Blood of heroes

by Andrew Keith

  The two guards took the turn that led to one of the lifts, and Caitlin allowed herself a smile. The stairs wouldn't have been suitable for what she had in mind.

  The lift doors slid open promptly, and the first guard stepped quickly inside. The second was moving aside to let Caitlin and the corporal pass when she stumbled and lurched into him. "Ow! she complained. "Damn floppy slippers!"

  The trooper reached out to help her, and in that instant she used her momentum to carry her past him. Her 'Mech-trained reflexes took over, and with a swift motion she grasped the man's arm and pulled him around so that he was between her and the corporal's vibroblade. He started to shout something and jerked back.

  Her left hand speared straight into his stomach, and before he could even double over from the force of the blow she caught him with an open-palmed chop to the bridge of the nose. His mouth worked, but no sounds came out as he staggered back and straight into the vibroblade. It whined as it sank into his back, and Caitlin leaped forward.

  The corporal tried to yank the blade free, but she was on top of him first. A chop to the wrist made him release the blade, and soldier and vibroblade together fell to the floor. Then she brought her knee up into the noncom's groin. He doubled over, out of the fight for the moment at least.

  Caitlin spun again as the guard in the elevator lunged through the doors, his rifle at the ready. In that split second she flashed on the face of Lieutenant Bergstrom, who periodically instructed the cadets in quick-kill and other martial arts disciplines. Standing sternly before the cadets, he was saying, "The first rule when facing an opponent with better weaponry is to even the odds. Get inside his weapon range and you're back on level ground."

  She acted on the thought before the soldier could swing the rifle around to cover her, leaping at him with a loud yell. The man flinched as Caitlin gave him a chop across the throat. Then he was down.

  She jerked the vibroblade out of his comrade's back, then turned on the downed soldier, who was slowly, painfully trying to straighten up. "Now, Corporal," she said in low, dangerous tones while prodding him in the stomach with the tip of the knife. "Suppose you tell me just what's been going on . . ."

  * * *

  "This is it!" shouted the driver of the Legion's hover carrier. "Hold on back there!"

  In reaction to his warning, Alex Carlyle gripped a strap mounted on the hover carrier's front partition, hastily double-checking the restraints that held the portable computer terminal in place. The carrier skewed sideways as it came to a stop, and the motley group of technician-soldiers and armed ex-prisoners at the rear of the passenger compartment were piling out before the turbofans had shut off completely. Julio Vargas, the aerospace pilot, brandished a Sternsacht pistol as he barked orders.

  "Move! Move! Move!" he urged, waving the pistol with one hand and using the other to shove men toward the rear door. With his bristling black mustache and the ammo belts for the team's machine gun draped across his chest, Vargas looked like a stock bandito character from some trideo costume drama.

  "Aircraft! Aircraft incoming!" someone shouted.

  On Alex's monitor, the three blips that represented the surviving Planetary Guard aircraft were swooping low in another attack run. He could hear the rattle of machine gun fire outside as the lead jet started strafing the legionnaires on the ground.

  "Strike One! Strike One!" he called as his hand stabbed the commlink button. "Headshot, get those bastards off us!"

  "Roger that, Ghost Leader," the cadet Mech Warrior replied, imperturbable. Unlike his father, Cristiano de Villar rarely ever betrayed his emotions. "I've got them."

  "Legion strike force, Legion strike force," a familiar voice crackled over the commlink. "Legion strike force, this is Cadet DeVries. Please respond."

  Caitlin . . .

  Alex checked his automatic impulse to respond to the call. He hadn't seen or heard anything about her since the coup, but the fact that she'd been assigned to the governor's staff just before the whole crisis had erupted didn't look good.

  And the governor was, after all, her father. Alex couldn't imagine going against his own parent. How could they trust her now? This had to be some kind of trick.

  Beside him, Major King turned quickly and keyed the commlink. "This is King," he said, raising his hand to cut off Alex's protest. "Go ahead, Cadet."

  "I've got important information, Major," she said, sounding breathless. "They're getting ready to evacuate— my father and Colonel Walthers. By VTOL from the helipad. I think Walthers intends to take some of the Legion officers as hostages."

