by Victor Milán
"Oh, come the hell inside and take a load off. And get your butt out of the door, Mouse. These Fedrats don't stint themselves on comfort, so don't waste the nice warm air."
In fact Tai-i Sharon Omizuki hadn't much noticed the cold or blowing snow for the warm victory-rush and the insulating effect of her vacuum-capable gee suit, but she moved to a seat facing her commander across the narrow aisle running front to back. She removed her helmet as the driver set the machine in motion.
There was nothing overtly mousy about Mouse Omizuki, but then there was nothing overtly Japanese, either. Standing 172 centimeters, with curly chestnut hair—-sweat-matted to her forehead at the moment— fair skin and freckles, she was not a particularly pretty woman. Her nose was too large and her mouth too irregular. There was no denying the appeal of her big luminous hazel eyes, and under the proper circumstances—she was very particular—she could display a devastating sexiness. Right now she just grinned at her CO, feeling a bit goofy. ,
Tai-sa Kondracke was a tall man with black hair shorn close to a narrow skull-spare head. His eyes were dark and deep-set, giving him a grim appearance which, except in combat, his nature belied.
"I don't think you're going to get in another sortie today, unless things really go to hell in a takara-bune," Kondracke said. "Weather's coming down hard."
Mouse grunted and frowned slightly. That was the bitch about in-atmosphere ops. One solid gust of wind would have wrecked even the 100-ton Stuka she had downed far faster than her Shilone's powerful armament had done—to say nothing of what it could do to her own 65-ton machine and lighter craft. In space there was no damned weather.
"Mattaku," she grunted, a phrase approximating something like the Inner Sphere exclamation of "Damn!" She waved a hand around the cozy, cheerily lit interior of the shuttle. "So what's the shake? Why take time to meet a lowly squadron commander? Don't you have a battle to run?"
Kondracke scowled, and not at his pilot's apparent insubordination, which was only apparent; these two respected each other. "The air battle's winding down-with the storm coming, but yes, I do. I've been ordered to take time out for a welcoming ceremony."
As Kondracke spoke, the whining roar of a Drop-Ship descending toward the blast pits was clearly audible through the shuttle's insulated skin, cutting through the wind-keening like a wakizashi. "Since you scored the showiest kill, you get to come along and meet our celestial leader and his friends from the kai." That word carried a number of meanings, all having to do with an organization or society. In this case, there was no doubt Kondracke was referring to the yakuza.
Mouse leaned back and stretched her legs. "I've been wondering what Kusunoki's really like." She was looking forward to actually meeting the famous war hero.
Kondracke's answer was an uncharacteristic grunt. She looked at him sharply.
"Hotshot-sama," she said, using his callsign and a deferential honorific, "tell me something. Do you think the Coordinator really knows about this mission and secretly approves?"
She expected simple reassurance. After all, it was well known that years ago it was a young Theodore Kurita who had launched the unauthorized offensive into Steiner space in 3029, just before the close of the Fourth Succession War.
Instead Krondracke looked away. "Who can say? Like you, I'm just another Dragon's tear, waiting to fall like a cherry blossom in the Luthien spring."
17
Prince John Spaceport, Port Howard
Aquilonia Province, Towne
Draconis March, Federated Commonwealth
23 January 3058
Edwin Kimura, second in command of Dieron Prefecture's dominant yakuza organization, stood waiting patiently for the loading ramp of the Union Class DropShip to descend. Officially his title was that of sabu, though Kimura might have been startled to learn that the word derived from the English prefix "sub." As the ramp section broke seal and began to swing away and reveal to him the world of Towne, he was already holding his high black silk top hat in place. Kimura-
sensei was a man who worked hard to discern the shape of the future and prepare for it.
His present garb—the topper, a black and white kimono with the Kurita Dragon mon on the right breast and the black dragon rampant crest of Kokuryu-kai on the other, striped pants, spats and shoes polished to mirror finish—seemed hardly the product of foresight, given the atrocious winter weather for which this world was famous. And it wasn't, but rather the product of ceremony. Tradition was very important to Mr. Kimura, as it was to his oyabun, Hiraoke Toyama, and indeed to the man he was about to greet and, hopefully, exercise a benign influence upon.
