Apparent Catastrophe

by Michael Stackpole

  lose them.

  —Charles Wheeler Thayer

  Rivergaard Rangers Interim Headquarters, Carnarvon National Park

  Maldives

  20 November 3000

  Walter didn’t turn from watching the sunset when he heard gravel crunching behind him. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Sunsets have never really appealed to me, or the esthetics of them, in any event.”

  He turned, covering his surprise at hearing Abigail’s voice rather than her sister’s. “Is there a reason for that, Captain?”

  Abigail joined him at the overlook, leaning against the green metal railing. “I suppose it’s a conflict between practicality and fancy. What do you see when you look west?”

  Walter took a moment before answering, less concerned about coming up with an answer she considered right, and actually looking at the landscape before him. The Rangers had set up their new interim headquarters in the remains of an old estate which had been ceded to the state and made into a planetary park. The overlook stood high on the southern edge of a forested valley not too far from the preserve where Walter and Ivan had taken shelter during the coup. Sunlight glinted here and there off the river snaking its way through the valley’s heart, but the growing shadows would soon dull that. The dying sun splashed gold, orange and purple highlights into thready clouds. Beyond them, a few stars glittered.

  “A riot of colors, but colors that make me feel comfortable. The forest, dark and growing darker, is a place I could live in.” He glanced at her. “I’ve seen more colorful sunsets—those in a binary star system can be spectacular—but I’m not afraid of this one. So, what is it you see?”

  “I see terrain. I see locations where I would place my troops to defend us in depth. I see locations for ambushes, and the sunset means that if my people have night-fighting skills, I win the day.”

  The mercenary nodded. “What do you think your brother would see?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Abigail glanced down, her eyebrows arrowing together. “But you know that.”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  She smiled quickly, then folded her arms over her chest. “I want to thank you for being Ivan’s Companion, for keeping him safe.”

  “No thanks necessary. That’s part of the job.”

  “That might have been, but the changes in him . . . To be frank, while I had grown to love Richard in the last year, the reason I agreed to marry him was to be prepared in case Ivan failed his ordeal.”

  Walter arched an eyebrow. “And to be prepared in case he survived, too.”

  Abigail’s bright eyes tightened. “I have underestimated you.”

  “Lots of folks do. I tend to like it that way.” Walter turned back toward the dying sun. “And my saying that doesn’t mean I imagine you would have overthrown Ivan. You would have, however, been happy to let him promote you or Richard in his place.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what is it you want of me?”

  “Perspective. The sort of thing you offer my brother, but perhaps soften because you are his Companion.” She exhaled slowly. “Is there a way out of this?”

  “If you’re asking if there is a way to turn back time, no.” Walter turned and let the railing press into the small of his back. “Your brother has seen one solution—one that takes time. I don’t think he has an accurate sense of the time it will take, however. Intellectually he does, but his idea has no emotional reality.”

  “What’s your realistic view?”

  “I’m just a mercenary, Captain, working, apparently, for myself now. My geopolitical analysis was never in demand before, and I don’t think the last six weeks have made it any more valuable.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. The Collective shattered things, and each little splinter has a gross advantage over the Rangers: the Collective has taken over the real estate that the Litzau and Oglethorpe families could have used as a stronghold. Now, as a guerrilla force that remains highly mobile, you have a chance of surviving. Unfortunately, as the old saying goes, ‘Guerrillas never win wars . . .’”

  “I believe that quote is completed with ‘but their adversaries often lose them.’”

  “Don’t take that as hopeful advice, because the losing takes a long time and even when the adversarial regime falls, things never go back to being the way they were.” Walter sighed. “If you want that, you have two choices, neither of which are going to be to your liking. In fact, I’m not sure that either of them would work because Ivan is not the right man for either.”

  Abigail frowned. “I wouldn’t have expected that harsh a judgment from you. I thought I detected some affection for my brother in you.”

  “I like your brother just fine. He’s surprised me, and in a good way. Hell, he saved my life at least twice. The problem is with Maldives and the Dhivi culture.”

  “How so?”

  “No, you wouldn’t see it.” Walter shook his head. “The whole ‘Final Vetting’ tradition is based on the martial exploits of an ancestor a couple centuries dead at this point. Aside from the impossibility of anyone living up to the example of someone that long dead and mythologized, Augustine was a MechWarrior of no mean skill, clearly great courage and perhaps a couple of bullets shy of a full clip.”

  Abigail arched an eyebrow. “He was decisive. Fortune also smiled on him.”

  “Sure, you spin it however you want. The point is that even your father failed to rise to the military standards set by Augustine’s example. Ivan was even further from that. And while both your father and Ivan may have been the people best qualified to do what was needed to transform Maldives into a thriving world again, things have shifted. The new challenge is one that requires an Augustine to solve it.”

  The mercenary opened his hands. “So, you have two choices. You turn Ivan into an Augustine by putting him at the head of an overwhelming military force that can’t help but win. To do that you’d have to ally yourself with other groups and, being realistic, the Capellan Confederation or the Federated Suns. But Ivan has made it clear to me that such an alliance would be viewed quite negatively, so that won’t be happening.”

