Like you’ve been trying to goad him?
Of course it would never come to a test of military might. Any hint that she was even considering military action would solidify Duke Wesley’s suspicion that the disinformation Lester Cameron-Jones had so artfully provided was accurate. The first rattle of her sword would scuttle the entire mission.
Alethea was certain the Lyran was nothing more than a traitor lying about his motives. His bored attitude did more to convince her than the Lyran warrant: he was clearly a man feeling smug about getting away with something. But given the duke’s faith in the man, her hands were tied.
The glint in his pale gray eyes told Alethea that Nordhoff was aware of—and amused by—her predicament.
You’re safe now, joker, but only because I’m smart enough to put first things first.
“So,” she asked aloud, “from where we are now, how do I arrange an audience with the duke?”
31
Mansu-ri Mining and Manufacturing Complex Four
Belleville, Mansu-ri
Oriente Protectorate
1 March 3138
“What the hell is it?” Haverson’s voice didn’t quite crack, but it was a near thing.
“A ’Mech,” Beth answered. “That’s all the sensors got.”
Marvin kept his eyes on the black-and-white monitor above the open viewport. Hell of a thing backing down an alley at full speed, steering by one straight-back camera feeding an eighteen-by-thirty-six-centimeter screen.
Of course, compared to the alternative—going one-on-one with at least one BattleMech in a confined area—it wasn’t so bad.
Ten seconds ago Beth had sung out heavy walking metal where there should have been nothing and Haverson had ordered, “Take cover!” and Marvin had hit reverse full throttle. That had been three blocks back—ahead—but no one was complaining about how fast or how far he was going to find cover.
Through the front viewport—still open because hell if he was going to take his hands off the yokes to unhook it—he could see sparks flying from the fire escape they’d been dragging for the last block. No sign of the BattleMech, and no indication whether or not it had seen them. Of course, subtle clues like no sign of the BattleMech and no withering fire ripping through their armor gave Marvin hope it hadn’t.
“What kind of ’Mech?” Haverson asked. Which was not a dumb question. If it was a lightweight, their trusty AC-20 could take it out in one salvo. But if it was a heavy, sporting enough armor to shrug off their first hit, they wouldn’t live long enough to get in a second shot.
Unless all it’s got are long-range weapons. In these alleys…
Marvin got a grip. Not even the Duckies were stupid enough to send a fire-support ’Mech into the warren of a factory district.
“Fifty, maybe fifty-five tons,” Beth answered. “Some kind of energy weapons but we won’t know what kind until they fire and a whole lot of dark space that’s either a missile rack or an autocannon with ammo.”
“What does the tactical database say?”
“That it’s a BattleMech, fifty tons give or take, with some kind of energy weapon system hot and ready and a big dark space that’s gotta be a missile rack or autocannon with ammo,” Beth answered. “I’ll be able to tell you more when I see the damn thing. This tactical sensor array is strictly point and shoot.”
They hit an intersection that looked big enough and Marvin scissored the yokes. Front wheels crabbed left and rear wheels cut hard in the opposite direction and the H-WAG-7 spun like a top. Bangs and curses all around. The fire escape flew free, taking out a light pole, and the Hetzer finished a two-seventy spin pointing down an even narrower alley.
Marvin gunned the diesel and popped the clutch. Everybody’s head snapped back as the machine jumped forward.
“What we got working for us is crappy armor and an internal combustion engine,” Beth was saying. “We read like a civilian truck. And running like hell fits that profile.”
“We’re not running,” Haverson objected. “We’re making best possible speed to our assigned fallback position.”
Uh-huh.
“To the Duckies it looks like running, sir.” Beth was the only one who said sir. “Which is fine. We’ll look civilian until we fire.”
“And when we do that, what we got working against us is crappy armor and an ICE,” Marvin shouted over his shoulder. The H-WAG lurched as it crushed a phalanx of dustbins. “If we don’t take out that ’Mech in one shot, it’s going to have us for lunch.”
