Hunters of the Deep mda-12

by Randall N Bills

  The two eyed each other across some gulf that Petr could not see. Finally, as though losing the will to continue such a battle of words, Jesup turned away. “So be it. In a Circle the rightness of his decisions will be decided.”

  Petr felt unsure how to answer; he was further distracted by the harsh stench of spilled diesel. “Then you understand the need to wait. To even attempt such a Trial of Grievance, their force must be brought closer to the strength of ours.” Though he hated himself for it, Petr wanted Jesup’s approval. An understanding of the path he chose.

  “Aff.” The tone carried a half dozen flavors. Could be taken any way Petr wished.

  Dissatisfied by the answer, but realizing none other would be forthcoming, he sighed, coughed again, sniffed hard and felt bands of light pain bind his forehead. “Tomorrow, Jesup,” he said softly, moving toward the small medstation. Must find something for this savashri cold.

  “We shall move tomorrow at dawn. And then it will be done.”

  Petr did not know if the words were for Jesup. Or himself.

  31

  Near Stewart DropPort, New Edinburgh

  Lothian, Stewart

  Prefecture VII, The Republic

  27 September 3134

  With the invading forces of the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth running headlong into the unforeseen presence of most of Beta Aimag, and the on-world militia splitting along lines of loyalty to The Republic (led by the legate) and loyalty to the old House Marik—forces determined to fight alongside the invaders (led by the earl)—the battle for the world of Stewart devolved into utter chaos within hours, as the multisided conflict spilled heavy blood on all sides before the sun set on the first day.

  With careful planning, Petr unleashed his mixed-force Trinary in the early dawn hours several days later, the sun just peeling back the veil of night, piercing curtains and wooded thickets with equal diligence. Weather reports from satellites—and mean temperature averages gleaned from a quick stab of the electronic finger into planetary weather databases—showed a bright, crisp morning in the offing. Hoping to catch the combatants tired and worn-out, and using the dawn attack—a classic tactic since the beginning of warfare millennia in the past—Petr set down near the largest remaining concentration of Beta Aimag personnel, prepared for a quick and decisive victory…

  …and all hell broke loose.

  “I have contact, sector 3A, twenty-two by four. Approximately eight hundred meters. Coming fast.” The disembodied voice seemed to materialize within the confines of his cockpit—a spectral entity to accompany the snow-thick fog that layered the entire region so thoroughly that Petr felt as though his Tiburon was pushing handfuls of the stuff aside just to move.

  “I copy, Garo. Do not engage unless they leave you no choice.”

  “Aff, ovKhan.” The voice carried about as much confidence as that felt by a Knight left by the disorganized Republic to face a Capellan onslaught.

  No plan survives contact with the enemy. The aphorism did not help in the slightest.

  Petr felt the drag of the cables behind the neurohelmet momentarily as he leaned forward slightly to toggle from magscan to radar on his secondary screen. He shook his head and swallowed roughly; phlegm caught for a moment, and he swallowed it with a grimace. Looked at the jumble of markers staining his screen like toys randomly thrown from a child’s hand, clenched his jaw to open a secondary channel.

  “Jesup, where are you?” The commline remained silent, his call on their private channel dead as well. He opened up the general frequency and called again.

  The world strobed to brilliance, as sun-hot energy flared within the fog, washing his forward viewscreen into total whiteout; even protected by the polarization of the viewscreen and his neurohelmet, he blinked several times to clear his vision. Afterimages of a particle projector cannon-stream roping through the air, crackling with savage energy, left his eyes aching. It missed by scant centimeters.

  Petr cursed loudly, stomping down on pedals (left, right, left, right) as he threw the throttle full-forward; the whine of the gyro setting into the base of his skull like an angry hornet as the Tiburon jinked wildly to his commands.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” he raged, turning a quick eye to his radar, trying to determine why his attacker didn’t show up. With casual ease, even considering his hastiness, Petr raised the ’Mech’s right arm and flashed off twin heavy medium lasers in the general direction from which the shot came. The fog almost rolled back from the hellish orange energy streams as they tore through the air, hopefully backing off the opponent he’d not yet identified.

