by Victor Milán
"We should probably be following right along," Buck said, giving Cassie's shoulder a final appreciative pat. "Storm's coming back, and it looks like it's fixing to stay this time."
"Maybe now we can get Cowboy to put the top up," Cassie said.
Cowboy had the trunk open, pulling the last virgin six-pack out of the case. "Hey, girl, ain't you got no soul? Ain't nothing beats a ride in the country with the top down on a beautiful day."
"It's snowing," she pointed out, "and it's cold."
He shrugged. "Yeah, and we had to knock the windshield the rest of the way out so I could see to pilot. What difference does it make?"
Shaking her head, Cassie turned and walked a few steps down the side of the road. Then she turned. "I don't understand you people," she said.
"Shoot, hon," Cowboy said smugly, slamming the trunk. "We knew that."
"I mean, here we've just been chased out of Port Howard, we've had to leave most of our 'Mechs behind, and you two barely blink an eye."
"Don't worry yourself, honey," Buck said. "We take it plenty serious."
"We just don't see any point in getting our panties in a bunch over something we can't do anything about," Cowboy said.
"But we lost. And you—you two lost your BattleMechs. You're Dispossessed."
Buck and Cowboy traded looks, then threw their heads back and laughed.
"Cass," Buck said, "there's a reason we still call you Abtakha, even though you're part of the family. You still don't get us, do you? Mech Warrior is just a job. It isn't what we are, it's what we do."
"What we are is a bunch of scrubby no-account wild-ass coyote outlaws," Cowboy said.
"Take a pity on ol' Pretty-Boy Kusunoki," Buck said. "Just because he chased us out of Port Howie he thinks he's won. And he's gonna let his guard down."
"But—" She shook her head, dumbfounded. "You ... you lost your 'Mechs." She was so attuned to the concept of overweening MechWarrior arrogance—and-the utter helplessness of a MechWarrior deprived of his multiton metal steed—that she was having trouble assimilating these two and their apparent nonchalance.
"Them ain't goin' anywhere, honey," Cowboy said with a nasty smile. "They'll still be waiting when we decide to come back for 'em."
"You may have noticed people have a habit of not staying Dispossessed too long in the Caballeros," Buck said. "You also might've noticed we always get payback. With interest."
"Righteous interest," Cowboy added.
Remembering Jeronimo, and the death of her best friend, Cassie blurted, "But what about the Clans? We never paid them back."
"Not yet," Cowboy said.
"That's just payment deferred," Buck said, "and the interest is compoundin', every day. Someday we're gonna hurt those culebras, and we're gonna hurt 'em where they live."
"I can't believe you two! Here you are talking about paying back the Clans, when we're just barely above water right now. We're naked, alone, and on the run."
"Yep," Buck agreed with a nod. "We got this Señor Kusunoki right where we want him."
Cowboy picked up his pump shotgun, brandished it and the beers.
"We got us a six-pack, a pump twelve-gauge, and a stolen ragtop," he declared. He jacked his right hand up and down once, hard, racking the shotgun's slide and cocking the piece with its own momentum. "Honey, we're getting back to our roots."
18
Gunderland Mountains
Nemedia Province, Towne
Draconis March, Federated Commonwealth
25 January 3058
The explosive charge went off with a muffled crack. Colonel Carlos Camacho watched impassively as tons of earth, rock, and snow fell, burying his Mad Cat, hiding the 75-ton OmniMech utterly from view. So deep was the pack upslope that when all was done, no sign was visible that anything had happened beyond a routine mountain snow-slide.
He looked to the technician standing by his side, her short stockiness so emphasized by her bulky parka that she looked fully as wide as she was tall. "The 'Mech will be safe in there?"
"Safe as in a bank vault," Marj Tunhill said. "Safer even, given how the Dracs're stealing everything they can pry up, back in Port Howie."
"And I can get it out when I need it?"
Tunhill nodded. "We can dozer it out, dig it out with a shovel, even blast if we're careful. Once you get into the cockpit, that bad boy will power his own way out."