“Or if we do smoke it and it’s got a buddy,” Joline added. “These things travel in packs, you know.”
Marvin slowed the machine. Veering left into what looked like a loading area, he eased in beneath a massive petroleum tank and shut off the engine. They still had half their fuel, but he had no idea how much ground they’d have to cover before they’d have a chance to fill up. The irony of having to conserve fuel while parked under a half-million-liter storage tank was not lost on him.
“We’re off bearing for the fallback,” he said. “And I think the ’Mech we’re not running from is between us and everybody else.”
“You think?”
“Hard to say with all the metal around us, sir,” Beth answered for Marvin. “We know about where it was and about where it was going. There’s a good chance it’s gotten between us and bud-gee command.”
“I hate to admit it,” Marvin said before the corporal could think of a rebuttal. “But the officer who pulled the H-WAGs from the dugouts probably saved our butts. We’d have been sitting ducks in the open. In this place, we got options.”
“What sort of options?” Haverson asked in a tone that suggested he suspected a trick.
“Do what we’re doing,” Marvin said. “Park our heavy metal next to a bunch of bigger heavy metal and hope no one sees us.
“Or take the long way around—get past our ’Mech and his buddies—and meet up with the rest of bud-gee.” He scratched his jaw. “Both good, commonsense plans. Smart choices.
“Or”—he looked into the fish-eye mirror next to the review monitor and confirmed he had three sets of eyes on him—“we turn our skinny butts around and go after that Ducky ’Mech. We got a big honking autocannon on this thing.”
Haverson sat perfectly still for a long four-count.
“Recommendations?” he asked at last.
Way to lead, kid.
Marvin took back that thought a heartbeat later. Haverson had been with them through two weeks of sitting in a trench. He had no idea what H-WAG-7 could do and giving orders without data from folks who did have an idea was stupid.
“Nobody at Company I want to see,” Joline said.
“And this neighborhood sucks,” Beth added.
“Like Joline said”—Marvin kept his voice bored—“the Militia’s retirement plan ain’t worth waiting for.”
“Good.” Haverson sounded relieved. “Button up, people.”
Marvin reached through the open viewport and grabbed the outside lens release—real high-tech, the Hetzer—and pulled the rectangle of curved ferroglass into place. Once it was dogged down, he swung the inner lens in—leaning back to avoid whapping his nose—and secured that. Through some trick of optics he didn’t understand, the two pieces of reinforced ferroglass turned the straight-ahead view through the open port into a one-twenty-degree panorama. Things were a bit fish-eye straight ahead and a little compressed at the edges—and the barrel of the AC-20 still pretty well covered his right-side view—but it made steering the mobile gun easier.
There was a clang behind him as Beth brought down the observation hatch, which he knew she hated. Marvin had his viewport, Haverson had his command periscope and Joline had her gun sight, but with that hatch shut all Beth could do was ride backward and look at cheap monitor screens that—if Marvin understood what she’d said about the metal in the factory district—weren’t showing her much but snow.
The automatic ventilation fans apologized for the lack of fresh air
with a whirring sound evidently intended to be soothing. It certainly had nothing to do with cooling breezes.
“Can you find that BattleMech with the passive array, Sanders?”
“Yes, sir,” Beth answered. “The fusion reactor shows up on thermal.”
“DeMarshand, can you do that whirling turn any time you want?”
“Always.”
“Kline, can you hit what you aim at while deMarshand is pushing this bucket full-tilt?”
“Piece of cake.”
“Backward?”
“Even better.”
“What’s the plan, ki—Corp?” Marvin asked.
“Sidle up as close to that ’Mech’s backside as we can,” Haverson said. “Then pop out into whatever street it’s on and charge. Kline, you will have one block in which to take your best shot. DeMarshand, at the first intersection, do your spinning turn and back into the side street at full speed.”
“So if the ’Mech comes after us, it’ll be facing our gun.” Marvin nodded, approving.
