Norris turned, intending to tell Berger to find a good spot for filming the action. The holotech, meanwhile, was already on his way up an exterior staircase on a nearby building. A quick glance around told the reporter that he was the last person standing in the street. With a half-vocalized bleat, he scurried after Berger.
The vantage point the holotech had chosen offered a clear view of the nearby fields. Advancing from the west were the BattleMechs. Because of their solid black paint scheme, all four stood out starkly from the green of the crops they trampled. In the lead was a Warhammer. Close behind came a Marauder, and moving wide on either flank were a Crusader and a Griffin. Even the Griffin, the lightest of the four at fifty-five tons, would be more than a match for the Kurita soldiers.
Norris could feel the sweat roll down his back, and he knew it wasn't because of the hot sun. No man could look at those mountains of aligned-crystal steel and destructive weaponry without feeling a chill of fear down his spine. They were behemoths of a lost age, nightmares come to life to devour innocent men. A voice calling from the watch-tower broke his reverie.
“Stand down,” the Tai-i cried. “They're friendlies.”
Around the village, the Kurita soldiers emerged from their hiding places. These troops were ill-equipped to take on BattleMechs, and so relief was evident even in the way they stood. The two troopers carrying SRM launchers began to fold away the sighting ‘Mechanisms. The laser team gave up assembling the cannon and began to break it down again.
“Stay put,” Norris ordered Berger. “Davion's using mercs too. Maybe the Drac got his ID wrong.”
Berger gave Norris a look that made no bones about what the reporter could do with his orders, but he. did stay put. After all, there was no point in taking unnecessary—that is, uncompensated—risks.
The Tai-i did not seem to share that attitude. He had descended from the tower and was advancing across the field to meet the oncoming machines, his right arm raised in a friendly greeting.
In that pose, his torso suddenly exploded as laser fire from the Warhammer superheated the water in his body's cells. Then the other 'Mechs opened fire.
The blue lightning of particle beams scorched the village, blasting the startled soldiers. The explosive fury of missiles and autocannon shells mowed down groups of troopers. Laser sought out and struck down the stragglers. Large-caliber slugs made short work of those the lasers missed.
“Damn!” Norris screeched in a voice high with fear. Without taking his eyes from the carnage, he whispered, “Berger, you getting this?”
Berger didn't answer. He was too busy filming the onslaught of the 'Mechs. Sweat beaded his forehead and slimed the grip of the holocamera.
Below them in the village, terror reigned. The first 'Mech to reach the buildings was the Griffin. The laser cannon crew died then, as the BattleMech's foot crushed them and their weapon into an unidentifiable smear.
One Kurita trooper stood directly before the advancing Warhammer, an SRM launcher slanted over his shoulder at the rampaging 'Mech. When he fired, the soldier disappeared momentarily from Norris's view in the smoky back-blast of the missile's exhaust. The rocket struck the BattleMech cleanly in the left leg, pitting the thick armor.
Leaning back slightly as though affronted that anyone dared fire upon it, the Warhammer halted its firing as its torso twisted to find the offender. By the time the Draconian's second rocket had impacted against the 'Mech's glacis, scarring the armor, the Warhammer had turned to face the lone man.
Whether rooted in fear or driven to insane defiance, the trooper stood his ground. In a gesture of utter futility, he dropped his empty launcher to the ground, drew his sidearm, and began firing at the Warhammer. No handgun could hope to penetrate the armor of a seventy-ton BattleMech. He was still firing when the Warhammer's pilot opened up on him with the machine's antipersonnel guns. The man's body jerked and tumbled as the heavy-caliber slugs tore through it, but the Warhammer's pilot continued to fire long after life had fled the body of the defiant soldier.
Back and forth through the village stalked the marauding 'Mechs, tearing into buildings where they suspected Kuritans might be hiding. If they found one, the trooper didn't last long. Though they showed no concern for civilian casualties caused by their hunt, the marauders did not go out of their way to chase down those villagers who fled from their path.