Upholding tradition was, indeed, what this whole martial exercise was about. Which was why Mr. Kimura was taking part, despite certain very real misgivings about the whole jarajara. Tradition and the wish of his oyabun, to whom he owed vast amounts of giri, and not a little ninyo as well.
As the DropShip door opened outward, the wind hit him in the face like a bucket of ice water—which it didn't omit to contain, in the form of hard-driven snowflakes. Aside from a reflex narrowing of his eyes behind his thick round spectacles, Mr. Kimura showed no reaction. Small, skinny, with a thin neck and a round head that gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a turtle, Kimura knew his appearance was not physically imposing. But that mattered little. He stood on the dignity of honoring duty and pride, and that was enough.
As the ramp grounded with a crunch of hull-metal on blacktop, Kimura began to descend it, grateful for the high-traction surface that prevented him from skiing straight down in a most undignified fashion.
The man awaiting him in a swirl of snow at the ramp's foot was physically imposing. Clad in a Mech-Warrior's cooling vest, trunks, and gauntlets that left arms and legs mostly bare to the ice-laden wind, he carried his neurohelmet tucked under one arm, his long blond topknot whipping like a pennon. With his height of 203 centimeters and muscled like a god, Tai-sho Jeffrey Kusunoki looked, from the perspective of the diminutive Kimura, scarcely less prepossessing than the 95-ton 'Mech, a Naginata, standing behind him.
At a precisely prescribed distance from Kusunoki, Kimura stopped. Both men bowed, Kimura fractionally further.
"Welcome to Towne, Kimura-sensei," the Tai-sho said.
"I thank you, Kusunoki-sama. How goes the battle?"
Kusunoki gestured to a Rommel tank three hundred meters away, canted over the rim of the blast-pit. Despite the snow it was still producing a respectable quantity of black smoke. Kimura could just make out the banner of a silver horse on a blue field fluttering forlornly from its whip antenna. "My own headquarters detachment has secured the spaceport, as you can see. Elsewhere the fighting goes well, better even than I expected. The Marquis' Own Fusiliers have been shattered; the Towne Guard has surrendered. The gaijin money-troopers employed by the traitor Chandrasekhar have begun to retreat, trying to save their own skins. And I have just received confirmation that the grounds of the Palace of the Marquis have been secured by a detachment led by Tai-i Toyama of the First Spirit of the Dragon Regimfent."
The last was spoken with undisguised disgust, almost petulance. Kusunoki had desired for himself, or at least the MechWarriors of his prized Fifteenth Dieron Regulars, named Devotion Through Combat, the honor of capturing the former residence of the Marquis of Towne. But by prearrangement, that assignment had gone to the Kokuryu-kai -raised First Spirit of the Dragon Regiment, "The Eight Corners of the World Under One Roof."
Mr. Kimura repressed a smile. It had also been arranged in advance that the detail attacking the palace be led by young Captain Taisuke Toyama, the oyabun's son. The boy was a fire-breather, a conscientious and highly capable Mech Warrior, a credit to his father and the Dragon. Kimura, who loved the boy as the son he'd never had, expected no less of him. Nonetheless he was gratified, and Kusunoki's bishonen petulance be damned.
"And the Planetary Government?" he asked. He summoned such ki as he possessed into his hara, the center of him, to prevent his limbs from quaking an
d his teeth from chattering at the cold that knifed through to the marrow of his old bones. He would see this out, and show no dishonor before this arrogant warrior.
Kusunoki showed him the smile of the Dragon. "Your man Blaylock was as good as his word. Using our assault for diversion, he sent a team of assassins into the governmental complex, where they dispatched the Chancellor and key members of the ruling regime. The Smiling One's own skulking son could have done no better. Then he blamed local anti-government terrorists for the deed, declared himself Chancellor pro tem, declared a state of emergency, and extended a welcome to the Arm of the Dragon, come to restore order. Your preparations have borne us much rich fruit, sensei."
Mr. Kimura allowed himself a smile of his own. He and this half-mad warrior-kami shared little affection. But in the months of planning preparatory to the invasion, each had built up a healthy respect for the other's abilities, Kimura as planner and organizer, Kusunoki as military genius.
