Fire at Will

by Blaine Lee Pardoe

  They still had some of her money. Klaus had lost his. Perhaps he had bribed the policewoman? That seemed doubtful. More likely the officer had simply taken the money from him. The money Trillian had accepted from the consul had been enough to buy food, two blankets; enough to stay alive.

  As she lay on the ground she looked across the street, her gaze unfocused. The nightmare had eliminated any hope of more sleep that night; that was the way it always went. Her thoughts ran along the same track they’d been stuck in for the past four days. She had long ago accepted that, with her being a diplomat, her actions sometimes led to people dying. But she had never, personally, killed before. It disturbed her on a deeply fundamental level.

  She sighed, and made a face at the odor she inhaled. For a day or two she had succeeded in convincing herself it was simply the smell of the alley where they slept each night. The truth was, that awful smell was her. There were no public facilities for bathing or showering, though a fellow homeless person had advised her that she could have a good wash in the bathroom in the public library, using the toilet as a source of water and a cup to rinse her hair. Trillian had assumed it would be a long time before she was that desperate, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  What would Melissa think of her actions? Would she even tell her what happened? Yes, she’d have to. If—no, when they got out of this, she and Klaus would have to tell everything that happened. Klaus wouldn’t volunteer the information indiscriminately, but it would have to be included in a full report. She knew her aide all too well—he would do his duty. As she would do hers.

  The archon would understand. Knowing Melissa, she would make sure that the details of the incident— the murder—were suitably buried. Steiners didn’t like to be seen with blood on their hands. But secrets like this were hard to keep. Someone always knew. Eyes would follow her at parties, murmurs just out of earshot would brush the edges of her awareness, others would glance at her in judgment. Though no one would have the nerve to say what they thought to her, this murder would plague her forever.

  What would Roderick say? He would understand better than anyone else in the family. He understood the judgmental gazes from others. He too had suffered from the murmurs and rumors. Roderick would understand the burden she carried.

  Thinking of Roderick distracted her mind. By watching the holonews broadcasts, she knew he was still out there fighting. For a few days there had been no news; the networks had cited technical difficulties. But Trillian had heard rumors that most of the planet’s communication satellites had been shot down by the invaders, and that other broadcast hubs also had been destroyed. She applauded the strategy, which was the best proof she could have that Roderick was out there.

  When broadcasts resumed, they were heavily slanted. There was celebration over the First Regulars having destroyed one of the “accursed invaders’ “ DropShips. The video proved the truth of the claim: it showed a House Steiner Union-class ship listing heavily away from a shattered landing strut. But Trillian took note of other details. Randolph Field, the spaceport where the ship landed, was a smoking debris field. She thought she could make out the shattered remains of at least two aerospace fighters—a Stingray and a Reiver—smoldering in the background. Not a single building was left standing. She knew that battle had cost the defense force dearly.

  Other reports cheered that the First Tamarind Regulars Regiment was going on extended maneuvers to “once and for all ensnare and destroy the desecrators of our soil.” Translation: Roderick was no longer fighting a defensive action, but was on the move. If anyone could confound the Tamarind forces, it was her cousin. As she lay on her cardboard bed, she smiled. Roderick would laugh if he could see her now, and he would be the first one to give her a hug— regardless of the stench.

  A few hours later the handful of homeless people who normally huddled in the alley woke up. Trillian had learned their habits and adapted them as her own. They carefully hid the belongings they couldn’t carry. Trillian always made sure she had the tiny laser pistol in her boot. It hurt wearing it there day after day, but she wanted the pistol handy at all times. She had killed once and knew that if she had to, she would do it again.

  Usually, the whole group moved out to the market, where most of them would purchase a small meal. This morning, an army officer and a squad of troops blocked the entrance to the alley. Trillian stood up straight and quickly draped her dirty shawl over her face. Klaus moved to her side. In her new world, she knew change was rarely good. Klaus touched her arm in support, and together with the other homeless people they stared at the line of troops in silent tension.

