Yulri made a partial circuit, getting a feel for the cavern. A dozen stalagmite islands in a sea of rock and cinder stone, two entrances and an arch opening into a second bubble chamber in the hundred and twenty degrees he could see. Not as wide as he would like, but. . .
The Black Hawk's sensors reported heavy metal approaching along the corridor Yulri had used. It might have been a sensor shadow or a projected phantom, but he doubted it.
Taking a position between a hot light source and a metal stalagmite, he cut his targeting computer so no weapons lock would alert his prey. He manually aimed his ER PPC and large pulse laser on the tunnel opening and crouched in wait.
* * *
"Damn!"
Jazz glanced to see Clayton's left leg buried to mid- thigh in what looked in the red glow of the tunnel like ordinary sand. It would be the heaviest guy.
"Dry stuff," Clayton said.
Sanders looped a grapple line around a tree-sized knob of coral as Chin cinched the other end around her waist. Stretching herself flat along the suddenly treacherous ground, she wormed her way toward the motionless Clayton. Any sudden move in a dry-sand trap—even a lunge for a thrown rope—could send its victim plunging to the bottom; and there was no telling how deep a sand trap meant to snare BattleMechs might be.
"This isn't right," Petersen said quietly. "We got stalagmites, coral formations, and a volcanic-glass slope leading down to a sand trap. These are mutually exclusive geoforms."
Jazz looked at him for a long second out of her right eye. The kid looked back blankly. He was one of the best snipers she'd ever seen, but sometimes she wondered if he thought.
"This is an arena," she said slowly, as though to a child. "Artificial. The Dracs built it—they even rearrange it every couple of years. Nothing in here is natural."
Petersen nodded, oblivious to her tone. "That explains much."
"None of the electronics on your rifle are going to work," she added, just in case.
"Low-light glass optics." Petersen ported his machine pistol and unslung the rifle to show her. The sniper rifle was a seven millimeter that—now—fired hypersonic armor-piercing rounds. The barrel was an untapered sixty-two-centimeter tube with no suppression or venting to affect accuracy and power. Deadly out to a kilometer and a half, but too unwieldy for general defense in the tunnels.
"Secure that," she said. "Keep your eyes sharp."
Unchastised, Petersen obeyed and moved off, short gun at the ready.
Distant explosions sounded from somewhere ahead. They were on the right track and evidently closing, even if echoes made range estimates impossible.
Too far away to smell them, anyway.
"Stick close to the wall," Jazz ordered as the reassembled squad moved out. Better to insult their intelligence than to lose time fishing another out of a trap. There should be plenty of room for foot soldiers to skirt 'Mech- scale booby traps.
* * *
Yulri backed quickly behind the stalagmite, letting it take the bolt from Jordan's PPC. The metal-rich rock flexed the beam off true, sparing Yulri's Black Hawk some of its impact. Worms of static writhed over the stone, brilliant blue-white in the ersatz lava glow of the cavern.
The antimissile system hadn't been one hundred percent effective. The same false signals that haunted his main weapons' targeting systems affected them as well. Jordan's reputation for mastery of the short-range missile was well-founded. Yulri's left leg had lost its double heat sink along with nearly half its range of motion to a pair of manually aimed barrages. That loss of mobility might become loss of the battle if he did not manage to stay away from the Neanderthal's hatchet. His Black Hawk had hands, but it was by no stretch of the imagination a melee fighter.
If Jordan got close enough to use that uranium blade, the match would be quickly over.
Crab-stepping out from cover at exactly the point he'd gone in, Yulri caught Jordan angled away—targeting the other side of the stalagmite. Alpha strike—even the torso-mounted medium pulse laser—at a much closer range than he would have liked. All three beams hit, though not together. The blue fire of the ER PPC chewed into the armor around Jordan's right SRM rack, right on target, but the two lasers went high, vaporizing armor just below the right arm.
An unexpected bonus: A spray of gray-green liquid gushed from the new hole. Counting the one Jordan had sacrificed for additional missiles, that meant he had only eight double heat sinks left. Perhaps not a major consideration, considering the Neanderthal's weapons load out, but everything that added to the assault 'Mech's troubles was welcome.