Carefully wrapped in synthetic sheeting, the Battle-Mech stood inside a protective hemicylinder of polymerized ceramic conduit thirteen meters tall and six in diameter. The conduit was nothing out of the ordinary for Townian civil engineering. A single explosive generally served to excavate the cache, the conduit was emplaced, the 'Mech to be hidden walked in, a second charge sealed it. With a two-handed 'Mech—in this case Outlaw Leyva's Phoenix Hawk, to help, the whole process took literally minutes. Taping the protective wrap was the most time-consuming part of it. Hiding a BattleMech was child's play if a skilled blaster who knew Townian geology was available.
Tunhill was all of that. A Copper Queen employee, she had been nervous at first when a Draconian, and a Kurita at that, had acquired the company. The healthy pay increases Uncle Chandy had passed around had gone a long way to allay her nerves. And like of lot of Townies newly employed by Uncle Chandy, the sudden savage attacks they'd been subjected to by protectionists who styled themselves "patriots" only made them dig in their heels.
Through Uncle Chandy's business reps, Colonel Camacho could have pressured experts like Tunhill to help his mercenaries. Instead he courted them, providing them with the same information he'd made available to Towne's military and civil authorities, and asked them to help. They had responded with more enthusiasm, even than the late Sir Osric Gould's Fusiliers.
Looking at the mound of disturbed snow that was all the visible evidence of the hidden behemoth's presence, Don Carlos felt a pang. Most of the First Battalion 'Mechs that had made it out of Port Howard were going into similar storage, until such time as they were needed to deliver a killing blow. But he was, after all, a Mech Warrior, had seen for most of his life. It was as if part of him had been entombed with his 'Mech.
He thought of Diana and her boy, five hundred kilometers east in the Eiglophians, and was glad he had sent them and the other noncombatants out of the line of fire.
Otherwise, instead of disaster, the battle of Port Howard would have been devastation.
* * *
The Cabelleros made it out with little enough. Of thirty-five 'Mechs in First, eighteen had been captured, eight destroyed. Only nine had escaped. At a stroke, the Seventeenth had lost a quarter of its machines.
Blessedly, the human cost had been less—somewhat. Nine Mech Warriors and five support people had lost their lives. After years as commander of a unit that was frequently in action, Don Carlos still felt there was no such thing as an acceptable casualty count. But he also had to reckon the butcher's bill against how bad it might have been, and he knew they had gotten off lightly.
But the situation retained the potential to get worse—much worse. Seven 'lleros had been captured. Among them was Captain Kali MacDougall, who'd been stunned and put out of action when a fused hip-actuator toppled her Atlas.
* * *
Forefinger extended along wavy blade, the pistollike grip snugged into her palm, Cassie turned as if screwing herself into the granite boulder counterclockwise, swinging her ancient kris across her body as she did.
A five-hundred meter abyss yawned at her feet.
She never had to force herself to exercise; and most particularly did she never have to drive herself to practice pentjak-silat. Unless sick or wounded, she never failed to work to advance her mastery of the art Guru Johann had introduced her to as a young, lost girl. Lady K called it Cassie's drug of choice. Though she smiled, she wasn't kidding.
Kali ... Perhaps that was why Cassie was courting death, practicing on a rock poised over nothingness: she needed an especially strong dose of her drug. She had much need o
f Void.
So concentrate on breath, sinuous flow, and most of all, balance. Guru Johann's style of pentjak had emphasized balance above all things. Without balance, no proper blow could be struck, and proper defense was problematic. Cassie had trained to fight on loose marbles, oil-slick floors, unsteady table-tops. To work out on this knob of rock, firmly anchored to the cliff, was child's play, though the stakes were certainly high, and the unpredictable winds of the western face of the Gunderlands added an element of risk. "You're practicing martial arts, huh?" Cassie's heart jumped into her throat and her eyes snapped open. That was both the danger and the attraction of her pentjak-play; it was the one circumstance in her life in which she was utterly detached from the outside world, oblivious. At all other times, even asleep, she was at least on some level aware, attuned to her surroundings. In practice she could find escape.
Which added its own element of risk. Guru had hammered her for that; it was her one flaw. And now it had led to her being taken unawares ...
A girl in a blue coat with bright red panels squatted on a rock above her. She had a scoped hunting rifle across her knees. She looked to be about fourteen years old.
