Daughter of The Dragon

by IIsa J. Bick

  23

  On the outskirts of Siang, Hoshina, Biham

  Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere

  30 May 3135

  They would attack from the west and take advantage of the setting sun; a small advantage to be sure but, considering the circumstances, Sir Reginald Eriksson would take whatever he could get and Fortune allowed. But as he guided his Orion into battle, he saw that the air ahead was already fading from azure blue to pewter gray as a late spring storm blew in from the east and ate up the sky.

  Eriksson’s booted feet nudged his Orion’s bulk into a steady march upon a rock-strewn slope. The incline was forty-five degrees; his Orion, a centuries’ old relic that’d survived the Jihad, canted forward at its pelvis, lumbering over rock and scree with the dogged determination of a very weary man carrying a very heavy pack. Eriksson was hot and uncomfortable despite the fact that he’d stripped down to a simple cooling vest and skivvies. His old man’s bones felt each and every step of the old ’Mech as seventy-five tons of titanium steel ground rock and earth and sent up gray-white puffs of dust, like smoke. The Orion’s external mikes picked up the squealing groans and pops of small boulders exploding under the ’Mech’s weight. And it had been a long time, decades perhaps, since he’d donned a neurohelmet; the helmet chafed the tender skin of his neck and shoulders.

  His lancemates were a sorry lot, a hastily refitted ConstructionMech and two MiningMechs. The hornet yellow ConstructionMech was the heaviest, weighing in at thirty-five tons, and had been outfitted with an autocannon jury-rigged to replace a right titanium claw used for levering blocky concrete into place. The two MiningMechs were much smaller, only twenty tons apiece, and each had a flamer spot-welded to the right arm. Their pilots were brave men—boys, really; none had seen a real battle, and Eriksson’s own memories of his struggles with smugglers were dim with time.

  In fifteen minutes, Eriksson’s Orion topped the rise, his fellows pulling up to his right and left. The clouds were closer now, and so heavy that their bellies seemed to graze the earth. A jag of lightning cut a flaming seam in the sky and burned purple afterimages that Eriksson saw when he blinked. But he picked out the DropShip, a bulbous ball that reminded Eriksson of a mushroom, the kind he squeezed to release a cloud of spores. But this particular mushroom was spitting cold blue bolts of PPC fire at two lances of Republic aerospace fighters that bobbed and weaved in the sky over the DropShip like gnats. The air was alive with the stuttering ruby lash of their lasers scorching over Drac infantry and hovertanks released by the DropShip. The scream of missiles and the shrieks of the dying and wounded reverberated through his cockpit, and he toggled off his external mikes with a hand that trembled. A column of black, oily smoke boiled from the gutted skeleton of a Demon medium tank—and all the while the sky flared with lightning and thunder boomed across the valley in a wall of sound he heard even though his Orion was, technically, deaf.

  Lightning sparked again, much closer this time because the roll of thunder billowing out of the sky was almost immediate. There was a brief, trembling pause as if the world was holding its breath.

  Eriksson brought his targeting systems on line as the first hard drops of rain shattered against his ferroglass canopy with a sound like the rapid fire of a rifle. Then he gave the command: “Attack.”

  And it was as if the heavens had been waiting, too, because as Eriksson pushed his Orion into a lumbering run that he felt in every bone, the storm broke. But he had one comfort at least. The engine of his death would not be Katana Tormark.

  Dartmoor Valley, Normandy, Ancha

  Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere

  2 June 3135

  Question: How do you kill a whole passel of ’Mechs?

  Answer: Very carefully.

  Sho-sa William “Buck” Bruckner had ordered his tanks to get the hell out of Dodge just as soon as they’d churned the peaty swamp that made up the floor of Dartmoor Valley into a lumpy quagmire of black ooze. At intervals, rough-hewn granite boulders jutted out of the tarry sludge, and the air was saturated with the rotted, slightly yeasty and fermented reek of fen vegetation slowly turning to goo. The peat steamed as methane vapors, warmed by putrefaction, hung over the bog in a white, misty veil, and the smell reminded Buck of a cow barn: fetid, warm and ripe.

  Buck’s tank company—a DI Schmitt and two Arrow IVs, yeah, some company—was positioned to either side of him on the ridge above, with the Schmitt a quarter klick further on since its range was longer, and Buck was hoping, praying he got a chance to lob some of those armor-piercing missiles where they’d do the most good. Either that, or wait to get stomped into gopher guts.