  “Why are they here?” she whispered to Klaus.

  “Wait. Remember, we are just beggars,” was his only reply.

  The officer cleared his throat, then rapidly rattled off a rehearsed speech. “Duke Fontaine Marik, heir to the throne of the Free Worlds League, Duke of the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey, has asked that all able-bodied citizens of the streets of Zanzibar take an active role in the defense of this city.”

  Trillian tipped her head slightly as she cast a glance to Klaus. At least they were not here looking for them.

  “You are being ordered to report to barricade construction at the south of the city. You will be assigned work crews. All able-bodied men and women will take part in the construction of barricades to keep the invaders out of our capital. It is the duty of all citizens to assist in the defense of the city.” He spoke with a patriotic fervor, as if he believed his words.

  Most of the Zanzibar homeless stared at him blankly. Trillian stepped forward. “I’ll go. No one will call me a coward.”

  “Me too,” Klaus chimed in. Several other of the homeless people volunteered, but most said nothing.

  “Your spirit and backbone are appreciated in the effort to win this war. Get aboard this truck and you will be taken to your work zone.” The officer gave her a patriotic grin, until she got close enough for him to smell her.

  The work was exhausting and slow. Piles of broken bricks and scrap metal were dumped in the street and the workers were expected to take it and turn it into an antitank trap. There was little supervision other than a pudgy man who barked out useless orders like “Get moving, you bums!” No engineering principles were being applied. It was simply a matter of piling the bricks in a way that looked impressive to the supervisor.

  Her fingers, arms and knees ached by the afternoon. She examined her fingers and grinned. Gone were the beautifully manicured nails of which she had been so proud. Her fingers had blisters and were filthy—but not filthy enough for her to clean them before eating the sandwiches they were provided. Trillian behaved exactly like everyone else in the work gang.

  On the afternoon break—an hour long because the supervisor was off getting a drink somewhere— Trillian sat down and took a gulp of warm water from the small bottle each worker had been given. Her lips were dusty, and she could taste the metallic flavor of the dirt as she swallowed the water. It didn’t matter. She had already learned there were worse things in the universe than a little dirt.

  Klaus sat beside her. She still couldn’t get used to his salt-and-pepper beard, which she thought completely changed his appearance. He had a nasty cut on his right forearm, which was wrapped in a white rag of unknown origin. Klaus looked disheveled and his pants were torn in several spots, but his eyes had not lost their fire.

  “Not much of a barrier,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

  “How desperate are they, do you think?” she replied in a low tone.

  His eyebrows rose at her words. “They are worried enough to start building barricades on the main roads into the city. That says something about Hauptmann Frost’s level of success so far.”

  Wehner was right. If the city wasn’t at risk, they wouldn’t be putting up barricades. Despite the confidence of their news broadcasts, the city was making an effort at defense and you didn’t do that unless you had to.

  “No word of General Nordhoff or the duke
,” Trillian added bitterly.

  “Way overdue,” Klaus agreed, taking another sip of warm water from his bottle. “Then again, I don’t think either of us is surprised.”

  Her jaw ached as she leaned cautiously against the low wall at her back. The afternoon sun bathed her chest, adding to her existing sunburn. “No. Not surprised, just disappointed. There was always a possibility that even if Vedet chose to hang me out to dry, Nordhoff would follow orders.”

  Klaus wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve. “It doesn’t matter now. If he was counting on the Broken Swords getting killed or captured, so that he could swoop in and grab the glory . . . well, that just hasn’t happened.” Klaus still had to consciously prevent himself from ending sentences with “milady.”

  “Roderick is full of surprises.”

  “He’d better be,” Wehner agreed. “They’re going to toss everything they have at him.”

  “Do you think we should leave the city and try to find him?” Trillian hoped Klaus would say yes. She had asked the question four days earlier, but he had convinced her that leaving made no sense. No one knew where Roderick was, not the military, not the press. Still, she had to ask the question.