This kid’s got skills.
“Can we do it?” Haverson asked.
“With or without blindfolds?” Joline countered.
Marvin fired up the diesel.
* * *
Marvin’s first hint things weren’t going right was the front of the damn Ducky ’Mech where the back should have been. Either the ’Mech had been backing up, or the pilot had spun around to face them just before they’d charged into the street. Which of course was four lanes wide and devoid of anything you could hide a forty-ton truck-with-gun behind.
He got a quick impression of very broad shoulders with a box on each one and a medium laser on a one-eighty swivel mount where the head should have been. Then he focused on dodging as much as the road allowed as three laser beams lashed out.
One went wide, distracted by a metal building, another tore up the asphalt and the third, the head laser, slashed along the top of the Hetzer. The vehicle surprised Marvin by not melting into a puddle of molten lead.
“Hold straight!” Joline ordered.
Marvin pointed his nose at the ’Mech’s right ankle, which should have put Joline’s barrel about centerline, and accelerated. Full tilt in a Hetzer wasn’t much; he hoped it was enough to confuse the ’Mech’s targeting computer.
The yokes jerked in his hands as the H-WAG-7 rocked hard and veered right. He thought they’d been hit, then realized Joline had taken her shot. He fought the yokes, pulling the machine back on center.
Two blocks ahead of them, the Ducky BattleMech started to curtsy, its left knee joint bending sideways.
The box on its right shoulder belched smoke.
Marvin had just enough time to wonder if that was some sort of secondary explosion before the missile hit. Missile, singular, as in one out of six. Five blasted the pavement around them and the single hit blew up against their front armor just above his viewport. One of the few places on the coffin that could handle the explosion.
He had a brief glimpse of the ’Mech turning as it fell, its profile revealing the headless machine’s cockpit stuck forward from its belly.
Then he executed a ninety-degree turn into a cross alley at speed. More bangs and curses behind and Marvin thought he felt the inside wheels lift free of the pavement.
“That was a Night Stalker!” Haverson said.
“His Beagle,” Beth answered. “He saw us coming.”
“Hell of a shot,” Marvin said to Joline while the other two debated BattleMechs, their voices sharp with the adrenaline of survival.
“Aren’t you supposed to be backing up?” Joline asked conversationally.
Marvin shook his head, slowing the Hetzer to a walk in the relative safety of the alley.
“That ’Mech ain’t chasing us anywhere,” he answered, then raised his voice. “Wasn’t that a light?”
“Medium, forty tons,” Haverson answered. “Heavy scout, Capellan design.”
“So it’s not the fifty-tonner we weren’t running from?”
Three-heartbeat pause.
“No.” Haverson’s voice was ten years older. “Sanders, see if you can find another fusion drive on infrared.”
“Told you these things run in packs,” Joline muttered.
32
Valken, Gallatin
Lyran Occupied Zone
Marik-Stewart Commonwealth
6 March 3138
Nikol Marik shuffled through the gate of the Lyran checkpoint, her duffel kit slung over her shoulder. She kept her eyes downcast and tried to keep her back straight and her shoulders hunched at the same time.
Defeated but not complacent, that’s me, she imagined, transmitting the image into the guards’ minds, willing them to see a beaten figure who hated the occupation forces but lacked the will to do anything about them. Too cocky and they’d do a body search just to take her down a notch. Too compliant among a population known to hate the Lyrans and she’d arouse their suspicions.
“Papers.”
She dropped her duffel on the table, undoing the cinch for easy inspection before digging her ID chit and work order out of her shirt pocket. No worries there. The forged ID was some of SAFE’s best work, and the work order was authentic: two weeks at double rations for helping clear rubble from the latest bomb blast.
Ten months after Gallatin officially fell to the Lyrans, and they were still dealing with insurgents. The hate emanating from the guard scanning her bag was palpable.
Small talk is not a good idea.
“Keep this on the outside,” ordered the man who had checked her paperwork.