  He ground his teeth. With the mangled confusion of the assault broken up by multiple sides and the heavy fog, the computer’s IFF tags refused to accept the input that Beta Aimag personnel were the enemy.

  Sudden shapes loomed: spectral corpses rising from the ground, reaching out toward him with large skeletal claws to rend and tear. Startled, he had both ’Mech’s arms up and blazing away before the small copse of trees fully registered in his forebrain. As he unclenched his fist, cursing himself for a fool, he watch as several trees collapsed, sections cleanly, surgically removed, while others remained afire.

  The abrupt tone of incoming fire pierced his skull and years of training sent the ’Mech swiveling one hundred eighty degrees and dropping to a low crouch, the giant left hand digging deep furrows into the loam for balance as a quartet of missiles spiraled down, finding him unerringly regardless of his preternatural move. Armor detonated into shrapnel and debris as the streak missiles found ample targets across the Tiburon’s chest and its left arm.

  This time, however, through the shifting sheets of cottony white, Petr glimpsed a shadowy shape backing away and to the left of his current position. Without conscious thought, frustrated by his inability to find his tormentor, Petr launched forward from the crouched position—a sprinter flying off the stops, almost gaining air before the heavy treads tore into the ground, gaining purchase and sending the ’Mech careening toward its target.

  A quick left-right flick of the targeting reticule sent a brace of missiles to either side of where Petr saw the ghostly ’Mech-shaped opponent; he hoped to corral the enemy and keep it off guard. A sudden dip in the terrain dropped his stomach, causing his gorge to rise (the phlegm slick did not help) as he actually rose slightly out of his seat, only kept in place by his five-point harness. The Tiburon slammed down into the depression with bone-shattering force, then continued on.

  Petr cursed at the pain of having bitten his tongue, cursed again as he just managed to miss a large boulder that he swore sprouted from the ground like a giant toadstool. Readying another curse, he instead clamped down hard on a threatening cough and felt satisfaction as his elusive prey finally presented itself: a Panther tried to imitate the boulder recently left behind, springing up from a low-lying position, weapons blazing.

  Through luck or good maneuvering, the Panther’s most devastating weapon swung wide, its arcing energies reaving an arc of death past his head. The missiles, however, proved more accurate, with an avalanche peppering his ’Mech. Weathering the storm of metal, Petr brought his own weapons to bear, firing off quad short-range missiles and an equal number of heavy medium lasers. With the accuracy that had landed him a command slot right out of his Trial of Position, three of the four lasers found their mark, carving a scar of runnels over the right torso; they burst past the outer armor and savaged the interior as the missiles followed up with their own explosions.

  A bright light blossomed within the gaping wound, seeking to escape. The top of the Panther’s head blew away, the command couch rocketing to safety as the streak missile ammo detonated, carving the ’Mech cleanly in half. Bringing his dangerous mad dash to a more manageable level, Petr closed his jaw, which hung open in stunned shock.

  Already well damaged. The fighting must have been truly intense.

  He passed the burning wreckage, trying not to think about the parafoil even now deploying and bringing a
Sea Fox Clansman down to the ground. His Clan. His Khanate. No Rituals of Combat, but battle to the death.

  Neg. He must avoid such thoughts at all cost.

  Unclenching his right hand, almost rigid with stress and pain, from around the targeting joystick, he pumped several fists and rotated the wrist; popping tendons told of still too little strength in his right arm. As with his thoughts, he ignored the dull pain throbbing through his right shoulder. It would live, as would he.

  “Jesup, where are you?” he called once more, trying to locate his XO, bringing the Tiburon to a full stop as he concentrated on his secondary display.

  They had set their DropShip down scant kilometers from the DropPort. With air cover nonexistent and the fighting winding down, Petr felt the risk worth the prize: a quick victory. But in the chaos of a three-sided (and sometimes four-, whenever some of the on-planet militia decided they wanted to change allegiance) conflict and the savashri fog, they’d been splintered, lost.

