"Meaning anybody who wants to just walks off with what they need and whoever wants to come with them?"
"Right. And she can't force the issue." Jerry saved and closed the file. Enough time for this later. "Because if she tries to stop them, she might just find she doesn't have enough loyal muscle left to make it stick."
Don sat for a long moment, staring into the middle distance.
"She is well and royally screwed," he pronounced at last.
10
Steel Wolves compound, GalateaCity
Galatea, Prefecture VIII
Republic of the Sphere
16 July 3135
Murchison was not surprised the corridor was deserted. He'd heard the packing, the sorting, the moving in the night. Muffled voices, as though low speech would somehow disguise the exodus. Especially the sounds of 'Mechs and heavy armor moving out.
There had been other departures, smaller departures in the days since Yulri's confrontation with Anastasia— the confrontation that had forced her into announcing the Steel Wolves were now mercenaries. She had made the best of it, but Murchison knew it had been premature. The Clan had not been ready.
Murchison believed that by itself the revelation would not have torn the fabric of the Steel Wolves. Just as the active recruiting of new warriors had not been enough on its own. Or the radical retraining program by itself. Or even the suspension of trials—though that last had come close.
But taken all together, it had been too much.
Varnoff had gone so far as to question whether the purpose of all of the changes—from bulking out the roster with raw troopers to diversifying the skills of the warriors to setting aside trials—had not been to strengthen the Steel Wolves as Wolves, but to prepare them to become mercenaries. In a poetic reference Murchison had found surprising in a Clan, he had called it selling their birthright for pottage.
Anastasia had laughed in his face.
But by then, Yulri's exit had already started a drain. Given his precedent, individuals, pairs, Stars, and even a Binary or two had simply collected their equipment and left.
Anastasia had done nothing to stop them. In fact she had proclaimed that anyone who did not want to follow her did not deserve to follow her. She had demanded that those who put themselves above being Wolf leave.
Yesterday, in words that would have led to deadly combat in the days before Anastasia suspended trials, Varnoff Fetladral had declared that she was the one who had put herself above being Wolf.
There had been no violence. But there had been a night of movement followed by a morning of stillness.
The sky was gray as Murchison stepped into the quad, the sun not fully risen, but the temperature already past comfortable. He estimated two hours before it reached the kiln blaze of what the locals called spring.
The compound was not completely empty. He saw at least a dozen others wandering singly and in groups— apparently assessing the situation for themselves—as he made his way to the command center and Anastasia's quarters. He could see the tank garages were nearly empty without changing course, but he made a loop past the 'Mech hangars in case she asked for a count. Perhaps one in three BattleMechs remained. More than he expected, given the silence of the compound.
He noted Kyle Wolf's former AgroMech was partially disassembled. Evidently it had proven more valuable as a source of parts than as barter.
"If my bondholder left me," a voice startled him, "am I still a bondsman?"
Peering into the blue shadows along the wall, Murchison discovered Carter on an equipment pallet. He'd evidently been sitting looking up at the dismantled machine.
"I don't know," Murchison answered. "But if your bondholder is gone, you could probably just walk out the gate and no one would care."
"No."
Looking past the AgroMech, Murchison saw Kyle's new Havoc in its bay, still connected to the diagnostic equipment. No doubt that was what Carter had been working on. But at this hour?
Which raised another possibility: Kyle had decided not to wait for his new 'Mech to pass initial inspection and had taken someone else's. All remaining BattleMechs would have to be cross-referenced to their pilots.
"Was Kyle Wolf your bondholder?" he asked.
Carter seemed not to have heard, following thoughts of his own.
"Did I tell you my wife was in the militia?" he asked. "She was pregnant. We'd just found out. But she didn't tell anyone because they needed warriors."
Murchison knew what was coming. He was a licensed med tech. He could perform minor surgery—was good at it, in fact—dispense medications, set broken bones, deliver babies, and perform any one of a hundred other tasks a general practitioner would be expected to do.
But for some reason the general public expected him to be a counselor as well. Not to mention confidant. Or confessor. He was not trained in it. In fact, he hated it. But once the process of unburdening to him started, he was powerless to stop it. Over the years he'd learned to just remain silent and let the words wash over him. Saying them aloud seemed to be all the therapy most people needed.
"She's gone," Carter said. "My wife. There was nothing . . . nothing else in my life that mattered."
Murchison waited for the usual emotional release, but it didn't come. Instead Carter pushed himself to his feet and tugged at his clothes as though straightening them for an inspection.
"All I have left is to be here," he said, as though that explained things.
Without another glance at Murchison, he wandered into the deeper shadows of the 'Mech hangar. Murchison noted that he patted the ankle of Kyle's AgroMech as he passed. It was as though he'd been talking to the machine all along.
Murchison made a mental note to check his inventory of mood elevators. Carter might not be the only one needing medication to deal with—
Whatever this was.
As he left the 'Mech hangar, the smell of bacon told Murchison at least one of the cooks had stayed. He stopped by the galley to pick up a half liter of black coffee and a shredded-beef-and-egg-with-cheese burrito.
