Hearts of Chaos

by Victor Milán

  Cassie grinned at the sound of her students catching their collective breath. With its Telos DecaCluster long-range missile launcher jutting like a prow from its chest, and the Lord's Light 2 extended-range PPC in its right arm, the Grand Dragon could hit them at great range.

  "Yes, it's a big bad boy," she said. "If you attacked it with, say, a portable SRM launcher, the only way you'd be able to take it down with just those two shots is with a lot of luck. And the 'Mech jock would probably spot you and kill you into the bargain. Mech-Warriors spend a lot of time learning to read where incoming mail conies from. However—"

  She raised a radio-command detonator. The Grand Dragon reached a spot on the road marked by a white boulder propped atop another—invisible to anyone on the road, but easily in sight of Cassie and company—a hundred meters above the road. She pressed the button.

  The small charge Rooster had made up for her blew out the smaller rocks that held a jumble of big boulders propped upright. The boulders bounded down the mountain toward the road. One great stone struck the 'Mech a glancing blow on its domed head. As it turned, bringing up its arms in a very human gesture of surprised self-defense, a fifteen-ton boulder slammed into its lower legs and swept it right off the road.

  Though steep, the drop was not sheer. Gathering speed slowly, like a train pulling away from the station, the Grand Dragon seemed to float downslope on a river of snow and gravel. As it went it slammed into stout-boled conifer trees. Just before it reached bottom, its PPC right arm came off in a shower of blue sparks.

  "Shoddy workmanship," Cassie said. "Teddy K needs to think about a purge at Luthien Armor Works. Now, pay attention. If you're going to attack a 'Mech's propulsion system, it helps to use a force multiplier to increase your chances of putting the target down to stay. Gravity works wonders."

  "Blake's blood," somebody breathed. "Is that all it takes to take out a 'Mech?"

  "Aside from ingenuity, courage, knowledge, timing, and luck," Cassie said dryly, "it doesn't take anything at all."

  "Hey!" somebody else called out, "the rest are turning around. They're running!"

  "Why are they doing that?" a young woman asked. "We haven't touched anybody but the BattleMech."

  The Rooster laughed out loud. "You'd be surprised how quick some troops will find their guts turning to water once you yank the mighty BattleMech security blanket out of their hands."

  "Besides, they don't know if we've got more exploding deadfalls waiting," Cassie added. "And of course we do."

  A young man jumped up behind her and started to walk past. She kicked his legs out from under him, pretty much as her deadfall had done to the Grand Dragon.

  "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

  "Well, we won, didn't we?" the red-faced youth demanded, sitting up. "I thought—"

  "No, you didn't," Cassie said, "but you better start learning how real quick."

  The other students laughed. She let them go on for a moment or two, then rapped out, "Who made the rest of you clowns so perfect you can laugh at other people making mistakes?"

  That shut them up. Under other circumstances it would have been gratifying.

  But nothing—not even another successful downing of an enemy BattleMech—could long distract her from the pain of Lady K's betrayal.

  "Come on," she said, rising. "Time to make some distance. Even if their ground-pounders are beating feet, it won't take the Snakes any time at all to have their fast-movers down our necks.

  "That's the second rule of guerrilla warfare, boys and girls: don't hang around to gloat."

  23

  Port Howard

  Aquilonia Province, Towne

  Draconis March, Federated Commonwealth

  31 March 3058

  Though the arrival of spring was still a few weeks away by most estimates—the weather of this accursed planet was cantankerously unpredictable, even for weather—it was a fine balmy day in Clark Ashton Smith Park. The hills were covered in snow that had fallen last night, and was still largely pristine, untrodden. The sky was blue, and despite the fact that the temperature had still to rise above freezing, the shining sun had already melted the snow's top layer so that it gleamed like glass.

  "How goes the war, Taisuke-san?" asked Mr. Kimura.

  The young man shrugged and laughed. Despite the cold he had the hood of his heavy parka thrown back. He was a handsome boy, with dark skin, dark eyes, and a stiff brush of black hair that had been shaved clear of his temples to facilitate better contact with his MechWarrior's neurohelmet. ,

  "Well, Kimura-sensei. Though the mercenary scum sting us, they always run from us. Slowly but surely we're expanding our zone of control."

