She laughed. "I hope you brought your own. Between the homeless and the refugees, tents are in short supply."
Of course they didn't have tents. The Dominion had come prepared for an urban occupation, not a bivouac, and one simply didn't pack unnecessary gear on a long interstellar journey, even when you were traveling in the huge Ghost Bear transports. The assumption had always been that they would obtain most of their logistical needs locally.
Reasonably, then, they should simply go and take the tents they needed. The requirements of warriors always outweighed those of lesser castes, much less outsider freeborns. But they were under specific orders not to take materials without going through channels. Conner didn't understand it, but he was loyal to Galaxy Commander Bekker, and so he did as she said.
"We will continue sleeping in the hangars then, as we did last night."
"With operations ongoing there twenty-four hours a day? I don't see how you'll get any rest. I know you people pride yourselves on overcoming hardships, but it's going to cut into your combat readiness, sooner or later. Probably sooner."
"We will manage."
"Very tough of you, Star Colonel, but you know as well as I do that combat readiness is the critical difference between us and the enemy. I'm not prepared to get blown out of my cockpit because one of your MechWarriors is asleep at the stick. Come sleep at our barracks tonight."
He looked up at her, surprised. "Captain Tupolov, are you asking me to couple?"
She looked at him blankly for a moment, then, understanding, broke into laughter. "Couple? Is that what you call it? No, Star Colonel, I wasn't inviting you into my bunk. I was merely offering your warriors the hospitality of our barracks until other arrangements can be made, or your barracks rebuilt. It will be crowded, but I know our people will gladly make the sacrifice. Frankly, I think it will help morale on my side of things, and help cement the bond between your people and mine."
"That sounds like a good idea." The FVR hangars and barracks were half a klick away, close enough for a reasonably rapid scramble. By Clan tradition, he could have simply demanded that they surrender their barracks to his warriors, but the idea had not occurred to him.
She looked at him, an odd half smile on her oval face. "Couple." She chuckled. "You Clansmen crack me up. It's all about as romantic as animal husbandry for you, isn't it?"
"That," he said, "would imply that we were coupling for procreation, which we most certainly do not. Warriors are created through the eugenics program. Controlled breeding, procreation, is for lower castes."
Her smile faded and her eyes narrowed. "And people like us?"
"I meant no insult. I only mean to say that Clan warriors couple as a matter of friendship and bonding. It is hardly a mechanical matter. It is important to us."
Her smile grudgingly returned. "Well then, I'll take that as a compliment."
"I thought you were asking me to couple."
"So you don't want to?"
"I didn't say that. Are you asking me again?"
"I didn't ask the first time, so I'm certainly not asking now."
"Well then."
"Well."
He turned away from her, gazing off at the boxy red-block building that housed the FVR barracks. "I will see what sort of bedding, linens and cots we can requisition on short notice, then notify my warriors."
"That would be good."
Impulsively he turned and took a step closer to her. "You didn't ask, but would you?"
She blinked, her face seeming to stall just short of a laugh. "Would I what?"
"Would you like to couple?"
Then she did laugh. An incredulous laugh. That bothered him, and it shouldn't have.
She stopped laughing and shook her head. "No. You're amazing. I mean, not now." She self-consciously swept a lock of chestnut-colored hair behind her left ear. "Look, it isn't that I don't think you're an attractive man. You certainly are. But that isn't how we do things. That isn't how I do things. Maybe we could—" She seemed to be sidetracked by another thought. "You don't have rules against fraternization?"
He puzzled over the unfamiliar word for a moment. "If I understand you, no. Coupling among warriors aids bonding and teamwork." He tried to see the situation from her perspective, hoping to understand how such a simple and common question had gotten so complicated.
"Do you have rules forbidding fraternization?"
She shrugged. "We did once—before this whole place fell apart. I guess that at this point, we're pretty much rewriting the book from scratch." She looked thoughtful, tapping the tip of her index finger on her chin. "I suppose we could do something socially. Go for a drink. See what happens. Would that be agreeable?"
