Pandora's Gambit

by Randall N Bills

  And buried deep beneath that layer of worry, her most private feelings worked overtime to undermine everything else she worked to accomplish. Those feelings were the reason she dared not sleep more than a few hours at a time. Any longer, and her subconscious might force her to face a challenge for which there truly was no solution.

  She swallowed past the thick dust, and abruptly turned and strode off toward her ’Mech. She called herself all kinds of a coward for retreating to her ’Mech as a refuge, but it was her only source for peace of mind. Her job was to protect the world of Marik and its people, her passion to give an entire population relief.

  Where would she find refuge from her feelings for Anson Marik?

  16

  Clan Sea Fox CargoShip Voidswimmer

  Zenith Jump Point, Marik

  Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

  27 September 3136

  The scarred features of ovKhan Petr Kalasa seemed to stretch into infinity, as if the heavily veined, naked skin on the right side of his scalp had been abruptly transformed into the expanding surface of a bubble that grew until it swallowed the universe.

  Rikkard Nova Cat caught his breath. For just a moment he wondered if Petr’s skull might explode, the Sea Fox Clansman’s brain eating the universe and all of existence—and with an abrupt snap that left him almost breathless, the energy coursing through the Kearny-Fuchida hyperdrive in the bowels of the mammoth Voidswimmer CargoShip finished tearing a hole in reality and deposited them in their destination system.

  “. . . sure you are aware, Star Colonel, I have no interest in your contract fee. The price for transportation has been stated and is nonnegotiable.”

  Rikkard marveled at the other man’s ability to continue his sentence—much less his train of thought— following the jump. Then again, the Sea Fox spent most of their lives traversing space. They have the advantage

  of long experience. . . . He adjusted the strap holding him in the seat of the command cabin of the Voidswimmer , aware that he should be on his way to his DropShip, which would already be making preparations for the in-system burn to the planet.

  "Aff, ovKhan. That is not in question. I simply requested a status on your force disposition for future reference, as I anticipate that we might deal together again before this matter reaches its conclusion.”

  The other man raised a hand to forestall Rikkard’s carefully prepared argument. “You have successfully bargained for and received access to the only assets I am willing to offer at this time. I have delivered you to your target. Now you must fight to win your prize.”

  Rikkard grunted in frustration. The Sea Fox willingness to negotiate anything is legendary. Why does he refuse to even discuss the potential for supplying reinforcements if they are needed in the coming battle? When he opened his mouth to speak, ovKhan Kalasa cut him off.

  “Further discussion is not profitable, Star Colonel. You go to your task. We remain on-station in case of failure.”

  Rikkard nodded. Despite his belief in and repeated proof of Clan superiority, in the battle for Marik the possibility of failure loomed large, even with the extra forces he’d managed to marshal.

  “And to claim your price for transport.”

  “Of course, Star Colonel. You would not be here if I did not believe in your odds for victory.”

  The man’s smile stretched the scars on his face, putting Rikkard in mind of a world-wise feline, damaged in previous battles but all the more dangerous for the experience.

  “Then I will see you on planet.”

  The other man nodded without a reply as they both unfastened themselves from their chairs and made their way into the corridor. Petr shot away toward the bridge, leaving Rikkard in awe of the ease with which he handled microgravity. Floundering more than swimming, Rikkard kept his hand on the side rail of the corridor as he made his way toward his waiting DropShip— and from there to the fight that ultimately would decide whether the vision that had plagued him for so many years was a true vision, or a lie.

  Firehill Plains

  Mandoria, Marik

  Marik-Stewart Commonwealth

  3 October 3136

  Rikkard Nova Cat manipulated his Shadow Hawk IIC into raising both its arms. Each weapon tracked battlearmored troopers from the squad that had surprised him by springing from the hollowed-out confines of a mammoth fallen tree. He used his pinky to disengage the standard targeting reticule on the joystick controls, then slightly unfocused his eyes to take in the whole viewscreen before him, tracking two bounding troopers with two different trajectories. With the preternatural skill hardwired into his reflexes through generations of breeding and fine-tuned by thousands of hours of live-fire actions, he lined up the shot on instinct alone and let fly with the medium pulse lasers mounted in each arm.