Yulri's own cockpit was unnaturally cool, which was to say merely steaming instead of blistering. Even with one of Silverlake's extra double heat sinks gone, the Black Hawk had fifteen left. Overheating was not a concern.
Mobility was. The Neanderthal pivoted to engage and
Yulri didn't waste time trying to get out of the way. Instead he unleashed a second alpha strike and was rewarded by all three energy bolts converging on the right missile rack.
The assault 'Mech rocked, almost stumbling, as the missiles already in the tubes exploded. Yulri paused a half second, hoping to see the stumble continue as a chain reaction tore through the remaining missiles, but the Neanderthal righted itself and responded with a PPC bolt of its own that carved armor from the Black Hawk's lower torso—dangerously close to the cockpit.
Yulri cursed, slamming his controls. The crisp sidestep to cover was a painfully slow shuffle.
The bigger machine either had CASE or a well- designed ammo feed system to prevent a rack explosion torching all remaining missiles. There was a slim hope that the right-side magazine couldn't be switched to feed the left rack, denying Jordan half his reserves, but given the quality of the design, that wasn't likely.
As he nudged the reluctant left leg through another step, Yulri missed the ability to jump. Then he grinned. From the looks of the jagged ceiling visible through his canopy, jumping was the best way to become a sticky paste between a stalactite and his command couch.
Keeping the massive stalagmite between himself and Jordan, Yulri backed as fast as his 'Mech could stumble, moving to get as much distance as he could. He had the better range weapons and his antimissile system needed room to stop the short-range missiles before they reached him.
Jordan hadn't used his autocannon. Was it damaged or was he holding it in reserve? Assume it worked.
The New DeLon pilot had evidently decided against direct pursuit. Probably moving on an oblique to head Yulri off if he made for the exit. Logic dictated Yulri get out of this chamber; the dozens of 'Mech-hiding rock formations gave Jordan too many opportunities to get close.
Passing a second mass of iron stone, Yulri faded right, making his way toward the unknown region of the second bubble cave. Trading one maze of stalagmites for another was a move Jordan might not anticipate.
On the heels of that thought, the sensor jammers sent him false images of an infantry squad entering the far side of the second bubble cave. Silly distraction to throw at BattleMechs. Ignoring the false reading, Yulri cut right, his dragging left leg adding seconds to the move, and made for the other cave.
He'd make his final stand there.
* * *
"Tsssst!" Sanders on drag.
Silent, the scrapper team dropped to cover.
A moment later Jazz heard running feet crunching on cinders and, as whoever was running drew closer, ragged breathing.
The guy came around a bulge in the wall, churning past Sanders without seeing him. Jazz registered his size—barely taller than she—and his civilian clothes before her mind provided the ID. The pocket comm clutched in his hand dropped the penny. She blamed the delay on having never imagined Tommy Gunn running.
She stood up in his way.
"Jazz." Their agent staggered to a stop, leaning against the wall of the tunnel, his chest heaving.
"Not supposed to happen." His words came in gasps. "Set you up. A trap."
"Who set us
up?" Jazz asked.
Tommy slapped his chest.
"You?"
"Had to. Garnet. Phone call. Two numbers."
Jazz held up her hand. She couldn't judge the dark man's color in the ruddy cave glow, but Tommy looked to be close to hyperventilating. Watching in all directions, the scrapper squad let him catch his breath.
"I asked what they meant," Tommy said, still breathing heavy. "Garnet said if I didn't act smart I'd never have to worry about them again."
Tommy was together enough now to look around. Jazz knew without turning her head that Chin and Hassad had her back while the other four were invisible, covering the perimeter.
"Then Clarence got trashed."
Jazz nodded. Tommy and Clarence had insisted it was a robbery attempt. Nobody'd bought it, but the two had stuck to their story and there'd been no follow-up.
Mistake.
"Stuffed in the trunk with him was a plush rabbit," Tommy's voice cracked. "It was one I'd bought Rachel."