  From some of the others he could accept such ineptitude, but not from Jesup. Regardless of his faults and impatience, the man held real tactical sense. Should not have become so lost.

  “Jesup, do you copy?” he said again, opening the commline to the general frequency once more, regardless of how insecure it might make the rest of his troops feel. He must locate his aide and then begin to pull his forces back together. Back together, to move against Sha.

  “ovKhan Kalasa, so nice of you to drop in uninvited.” The voice blossomed in his ears with its usual coldness, a clamminess that fit the austere, fog-wrapped landscape like a Kuritan fit his blade. “Then again, I did drop in uninvited on you last time, so I guess it is only fair you return the favor, quiaff?”

  Though his left fist clenched immediately on the throttle, eyes scanning the radar screen and magscan as he toggled back and forth, Petr realized he simply could not untangle the mess of smeared images across the screen; Sha could be any of them.

  Unclenching an aching jaw, he finally responded, “But, Sha, you did invite me.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  The hint of levity sent Petr’s vision red. “By your actions. By your desire to sunder Clan Sea Fox, you invited me.”

  “And what actions would those be, ovKhan Kalasa?”

  “Your collusion with the Jade Falcons to murder our Khan.” The words rushed out of him, as though too large for his body to hold any longer. They took on a life of their own, growing until Petr felt they rose over the battlefield, almost over the entire world of Stewart, screaming to the universe of Sha’s horrible perfidy.

  Silence stretched long, leaving Petr alone, enclosed within his own tomb of white. After some time, a chuckle sounded across the line; he stiffened. The affront simply proved everything. Sha did not try to deny the words. Did not try to rationalize or convince Petr of his actions. He simply laughed. For a moment the rage welled up and he shook, felt as though he would tear the joysticks from their mounts.

  “Petr,” Sha said. The familiar form of address only strengthened his anger. “I am surprised at you. Such a spheroid term. If I shot him in the back, then you could accuse me of such an act. But my actions? I simply arranged for a test. A Trial of Grievance, if you will, against our beloved Khan. If he passes, so be it. I am proved wrong. But if he does not—and I for one, believe he will fail—then I am proved right.

  “Is that not, ovKhan, the essence of the Clans? Might makes right.”

  Petr felt his nose itch, wriggled his face and sniffed hard, grimaced again at the slickness sliding down his throat, coughed.

  “Are we getting a cold, ovKhan? Not very warriorlike, eh, Petr?”

  “You twist the ways of the Clan,” he began, ignoring the snide remark. “Such trials are for within a Clan. You do not, in secret, contact someone outside of the Clan to enact a trial you yourself do not dare declare. You cannot—”

  “And what if I had, Petr?” Sha broke in, raising his voice slightly, catching Petr off guard. “I told you the day you lay in bed after your defeat at my hands, the Khan would have ignored my requested trial. saKhan Sennet would not have moved, no matter how much convincing I might be able to do. I have heard of your constant spouting of ‘choices,’ ovKhan. Well, I have made mine.”

  “Then you have made them to your own defeat.”

  “And who will defeat me? You? Have I not already defeated you?”

  “Aff,” Petr said, slowly beginning to move his ’Mech forward once more, pinpointed Sha’s location on his radar. “You did defeat me, which should make your acceptance of this Trial of Grievance easy for you.”

  “And if I wish to simply continue battling? Regardless of the interruption of the Marik forces, I still have superior numbers. And, ovKhan, a wonderful move, that. Just wonderful. Worthy of myself.”

  The chuckle felt like a tossed gauntlet, hard and unyielding as it slapped his face.

  “Then you would be as selfish as you have accused me of being.” Petr swallowed, closed his eyes momentarily and realized he must make the admission. Must goad him into single combat. To resolve this, so the rift could be healed. Much more of this brutal fighting and the remnants of Beta Aimag might never be fully integrated back into the water’s embrace.

  “And, Sha, regardless of your misguided efforts, I must thank you. You were right. I have been selfish. My actions have been geared toward my own glory and not that of Clan Sea Fox. Not that of my people. For that, I will make sure your memory lives on… for me.”