Before long, the four war machines turned their attention to the convoy trucks that had survived their onslaught. Using its hands, the Griffin began to load crates into containers attached to the backs of the other 'Mechs. Before loading the Warhammer's pack, however, the Griffin removed a bulky object from the container and handed it to the Crusader, which headed with it to the outskirts of the village. The Griffin resumed its looting.
“Look what that Crusader's doing,” Norris said, poking Berger to get his attention. “What's he got there?”
Berger focused his camera on the machine Norris indicated and zoomed in. “Geez, it's a BattleMech arm.”
“What?”
“Wait a minute. There's some kind of marking on the arm.” Berger fiddled with the controls on his camera. “Yeah, that's it.”
“Frackencrack! It's a Federated Suns crest! What the hell is going on here?”
A loud, ‘Mechanically augmented voice boomed behind them. “Nothing you ought to know about.”
The newsmen froze. Slowly, they turned to face the Marauder towering above their perch. Neither had any wish to excite the pilot of the machine that had come up behind the building where they stood. Norris and Berger exchanged hopeless looks while the ‘MechJock, forgetting he had his external speakers on, called to his leader. “Widow, got me a pair of rare birds over here.”
The Marauder pilot ordered them to descend to the street while the black Warhammer approached.
The Warhammer stopped nearly on top of them. A hatch popped open at the back of the 'Mech's upper surface. Steel rang as a chain ladder was thrown clear of the interior, to come rattling down the machine's back and hang swaying.
A lithe figure crowned with dark red hair descended the ladder. The woman was clad in little more than a cooling vest. A tempting vision, until one noticed that from her belt hung a holster containing an ivory-handled gun of eccentric design but ominous lethality.
She stepped through her 'Mech's legs, and Norris blinked as a shaft of sunlight flashed on the black crystal spider hanging in the vee neck of her cooling jacket. Two triangular bits of ruby glistened in the insect's abdomen. Berger whistled softly, leaving Norris to wonder if he was more impressed by the obvious wealth the woman wore or by her body and the feline grace of her movements. Her eyes were hidden behind mirrored goggles.
“Well, well,” she said in a husky contralto. “What has the Widow caught in her web today?”
“We are representatives of the Donegal—” Norris began.
“Can it, Skinny,” she ordered. “I've got eyes.”
She reached for Berger's camera. He resisted letting go until Norris took his arm. The reporter gestured with his chin at the Marauder, which had swung its carapace in their direction. The double barrels in each blocky forearm implied death and destruction as payment for resistance. Berger relinquished his grip on the camera.
The woman triggered the cartridge release and caught the boxy film magazine as it fell. She dropped the camera onto the pavement. She smiled at Berger's moan of pain and protest, and continued to smile as she tucked the film cartridge into her belt.
“You're gonna kill us now, aren't you?”
Norris thought that Berger's voice was steadier than it had any right to be.
The ‘MechWarrior laughed. “I may be called the First Lady of Death, but I don't waste my time with pointless effort. I have your film. Without it, no one will believe you.”
She turned her back on them, walked back to the ladder, and began to climb. The newsmen stood and watched. When she reached the hatch and had drawn up the ladder, she called down, “Killing you two
would just waste my time.”
The hatch slammed shut. Within two minutes, the four black 'Mechs were headed back toward the horizon, laden with their loot.
* * *
“Malking sun!”
Norris ignored Berger's cussing. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. “Malking Widows!” Norris trudged on, ignoring him.
'They didn't have to trash every piece of transport in the town, did they?”
Norris tried to pretend he hadn't heard, but the backhanded slap Berger gave his shoulder made that impossible.
“Sure they did,” Norris said in a voice cracking from the dryness. “It makes it harder for the survivors to get the word out.”
“Yeah, well, these two survivors are gonna get the word out. They're gonna pay for what they did back there. And they're gonna pay for my camera.”
Norris had no answer for that. He, too, wanted to see the Widows pay. First, though, they had to reach a friendly haven. It would be a long walk. They had barely started up again, when Berger shouted and pointed at a hill fifty meters in front of them.
