were strictly observed, and Biccon Winters served that function with distinction. What struck West odd was the fact that the older warrior was there, in the late night, outside of his door.
"Greetings, Oathmaster," he said, pulling on a shirt to cover his bare chest. "Please come in."
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