  The spray of emerald darts slashed across the back of one trooper, cleanly slicing the jump pack in half and causing a minor detonation that tossed the trooper off course and sent him flying in a gyrating spiral first up and then down, hard, into the ground; the trooper didn’t move. The second armor infantry took most of the coherent energy beam across the lower legs. The shot cleanly amputated the right leg just below the knee, dropping the battle armor hard onto its face. Unlike the first trooper, however, the second one, with a savage rush of drugs clotting his blood and blocking pain receptors, was already rolling over and sitting up, his short-range missile pack spitting metal darts in return. Rikkard took both missiles in the chest, at the same time lining up another shot and searing the battle armor until the metal encasing the trooper sagged into a now mostly empty cavity.

  Janis’ voice filled his cockpit. “Superb shot, Star Colonel.”

  Despite the electronically reproduced voice, her sarcasm bled through loud and clear. A second shot to kill a mere infantryman. I am sure she will flog me with that for some time to come. Even in the midst of battle she still must fight me. Despite her progress. . . . Rikkard sighed as he checked his secondary monitor and reengaged the standard targeting reticule that would link his various weapons into one targeting interlock circuit and discharge them against a single target. A new thought emerged. Perhaps because of the progress.

  A tone sounded in his neurohelmet just as a fast-moving blip appeared on his radar screen. “It appears we have company, Star Commander. The last of the current defenders in this region, perhaps.”

  “Shall I engage, quiaff?”

  “Neg, Star Commander. This one is mine.”

  The silence was a rebuff, but he did not care. Regardless of how successfully he demonstrated equanimity regarding the lack of combat over the many long months, he was a Clansman as much as any and the need for battle burned brightly. Pushing the throttle forward, he guided the machine away from the small defile where battlearmor attempted to scale his machine and out onto a very large expanse of mostly flat terrain, with only a gentle grade undulating across the region; from where he stood, the ground to the horizon was covered in a cinnamon-colored grass that in some places actually rose to midcalf of his Shadow Hawk IIC.

  A plume of dust in the distance revealed the progress of a rapidly moving enemy force as it came close enough to confirm on visual only. The battle computer ran through its internal technical readout, spitting out its ninety-nine percent accurate report: Legionnaire. Five tons heavier, quicker and with a wickedly powerful rotary autocannon tied to a targeting computer. But I’ve got pulses to help negate your movement and my jump jets to help offset your speed. He nodded at the rough parity of the coming duel and opened a general broadcast frequency.

  “My name is Rikkard Nova Cat of the Spirit Cats. I challenge the MechWarrior of the Legionnaire to a single duel. Let none interfere.” He could almost hear Janis gasp at his use of zellbrigen. We may not often use our rituals of battle against spheroids, but I remind you, Janis, that I am still a Clansman.

  He did not expect a response from his opponent. Unlike Janis and so many other Clansmen who would rush forward to slug it out, Rikkard immedi
ately put his superior weapon range to use. A quick toggle loaded up an extended-range missile salvo and he led the incoming Legionnaire as he let fly. Without even waiting to see if the missiles hit their target, he pushed the throttle full forward and depressed the left pedal, sending the Shadow Hawk into a left-angled sprint. Quickly reaching almost one hundred kilometers an hour, the ’Mech’s legs hammered like pistons into the hard-packed, bone-dry dirt, adding his own column of dust to the air.

  The Legionnaire shifted to the right, quickly trying to bring its powerful but much-shorter-ranged weapon to bear. Rikkard let fly with another extended-range missile strike, then cycled to a standard ATM salvo as the range continued to decrease; watched in satisfaction as the Legionnaire took a full spread of missiles in the chest without breaking stride. You are brave, he thought. The fight for this world will be long and hard.