"I thank you. However, all honor is due your heroic leadership. Has Blaylock surrendered?" Mr. Kimura had spent weeks trying to hammer the crucial nature of that formality into Kusunoki's gorgeous head. If the duly constituted Planetary Government surrendered, resistance to the invaders would become a criminal act, and local authorities would be bound to tender full cooperation to the Dragon's servants. Six regiments, unassisted, were not remotely enough to truly subjugate a world, and even so thoroughly unmilitant a man as Kimura well knew it.
"That ceremony awaits our arrival at the government center downtown. You shall ride with me in my command 'Mech, Ten Thousand Lives for the Co-ordinator." Kusunoki waved grandly at the quiescent Naginata looming over them. A cherry-picker waited by its side, a shivering tech in a white jumpsuit standing by to operate the lift.
"I am honored," Mr. Kimura croaked. He had never ridden in a BattleMech, and had never harbored any ambition to do so. For one thing, he was afraid of heights.
They turned and walked toward the machine, which was not as near as it looked, but, by the Dragon, the thing was huge! Mech Warriors, techs, and pilots lined their path to either side, bowing as they passed.
"This yellow bird Blaylock," Kusunoki said to Kimura, quietly aside—or as quietly as the wind permitted. "How soon can we kill him? He has betrayed his own people. We certainly cannot trust him."
"A thousand apologies, Tai-sho, but trust him we certainly can. For precisely the reason that he has betrayed his people."
Kusunoki gave Kimura a stupefied look. Kimura tried not to dwell on how naturally it fit him. "His fortune—not just his purloined power but the very continuation of his existence—now depends entirely on our success. The Dragon, as of this moment, knows no more loyal or fervent subject."
Kusunoki frowned. "I don't understand."
"I mean if we don't protect him, these Townians will tear him limb from limb," Kimura hissed.
"Oh," Kusunoki said. He smiled and nodded sagely. "I thought so."
* * *
Mouse Omizuki and her CO were waiting by the cherry-picker. Mouse still had her helmet tucked under her arm. She bowed at the approach of the supreme commander and his ludicrously garbed companion, but her eyes kept tracking Kusunoki sidelong. Dragon, he was huge! And beautiful! She tried not to entertain inappropriate thoughts, but she was a woman with healthy appetites, and he was a meal prepared by an ichiban chef.
The Tai-sho paused before Kondracke. "Tai-sa, I summoned you here to commend you on the work your pilots did here today."
Kondracke bowed lower. "I thank the Tai-sho. May I present one of those pilots, Tai-i Omizuki, who brought down a Stuka unassisted in her Shilone."
Kusunoki's brow arched. His beautiful lip curled. "A woman?" he said, as he might say, "A dead rat?" He shook his head. "Do not waste my time with those who seek praise for doing their duty, Tai-sa."
He swept on grandly toward the waiting 'Mech. Mouse stood blinking. She felt as if she'd just been slapped. She wanted to throw up.
She glared at the broad departing back. No-good bishonen bastard! she thought.
* * *
There was surprisingly little traffic outbound along Route 55, the superhighway crossing the mountain passes that led deep into the Gunderland Mountains. For the citizens of the Inner Sphere, especially a border world such as Towne, a 'Mech battle was too commonplace an occurrence to be fled from unless a PPC bolt took off the roof. Or maybe the people of Port Howie didn't think a blizzard in the mountains was anything to flee into.
The storm had abated, but it was obviously the calm before the Big One. Cowboy Payson had stopped the convertible five klicks out of town on a promontory in the foothills that offered a panoramic view of the seaport and the battle for possession of it. They had liberated a set of armored binoculars at the gun shop, and Cassie was watching a number of 'Mechs make their way toward the mountains and safety several kilometers west.
Buck Evans and Cowboy came crunching back up a snowy slope, refastening their flies. They'd been hitting the beers the shop owner had bestowed on them.
"What you got there, Cass?" Buck asked.
"I see the Colonel's 'Mech," she said. The Mad Cat had perhaps the most distinctive profile of any BattleMech in human space, and it was one design the Black Dragon invaders were unlikely to have brought with them. "Other than that, 'Mechs are 'Mechs."