"Yes," Cassie said. As usual when she came oat of her practice-trance, her voice sounded rusty, as if she hadn't spoken for days.
"Wolf Girl practices nekkid in the snow," the girl said. "I don't see it, myself. I'd get cold."
Cassie was wearing a blue body-suit of a synthetic called ThinSkin. She disliked clothing herself—she disliked anything that smacked of binding—but unless she was assured of privacy always wore something to practice. The Southwesterners, so free-swinging in so many ways, tended to have problems with nudity.
She started to ask the intruder how she knew about Wolf Girl's training habits, but the girl went on, "What kind of martial art is that? Is it like what Johnny Tchang does? Do you like him? I think he's a dream."
Slowly Cassie straightened, drawing a deep breath. "The art is pentjak-silat. It comes from Indonesia, on Terra. I don't follow holovids much, but I think what Johnny Tchang does in the tank is more kick boxing than anything else. He is very handsome, I suppose."
Follow the action holos or not, Cassie couldn't help knowing who Johnny Tchang was. The most popular martial-arts star in the Inner Sphere, Tchang had made an even bigger splash by defecting from the Capellan Confederation, where he was born and where his career began, to the Federated Commonwealth shortly after the battle of Tukayyid. But if he was popular among most Spheroids, he was a god to the Caballeros. The only question to them was whether he or singing vaquero Tino Espinosa, a native of Cerillos, was the greatest action star in the cosmos.
"Oh," the girl said. "I'm forgetting my manners. I'm Marly Joles."
"Hi. I'm Cassie Suthorn."
"Oh, I know who you are. They told me to talk to you, and somebody said you were up here."
"They told you to talk to me?"
"Well, you're going to be training resistance fighters, aren't you? I want to be a scout. That's what you are, isn't it?"
"Yes," Cassie said, "I'm a scout. You were saying something about Wolf Girl—?"
Marly nodded. A slip of auburn bang escaped the furred fringe of her hood and fell across her forehead. "She does tae kwon do. She told me. Interstellar TKD Federation. She's a black belt."
"She is, is she? You seem to know a lot about her." Except the fact she's dead.
"Oh, sure. She has a lot to do with the Popular Militia. She's even been out to my dad's ranch a couple times. He runs slo-mos down to Bear Creek—"
Cassie held up a finger. "Hang on, Ms. Joles. There are certain things you need to be careful talking about. If you really want to be a scout, the first rule is, don't be seen. That means you should always keep security in mind."
The girl deflated. "Oh. I guess I've gone and blown it, huh, running my head like this. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a scout."
She seemed on the verge of tears. Cassie, who had a weakness for children, hurriedly said, "I didn't say that, Ms. Joles—"
The girl brightened. "Marly."
"—Marly. Aren't you a little young, though?"
"I'm twelve—"
Cassie frowned. Young as Marly looked, she seemed older than that.
"—which makes me fourteen and a half standard years, almost. I can shoot, skin, and dress a full-grown springal or doobie, all by myself. I'm old enough to take care of myself, Ms. Suthorn."
"I guess you are. But keep in mind there's a lot more to being a scout than just taking care of yourself. There's a lot of risk involved, and a lot of people are depending on you."
The girl nodded.
Cassie looked down at Blood-drinker, felt vaguely self-conscious about standing there lecturing with the dagger in her hand as if it were a laser-pointer. She stuck it back into the sheath strapped along her thigh. "Give me a hand up?"
Marly grinned. Bracing the rifle-butt on stone with one hand, she reached out the other and helped Cassie off the boulder. "You must be pretty brave, dancing around on the edge of a cliff like that," Marly Joles observed, overlooking the fact that she herself hadn't been perched that much farther from the drop.
"It's part of training. Now, tell me, Marly—"
"Cassie!"
She looked past the girl to see a figure bounding up the trail, raising a bow-wave of snow. Its hood was thrown back to reveal a familiar brown face and tangle of dark-gold curls.
"Tim!" she cried.
He caught her in a crushing embrace, picked her up off her feet. "I came as soon as I could. Python Base was on twenty-four-hour alert, until it became clear the Dracs were more interested in pillaging Port Howie than in seeking out more trouble."