  She nodded. “While the reality of things is that outsiders may already be exerting influence, and likely will exert more in the future, the one who brings them in would be vilified. Your second choice?”

  “We get you, your husband, and the rest of your family off this rock, along with as many loyalists as you can bring. You all go into exile, you and Richard have a boatload of children, and you hope and pray and work to make sure that when one of your sons reaches Ivan’s age, he can return with a strong enough force to reclaim the family’s birthright. That looks like a long shot now, but the longer the Collective rules, the more discontent it generates, and you can help that along by funding covert operations from afar. You’ll have any surviving factions pulling for your return. Thirty years from now the Litzau family can come back and start putting things back the way they should be.”

  “I find neither of these choices palatable.”

  “Neither is.” Shadows cloaked Walter and the day’s heat fled quickly. “However, there really are no other options. The return from exile of your dynasty best lines up with Ivan’s strategy of playing for time, and has the advantage of lowering the threat to your family.”

  Abigail leaned forward with her forearms on the railing. “When I was young, I told my father I wanted to win my Final Vetting as he had. I didn’t really understand, and he was very gentle in explaining to me, that I never was going to have to do that. And it wasn’t just that I was female and barred from it. He intended reforms that would make it unnecessary. When he died, I decided that I needed to train to be able to win through a Final Vetting. I could have.”

  “Easily, I have no doubt.”

  �
�The fact is that I cannot find a flaw in your analysis, though I would argue with the basis for it, at least in one aspect.”

  “Yes?”

  “You noted that this problem requires an Augustinian solution. That might be true, but circumstances make it so there is no chance that even Augustine could have succeeded. Richard and I arrived at the same conclusion you did: the dynastic solution is the only viable one, but it is the weakest. Thirty years is a long time. Who can even begin to guess what the Inner Sphere will be like in 3030? Will any of us recognize it?”

  “That’s a question that gets answered well above my pay grade.”

  She glanced at him. “Please don’t take this question the way it might sound, but what are you going to do now, given that the chances of your being paid are zero?”

  Walter closed his eyes for a moment. He could have taken the question as one about his moral character, given his willingness to fight for money, but he’d heard none of that in her tone of voice. “There are a number of considerations. True, I’m not getting paid. True, I don’t have enough money to buy passage to another world—at least, I’m assuming that passage is dear and that the Collective is being very selective about who they are letting travel off-world. There’s also the question of what’s happened to the Angels. The colonel suggested some of them sold out. Sophia mentioned that she’d talked with the wife of one of my men in a reeducation camp. I may be a mercenary, but I do feel an obligation to my people. In general, that means some Collective agents are going to have to die, some people are going to have to be liberated.”

  “My brother counts on you, you know.”

  “I do.”

  She half-smiled. “Would you consider allying yourself with refugees from a bankrupt corporation, knowing you’ll probably die, certainly never get paid and likely will enter the dustbin of history alongside the Litzau family?”

  “That kind of offer is really difficult to refuse.”

  “But you will refuse it?”

  “It’s this way, Captain. I like your brother. He’s like the little brother I never had. His fortunes, his goals, they run parallel to mine. I’ll stick with him until he tells me to leave, how’s that? As long as he needs me, I’ll be there; but I’ll be taking care of my own business at the same time. Fair?”

  “Better than anything I had any reason to expect.” Abigail offered him her hand. “I misjudged you, and unfairly judged you. I hope you accept my apology, and I will work hard to earn your respect.”

  Walter shook her hand firmly. “Yes, and you’re on your way. This isn’t an easy time for any of us, Captain, but I do believe there is a way out.” For most of us, anyway.

  When he had time to reflect on the circumstances, Walter decided that had it not been for the thunder waking him, he probably would have died. The conversation with Abigail Litzau had left him out of sorts. The coup and the destruction of Angleton’s Angels had left him poor, angry and homeless all in one fell swoop. The obligation he felt toward Ivan made him want to remain with him and help him, but Walter had no indication of whether that should be his new life’s mission.

  With thoughts running riot, he searched around for Sophia, but did not find her in any of the usual spots. The estate had dozens of small cabins and guesthouses that had been made over to accommodate campers. The Rangers had repurposed a number of them, turning one into an infirmary and a smaller one into a brig where they stashed Calvin Galarza. The Rangers ’Mechs had already been moved to their next location. Walter had no idea where that would be, but he understood it had the facilities necessary for repairing and refitting the war machines.

  A crack of thunder had jolted him to consciousness, but immediate clarity eluded him. He’d not been sleeping well, yet as foggy as his brain might be, he knew sleep wasn’t coming back easy. He kicked off his covers, pulled on boots, pants and T-shirt. He thought he’d wander over to the park’s central building and scrounge some food in the kitchen, but before he could hit the door, rain started pelting down hard on his roof.

  He looked at the nearest window, figuring to watch fat raindrops churn dust into mud, but instead caught a red dot crawling over the thin fabric curtains. He crouched, reached to the nightstand and the needle pistol there. A lightning flash painted the silhouette of an armed man on the drapes.