There was a communications tech Murchison didn't recognize on duty at the command center. He noted her eyes were red-rimmed and her complexion parchment- pale beneath the melanin. Emotional shock and fatigue, he diagnosed.
"Got a roster?" he asked the woman by way of greeting.
She proffered a noteputer without a word. Murchison had to set down the burrito to slip the slender device into an outer pocket of his med kit. He noted it was a civilian-grade Blue Heron, high-end model, and recognized his fixation with details as a coping mechanism— healthy, if he didn't overindulge.
Anastasia's quarters were at the end of a short, unmarked corridor. He almost dropped the burrito scanning his thumbprint into the lock.
Anastasia rolled to sit upright on the edge of her bed as the door opened. Taking the steaming mug of coffee, she drained a third with a single gulp before setting it on her nightstand. She took a single bite of the burrito and glared at him in sudden suspicion. Wordlessly, he handed her a bottle of Asian hot sauce.
The burrito, peppered to near toxic levels, was half gone before she extended her hand for the noteputer. Anastasia thumbed through the first couple of screens, then set down the burrito and pushed back onto the bed until she could lean on the wall as she read the complete report.
Murchison noted no signs of stress, no evidence of alarm or surprise. Apparently this morning was going about as she had expected.
There was a rapid knock on the door. At Anastasia's nod, Murchison opened it and stepped back to let Alexia Wolf into the room.
The young MechWarrior paused one step across the threshold. Clearly, her naked commander sitting up in bed reading while her medical officer stood by was not what she'd prepared for.
"Report," Anastasia said.
"Galaxy Commander, Star Colonels Varnoff Fetla- dral, Nikola Demos, and Xera have left," Alexia spoke rapidly. "They have taken their commands with them."
"Did they
leave together?"
"No, Galaxy Commander." Murchison could see Alexia was unnerved by her commander's calm, but pressed on regardless. "Star Colonel Demos remains on Galatea. She has taken a compound at the far end of the mercenary district. But Star Colonel Fetladral has commandeered eight Steel Wolf DropShips. They are loaded and currently awaiting clearance to launch."
"And Xera?"
"The carriers with Star Colonel Xera and all but a Star of Steel Wolf aerospace aboard have already launched," Alexia said. "They are presumed bound for their JumpShips."
Regaining the edge of the bed, Anastasia rose to her feet and handed the noteputer to Alexia. "Confirm those data," she said. "Then assemble all who remain in the main 'Mech hangar in twenty minutes."
The MechWarrior bobbed her head as she accepted the assignment, then left.
Anastasia took a healthy bite from her burrito and sipped coffee as she chewed, eyes focused on some point in the middle distance. She was scheming, Murchison recognized, one of her favorite recreational activities.
He also recognized that Anastasia was anticipating battle.
She cocked an eye in his direction. "I can dress myself, y'know."
Murchison blinked at the contraction, then realized he'd been dismissed. Dipping his chin in acknowledgment, he let himself out.
The comm tech he didn't know had been joined by one he did.
"What's your take, Parker?" he asked the familiar communications specialist.
Parker scrubbed his brush-cut hair with the heel of his hand as though the heat of friction would stimulate thought.
"Between the de"—he paused—"partures over the last week and last night, we are down to a Cluster."
Murchison nodded. He agreed with the tech's characterization of the exodus as desertion, and respected his caution in not using the word. Techs such as they did not level such charges at warriors.
A Cluster was a damnably vague Clan term, though. Reviewing what he had seen of the compound, Murchison decided the technician had meant something like a battalion.
"Thank you," he said, glancing around the otherwise empty communications center to make it clear he meant more than just for answering his question.
The technicians nodded.
Murchison stepped out onto the small porch rather than hover over the faithful techs while he waited for Anastasia. He could see figures from all parts of the compound heading toward the 'Mech hangar. He saw the sentry box was empty, the gate closed and double- barred. Even the cooks were crossing the assembly area.
Evidently Alexia had figured out the quickest way to confirm who was present was to assemble them all in one place. He wondered what the apparently instant and silent compliance said about the mental state of the remaining Steel Wolves.
Anastasia passed him, heading down the stairs with the two communication techs following at a respectful distance. He decided not to hurry to catch up and followed at his own pace.
The hangar was not packed. In fact, there was room for the technicians to allow a respectful space between themselves and the warriors gathered around a platform of crates that had not been there earlier.
Murchison eased his way through the ranks of technicians and crossed the moat of bare floor to the rear of the warrior ranks. Somewhat to his surprise, a path opened. He reached the dais and—responding to Ana- stasia's glance—took his position flanking her at the rear edge of the narrow platform.
Looking out over the remaining Steel Wolves he saw anger, disappointment, confusion, resolve—a spectrum of healthy responses to emotional trauma. If one overlooked the complete lack of conversation, that is. He was surprised to pick out Carter among the technicians. He was even more surprised to see Kyle Wolf. Apparently he'd mistakenly assumed the identity of Carter's bondholder.
Rob Juergens was also present, but Verena Wolf wasn't beside him. Murchison had thought the two were a couple—or whatever passed for being a couple among Clan. Perhaps they had been; this division cut deep.