  From a nearby hilltop came the seabird-cries of children, some pelting one another with snowballs, others queuing up to take turns sledding down the glossy slope. It always struck Mr. Kimura as marvelous, that despite war and occupation, children still played.

  A beautiful day, children at play, and the son of his oyabun, whom he treasured as his own, walking by his side. His heart would have overflowed with happiness were it not for the Planetary Police escort, two men walking six meters ahead, two trailing a similar distance behind, eyes watchful under their dark-green caps, gloved fingers on the triggers of their stubby stun-guns. Even in Port Howard, their stronghold, identifiable servants of the Dragon dared not go abroad without armed escort.

  "It's frustrating, though. They won't face us 'Mech to 'Mech. They won't stand to fight like warriors. And they send out women and children against us." A shadow crossed Taisuke's face. "We have to shoot them when we capture them; orders, since it's illegal for civilians to bear arms against us. I hate that, sensei. But it's the rebels' own fault. They are without honor."

  "Honor takes on new meaning when one is fighting for one's home," Mr. Kimura said. He didn't care whether the security guards, recruited by Blaylock from the local population, heard him or not Even if by some chance one of them understood Japanese—and given Blaylock's cunning, Kimura was not prepared to rule out the possibility. "Remember that our own ancestors fought the samurai, as machi-yakko and otokodate."

  The young man shrugged. "I only wish they'd fight us, let us settle this one way or another. I don't like the way we keep being drawn away from the center. A gas fills far more volume than a solid, but how much resistance can it offer? If we cannot make an end of them, we'll one day wake to find each buso-senshi and foot soldier standing solo guard over a few million hectares of wilderness. Then all the rebels have to do is knock us on the head, one at a time."

  Mr. Kimura smiled with pleasure as he nodded. Not at what the boy was saying, which had begun to trouble him too. The thought Taisuke expressed offered the potential for ultimate disaster at the end of a string of unbroken successes. But he was proud of the perception the boy displayed in realizing the truth, and his wisdom in facing it squarely.

  "I shall take it up with Kusunoki-sama," the older man said. "We must see this through on our own, unfortunately."

  "You've word from my father?" the young Tai-i asked eagerly.

  "Indeed. He sends his pride. But his tidings are not heartening. The seimeiyoshi-rengo still refuses to aid the Black Dragon. The other oyabun do not wish to appear to defy the Coordinator."

  "But don't they see that the Coordinator's reluctance to exploit our enemies' weakness is the doing of the evil men who surround him, like the traitor Subhash Indrahar? If the Coordinator truly knew what we did here he would not oppose us in his heart. He could not."

  "Indeed," the old man murmured, nodding.

  But what he was thinking was, couldn't he? If the Coordinator really supported them, why had there been no word of encouragement? The ComStar adepts who controlled the HPG station made little secret of their dislike for the Kuritas on Towne, but they would never dare withhold a communication from the Coordinator. If Theodore Kurita knew what they were doing here— and he must—and if he approved, why had he given no sign?

  And how mu
ch of what they opposed truly was the work of his evil retainers, his shitennol The reforms that had so weakened the Combine's moral fiber began many years ago, before Takashi's oh-so-suspicious death. And Theodore was a Kurita. Could he really be so weak as to allow himself to be manipulated by his counselors for so long a time?

  "You are thoughtful, sensei," the young man said teasingly.

  "I'm off walking among clouds," Mr. Kimura said. "Truly, we should not worry. Our pacification campaign goes well. Blaylock-san's scheme of winning local officials to our side, and greatly expanding the size and powers of the police force, seems to be working."

  "I thought there was a problem with terrorist attacks."

  "At first there were many murders, particularly of police officials. But they were apparently random, and they have tapered off as our security apparatus has strengthened its hold. And the replacements for the assassinated seem to be loyal adoptive sons of the Dragon, so it seems the mercenary bandits' efforts gained them nothing but increased karmic burden."