“Bloody hell! Tank up ahead!” The holotech headed for a copse of trees. “Grab some cover!”
Norris looked up. “Too late, Berger. They've spotted us.” He didn't know if that was true or not, and he didn't care. He was too weary to run.
The vehicle Berger had spotted was a Striker wheeled tank. Its late-summer camouflage scheme revealed no affiliation as it crested the ridge ahead of them and moved down the slope. Then two more tanks appeared, and the three vehicles headed toward them at speed.
The leading vehicle slewed to port, its great wheels chewing up the soft earth, stopping a scant three meters from the drooping reporter. The commander's hatch opened, and a Chu-i hauled himself out of the tank. The man climbed down off his vehicle, getting dust on his neat uniform. He stopped to brush it off before approaching Norris. Even to the tired eyes of the reporter, the tall, lanky shape seemed unusual for a tanker. One should not question salvation, Norris told himself.
“I am very glad we found you gentlemen.” The officer waved his hand, signaling Berger to join them. When the holotech came up, he and Norris exchanged puzzled looks. Neither had any idea why anyone, especially a Kurita officer, would be looking for them.
“My men and I have just come from Kempis,” the officer explained.
“Then you know about the massacre,” Norris stated.
“All too well. I want to take you two to Greggville. It's a free city. You'll be able to use the ComStar facility there to file your story and tell the Inner Sphere about this atrocity. The Draconis Combine will not tolerate such rebellion from its hired soldiers.”
The trip to Greggville was uneventful. They did not see any BattleMechs on the way, for which Norris was very grateful. When they reached town, it seemed peaceful, with its people going about their business as though no battles were raging over the horizon. Nor was there much evidence of military presence in the town other than the three Kurita tanks. Indeed, the townspeople paid the armored vehicles scant notice.
The Draconians took Norris and Berger directly to the ComStar facility, halting the vehicles just outside the northeast gate. Like many ComStar compounds, this one had six gates, one for each of the great Houses and one to serve the general public. Each of the five House gates bore the symbol of a particular Successor Lord. This arrangement was supposed to be symbolic of ComStar's neutral position in regard to their centuries of warring. Because each state had its own gate, each Successor Lord—theoretically—had his own unrestricted access to ComStar, even on a planet ruled by a hostile state. The sixth gate was supposed to embody ComStar's mission to mankind as a whole and was open to any who wished to use the services of their interstellar communications network.
The northeast gate bore the black dragon of House Kurita. Their Kuritan military escort assured the newsmen of the immediate attention of a ComStar Acolyte, and dispatched them into the building to record and transmit their tale of treachery and atrocity. When the two newsmen came out an hour later, they found the Chu-i still waiting for them. He seemed concerned that they take away a good impression of Kurita soldiery. Norris, despite Berger's venomous looks, refused several offers of transportation.
“Thanks for your help, Chu-i,” the reporter said, starting off down the street. “When this story hits the network, those Widows will get what's coming to them. Their attempt to blame it on Davion by leaving that 'Mech arm won't help them at all. We saw the Widows do it. They'll pay.”
“I certainly hope so, Mister Norris.”
The man in the uniform of a Chu-i watched the newsmen walk down the street. When they had reached the far end, he turned to the squat, hard-faced man beside him. “I understand the traffic is heaviest near the business district. Arrange an accident.”
“Hai, Chu-sa,” the man replied and headed off.
At that slip of the tongue, the man in Chu-i's garb scowled deeply. Obedience could be increased with training, he decided, as his underling walked away, but it seemed that brains disappeared in proportion. The sound of hard soles slapping on the paved walk interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see a cowled and robed figure approaching from the main building. The officer bowed as the figure reached him.
“Good day to you, my son,” the ComStar Adept said. “A very good day, Adept Sharilar,” the Kuritan replied. “I was told you would have something for me.”
“I do, indeed.”