  Rikkard maintained his own speed, the pounding vibrations of the ’Mech’s stride shaking his whole body; his pulse quickened at the fiery surge of adrenaline that matched the pace of his ’Mech’s movement.

  He moved farther from his own troops in an effort to keep the distance between the Legionnaire and his Shadow Hawk at long range for as long as possible; his ’Mech soon moved at an oblique angle to the direction of the Legionnaire, just enough off center to allow him to torso-twist to the right and continue firing missile salvo after salvo, while the Legionnaire slowly closed the distance between them.

  After cycling through more than a half dozen shots, the enemy ’Mech finally reached its optimum range and the mammoth gun mounted across its back like the dorsal fin of some grotesque mechanical shark spun up and vomited depleted uranium death. Though he knew the weapon must be slaved to a targeting computer, Rikkard’s esteem for the warrior increased further as the initial salvo landed on the mark and his enemy kept it on target for nearly the entire duration of the shot, as hundreds of rounds shattered the armor on his legs down to dangerously thin levels.

  Rikkard snapped off a return shot with the pulse laser in his right arm, then executed a dangerous but brilliantly strategic move. Just as his computer shrieked of another target lock, he stomped down on both pedals, igniting his jump jets. Waste plasma blasted out through magnetic baffles mounted on the backpack-like superstructure of the ’Mech, launching the Shadow Hawk IIC into the air as another stream of autocannon rounds tore through the space he had just vacated.

  Long years of practice allowed him to feather the jets on the right side to spin the ’Mech in midjump; then he raised both arms and wildly fired off a dual pulse-laser salvo just to keep the enemy off balance, simultaneously gauging his trajectory and balance in flight; the soft whine of the gyro beneath his feet spoke of his perfect balance. As he passed the apex of the jump, he immediately hammered down on both pedals again, kicking on the jump jets at maximum thrust. Because he had been running when he left the ground, his aggregate speed was dangerously high. This forced him to push the jump jets’ magnetic baffles to their maximum capability in his bid to land 180 degrees from the direction he started, without flying backward, as residual velocity tossed his ’Mech to the ground like a rag doll. The pounding velocities pushed him into a gray-out and he felt like an elemental in battle armor was hammering down on his entire body. He gauged the impact, pushed the waste plasma well past the safety zone of the baffles in one final burst of maximum thrust, then smashed to the ground, flexing the knees of the Shadow Hawk IIC and dropping the ’Mech into a crouch, jamming both metal fists onto the hard-packed dirt to maintain his balance. The ’Mech slid backward through several meters of billowing dust, but it remained upright.

  The bone-crunching move spiked pain up through his spine and he tasted blood from biting his tongue. Having already cycled a high-explosive, short-range volley into firing position, he pushed off the ground like a sprinter out of the gate. He fired his missiles and an accompanying medium laser off the ’Mech’s centerline before a solid targeting lock told Rikkard what he already knew: at such close range, the laser seared a furrow of bubbling metal along the forward-thrusting torso of the Legionnaire, and the high-explosive missiles pummeled into the cockpit area with devastating effect.

  Like the aftermath of a perfectly placed uppercut by a champion boxer, a spasm shook the Legionnaire—a sure sign the pilot had fallen unconscious. The ’Mech careened off center, crashing to the ground with the sound of an exploding aerospace fighter. The mammoth rotary autocannon barrel dug into the dirt, the force of the machine’s velocity bending the barrel as the Legionnaire dove nose-first and then began a slow somersault, its legs splayed up in the air as the barrel ripped away from its mount, sending the ’Mech into several bounding rolls before it slid to a stop, almost completely obscured by a giant cloud of dust raised by its fall.

  Rikkard notched back the throttle until his Shadow Hawk IIC stood still; for just a moment he could almost feel his machine flex outside his control, quivering like the flanks of a warhorse breathing heavily over a well-fought victory.