  Buck’s mission was simple enough: buy time. Borrow it, steal it if he had to, but his tanks and people had to square enough time for Crawford and the others to make it to Normandy Beach, where there was a DropShip Crawford had ordered away from their base after their fighters got blown into subatomic particles. It wasn’t that Crawford was a coward; it was one of those live-to-fight-another-day kind of things. Problem was the DropShip was, oh, still thirty-plus klicks away due west, and it was gonna leave them behind if they couldn’t catch up, so Buck figured he’d punched one of those one-way tickets.

  Balancing one ooze-slicked boot on a notch worn into a massive granite boulder as big around as three men and two meters tall, Buck snuck a peek around the rock through a pair of digital binoculars. They were still coming: three Draconis Combine BattleMechs almost close enough to touch—a Catapult that, despite its twelve-meter height, resembled a hunchback; a blocky Pack Hunter; and the leader of the bunch, a towering, heavy ’Mech with a flashing scimitarlike katana married to its right hand and an autocannon slung beneath its left arm. A scarlet banner emblazoned with the black Kurita dragon was attached to a right-angled staff that appeared to be connected to the ’Mech between its “shoulder blades.”

  That is one big honking ’Mech. Buck screwed up his face in a frown, then let loose a gob of blacker’n tar spit before tonguing his wad from his left lower lip to his right and settling into some serious chewing. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the ’Mech was; hadn’t ever seen it before. Clearly, Kuritan. That banner reminded Buck of ancient stories from Terra about armies bearing their flags and colors into battle. The ’Mech bore a slight resemblance to the No-Dachi but, whereas the older-style ’Mech sported two SRM racks, a medium laser and a PPC, this BattleMech only had the single PPC. Because he’s one confident son of a gun, that’s for sure. Buck wore his regulation tanker’s uniform—nut-tan jumpsuit, brown boots, thick nutmeg-brown jerkin outfitted with cooling coils, matching gloves. Instead of a helmet, he’d clapped on his prized, bark-colored ten-gallon Stetson, sweat stain ringing the brim, and now he reached up to give his right ear a good, hard scratch. That boy’s built for in-your-face, up close and personal. That’s how confident the Kuritans were.

  Probably they had a right to be. Compared to those ’Mechs, his guys were like a bunch of villagers with pitchforks and clubs going after some fire-breathing lizard as big as a skyscraper. Buck’s eyes rolled over a straggly line of Brotherhood troops, a platoon strong, taking cover behind the sheltering ridge created by granite outcroppings. The men weren’t talking. Their faces were tight, the skin tented down with tension until their bones showed. If they lived through this cockamamie plan, Buck was gonna put them all up for medals.

  He’d tucked two mortar squads, each with a quartet of portable, armor-piercing SRM launchers, behind rocks in the bowl of the valley at ten and four o’clock. No suicide mission; he’d made the men be especially careful to leave a narrow swath of green and rock to use for getting their asses out when the time came. But he needed those launchers in the valley. Besides the tanks, these squads were Buck’s heavy hitters. The rest of their arms was piddly stuff: a ragtag collection of pulse lasers, slug throwers, laser rifles and one bonus—three Thunderstruck Gauss rifles.

  From a distance, the quagmires looked like mud, easily crossed. Only someone br
ought up on Ancha would recognize that the peaty bogs, once disturbed, went down for a good half klick and were as deadly as quicksand. This particular bog extended for five klicks in every direction except here at this choke point, and Buck was counting on . . . well, he was counting on arrogance and plain old dumb luck.

  Buck raised his binoculars again. The ’Mechs jumped into focus. His digital readout told him that in about five minutes, well, things were going to get pretty busy. Squirting black juice, Buck hauled off his Stetson, armed away sweat, then slammed that hat back into place. “Boys? Time to bag us some ’Mechs.”

  Question: How does a BattleMech make short work of renegade traitors?

  Answer: Easily.

  On the other hand, the guy with that crazy hat . . . well, he was a little different. Perched high in the cockpit of his shiny, seventy-five ton Rokurokubi, Fourth Sword of Light Chu-sa Terry Merrick searched the terrain dead ahead. Absently, he gave the back of his neck a good scratch, grateful that he had one of the newer, lighter neurohelmets that perched upon rather than encased his head. He and his lance were two klicks away from the ridge, and Merrick saw at once that the hat guy’s plan showed a flash of brilliance. The valley was a rough bowl, about five klicks wide and long. A fine web of mist hung over the churned earth like the interlacing weave of a cobweb: simple matter to wade across. The only thing that looked remotely daunting was the lip of a steeply canted cliff dead ahead. Tongues of gray-and-white scree on the cliff face licked rocks heaped at the base of the ridge. He saw that the rocks were rotten, granite mixed with crumbly limestone and calcite.