Anastasia stepped to the front edge of the platform, the Blue Heron noteputer in her hand. She looked out over the silent assembly long enough to be sure every eye was upon her, then raised the noteputer so she would not have to look down to read the screen.
In a calm and unhurried voice, she called the roll. MechWarriors first, then aerospace pilots, Elementals. armor crews, and infantry. There were pitifully few names in each roster. The crowd stood silent and attentive. No one shifted position, no one spoke except to declare their presence firmly.
When the last warrior had answered, Anastasia paused again. Raising her eyes, she looked out past them, then again at the screen. In the same clear tone she called out the first technician's name.
Now there was a murmur, and a shift among the warriors.
And a moment of anticipation before the startled tech answered.
With no change in inflection, Anastasia read through the complete roster of support personnel. By the third name, the warriors were again silent, listening as what they recognized as a ritual ran its course.
At last the final name was read and acknowledged.
and again there was silence as Anastasia looked over those assembled, letting her eyes rest on each in turn.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
There was no answer, though this time Murchison saw a few shift position.
Anastasia looked down at the rank of Mech Warriors in front of the dais.
"You," she said to Rob Juergens. "Why are you still here?"
The tall MechWarrior looked to the ground for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet hers. "Because you are right," he said simply. No bravado.
Anastasia shifted her eyes to Alexia. The younger woman came to attention under her gaze.
"Where else can we go?" she asked her Galaxy commander. "You are Wolf."
There was a general murmur of agreement from the others, a disorganized sound that sorted itself into a unified proclamation of faith.
"You are Wolf!"
Murchison saw no dissent in their faces. To a man, to a woman, now they looked to Anastasia with an almost religious certainty. Not troops looking to their leader, but faithful beholding their prophet. It was profoundly disturbing.
"What about you?"
With a shock he realized Anastasia was looking at him. She'd broken the glass wall that protected him and dragged him into the moment. Her micromillimeter smile—part challenge, part amusement—told him she knew how she'd thrown him off balance.
He shrugged the shoulder without the med kit. "I have nothing better to do," he said.
She held her look a moment longer, then turned back to the others.
"We are Wolf," she said. "But we are no longer Steel Wolves. We are no longer Clan and not Clan. We are no longer Points and Stars and Novas. We are no longer MechWarriors and troopers. We are pure Wolf. Each as deadly, as vital, and as expendable as the next."
She paused for a moment.
No one moved. No one spoke.
"Look to your left," she said. "Look to your right. These are your sibkin. This is your Pack.
"I am Wolf!" she declared, punching a fist into the air above her head on the last word, holding it rigid, defiant. "Who follows me?"
Murchison was absolutely flabbergasted by his own shout of affirmation. And glad it was lost in the thunder that rose from the others.
11
Black Hills Urban Combat Zone, SolarisCity
Solaris VII, LyranCommonwealth
2 September 3135
Jazz cut left behind the outcrop of masonry without being sure she'd heard anything but wind.
She cast a quick glance at the black ferroglass ball housing the camera array. No way to tell where they were aimed inside their globes, but it didn't hurt to check. Some scrappers claimed that when the light was right you could see them point out your enemy. She figured they were lying, but she always looked anyway.
When the Blake Jihad destroyed half the Black Hills district, they'd created
the biggest urban combat arena on Solaris VII. Tanks, battle armor lances, company-on- company infantry—just about everything—duked it out in the rubble that surrounded the New Avalon Technologies enclave.
Except BattleMechs. There had been precious few of those left after the Blakists leveled—or tried to level- SolarisCity. The boys and girls of the MechWarrior- exclusive Valhalla Club had put up a hell of a fight. But these best-of-the-best had gone down, and taken their precious machines with them.
There were still 'Mech bouts, of course. More every year as the industry recovered. That's what brought the tourists and the off-planet income. But the bread and butter of the Solaris VII Games—and gambling—was now less expensive infantry, armor, and even aerospace combat.
No way to rig bleachers around the Black Hills Urban Combat Zone, of course. That's why the camera towers were everywhere, watching every move and piping it to pay-per-view sports bars and hotel lobbies.
Not that many folks would be watching a pickup scrapper match like this one. Jazz slid from shadow to shadow in the early-morning light, confident only the refs and a few hard-core gamblers too wired to sleep were watching.
Technically, she was part of a scrapper team, but this was a pickup match and she wasn't used to the others, so she was treating it like a solo. She'd set it up that way, dominating the sketchy pregame strategy session.
She was on a wide left flare, coming into the target zone from the north, alone. Two young hotshots were working up the middle, taking the shortest route to the zone. The other four strays had formed two duos and chosen their own paths flaring south of center. Not the usual division of forces for a seven-man scrapper squad. Outside chance of throwing off defenders expecting the usual three-four or two-three-two.
Jazz dodged into a doorway then back out again, reversing course. Nobody on her tail.
Nobody obvious.
She dipped under a fallen column, slipping into an open storm drain. The promoters didn't like scrappers dropping out of the holocams' sight, but she couldn't shake the feeling she was being tracked.
Wolf Hunters Page 7