  Walter slid over to the other bed in the tiny cabin and clapped his hand over Ivan’s mouth. The younger man started, but didn’t cry out. Still, a shiver did run through him.

  Walter kept his voice low. “Say nothing. There are intruders in the park. Got that?”

  Ivan nodded.

  “Okay, quick, get some clothes on.”

  Anxiety danced through Ivan’s whisper. “Who?”

  “No idea.” Walter pointed toward the window in the door and the laser targeting dot on the glass. “You’re going out the back window. You’re going to the vehicle barn near the scenic overlook. Stay low.”

  Ivan tied his boots. “What about you?”

  “Coming right after you.”

  Remaining low, the two men retreated to the cabin’s rear and slid open the window. It got stuck halfway up, and only give a little squeak when Walter forced it. Thunder covered most of the sound—at least Walter hoped it was only thunder. They waited for a few minutes, then Ivan went out and Walter followed closely.

  The rain started coming down harder, making short work of their footprints and swallowing small sounds. It didn’t help them heading down the path to the vehicle barn. Ivan went down twice on slippery rocks, the second time banging his knee badly. He didn’t cry out, but he didn’t move for a little while. He signaled that he could keep going, but when he started out again, he moved slowly and the knee had already begun to swell.

  Walter looped Ivan’s left arm over his shoulder and half-carried him down to the barn. The door stood ajar, which suggested the opposition force had already searched it. Walter got Ivan in and onto an old workbench. “Sit. Let me look at your knee.”

  Ivan shook his head. “No use. It’s already swelling up. I can’t go anywhere. Walter, you go, get out of here.”

  “That’s not happening.”

  Ivan’s head came up. “You don’t owe Maldives your life. Go.”

  “No, but there’s a bunch of folks on this rock who owe me their lives.” Walter held a finger up. “Give me a second to think here.”

  The fact that the base had been compromised and there had been no warning meant either the attackers were so well-equipped that they were able to eliminate the sentries without opposition, or the sentries had sold them out. The fact that no one had kicked in their cabin door and shot them in their beds suggested the intruders were interested in taking captives. Walter had to assume that the Collective or whomever else had launched the operation specifically to capture the Rangers leadership, and possibly Sophia and Ivan as well. Can they know about them?

  “How thoroughly did you overwrite our identities in accessible databases?”

  “Short of a DNA test against known samples connected to our old names, we are safe.”

  Walter shook his head. “Okay, look, the people working their way through the camp are well trained. I’d bet they are mercenaries, and I think they are looking to take people prisoner. If they’re not, if they’re just getting into position to kill everyone, our only hope is to run.”

  “Then you have to get Sophia, Walter. Get her to safety.”

  “It’s Wall-eye, Spurs, and Felicia. Don’t forget that. The Rangers picked us up, made us go with them, and we’re sticking because they gave us three meals and a place to sleep. Stick with that story, plead ignorance on anything else. Wall-eye and Spurs are of no value to them. If the identities hold, they’ll let us go, or use us as forced labor and we can escape.”

  “You forget, some of the people here know who we are.”

  “There
isn’t a one of them that would give you up.”

  Ivan frowned. “Except for Lieutenant Galarza.”

  “I thought of that.” Walter charged the needle pistol. “I’ll deal with him, get Felicia and be right back.”

  “Walter, no.”

  “No choice, Spurs.” Walter gave his friend a curt nod, then turned toward the door.

  Just in time to see the cylindrical concussion grenade cartwheeling into the barn. Walter turned to dive for cover, but his foot slipped. The concussion grenade detonated, the flash blinding him and the blast rattling his teeth. The mercenary hit the ground hard, the pistol bouncing from his grasp, and rolled over onto his back, as blackness devoured him.

  Chapter Seven

  Golden Prosperity Reeducation Camp, Rivergaard

  Maldives

  30 November 3000

  Walter couldn’t remember when it had taken him longer to recover from a concussion—that, in and of itself, being a sign of the severity of his injury. He’d operated in a fog for the first five days. That had been something of a blessing in that he’d been handed a mop and really was incapable of handling anything more complex. An added benefit was that it caused the proctors to consider him an idiot, and treat him accordingly.

  The fog slowly cleared, but he gave no sign that it had. This, and his mop, gave him free rein to travel where he would. Mumbling “Clean up, gotta clean up the mess” got him anywhere he wanted to go in the reeducation camp. He even earned the name “Mop Boy,” which further dehumanized him and rendered him harmless in the eyes of his captors.

  The reeducation camp had been established on the campus of Litzau University. As was custom on Rivergaard, much of the campus housing and utilitarian construction had been built underground. Classrooms, stadiums and other higher profile buildings—all emblazoned with the names of the philanthropists who underwrote them—stood tall in sunlight, amid a parklike greensward decorated with statues, fountains and other public memorials. Prisoners remained belowground, shuffling between dormitories, dining halls and work stations through tunnels. The proctors appeared to consider sunlight a privilege, as well as a metaphor for enlightenment.