  And adoptive daughters of the Dragon, too, although Kusunoki wasn't happy about that. The Tai-sho's misogyny was approaching obsession. Just two days ago he had decreed that no female could be given the honor of mention in reports.

  "The Guards are expanding rapidly too, sensei," Taisuke said. "They're not worth much, but every one of them who falls is a Dragon's tear left unshed." According to Combine lore, each time a servant of the Dragon died in combat, the Dragon shed a single tear.

  "Just so. And we are enjoying increasing success persuading corporate officials to cooperate with us.

  The idea of a permanent end to labor unrest appeals to them. Even the hirelings of the traitor Chandrasekhar are falling into line readily enough."

  The young man scowled briefly. "Do not be quick to judge them, Taisuke-Kun. They are gaijin, after all, who don't realize that an unfit master must still be served to the body's last breath and beyond. And they are merchants, after all, money-grubbers. They see what befalls those who try to resist us—loss of their comfortable jobs, expropriation of property, execution—and are afraid. They lack seishin, the warrior spirit."

  A sled came hissing down the slope at them, an untenanted runaway with shouting children running in pursuit. It slid almost to Kimura's feet and stopped.

  A small boy, so swaddled in winter clothes that only his eyes were visible, tried to run after it. One of the trail guards dropped him with a stun beam.

  With a scream, a woman started running downslope toward them. The other guard in the rear shouldered his stunner. "Bakayaro!" Taisuke shouted, knocking up the weapon before it could discharge. "What are you doing? We're not barbarians!"

  "Blaylock's orders," the guard said with none of the appropriate deference. "Anybody moves on you, we drop 'em. No exceptions."

  For a moment Taisuke looked as if he would strike the man for his impertinence. Instead he wheeled away, ran to the child and knelt down beside him. The boy's hood and muffler had come loose, and blood trickled from one ear, but his breathing was regular and strong. Taisuke scooped him up in his arms.

  He rose and faced the woman, who had halted several steps away. The guns of the guards were trained on her. One of the lead pair had a communicator to his mouth calling for backup. The children's happy racket had ceased as everyone turned to watch in terrified silence.

  Taisuke walked to the woman. "Your boy will be all right," he said, stooping to deposit him gently in her arms. "He's just stunned. But you'd better get him home and tend to him."

  She accepted the child's limp form. For a moment she. stared at the youthful MechWarrior, white-faced. Then she turned and ran.

  Taisuke Toyama fixed the guard holding the communicator with a glare. "There is no need for assistance. The incident is done. Tell your superiors that. Now."

  Shaking his head, he rejoined the old man. "This is bad. This is no way to win these people to the Dragon."

  "The Dragon's ways are best," Mr. Kimura said, "but they are strange to these people. Better to bring them to right conduct gently, with loving guidance."

  Kimura shook his own top-hatted head. "It is most peculiar. The quickest to show brutality are the ones we've recruited from the planet's own population. It is as if all their ninjo is of a negative, hurtful variety."

  Taisuke glared around at the guards, who had resumed their earlier stations as the men they were safeguarding began walking again. "I don't trust them. Their loyalty seems to be to Blaylock, not the Dragon."

  "That may be so," Mr. Kimura said. "It may occur to Blaylock-san to play a double game. But what of that, after all? As of now, when he augments his own power, he augments ours as well. If he should try to play us false, he can be replaced easily enough."

  And he didn't care who heard that, either.

  * * *

  It was so cold in the clearing that each breath was like inhaling broken glass. The night sky was clear. Cassie stood alone and felt the weight of the stars weighing down upon her.

  Around her rose the peaks of the southern Eiglophians, snowclad ghosts by alien starlight. Nearer by, the lordly conifers surrounded the clearing like a palisade.

  The message had been explicit: she must meet the DropShip alone. When the rendezvous was done she could call in her comrades to carry away whatever cargo was offloaded, but not before.

  ComStar was remaining neutral on Towne. But the local adepts were badly shaken ever since the Word of Blake sect had taken Terra from them some weeks before. ComStar was eager to accommodate the Dragon. And that most decidedly did not mean the renegades who presumed to act in Theodore Kurita's name.