  His helmet buzzed, and the Catapult’s pilot said, “Merrick-san, I’m picking up body heat behind those rocks up there. Kasu. Scum might as well take out an ad.”

  “Probably waiting for us to make a move.” This from the Pack Hunter. “Chu-sa, may I suggest we fan out instead of trying the cliff directly?”

  “Hai, my thoughts, exactly,” said Merrick. “We’ll wade into the valley about a half klick. That way, we’re still out of range of those tanks and that Schmitt.”

  “Nothing to worry about.” The Catapult’s pilot laughed. “Give me a clear shot, Merrick-san, and that Kono yaro? History.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Merrick said, but with less enthusiasm than he should’ve felt. Thing was, he didn’t mind blowing a couple hundred Blues to kingdom come, and he was proud of his ’Mech, knew that his ten-meter-long katana inspired real fear. The entire design was deliberately and carefully constructed to resemble a samurai’s helmet and armor, and that was as it should be because Merrick was of the Sword of Light, a member of the Combine’s most elite units.

  Yet, was there honor here? There’d been talk about Sakamoto ordering attacks on civilian targets as if the Ares Conventions hadn’t existed for hundreds of year. Only bullies murdered civilians, and they were warriors. There was no honor in killing defenseless civilians. Or shooting at forces that clearly had orders to pull their punches. The Fury had dealt them half-hearted blows in stylized combat, signaling their disinclination to fight their spiritual brethren. And we answered with killing blows, and there is no honor there, either.

  Irritated, Merrick shook his head. What was he thinking? I exist to serve; honor demands obedience and my duty is to fight. Whatever his personal thoughts, one thing was certain. Now, the Fury would kill them if they could. So, morality later. Whatever Merrick thought of Sakamoto’s tactics would have to wait. They had an enemy to engage, and the battle should be short. And what were a few dozen infantry and creaking treads against the Sword of Light?

  “Temae!” said Merrick, and grinned as his mouth filled with the familiar and welcome tang of adrenaline that surged through his veins. “Let’s fight.”

  Buck watched as the ’Mechs waded into the bog, that katana-wielding fella first, and his heart banged against his chest like to bust. The ground immediately around and before the ’Mechs was just solid enough to reassure them, and Buck knew they wouldn’t hit the bad stuff for another several paces. He saw the ’Mechs’ plan immediately—the slower, heavier ’Mech led the charge into the valley, with the lighter Catapult and Pack Hunter right behind but peeling off right and left, respectively. And they’d have to watch that Pack Hunter; that baby had jump jets and the last thing they needed was a ’Mech screaming down their throats. The lead honcho, that katana guy, probably figured to take on whatever Buck’s boys could muster, keep them busy while the other two came in at their flanks and bound them up tight, like the pincer-grip of a lobster’s claw.

  Yeah, good plan. Buck’s lips split in a grin. But there’s plans, and then there’s plans . . .

  He saw it as soon as it happened; in fact, he heard it, the sucking, squelching sound of mud, and then that katana-’Mech’s right leg sank up to its knee, the ’Mech pitching the way Buck had seen happen with horses snagged on a trip wire. The ’Mech teetered like an axed tree, and the pilot tried backing up, with a grinding rrrr-rrrr sound that set Buck’s teeth on edge, same as a teacher scratching her nails over a chalkboard.

  Buck keyed his mike. “Lock and load and let ’er rip!”

  The bluff exploded.

  Merrick registered something wrong a split second before his computer screamed an alarm. In his helmet came the echoes of alarms going off in the cockpits of the other ’Mechs, and mingled curses from the pilots, but by then Merrick’s Rokurokubi was mired up to its right knee, his internal temp had spiked, and then, when he jerked his eyes from his HUD indicators to his status screens, he knew he was in big trouble, and how.

  “What . . . ?” Merrick yanked back on his primary throttle and powered up to backpedal. He heard the rrrr-rrrr of his gyro and the squall of metal grinding against metal, but he wasn’t moving; frac it all, he wasn’t moving . . . !

  “Chikushou!” someone cursed—the Catapult? The Pack Hunter? Whoever it was sounded more pissed-off than anxious. “I’m not getting traction here.”

  “Throttle back.” Equally vexed, Merrick wrestled with his throttle. What a nuisance, and no wonder the valley was barren of Fury troops. “There’s got to be firm ground somewhere, just throttle back and we’ll . . .” He trailed off as his mind raced through a new calculus: No troops, and no firm ground, and I’m pretty heavy . . . no wonder those kono yaro didn’t hang around . . .