Jazz's mind skidded.
"Your niece Rachel?"
"That's when I figured out the numbers. They're from my gift file." Tommy looked sick. "Rachel and Rhian- non's shoe sizes."
Behind her, Chin growled—a feral sound—and Has- sad muttered what sounded like a curse. Or a prayer.
"God, Tommy."
Tommy should have come to them, told them. But he couldn't. He knew none of them had the skills or the tools to fight Garnet at that level.
"Garnet had me tell you DeLon was cheating, get you to come into the tunnels." Tommy kept his head up, locking eyes with Jazz. "Then he was going to tell the world you were here to sabotage Jordan. Get Canid disqualified from the championships. Undo all that code- of-honor crap."
"That's not what happened," Jazz guessed.
Tommy shook his head. "You guys are broadcasting, every move going out live," he said. "Garnet escalated. He sent a killer team in after you. Off-the-books guys."
"So?" Jazz felt the right corner of her mouth twitch up. "Now it's a fair fight."
"How do you think I found you?" Tommy demanded. He held up his pocket comm. though Jazz couldn't read the screen. "Same way the cameras are following you. You're wired. The killer team can track you."
"Damn." Jazz glanced around, as though she could see the other killer team closing in.
"Take your vests off," Tommy said.
"What?"
"How do you think the wires got there?" Tommy demanded. "I put them in the back pad. Yank 'em."
Propping her assault rifle against her leg, Jazz shed her vest. Slipping her hand between the sealed cell pad and the armor fabric, she found a thick metal disk, slightly larger than a two-kroner coin. Pulling it free, she put it in Tommy's extended hand.
"Do it," she told her squad.
By twos, never dropping their guard, the squad retrieved the transmitters and handed them to Tommy.
"I don't know what the killer squad will do now," Tommy said. "They can't have comm beyond the trackers in these tunnels."
Jazz nodded at the logic. She was surprised they even had trackers. Must be piggybacking on the holocam control signals. If she lost primary target . . .
"Do they have anti-'Mech gear?"
"I don't know," Tommy repeated. He looked down the tunnel, toward a renewed burst of heavy weapons fire, then back the way they had come. "You guys do what you need to do."
"Where are you going?"
Tommy jingled the metal disks in his hand. "I'm going to wander as far and as fast as I can," Tommy said, looking for all the world like he was discussing a stroll in the park. "Someone will collect me sooner or later."
"What about your nieces?" Chin asked.
Jazz kicked herself. How had she forgotten them?
"I told you, we're going out live over the network feed," Tommy reminded them. "Maybe nobody will believe a word I said. But nothing's going to happen to Rachel and Rhiannon now."
Especially since he made it sound like Garnet was acting alone, Jazz realized. The Commission would cut its losses, maybe literally. She wondered if the New DeLon assistant manager—former assistant manager—was even now trying to get to the cops.
Pulling her favorite twelve millimeter, she offered it to Tommy butt-first.
"You know what to do with this?"
"Just enough to avoid the hole in the end," the agent said, waving it away. "Get."
Reholstering her weapon. Jazz jerked her head in the direction of the 'Mech battle. Her team got.
38
Zenith jump point
Wasat, Senate Alliance
16 September 3136
Watch duty at the zenith recharge station had become more interesting since the HPG blackout. Where once it had been a dull routine of shuffling DropShips from JumpShip to JumpShip and logging in scheduled arrivals and departures, now there was an element of uncertainty; some anticipation about what might happen next.
True, there were still scheduled transports making their rounds, and familiar independents who came through routinely, if not regularly, but with no advance communication, the chance of an unscheduled jump-in kept everyone on their toes.
Which is why Jenny Matheson was not as surprised as she would have been a few years before when a jump signature opened dead center in the zenith "sweet spot." Something big, she realized reading her displays, with that dilation and displacement a Tramp or even a Star Lord.
She smiled slightly at her own precognitive powers when the Star Lord appeared, five DropShips firmly attached to its hull. Her smile faltered when two of those
DropShips—one of them huge—detached almost immediately, in violation of safety protocols.