  Kusunoki's military intelligence and Blaylock's nascent secret police were watching the Port Howard HPG like a rodan with its eye on a fall-fattened whiffle-tail. But the ComStar acolytes managed to get messages out to the resistance regularly.

  The news from outside was mixed. As expected, Victor Davion was too preoccupied with his sister and the threat of the Clans to pay much heed to what was happening on Towne. Nor could Theodore afford a civil war right now, with the hardcore Crusader faction among the Clans—those who wanted to renounce the truce and move on to conquer Terra—seeming everywhere in the ascendant. The situation of Towne's defenders was the same as that of their enemies, which they knew thanks to the friendly gnomes of ComStar: no reinforcement, no resupply.

  At least, no major resupply. But tonight a single DropShip would dare a pirate point and the Combine orbital aerospace patrols to meet Cassie and deliver something.

  There, low above the peaks to the east: a new star, growing brighter as she watched. She slipped her hand inside her coat pocket for the reassuring feel of her sneaky pistol. For all the good that would do her against the armaments even the smallest DropShip carried, if treachery were intended.

  The star grew larger, split apart into landing lights as a DropShip assumed shadowy form. It had the nominal streamlining of a standard military aerodyne, with a blunt snout, big air scoops, round canards up front and stubby triangular wings with down-turned tips astern.

  Cassie's eyes got big. That was no Inner Sphere design, she thought. That was a Broadsword. And that meant—

  With a rushing roar of chemical-jet lifters, the ship settled into a snow tornado a hundred meters away from Cassie. When the thrown-up snow settled, a ramp was down and two shapes stood watchfully flanking it. They seemed lightly clad for the chill.

  Each figure looked almost three meters tall, and was armed with weapons that looked like baby autocannon.

  Elementals! Cassie felt adrenaline run through her veins like current at the sight of one of the Clan's genetically engineered infantry. "What the Foxtrot, over?" she asked aloud.

  A figure came down the ramp and walked toward her, long shiny black cloak whipping about its booted ankles. It was a head taller than her and slim built, and its head was of normal adult-human proportion. That meant it fell somewhere between the genetically engineered somatype of the Clan aerospace pilot and
their MechWarrior model.

  The figure stopped several meters away from Cassie. It was a man, with pale hair reached into a mohawk atop his mostly shaven skull, and a dark intricate tattoo covering most of one cheek.

  "Lieutenant Senior Grade Suthorn?" he asked. She nodded. "I'm Mason. I see my appearance is strange to you. I am a merchant. Your people don't see many of our caste."

  "I've ... seen ones like you before."

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask. Behind him men in insulated jumpsuits were jockeying heavy-loaded cargo dollies down the ramp to the snow.

  She stood for a few moments in silence. Then: "Why?"

  "Why are we helping you?" He smiled without humor. "First, you should understand that we Clan merchants are not puppets of the warrior caste."

  "But we're enemies!"

  "You're no enemy of mine, unless you so wish. Listen: The great Kerensky left the Inner Sphere because its rulers would not lay aside their ambitions to make peace. Now our Crusader faction is intent upon bringing perpetual war for its own sake to the cradle of humanity. This is not the way."

  "So it's political—"

  "No. It's survival. Once the truce ends, especially if it is repudiated by the Clans, a war will begin that can only end in extermination. Neither your leaders nor ours offer any alternative. Only the man who sent us here holds forth hope of a different future: Chandrasekhar Kurita."

  Curiosity for its own sake was not a major component of Cassie's nature, but she ached to question him further. He held up a gloved hand for silence.

  "No more discussion. You'll see why."

  Two more Clan merchants, one female, approached. Between them they escorted a smallish lumpy man. As they came up he impatiently shook back his hood, revealing a shapeless black beret beneath. He took off a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses and tried to clear the condensation on his coat sleeve.

  "You must be Miss Suthorn," he said. "I'm Enrico Katsuyama. You can call me Ernie; I don't mind. I'm not much one for formality. I'm glad to be here. Hi, hi."