  “You know my answer,” he said. “If you want to find Roderick, I think all we have to do is wait and he’ll come to us.” He nodded at the low pile of debris growing into a barricade. “And if he does come, there won’t be much here to resist him.”

  She thought for a moment, staring at the barricade. “We don’t have much money left. And living the way we are, we could easily be victims if fighting breaks out.”

  “I don’t know if I like where this is going.”

  She stared at him. “We might be able to help Roderick. We have to find him.”

  “Help him? How? Have you looked at yourself lately? We can barely help each other.”

  Trillian shook her head. “I know you better than that. You may not be in uniform, but you want to be out there in the fight too. We have to try.”

  “I hate it when you’re right.” His shoulders sagged as he accepted her logic. “As a military man, I have to warn you that this is an almost impossible task. There is a crack regiment out there searching for Roderick and they haven’t found him. We have no resources and our chances are very slim . . . but you’re right, we need to try. If not for our own sake, then just to irritate Duke Vedet.”

  “You always know just what to say to make a girl feel good,” Trillian replied with a dazzling smile as she got to her feet. She felt a little dizzy and the backs of her knees ached from sitting. Still, she felt a new energy, a sense of determination she had not felt for a while. “Now we wait for the right opportunity. When it presents itself, we move.”

  “Until then, we work.”

  “And work a little more,” she mimicked. She looked up into the brilliant blue-purple sky. Roderick, my money is still on you.

  27

  Marshes of Malcontent

  Southeast of Zanzibar

  Tamarind, Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey

  8 December 3137

  Roderick watched the Ocelot rush his battered Kage squad. Their battle armor was pitted, burned, missing and, in at least one case, hanging down like a tattered piece of cloth. They huddled behind the old pumping station, clinging to every loose brick for cover as the ’Mech charged, sensing a quick kill. Not today, big boy.

  He stepped into the Ocelot’s path. The MechWarrior had assumed the Rifleman was occupied with the Saxon APC on his flank. He only realized his mistake when Roderick fired an autocannon barrage at him at nearly point-blank range. The AP rounds blasted holes right up the front of the BattleMech and into the cockpit canopy. The ’Mech reeled hard to the right, losing its footing and falling backward into the marshy reed bed. A hiss of steam rose from the fallen BattleMech as it lay in the muck.

  His Kage troopers jumped out from behind the pumping station as the MechWarrior tried to roll over and stand up. The infantry fluttered down on their slender carbon fiber wings, like a pack of carrion birds feasting on a carcass. They covered the long form of the Ocelot from one end to the other, focusing their lasers and firing into every damaged armor plate and exposed seam. Three of the squad concentrated on the right arm, obviously damaging the actuator. As Frost cycled another salvo of autocannon rounds, he saw that the Ocelot had stopped moving. Either the MechWarrior was surrendering or the BattleMech was too damaged to continue the fight. There was always the possibility that the MechWarrior was dead. He found himself hoping it was the latter. He hated dealing with prisoners. They always proved to be more trouble than they were worth.

  He saw the MechWarrior hauled out alive by the Kage troops. They stripped off his neurohelmet and waved to him. He waved the arm of his Rifleman IIC, acknowledging the victory. Another POW. They had captured a number of the Tamarind soldiers and had quickly run out of facilities for holding them. You don’t have to feed dead enemies.

  “Sit rep?” he asked as he checked his own damage display. His right leg had lost most of its armor in the last assault and he was still having an ammunition feed problem in the right torso. We can’t keep this up forever, but we can sure as hell try.

  First Leutnant Duvahl signaled. “That bogie was the last of them, sir. They are bugging out to the north, what’s left of them. We have three downed ’Mechs, but it looks like we took out four of theirs— and Warrant Officer Krane managed to capture a Zibler.”