"Can I have a look?"
Cassie handed him the glasses. He knelt down with his arms propped on the trunk and peered through the binocs.
"Trouble is, you've learned a lot of technical stuff about BattleMechs, but you got no feel for 'em. A good MechWarrior gets to know another's ride when he sees it. That JagerMech, f'rinstance—you pick it up?" She nodded. "Did you notice the funny little hitch in its stride? Way it swings its torso extra when it wants to move its right foot forward? That's Teco Alvarez's ride, plain as the nose on your face. It's right hip actuator's a bit weak, and neither Zuma nor Astro Zombie've been able to do a damn thing with it. And that Raven, there—that's gotta belong to the Raven."
"Like you'd need a crystal ball to figure that out," Cassie said sulkily. "We only have one Raven, and the Townies don't have any. I just didn't see it." She shaded her eyes with her hands, though there wasn't much sunlight to speak of. "You see an Atlas?"
"Negatory." He handed her back the glasses. "Don't fret yourself too much about Lady K, though. She knows how to take care of herself."
"She mighta got separated from her ride the same as we did," Cowboy offered.
As the snow eased off, the Drac aerospace fighters had come back. As Cassie raised the glasses again, Teco's JagerMech raised its autocannon arms to fire at a big delta-wing Slayer making a firing run with its lasers and autocannon. The respite in the weather had also brought defending aerospace craft, Fusilier fighters stationed elsewhere on Hyboria or possibly on other continents. However far they had flown to get here they were fresher than the Kurita jocks, who had spent the day in combat, and for the moment had numerical superiority. Two Corsairs bounced the Drac ship, lasers cutting lines across the sky that lingered in afterimage. The Slayer broke off its attack and fled south. Cassie thought she saw smoke streaming from it.
She lowered the glasses, shaking her head. This couldn't last. The Fusiliers had limited aerospace assets to begin with, and whatever had been based in or around Port Howard was almost certainly lost, captured, or destroyed. Tired or not, enough Drac pilots would soon get their stores replenished and get their birds back in the sky so that they could simply swamp the gallant defenders.
"Hey!" she heard Cowboy Payson call. "Check this out! Looks like one of our pals in a novelty Boomerang"
Cassie spun. The Boomerang was a prop-driven atmospheric reconnaissance plane of a design similar to the fighters the Towne Air Rangers used, only much lighter and unable to carry weapons. The Rangers got extremely agitated to hear their beloved aircraft called Boomerangs, which of course was only inspiration to Cowboy.
She looked where he pointed into the northwest
. A little white Voss with a red nose was flying above the ridge tops, paralleling the highway. "It's Tim!" she cried.
"Well, then your boy's in a world of hurt," Buck said.
Out of the cloud above and behind the Voss, a 35-ton Sholagar dove. The instant it appeared, the lasers in its wings stabbed for the tiny propeller plane, four missiles leaping from the Hovertec launcher in its nose.
As soon as the aerofighter appeared, the nose of the Voss pitched up and it began to climb. As it did, it slowed, until it seemed Cassie's heart would stop. It slowed so much, in fact, that the Sholagar screamed past and beneath it without either beams or missiles finding a mark.
And then the Kurita pilot found himself very near a planet whose contours were treacherously masked by deep snow. He managed to pull the nose of his craft up before he crashed, then poured on acceleration to win back some altitude.
As the aerofighter passed, the Voss launched two missiles of its own. Seeing the telltale white puffs as they came off their racks, the Drac pilot banked left into a turn. He had reaction mass to burn, blazing out his tailpipe with eye-searing brilliance.
The two missiles turned to follow. One of them exploded near the Sholagar's double-finned tail. Whether its warhead was powerful enough to damage the armored craft, none of the three watchers on the ground had any way of knowing. But the force of the blast kicked the fighter's tail up.
Before the Combine pilot could compensate, his awesomely powerful fusion rocket had driven him into the ground.
As the Sholagar exploded Cassie jumped up and down, cheering and hugging her companions. The Voss turned back for the mountains and quickly disappeared out of sight behind the steadily climbing foothills.