He handed her a cartridge of holofilm. On its side was the logo of the Lyran Commonwealth's Donegal Broadcasting Company. Taped to the cartridge was a thick envelope. The Adept held the package briefly as if weighing it, then made it disappear into her robes.
“This will be held in trust until needed,” the Adept said. “As agreed.”
The Kuritan started to turn away, but seemed to remember something else he wanted to say. “The gentlemen I brought to your facility had a message for their network.”
“They did, and it was recorded in complete fidelity. Alas,” Sharilar said with mock seriousness, “an improper ritual was performed and some data transmissions were lost to the void. I fear that their story was among that lost data. Perhaps, at some future date, it may be recovered through the diligent prayers and hard work of my brothers and sisters.”
The man in the Chu-i's uniform nodded his understanding. The “recovery” would come when it was politically expedient. As he remounted his tank, he smiled in satisfaction.
From across the street, unseen in an alley, feral eyes watched the exchange.
When the Kuritans had gone and the Adept had vanished once more into the building, the unkempt man stumbled to his feet and sauntered to the public entrance of the ComStar compound. As he walked, he mumbled to himself.
“Widows! Heh, heh. Billy boy, you knows a way to make this 'un pay. The Hunter'll pay C-bills for a lead on the Widow.”
When he reached the window, he told the Duty Acolyte, “Wanna sends a message to mah friend on Solaris.”
The Kurita bills he produced to pay for the message's transmission were clean, a sharp contrast to everything else about the man.
19
Shaw District, Barlow's End
Draconis March, Federated Suns
29 September 3026
Chu-i Isabella Armstrong watched the screens of her BattleMech, which showed a large mass moving beyond the scattered redwoods on the forest's edge. That would be the Davion patrol 'Mech, right on schedule. She checked her visual to be sure the rest of her lance was well-concealed among small copses of lesser trees, presumably invisible to the approaching enemy. This raid on Barlow's End was the Ryuken's first combat mission, as well as her own first assignment as a lance commander. She didn't want anything to go wrong.
The Davion 'Mech, a sixty-five-ton Thunderbolt, appeared. Moving with little caution, it advanced through the thinning trees from the denser forest behind it. Suddenly, the Thunderbolt staggered and lurched back a step under th
e impact of at least twelve missiles. Such a response was more likely surprise on the pilot's part than because of damage to the 'Mech. Those few high-explosive warheads would make little impression on the sixty-five ton machine's armor. Smoke swirled around the T-Bolt, obscuring it from view.
“Hiyaah! First blood! I claim first blood,” came the voice of ‘Mech Warrior Hiraku Jacobs over the Ryuken taccomm.
Jacob's voice confirmed what Armstrong already knew from observing the missile strike. Besides her own Catapult, Jacobs' Whitworth was the only 'Mech in the lance that was capable of launching such a missile spread. The impulsive hotblood had broken ambush by firing prematurely on the enemy. Even now, his 'Mech was bulling through the small trees that had provided a screen from the advancing Davion T-Bolt. He was moving in for a better shot.
“You are on report, hothead,” Armstrong noted, though no one could hear her in the cockpit of her Catapult.
Armstrong's own position let her see a hundred meters past the T-Bolt and down the trail it had been following. In the shadows cast by the giant trees, she could see the blocky shapes of more 'Mechs moving. Damnation! There was only supposed to be a single machine on the patrol circuit. She keyed her command frequency. “We've got extra guests for our party, lance. Fast strike, in and out. Let's use what little surprise Jacobs left us.”
Acknowledgements from ‘MechWarriors Frost and Toragama came in as she fired her jump jets. The sixty-five-ton 'Mech leaped clear of the trees to land with flexed legs on the top of a nearby rise. Even before the Catapult had straightened, Armstrong loosed a flight of 75mm rockets from the paired launchers mounted on the back of the 'Mech's carapace. She didn't bother to aim. The approaching enemy was still bunched on the trail, and what didn't hit the first machine had a good chance of impacting on one behind it. In any case, the sudden fusillade might intimidate and confuse the enemy.
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