Without acknowledging she’d heard the instructions, Nikol clipped the ID to the top buttonhole of her thin jacket before stuffing the work order back in her shirt pocket.
Looking disappointed he hadn’t found anything, the guard with the scanner shoved her bag at her. She fumbled to catch the open duffel before its contents spewed over the ground. Without looking up at either guard—or the gun tower overlooking the checkpoint—she hurried on her way.
Nikol stayed on the main thoroughfare, one of hundreds of walkers in a zone where vehicular traffic was banned. Sunday was traditionally a day of rest, but the luxury of observing tradition was one of many things the Lyran occupation had taken from the people of Gallatin.
The boulevard passed from the industrial district—and the destination on her work order—into blocks of modest apartments; housing for the factory workers. She saw two children sitting on the stoop of a tenement building, sharing a large picture book with no words on the cover. At the next alley she turned left.
Two blocks along the narrow street she passed beneath an elderly woman perched on a fire-escape landing to catch the warmth of the afternoon sun as she worked at her needlepoint. Nikol did not look directly at the woman and the woman did not look up from her hoop.
At the next building Nikol stepped suddenly sideways and shouldered aside a rusting metal door with a massive padlock. The door, padlock and all, swung silently open, almost dropping her into a bare room lit only by the sunlight following her in. The moment she was clear of its swing, the massive door shut silently behind her, filling the room with darkness.
Standing still, she waited a two count for the lights to come on.
When they did she was not surprised to find they were all directed at her. In the shadows at the edge of their glow she could make out half a dozen men and women with weapons leveled at her.
“So,” said a man’s voice, evidently from some point behind the first rank of armed sentinels, “what has Oriente sent us?”
A really terrific hostage if this does not go according to plan.
“We don’t have much to send,” she admitted, squinting in the lights. “Though the Marik-StewartCommonwealth is taking the brunt of the assault, every nation along the borders of the Free Worlds League is being pressed by one enemy or another.”
Her phrasing was tailored for this audience, allowing them to hear that her mother regarded their plight as m
ore dire than that of Tamarind-Abbey. By not spelling out the fact that the only enemies “pressing” Oriente were Andurien and the Senate Alliance, she also created the impression that the Capellans were moving against the Protectorate. Building a sense of common bond without actually lying.
Though if the shadowy figures with leveled weapons felt a sudden upwelling of camaraderie, they were adept at hiding it.
“And what is this not much you are sending?” demanded the same male voice, with no change in inflection.
“This trip—pharmaceuticals, mostly, and other humanitarian supplies,” Nikol answered. “Give me a list of supplies you need and I’ll bring what I can next time.”
“This trip? Plan on making us a regular stop on your trading runs, do you?”
“A regular stop? Yes, for as long as possible. But this is not trade. You’re on the front lines fighting for the Free Worlds League. We’re just doing what we can to support you.”
“Mighty generous.” The tone was sarcastic.
Nikol said nothing. Still blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light, she waited for the person directing the challenging voice to make a decision.
“Who are you?” the voice demanded at last. “Why should we trust you?”
“I am Nikol”—she hesitated half a heartbeat—“Halas-Hughes Marik, daughter of the captain-general of the Oriente Protectorate.”
At least one of the weapons trained on her moved; a black barrel elevated into the light as a carbine was raised from hip to shoulder. Nikol did not acknowledge the threat, keeping her eyes focused on the point from which the voice originated.
The silence stretched. Nikol was certain the speaker was conferring with someone, but she could not pick up the faintest whisper.
“So are you just here as the daughter of Lady Halas?” the voice asked. “Or do you have some official capacity?”
“I don’t understand the question,” Nikol said, ignoring the insult to her mother’s name.
“Are you just a rich kid playing dress-up, acting alone, or do you have some official capacity in Oriente’s government?” the voice all but sneered. “Do we address you as captain-general junior?”
To Ride the Chimera Page 17