His heart seemed to quicken just a little. In the Clan, a request to couple was either declined or accepted, with few emotional consequences either way. Why did this nebulous and uncertain response intrigue him so? He felt like a Mech Warrior crossing enemy lines, facing unknown territory and uncertain dangers, yet feeling confident and ready, even eager, to meet those dangers. "That would be very agreeable. The details—"
"We'll work it out later. I'm still figuring out how seriously to take this. It's been a while since I actually wore a dress. I need to get back to my barracks and start the preparations." She walked away, then hesitated, turned, walked back to him.
She reached up. gently put her hand behind his head, and pulled him close. Her lips found his, warm and soft. Her hair smelled like soap. It might as well have been exotic perfume.
She broke the kiss, and took half a step back, studying his face.
"That was—?"
She grinned. "Just a test." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Not bad." She turned and walked briskly away.
He watched her go, enjoying the view, the animal part of his brain making genetic calculations.
* * *
Technician Reuben stood on the scaffolding near the hangar roof, looking at the stripped-down hulk of an Ursus. The scaffolding should have been buzzing with activity as the techs rushed the damaged unit back into service. But the hangar was nearly silent, nearly still. There were no chattering air tools, no welding sparks, no whirring hoists moving parts.
He could see the other techs and laborers below, standing in groups of two or three, talking quietly. They were all as shocked as he at the destruction of the MechWarrior barracks and the resulting deaths. Some of the people there had been their friends.
In truth, the techs felt more intimately connected to the dead Mech Warriors than just as friends. They'd tended their 'Mechs, loaded their ammo stores, listened to their gripes, smelled their lingering sweat in the cockpits as they repaired a flickering display or lubricated a sticky foot pedal. And as those men and women had gone into battle, part of the support personnel went too. In some way, the warriors' victories belonged to all of them, and their failures as well.
For Reuben, it had been the only thing that had made his involuntary transfer from Policenigo to Vega bearable. He lived from victory to victory. Pride kept him going when his heart felt ready to break.
Now despair seemed to swallow him. His illusion of purpose, already fragile, had been shattered by the terrorist bomb. Shattered like glass.
Why were they here? The obvious military objectives were achieved. If the entire purpose of the techs' existence was to support the warriors, it was important for the warriors also to have a purpose. To die senseless deaths while politicians spent their time in endless bickering, and an invisible enemy seemed to build strength with each day—that was not a purpose.
No. It was pointless. They should never have come.
He thought of Policenigo, and the two families he'd left there; the meaningless one arranged by the Eugenics Board, a Clan wife he rarely saw and did not like and four children he had never lived with and hardly knew.
Then there was Doris. Not Clan. Not arranged. The woman he loved, the woman who had shown him there was so much more to life than the Clan way, and Kirse, the beautiful
daughter born out of that love.
It was forbidden, of course, clandestine, and not recognized by the Clan, which had torn their family apart as though it did not exist. But at least he'd come here believing his sacrifice was for a reason.
Now he didn't know what to believe.
Without thinking, he put his hand into the pocket of his coveralls and felt the slip of paper. It had come from a printer slaved to the computer diagnostic system, used exclusively to print out 'Mech-system analysis reports and repair checklists. But this morning, every printer in the hangar had come alive simultaneously and printed out a single slip, identical to the one in his pocket.
He'd heard of this sort of thing happening before. The diagnostic equipment was all networked together, and somebody, somewhere, had hacked the system and used the printers to send a message. Most of the slips had been examined and tossed immediately into the trash bins, leading to nothing more than whispered speculation. But when Reuben had torn the slip from the printer nearest him, he'd somehow put the paper in his pocket rather than throwing it away.
Now he took the paper out again and examined it carefully.
There were two street names and a time. The streets he recognized as being not far beyond the edge of the spaceport. The time was late tonight.