  He’d not turned off his external feed, and now Merrick’s ears pricked with the unmistakable pock-pock-pock of weapons’ fire, and then, just as he moved to slap the feed into silence, a whistling shriek as missiles—the Schmitt, yeah, gotta be . . .—arced in and boomed against his right chest. The sound nearly cracked his brain in two, and Merrick gasped as the explosion rocked its way into the pit of his stomach, like a punch to the solar plexus. His ’Mech wobbled from its forward-thirty tilt, and Merrick’s vision swam as the scenery skewed, slewed sideways and then he was looking at blue sky and the great yellow ball of Ancha’s sun as he overcompensated, rearing back. Instinctively, he jammed down on the Rokurokubi’s left leg, straightening it ramrod stiff. The Rokurokubi’s seventy-five tons shifted, and then horror bloomed in Merrick’s chest like a black rose, and he was cold and hot and dripping thick, oily sweat—because he was stuck fast now, boyo, no doubt about it, the legs of his ’Mech splayed in a gymnast’s split.

  Instantly, his temperature soared; his HUD was alive with winking indicators, pulsing like angry red fireflies; and his cockpit filled with the grinding of actuator assemblies in the Rokurokubi’s knees and ankles. Then he saw them: through a gray haze of weapons’ fire, the Fury’s men bobbing, weaving, darting, boiling along the bluff like termites in the rotted guts of an old log.

  The Catapult was left and a little ahead and he saw that the machine was in trouble . . . no, no, not just trouble. Though its autocannon spit defiant uranium slugs at the bluff and that particular ’Mech was tons lighter than his, the Catapult was mired on its back-canted chicken legs nearly to its gyroscope housing.

  Then Merrick saw puffs of smoke out of the c
orner of his left eye, and his eyes jerked left to right. . . . Incoming! “Look out!” Merrick yelled, and pivoted his torso right in a wild, desperate arc, simultaneously squeezing off a sizzling blue bolt of PPC fire to intercept. But he was too slow; the hissing tongues of missile fire licked empty space, and then there was a series of huge ka-BOOMS Merrick heard, even though his external mike was off, as the missiles scored hits to the Catapult’s right shoulder. The Catapult reeled—and then its twin racks of fifteen missiles ignited. First the right, and then a few milliseconds later the left, and Merrick blinked, the orange-yellow fireballs of exploding munitions searing his brain. The ground shook hard enough to send granite boulders crashing down the bluff. Merrick imagined the high wails of men hurtling to their deaths: some slow as they sank ever deeper into the creeping ring of ooze that sucked at their legs, their arms, and filled their lungs; and others quickly, as their bodies broke open like water balloons, spraying crimson founts of hot blood and ruptured flesh.

  And then the concussive force of the multiple blasts slammed into Merrick’s ’Mech. As the machine staggered left, Merrick jerked right, overcompensated, and then felt his ’Mech cant at a weird, absurd angle. He was falling, he was going to . . . !

  No, no, nononononono! Merrick had just enough time to register the world turning on a slow, lazy axis, the sky sliding by to be replaced by a view of the cliff just ahead, and then the Catapult, its torso enveloped in a halo of roiling smoke and fire, and then the rush of black muck toward his face . . . Merrick screamed, and flexed his right arm, jamming the point of the Rokurokubi’s elbow into the quagmire. His cockpit hovered twenty meters above the bog, and the move bought him time, and that was all.

  A muffled WHUMP and Merrick flinched as the Catapult blew apart at its core, like the collapsing heart of a dying sun. Gobbets of molten armor and endosteel rained in a fiery storm, and a piece of the Catapult—Merrick was never sure what—came rushing at Merrick’s canopy, and he flinched, turning away. There was a BANG! The canopy didn’t just crack, or break open like an egg; it imploded. Shards of ferroglass showered over Merrick, and he was helpless to avoid the glittering, jagged edges. He heard the hollow bock-bock-bock of ferroglass banging into his neurohelmet, and then he wished he’d had an older neurohelmet because the skin of his cheeks was flayed open, and he felt the hot spray of blood slick his neck. Glass punched his chest; his cooling vest burst, gray fluid spraying, turning a dirty, noxious slate as it mingled with Merrick’s blood. He screamed as one shard, sharp as a knife and long as a spear, skewered his right shoulder, slicing through red, quivering meat and bone, and pinned him to his pilot’s couch. Pain exploded in his chest, and he let out a long, wailing roar of agony.