"Be advised space is not yet stable," she broadcast, without waiting for the transponder to give her a name to address. "Do not deploy until all-clear signal is given."
Her screens showed the third and fourth DropShips clearing the Star Lord while the huge DropShip seemed to be having puppies. Puppies that looked like . . .
"Oh," Jenny began.
The data screen came alive, having received and deciphered the JumpShip's transponder code. Ship's name: Stalin; owner of record: Steel Wolves.
"Shit," she finished.
By the time the captain made the bridge, the Star Lord and two DropShips were closing on the station behind a screen of aerospace fighters. The other three DropShips had begun a descent toward the yard and Wasat beyond.
Beyond the Stalin, the jump point rippled, announcing the arrival of another JumpShip.
* * *
"The recharge station is ours." Xera's headset made Varnoff's voice sound as though he was speaking from just behind her in the cockpit of the Scytha as she sat awaiting launch. An unnerving thought.
"The DropShips awaiting transport opened their holds immediately for our inspection." The Steel Wolves' leader chuckled. "Apparently they did not trust our rogue Clan to respect the ban on destroying recharge stations."
Xera's smile was twisted. The advantages of Varnoff's carefully cultivated bloodthirsty reputation.
"Did they get a message off?" she asked.
"Of course," Varnoff answered. He had developed the practice of letting their prey get off one panicked cry for help before jamming the comm waves. Psychological warfare was another page Varnoff had copied from the Jade Falcon lorebook. "No doubt the shipyard is already cowering in anticipation of your ravaging horde's assault."
"No doubt," she agreed. Though her horde in this case consisted of the Carrier-class Havik with her Command Star, the Leland, a Union-C with a boarding tri- nary of Elementals and the Mule-dass Burgaw for transporting isorla. The Roofvogel, a Titan carrying nearly half of her Cluster, and an Overlord-C had remained to defend the Star Lord at the jump point. By now the Invader-class Acero with its brace of suckling Mule-class DropShips had already joined the flagship of the Steel Wolves.
Between them the two forces were combing every DropShip at the busy commercial hub. These would be divested of their most preci
ous cargoes. In some cases, less valuable cargoes from the holds of the Steel Wolves' vessels might be left—jettisoned to float in space. The Steel Wolves' long, circuitous journey back to their former stronghold on Tigress had taught them to live as nomads, which meant picking and choosing what they carried.
"Star Colonel Xera," Sardin Wolf, the Carrier-class DropShip's captain, interrupted her thoughts. "Long- range scans show something large moving away from the Wasat repair facility. Bearing two seven three mark three two oh relative.
"Its extreme range indicates it launched shortly after our arrival in system."
"Define something large," she said.
"Mass readings unreliable," the captain answered. "Approximate volume—extrapolated from rear aspect cross section—consistent with a large DropShip or JumpShip, Merchant-class or smaller."
Xera almost demanded why they couldn't identify the ship by its rear aspect alone, but stopped herself. The captain was obviously giving her his best assessment of incomplete data. Insisting on one hundred percent accuracy on guesses was one way to guarantee that expert speculation—often invaluable—would not be available when she needed it.
"Not a WarShip?" she asked aloud.
"A WarShip would not move away," Sardin said as though explaining the obvious.
Xera was not so sure. They were, after all, taking a shipyard that repaired DropShips and JumpShips; why not a WarShip? Even a badly damaged corvette could be an invaluable addition to the Steel Wolves' touman.
"Mark its course well." she said. "We'll want a closer look when our work here is done."
"Aff," came the acknowledgment. "Five minutes to launch point."
Xera made a final check of her weapons systems. It pleased her that this Scytha omnifighter had served the Jade Falcons against her people before being captured a generation before. Using a weapon snatched from the broken fingers of one enemy to strike down others appealed to her sense of fairness.
For this mission she had chosen an all-laser configuration usually used in ground attacks. She appreciated the combination of precision and devastation provided by the five large pulse lasers slaved to a single targeting system and firing as a single weapon.
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