  Another lengthy pause swallowed the moment, while the whine of gyros and the thudding of ’Mech footfalls accompanied the Tiburon through the fog.

  You are right there. Petr kept his eyes alternating between the graphic display of the radar and his forward viewscreen. Light flared ahead, sunlight streaming in, as though eating away the fog like a virulent pathogen consuming flesh.

  “I never thought to hear such an admission from you,” Sha responded, his voice subdued almost to a whisper.

  “We can all learn from our errors. I certainly have learned from mine. Will you learn from yours?”

  “Ah, reverse psychology.” The chuckle once more, cold and unfeeling. “But aff, ovKhan. I will accept your rebuke and your conditions. I will end this here and now. All my hopes and plans placed in the balance of might makes right. The Clan way, quiaff?”

  “Aff.” As he responded, the Tiburon stepped from the edge of the fog as though it were sheered away by a glacier: one moment darkness, and the next, not a hint of cloud in a lapis lazuli vaulting sky and a sun reaching zenith, pounding down with brutal brightness, sparking tears despite the polarization in his viewscreen. Some five hundred meters before him, as though they knew exactly where he would appear, a handful of ’Mechs and vehicles waited, Sha’s Sphinx in front.

  And slightly to the left, the unmistakable outline of Jesup’s Thor.

  32

  Near Stewart DropPort, New Edinburgh

  Lothian, Stewart

  Prefecture VII, The Republic

  27 September 3134

  Though his boots smacked the damp ground with firm reality (water vapor steaming from the ground in every direction under the merciless onslaught of noon), Petr felt his head no longer attached fully to his body. Instead, it became a balloon, tied to a ten-meter cord, bounced, jounced and jangled in a stiff gale, as he slowly began walking toward the gathering of Beta Aimag personnel.

  Though most Sea Fox trials involved hand-to-hand combat—a result of so much time aboard starfaring vessels—Petr particularly felt the burning need to face down Sha, to look the man in the eyes as he defeated him. Still, it had surprised Petr for a moment when Sha actually agreed, until he remembered his wounded arm.

  No surprise at all, an excellent tactical move.

  Tears coursed unfelt down his cheeks at the too-bright light. Eyes too used to the playfulness of Adhafera, whose sun beamed momentarily from behind an endless slate comforter before quickly hiding its face—a toddler laughing mischievously, hiding until
the next moment to take someone unawares with its brightness.

  The smells of the new world could not dent the numbness wadded around him. Not even his anger, which should have been white-hot and searing, could penetrate the depths of his malaise.

  Jesup.

  Petr’s feet followed a course presented by his subconscious brain while he continued to float, to spin lazily, to withdraw in denial.

  Not the treachery, anger.

  Not the seemingly unClanlike behavior, bitter disappointment.

  His detachment hid a deeper emotion, one he could not bear to face. He had finally, painfully come to grips with his failings, had finally recognized how much his aide—his friend—was a part of the fabric of his life. Now, to have that foundation destroyed, to have the source of his pain flaunted in front of him by the man who sought to destroy his Clan… hiding was the only option.

  The last distance passed as a dream. One moment Petr crossed the distance, and in another eyeblink he stood before Sha and his confidants. Those who tied themselves to his plan and to the ultimate consequences. Unblinking, he gazed at the crowd, his brain automatically editing the image: a human-shaped black outline in their midst cut out by his own eyesight.

  With the words he wanted to say damned up tight, Petr stood motionless, unblinking, unfeeling, uncaring.

  He once told someone he would do whatever it took to stop Sha. Whatever it took.

  Now, standing in the bright sunshine, he had no shade for relief, no shadows for protection from the harsh consequences of his actions, from the recognition of the true cost of the butcher’s bill laid upon the scales. Despite his smothering numbness, the cold, analytical merchant brain summed up the columns of debts paid and owed and came up with a balance sheet in the black. Every individual in front of him would cease to exist, paying for their crimes of treachery with their life… and against the continued existence of the Clan, there could be no comparison. No compromise.