It said one other thing. "Think the unthinkable."
He couldn't imagine the unthinkable, but he was willing to listen.
He began to plan how he would make the mysterious appointment.
* * *
Taylor Bane sat on the rough cushion of the open passenger tram and watched the aerodyne DropShip receding in the distance as they bounced over the cracked and occasionally bomb-cratered concrete toward the terminal. A light police 'Mech walked past them, headed out to join another one already guarding the DropShip. Taylor wasn't sure if they were protecting Vega from the DropShip. or the DropShip from Vega.
The sun beat down on them unmercifully, and the air was rank. He bent down to touch the metal briefcase resting on the floorboards and held tightly between his polished leather shoes, then leaned back to try to make the best of the ride.
The seat cushions seemed to consist largely of gray hurricane tape, and as he lifted his arm, he discovered that a loose flap had adhered to the sleeve of his silk suit. He pulled his arm off in disgust. The tape pulled off with a ripping sound, leaving a sticky white residue on his sleeve. "Great."
Bruno Vic glanced over at him. "What?"
"Ruined a perfectly good suit is what."
Bruno looked down at him, lifting his dark glasses for a better look. Even sitting, Bruno was a head taller than he was. "That will come out.
"Yeah," he continued, nodding. "They got a special fluid, will get it out clean. My uncle was in the laundry business. Find a good cleaners, they'll fix you up."
Bane looked off at the city skyline, bombed and burned buildings making it look like a mouthful of broken teeth. "Forgive me, Bruno, if I'm a little cynical of my chances of finding one here. No wonder there are so few commercial ships headed here. What a hellhole. Hard to believe that it was, until recently, capital of a prefecture. I guess technically maybe it still is, but it's hard to have a capital when the government has moved off-world."
Bruno didn't seem interested in the skyline. He looked straight ahead. Behind those dark glasses, he could have been asleep. Bruno gave that impression, which was part of why he was so good at his job. Bruno wasn't asleep. Taylor wasn't even sure the big man did sleep. Finally, he spoke. "I guess the boss has his reasons for sending us. I ain't asking, mind you."
Bruno didn't ask questions, another good trait.
"The boss says that in adversity, there's opportunity," Bane said.
Bruno seemed to be sleeping again. Then, after a while, he said, "That doesn't sound like something the boss would say."
"I'm paraphrasing, mind you." He nodded at a family sitting at the other end of the tram. "There are children present."
The corner of Bruno's mouth twitched slightly. For Bruno, it was a big smile. Taylor had heard that Bruno Vic wasn't his real name. He'd heard once that it was actually Jean Tilden. It didn't matter. Bruno looked like a Bruno Vic. That was good enough.
Besides, that was the name on his travel papers, even though they were as forged as Taylor's own.
The tram bounced up to the terminal and drove through a door into the interior. There was an air curtain over the door to keep the air-conditioning inside. The air curtain was inoperative. Which was just as well; so was the air-conditioning.
They drove through the huge, dirty and nearly empty building, the air hot and stuffy, large walls of glass acting as efficient solar collectors. Finally they pulled up under a large sign that read, customs—welcome to Vega.
A handful of customs officials waited, most of them wearing at least some part of a uniform mixed with worn and mended civilian clothing. They were a motley lot, and it made Taylor smile.
The passengers were lined up near a wall, then called up one by one and reunited with their luggage. Taylor watched the proceedings with interest. At this point, papers were produced, and a combination inspection and interview took place. Usually, after a while, the passengers and their luggage were allowed to continue on, but occasionally there was some irregularity, and the passenger was taken away to a row of small offices for further processing.
Taylor heard his name called. He picked up his briefcase and marched up to the waiting customs agent, a slender, middle-aged man with a thin moustache. He wore a uniform cap, a stained blue shirt, and a pair of dark blue slacks with a contrasting patch on one knee. Taylor presented his papers, which the official examined closely.
"These seem to be in order." He glanced down. "I'll need to look in the briefcase."