  Rikkard attempted to wipe away some of the torrent of sweat pouring off his body, his hands coming away slick from the edges of his neurohelmet.

  “We will fight tooth and nail to take Marik and make it a safe haven for all Spirit Cats,” he finally breathed. “This battle was only the beginning. But regardless what comes, we will fight as Clansmen.”

  Korituk Bastille

  Padaron City, Tamarind

  Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

  “I appreciate your granting this audience, my lord.”

  The bright, untidy shock of hair combined with the blazing jade-green eyes told him that this young man beat off the ladies with a stick.

  Isn’t that right, boy? Fontaine Marik refused to stand as the young whelp was ushered into his office by a page. Fontaine let the silence stretch as his old, tired eyes bored into the boy’s, but the clear gaze held his with equal, straightforward intensity. I like that. I tried to stall this meeting until you gave in and packed it up, but I like that you didn’t waver. Though it does make me wonder why someone willing to throw himself off the nearest mountain would quietly sit on the sideline waiting to meet me. He sniffed, smelling something deeper, and already knew the source.

  He carefully reached over to the ubiquitous decanter his pages kept filled and poured himself a large draft. I’m going to need it, dear. He studiously avoided contemplating how comfortable he’d become with talking to his dead wife as though she were still somehow present in her favorite chair by the fire, quietly working on her latest stitching project. He took a long pull from his glass before setting it firmly back on the desk. Then he waved his hand in casual acknowledgment of the boy’s greeting. “I hear you won some type of sports competition.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Is that how you plan to fill your days? Sports and the extreme desire to see if you can cheat death time and again?”

  “No one cheats death, my lord. We only find ways to move the numbers around in the ledger to put off a final accounting.”

  The boy’s words surprised Fontaine, until he detected the stiffness of their delivery. I’ll have none of that. “Very eloquent, boy. But if you want to stay and talk with me, you’ll use your own words. If I like what I see, I’ll listen. But I don’t have time or inclination to hear a bunch of lies.”

  A smile blossomed on the boy’s face, and his eyes shone even brighter.

  Beating off the girls indeed, boy.

  “I apologize, Lord Marik.” He shrugged with casual ease. “My mother, you see. If I didn’t open this conversation with the utmost respect . . . well . . . let’s just say the results might be worse than my chute not opening during a ’cane jump.”

  Fontaine’s eyebrows raised in confusion.

  "Hurricane jump, my lord.”

  "What?"

  Christopher’s face took on a look of having explained this all too often. “A parachute jump into the eye
of a hurricane.”

  Fontaine’s brows climbed until they tried to walk off his face. “And you actually can find someone to fly you there?”

  Christopher shrugged easily. “Sure. If the excitement of trying to fly in and out of a hurricane isn’t enough, the flash of enough purple gets the job done.”

  Fontaine shook his head. What a waste, boy. Yet he was honest about the usefulness of money, which was promising. He brought the conversation back on track. “One should show the utmost respect to one’s mother. Mine was . . . formidable.” He pointed through the open door leading to the parapet outside. “See those crenellations?”

  “Yes?”

  “Those weren’t originally there.”

  “No?”

  “No. My mother’s voice, when I angered her . . . which happened all too often.” Several moments stretched as the young man’s face furrowed in thought before he abruptly howled in laughter. Craggy eyebrows shot down in a glower over such a bawdy noise violating his office; yet they rose gently over the sheer glee. So long since I heard such a carefree sound. So free of the weight of the world.

  “I believe you win, my lord Marik. My mother is a formidable woman, but I’m not sure even she could match your mother for such . . . forcefulness.”

  The other man nodded, casually taking another drink as he intently watched Christopher from the corner of his eye. “She was surely unique.” Fontaine could see that the boy was clenching his jaw, though he was trying hard to hide his tension. Ah. You’re not here of your own accord, boy. So it’s your mother. What does she want?

  “What do you want, boy?” Enough small talk. Let’s get this over with. I’ve a realm to run.