  "Where are the hostages now?" King demanded.

  "Third . . . third floor," she replied. "South wing, I think. I'm heading that way now, but if you can get anyone else up there ..."

  "Understood," King said. "Good work, DeVries."

  As King cut the commlink, Alex finally gave voice to an angry protest. "It's a trap, Major! Has to be . . ."

  King shook his head. "It was Cadet DeVries who tipped us off to this mess in the first place. Got a message out through one of the Residence service people. Her father probably didn't want to lock her up with the rest of you, but he had her under house arrest just the same. We're damned lucky she got loose when she did." The Tech Major paused, tapping the computer console restlessly. "All right. Cadet, you take half the troops and try to find the hostages on the third floor before they move them again. Captain Vargas and the rest will start a regular sweep of the building. I'll get the other carrier up to support us. Got it?"

  "Yessir," Alex said. He drew the laser pistol he'd been given during the short trip to the Residence and checked its charge reading. Then he hurried to the rear door, shouting orders to the astech in command of one of the original assault squads.

  One of the jets stooped low overhead, twin machine guns chattering. Across the wide circle drive in front of the Residence building a running figure in Legion battle dress went down, flinging his battle rifle away as he fell. With a shock Alex realized it was Cadet Wemyss, who commanded the cadet company's reconnaissance lance.

  From the far side of the military compound an autocannon blazed away at the aircraft. Cadet de Villar's Rifleman kept up the steady triple-A fire until the jet was out of sight, then switched to target the next aircraft as it started a fresh strafing run. Now a laser flashed, and Alex's eyes followed the path of the light pulse to the target overhead. In the half-light of the rising sun over the Firth of Dunkeld he saw the jet's left wing leaking smoke from a damaged engine. The aircraft seemed to stagger in midair before it started an almost graceful arc toward the ground, heading straight for the Rifleman . . .

  Autocannon rounds slammed into the crippled aircraft, shredding away shards of metal and debris, but the shattered hulk continued its plunge, burning now.

  It struck the BattleMech like an outsized missile, and in a rear of fire and thunder the 'Mech came apart. Secondary explosions ripped through the ruin from detonating autocannon ammo, spreading burning wreckage over hundreds of meters and setting a nearby building aflame.

  Alex stared in sick horror and revulsion at the sight. It had all happened so fast.

  And Cristiano de Villar was gone, just like that. He hadn't even had time to punch out.

  Vargas shook Alex, hard, with a tight grip on his shoulder. "Snap out of it, kid!" he shouted. "You've got a job to do! Now move!"

  Alex tore his gaze away from the smoldering hulk that had been de Villar's Rifleman and forced himself to act. But as he led his squad up the steps to the Residence doors he felt like a robot, detached from the action, going through the motions.

  No simulation had ever prepared him for the reality of battle.

  24

  Dunkeld, Glengarry

  Skye March, Federated Commonwealth

  4 April 3056

  "I said move, bitch!"

  Major Gomez de Villar tried to break free from the grasp of the guard who was holding his arms behind his back, but it was useless. The sound of the open-p
almed slap across his wife's jaw was like a dagger plunged straight into his gut.

  The blow knocked Freya de Villar backward across the bed, but she rolled and came up on the other side, glaring at Max Walthers as she dropped into a classic quick-kill stance.

  But the colonel just laughed. Behind him, another of his mercenaries jerked the bolt back on his SMG and trained it on the angry woman. "Go ahead," Walthers said harshly. "Just give us a good excuse."

  Slowly, Freya straightened up, a look of resignation crossing her face. The look she gave de Villar was bleak, hopeless.

  "Right," Walthers went on, glancing at his wristcomp. "We're behind schedule. Let's move!"

  The guard released de Villar and shoved him toward Freya. At that moment an explosion erupted somewhere outside, far louder than anything they'd heard before. It was close enough to shake the whole room, and the trooper with the SMG staggered and looked around with a wild expression.