  Roderick could hear a note of glee in her voice. Krane had piloted a Thunderbolt that had fallen three days ago. Roderick had assigned her to help coordinate communication until they secured a new ’Mech. Looking at the fallen Ocelot, he believed he had fixed that problem. “Leutnant, get a repair team down here. I have an Ocelot I think is salvageable. It might be damaged, but at least you’re firing.”

  “Yes, sir!” she replied. He admired her spirit—the kind of spirit that had held his ragtag force together so far.

  The fighting over the last two weeks had been savage. Trace had staged a stunningly successful raid on the First Regulars’ supply base. They had knocked out most of the satellites over Tamarind, enough to blind both sides to each other’s actions.

  For the most part, his plan had worked out very well. By using the DropShips to destroy the airfield the Regulars were using, he had achieved total surprise. They had been lured into space chasing his Stukas while they were destroying the satellites. When they realized that DropShips were landing on their tarmac, they turned and made a beeline home. But there was no place left to land, and Roderick’s ships had already wiped out nearly all the First Regulars’ VTOLs. The returning fighters put up a good fight, but only the Sandpiper failed to get away. The Sandpiper was downed on the airfield, having pummeled the tarmac and everything sitting on it for more than an hour. While the local press touted the destruction of their DropShip as a stunning victory, the truth was Roderick had been happy to pay the price to eliminate the First Regulars’ air superiority.

  Since then, his tiny army had been on the move. After driving back the river assault, he continued south of Zanzibar, moving into the low marshlands, an inhospitable area of reeds and a few ragged trees. The Regulars had retreated to the northwest of the capital, reeling from the confusing array of assaults.

  If he had wanted, he could have charged into the capital and taken it, block by painful block. If he knew help was on its way, he would have taken that option. But it was clear that Duke Vedet had betrayed not just Trillian, but him and his Broken Swords.

  The unit was holding up, though the stress was starting to show. His troops had become masters of salvage, stealing ammunition and stripping off useful weapons and armor plating like a pack of locusts gutting a dead body. They were keeping most of their BattleMech force operational, but even his Rifleman IIC was starting to look like it had been assembled in a mad scientist’s laboratory. He had lost his left autocannon to a JES missile carrier two days ago. It had been replaced, but the replacement part was painted for a different c
amouflage scheme and had some unique coolant hoses and feed assemblies spot-welded into place. It was ugly, but his ’Mech fit in with the rest of his Broken Swords.

  He moved to the staging area and powered down as soon as he heard the click of the gantry swing into play. Five techs began to survey the damage from the battle. Already, replacement armor plates, obviously from fallen enemy ’Mechs, were being hoisted in place. Roderick removed his neurohelmet and disconnected his coolant vest hoses. His arms and back ached as he popped the hatch and began the weary climb down to the ground. The cooler air felt good on his hot, sweaty skin. It felt as if he had a visible film of grime, perspiration and dust over his entire body. Any attempt to wash with anything short of a sonic shower only seemed to make him feel worse.

  At the feet of his Rifleman IIC, he stared upward and at the scars of battle. There was a gouge on his left arm, a laser burst. Hmm. I don’t remember getting hit there. So much had been happening in the chaos of battle it was hard to keep track of each and every little hit.

  The marshlands were only a temporary base. Roderick and Kroff had gone over the maps the night before. There was a tiny village off to the north and east with the unassuming name of Burkettsville. It was nothing more than a wide spot along the highway, but if they seized it intact, it would be a source of petrochemicals and food. This was not just a war against the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey, it was a war for survival.

  He ambled along to his tent. Outside the tent, Warrant Officer Dewery stood at attention, or as close to it as any of his officers got. Dewery was a very good MechWarrior. His biggest problem was that he was a thief. Before coming into the Broken Swords, he had been stealing military supplies and selling them on the black market. It had cost him his career. Dewery saluted and Frost responded. The usually cheerful man seemed drained.

  “What can I do for you, Dewery?”

  “My ride is down,” he said glumly. “Sorry, sir.”