He kissed her lips. "Isn't it terrible, what's happened to our own dear Kali?"
She grabbed his head and dragged his mouth back to hers. "Uh-oh," Marly said. "I guess this is where I make myself scarce, isn't it?"
* * *
In the video monitor set up in the gallery overlooking the central courtyard of the central administrative complex, the expression of Reform Party General Secretary Marcel Wesemann, seen in extreme close-up, was one of sheeplike bewilderment.
The General Secretary's balding head dropped abruptly out of frame. A beat later the sound of twelve Shimatsu-42s firing a single simultaneous shot each reached the eighth-floor gallery.
"Those are the breaks, M.W.," murmured Planetary Chairman Howard Blaylock. His words emerged in white puffs of condensation. It was a cold, dreary day, and the gallery was open. "Sometimes you just have to lead, follow, or get out of the way."
The little turtle-headed guy, Kimura, who seemed to be the one playing Kusunoki's strings—or trying to— and who always dressed as if he were heading for a funeral right afterward, cleared his throat discreetly for attention. Blaylock didn't miss the way the little man winced every time the rifles went off. It gave him a real charge: these Kuritas liked to image themselves as the ultimate tough guys, but Turtle Head here, at least, didn't have what it took.
Blaylock liked being made of sterner stuff than a Drac.
Kusunoki was staring as if hypnotized down at the tiny figures of the firing-party, and the hobbled prisoners carrying off the body of the former Reform Party leader on a stretcher. "Eh? What is it? Don't mumble, old man."
"I crave the Tai-sho's pardon, but I had not spoken yet," the old man said with a bow. "It did come to me, however, to mention the matter of looting—"
That was where he left it hanging. That was something Blaylock had noticed about the Dracs these last few days. They hardly ever seemed to finish a sentence.
"What of it? It's those 'Dragon's Joy' jailbirds your oyabun wished on me that're doing it."
"May I be privileged to remind your Excellency that he is in command of all, regardless? And may I be forgiven for bringing the unwelcome news that certain of the Combine military regulars have become involved? The 227th Armored Regiment is said to be using its tanks and recovery vehicles to transpor
t loot from the Smith District."
"Well, what of that, then? They've earned a little recreation."
"Your Excellency's confidence in his men is commendable. Looting is so infamous a solvent of discipline—"
"Oh, all right. Have the Provost Marshal see to it." Kimura smiled and bowed. "Your Excellency is most wise."
A DCMS footslogger in jerkin and helmet came trotting along the gallery. The escort of strapping young men with DEST-style machine-pistols slung across their backs who trailed after Kusunoki everywhere he went gave off watching Blaylock like hawks with a rock dove. Instead they now appeared to mad-dog the intruder. Visibly nervous, the infantryman snapped off a salute and rattled out a string of Japanese syllables.
Kusunoki frowned and looked at Blaylock. As always, he seemed vaguely startled to find a gaijin hanging about. A man less supremely self-confident than Blaylock might have become uneasy at the thought that General Kusunoki might well forget what he was doing there, and order him shot on general principles.
"A delegation has presented itself on the front steps," Kusunoki said, "asking to speak with you."
Blaylock shrugged. "With your Excellency's permission." He gave the General what he figured for a suitably deferential grin. It didn't hurt to spread a little soap around. It also didn't hurt to remind these lordly Power Boys that they needed him. Towne could be an awful cold place if you didn't have the proper contacts—as those poor dim mercenary hicks had found out.
The foot soldier trotted off. Two rifle-volleys later he returned, with a tall, beaky woman, a tall man with a broad smooth forehead and wide cheekbones and jaw, and a short man with a prodigious turtle shell belly and a gray beard.
"Murnice, Quinn, Dr. Schulman," Blaylock said, with a skin-deep smile of greeting. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"We want—" the beaky woman and the bearded man began at once. Despite the chill and slushy sidewalks, the bearded man wore sandals over thick thermal socks. Though he glared at his companion, the woman forged ahead.
"We want to reassure ourselves as to the position of the Union Party within the new regime," the woman said. "After all, the events of the last few days represent the culmination of everything we've been working for all these years."