  Freya lashed out with a flat-footed kick that sent the weapon flying. Breaking his fall on the edge of the bed, de Villar whirled and sank his fist deep into the stomach of the guard who had pushed him, then followed with an uppercut that smashed the man's nose. As he turned again, searching for another opponent, he saw Walthers drawing his pistol, bringing it up into line with Freya as she turned.

  "No!" de Villar shouted, leaping.

  The gun spat once, twice, three times, and he felt the impact of each slug as his rush carried him between Walthers and Freya. The force of the shots lifted him sideways, and he rolled over the bed and onto the floor beyond.

  He tried to rise, his mind still fixed on Freya and the gun and the overwhelming need to help her ...

  But his arms and legs would not respond, and a tide of black swelled around him, cutting off all else.

  All but the memories. The Legion . . . Grayson Carlyle . . . Freya. . .

  Freya ...

  * * *

  Hearing the shot as she rounded the corner from the lift, Caitlin DeVries broke into a run. Her mind was a turmoil of emotions. If only she hadn't stopped in her father's office to warn the Legion ...

  But letting them know the score outside had been vital, too, or so she'd thought at the time. Now, with the prospect of guards killing the hostages, she didn't know what to think anymore.

  She reached the door to the room from where the sound of the shot had come, and chambered a round in the battle rifle she'd lifted from the unconscious guard in the corridor downstairs. Then, taking a deep breath, she flattened herself against the wall beside the doorway, slapped the Open stud on the wall control panel, and swung around, rifle raised, as the door slid open.

  Colonel Max Walthers spun at the sound, and Caitlin didn't need more than a single look to take in the pistol in his hand and the sprawled body of Major de Villar on the floor. Freya de Villar was kneeling beside her husband, cradling his head, sobbing, oblivious to all else.

  Walthers raised the pistol, but Caitlin was faster. Her finger tightened on the trigger and the rifle stuttered, pumping a three-round burst into the mercenary's chest. Another uniformed Guardsman threw up his hands as his commander sagged to the floor with a startled look on his face.

  Still sobbing inconsolably, Freya de Villar never even looked up.

  * * *

  Roger DeVries leaned heavily against a railing of the helipad, staring down at the burning wreckage of the Rifleman on the other side of the military compound.

  How could I let things come to this? he asked himself bitterly. I wanted to spare us . . . this.

  "Governor! Governor!" his pilot, a swarthy man from Al Jafr named Zenada, shouted over the sporadic sounds of the combat below. He tapped his wristcomp and pointed at the waiting VTOL. "It's past time! If we're going to get out of here, we've got to go now!"

  It was past time, but neither Walthers nor O'Leary had shown up. Or Caitlin. If O'Leary had her and DeVries were to abandon him, what would the mercenary do to her?

  Or what if the mercenary had been killed, or had fled somewhere else? Legion troops were already in the Residence, and the fighting elsewhere on Castle Hill had started to wind down. Another jet had been knocked down by the Griffin's PPC at long range, and the last pilot had turned his aircraft away from the fight. He was probably heading back for the aerospace port, or maybe even further.

  Down the hill from the Residence, DeVries saw a new BattleMech appear from the recesses of the big 'Mech bay where the Legion's gear was stored. Then another, and a third. Some of their pilots must have escaped from their barracks and powered up their hulking combat machines. Not that they'd make any great difference, now. The battle was all but over . . . But how could he abandon Caitlin to O'Leary's tender mercies?

  As if in response to the thought, the helipad lift opened and Corporal O'Leary staggered out, his face bruised, bleeding from a shallow cut across his belly. The mercenary stumbled once, but stayed on his feet as he crossed the helipad and caught a rung of the VTOL's passenger ladder to steady himself. DeVries crossed the rooftop to meet him.

  "The bitch jumped us and got away," O'Leary said, spitting eloquently to punctuate the comment. "You want her, Governor, you go find her, but I'm getting the hell out of here!"

  "What about Colonel Walthers?" DeVries asked to cover the jumble of emotions the merc's words had evoked. "He isn't here yet."