"Yes," said Taylor, "I understand. I'd like that very much. But not here."
The official looked at him, puzzled. "Excuse me?"
"Perhaps," he said carefully, "there is some error in the papers you did not initially notice. He bobbed his head towards the offices. "Perhaps you will want to inspect them more closely."
The man blinked. Blinked again. Then looked down at the briefcase. It was a titanium shell. Brand-new. Very expensive. "Maybe I should call to verify certain matters. Please follow me."
They stepped into a small room with a table and two chairs, the kind of room sometimes used for interrogation. There were no two-way mirrors though, only an obvious camera mounted on an arm on the wall. As Taylor put his briefcase flat on the table, the man hung his hat over the camera.
Taylor keyed in the lock code, and the latches snapped open. He flipped open the briefcase, then spun it around so the inspector could see.
The man's eyes opened wide.
Taylor reached into the case and casually flicked a small gold ingot onto the table. Then after a moment, he flicked another. The man picked them up, inspecting the lettering embossed into the top of each ingot. A name: Jacob bannson. Then he looked up at Taylor, his eyes still wide.
Taylor spun the briefcase around and snapped it shut. "Everything is in order, then?"
The man hesitated. "Yes. Yes, of course."
"My baggage as well."
"I haven't even—Yes, of course."
"You have my gratitude, and that of my employer as well. You never know when that could come in handy."
* * *
Bruno was waiting outside the terminal in a battered black sedan. One front fender was crumpled, and the sunroof was sealed with hurricane tape. Bruno noticed him inspecting the car. "It was the best I could do. I won't tell you what I had to pay for it."
"As long as it drives." He climbed into the backseat.
Bruno glanced into the rearview mirror. "I was worried you'd found yourself an honest customs agent."
He snorted. "Everybody's for sale. Bruno, especially in a place like this. Only good thing I've seen about Vega so far. We can do business here."
"Let's hope so. Where to?"
"Let's see if th
ere are any hotels left standing in this rat hole. Then we start spreading some of this gold around."
4
From the Great Work of Galaxy Commander Isis Bekker
I have never favored a heavy 'Mech.
I am not a large person. I did not test out of my sibko as a warrior, fight my way up through the ranks to Galaxy commander, win my Bloodname and prevail though countless challenges by virtue of size and physical strength. In 'Mech battles, as in more personal ones, my fighting style calls for speed, agility, stealth and the ruthless application of surprise.
As such, the hundred-ton Atlas towered over my much-modified thirty-ton Pack Hunter, and I was heavily outgunned. Even if my 'Mech had been fresh and undamaged, which it was not, I would have been at a huge disadvantage. Of course, Conner Hall was there too. but his sixty-five-ton Karhu was even more damaged than my 'Mech—his missiles gone, his ammo depleted, only part of his suite of lasers operational. Mentally, I was prepared for this to be my last battle.
A Clan warrior does not fear death in battle. We welcome it. We embrace it. so long as it brings glory to our bloodline. To die in glorious battle is to ensure one's genetic legacy. It is to ensure that the iron wombs will one day bring forth our figurative sons and daughters as a new generation of warriors.
So I attacked Jedra Kean expecting to die, planning only that I would take the accursed freeborn with me, knowing the satisfaction that his legacy would die with him even as mine would live on.
Lightning flashed around us as I approached him, using natural cover to make myself a more difficult target. I fired my lasers, cutting a gash across the monstrous metal skull that forms the head of an Atlas. "Go for his vanity," I thought. "Make him angry."
It worked. The Atlas fired off a poorly targeted volley of missiles that tore up the trees and rock outcroppings around me, but did little damage to my 'Mech.
But the scar I scored onto his 'Mech served one other purpose as well. It provided a target, a place for my scattered forces to focus their fire. Conner Hall's lasers found my mark with flawless aim, and still more of the thick armor peeled and dripped away.
Trial by Chaos Page 5