  "Then he ain't gonna make it," O'Leary said flatly. "There's already a bunch of Grays in the building. I barely dodged 'em myself. If Walthers hasn't gotten the hostages up here by now, it's because he's been caught or killed." The corporal started to pull himself up the ladder and through the open hatch.

  DeVries hesitated a moment longer, then nodded to Zenada. "Let's go," he said curtly, grasping the ladder and following O'Leary up.

  Caitlin had escaped.

  He wasn't sure if he was happy she had eluded the corporal or angry at the choice she'd made—or simply sad at the fate that had finally driven them apart. At least she'd been spared O'Leary's heavy hand. One way or another, it was over.

  He thought of von Bulow's armada and shuddered. No, this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.

  "On the roof! Somebody's getting away!"

  Dave Clay heard the warning call from one of the infantrymen and turned his Griffin's scanners to check the top floor of the Residence. Major King had already warned them that some of the governor's men might be trying to escape that way.

  Without the Rifleman for antiaircraft fire, even a slow-moving VTOL transport might not be easy to knock down. The PPC hit he'd scored on one of the jets had been more luck than skill. BattleMech weaponry was designed to hit tanks or other 'Mechs, slow-moving targets that were easy to track and lock. It took special fire control gear like the Rifleman's to hit aircraft with any degree of consistency.

  But they didn't have the Rifleman anymore. From now on it was up to Clay and Farquhar.

  He plotted fire coordinates hastily, hoping to get off a shot before the VTOL could lift clear of the helipad, then hesitated. King's last transmission had warned that the enemy might be taking hostages out with them. What if Major de Villar or Major McCall was on that thing? Clay couldn't just open fire, not knowing.

  He wiped the fire program off his board and took a step back with his 'Mech. He couldn't fire without knowing the score, but there was something else he could do.

  His fingers punched in a new control code, triggering the Grin's jump jets. The armored fighting machine rose from the ground in a move that was half leap, half flight. He hoped the reinforced helipad would be strong enough to take the weight of a 'Mech. If it wasn't . . .

  The Griffin touched down just as the VTOL was starting to rise from the pad. The roof under the machine's massive feet held, and Clay let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Then, belatedly, he started forward.

  The VTOL hovered for a moment as the pilot revectored the engines. Then it shot away, banking sharply to avoid the 'Mech's outstretched arms.

  From the cockp
it of his Griffin, Clay could only watch, powerless, as the aircraft receded to the east, into the rising sun.

  25

  Dunkeld, Glengarry

  Skye March, Federated Commonwealth

  5 April 3056

  There hadn't been much fighting here inside the Battle-Mech repair bay on Castle Hill. Cadet Dave Clay had just come inside from the military parade ground, and the contrast between the ruin outside and the orderly ranks of 'Mechs standing in their repair gantries was startling. It was almost as if the dawn battle had been no more than a nightmare. Almost.

  "Ah, Cadet Clay." An astech sergeant he had last seen in battle dress and blackout makeup crossed the gleaming floor with a computer board in one hand and a harassed expression on his face. He'd found time to change into work coveralls, and the lubricant stains on his face and clothes were considerably more in character than his combat garb. "We've just finished running the diagnostics on your Griffin. It looks ready to go. If you'll follow me, I'll show you what we found."

  Clay didn't answer, but trailed obediently behind as the tech sergeant led him to the waiting Griffin. Cocooned in a repair cradle, the 'Mech was surrounded with gantries to permit repair techs to reach every part of the machine. A handful of techs in the red coveralls of the ordnance department were still working at an open service hatch just below the drum-shaped LRM on the right shoulder, probably double-checking the warheads in the missile locker.

  "You lost some armor on the chest where that SRM hit you," the sergeant went on, pointing at the scored, blackened spot on the left chest "Can't replace that yet. It's not a high enough priority, but when we get a chance it won't take long. Meantime, remember you've got a weak spot there, okay?"

  Clay nodded, his mind flashing back to the lone Guardsman's fruitless stand with his rocket launcher. All he could think of was the feeling of paralysis that had gripped him, preventing him from simply killing the man, refusing to kill him . . .