Mercenary's Star

by William H. Keith

  First, however, they were going to have to run the Combine blockade.

  "I can't say I care much for it, either," Grayson said, "but if we can slip past the Dracos, we should be safe enough.”

  “They'll be patrolling."

  "And we'll be looking like a Kurita Union Class. They won't be expecting us, but they're likely to put it down to a sloppy schedule. Besides, I doubt that they'll be watching for someone breaking in."

  Tor did not look happy. "I'll be back. You have the beacon gear."

  "Safely stowed. We'll send a coded pulse exactly 900 standard hours after we set down. Don't worry, O.K.?"

  "Don't worry, the man says. Right. Well, Invidious and me'll be right here, 980 hours from now. At that point, you can tell me what you need...or meet me yourself if you have to cut and run." The expression in Tor's eyes showed what they both knew. If it did turn out that the Legion were forced to abandon the system, it was unlikely they would be doing so according to a schedule.

  They clasped hands a last time, and Grayson clambered through the docking ring and into the DropShip Phobos. Hatches sealed shut with the hiss of pressurization, while the Invidious’s intercom announced clearance for release. Then compressed air blasted noiselessly into space, the docking grapples swung free, and the Phobos dropped away from her JumpShip's needle shape at three meters per second. Once the spherical DropShip was well clear of the Invidious and her delicate, still unfurling sail, thrusters realigned the Phobos with the fleck of light that was Verthandi. Her boosters flared into life, and she began to fall toward that distant world at a velocity increasing by nearly ten meters per second with each passing second. Behind her, the Invidious had begun the recharge cycle for her jump back into the interstellar void. Captain Tor waited almost three hours before he began transmitting a radio signal toward the waiting Dracos that the Phobos was inbound from the Norn system's zenith jump point.

  * * * *

  The mournful keening of the jungle ornithoids known as chirim-sims carried quite well across the open, grassy, bluesward uplands to the University Gardens. They were loud enough to be heard even above the rumble and clatter of the city of Regis, much closer at hand. From the upper towers of the Administrative Complex, the jungle was visible as a low, shaggy line of black and gray against the green-tinged sky to the north. Governor-General Masayoshi Nagumo took another sip of his drink and scowled at the distant racket.

  "Amnesty." Nagumo rolled the word across his tongue as though uncertain of the flavor. A slight man with heavy, oriental features and a mustache already graying to match the silver at his temples, he wore the severe, utilitarian black of a high-ranking officer of the Draconis Combine. The high-collared uniform's only ornament were the kana symbols spelling out the names of Kurita and Duke Ricol in gold and the black-on-red dragon circles above them. In the cross-draw holster at his belt, he wore a deadly Nakjima hand laser.

  Behind him, Olav Haraldssen was struggling to control his expression. His own red and gold uniform was more richly adorned than Nagumo's, but there could be no doubt who was the master and who the servant on that terrace. The crest on Haraldssen's tunic was the emblem of the University of Regis. He was unarmed—native Verthandians were never permitted to go otherwise into the Governor-General's presence—and the terror in his face and posture was plainly visible.

  "Your Council is actually suggesting that a writ of amnesty be issued for these...creatures?"

  "My...my Lord, it seems the best way. The rebels will never come in, never agree to a cease-fire, unless we offer some promise that they will not be...be summarily slaughtered...."

  Nagumo whirled to face the First Councilman of Verthandi's Council of Academicians. The planetary leader continued to speak, haste tumbling the words one upon the next. "Of course, the leaders will be taken, handed over to your department for questioning for...for whatever it is you want to do with them...."

  "Oh yes, my learned friend. The leaders will be taken. But do you seriously believe that an offer of amnesty is going to bring those people in out of the jungles? Eh?"

  "Lord, we must... we must at least make the attempt to placate the people."

  Nagumo was surprised at the man's boldness despite his obvious fear. Haraldssen's hands were clenched at his side, his tongue flicking across dry lips, but he plunged on in the face of the dragon. What had happened? This man had been chosen because of his haste to welcome Verthandi's new masters. Was he now having an attack of conscience...or had someone within the University's hierarchy gotten to him? Might revolt be flourishing again among the University faculty?

  Regis University dominated the northern sprawl of Verthandi's capital city, and the Central Tower of the Administrative Complex commanded the University. From the garden terraces halfway up the broad Tower, Nagumo could see not only the distant jungle, but the sweep of Regis itself, beyond the walls of the University. Below him stretched the broad, parklike central Courtyard. From this height, students and faculty moving among the university buildings or passing through the main Courtyard Gateway into the city proper looked minute, mere insects on the pavement.

  The government situation here was peculiar, a state approaching anarchy, directed by the faculty-elected Council of Verthandi's principal center of learning. The people seemed to think in abstract notions of learning, culture, and art rather than in terms of power. Nagumo had no personal quarrel with art. He found the University architecture stimulating, enjoyed the haiku of Ihara Saikaku and Matsuo Basho, and numbered among his dearest possessions an original oil painting by Chesley Bonestell...but what in hell's name did such things have to do with power?

  Haraldssen had mistaken Nagumo’s silence for encouragement. "The people are restless, have been restless since your forces came here. Harsher treatment will only alienate them further. If we can demonstrate our good faith...."

  "Good faith?" Nagumo twisted the words past his teeth. "To dogs and barbarians, jungle scum and blood-sucking vermin? Gah! If you think harsher treatment will alienate them, Haraldssen, you are mistaken. I will give them amnesty...the amnesty I gave Mountain Vista!"

  "Lord..."

  "Silence!" Nagumo's slight frame seemed to grow, looming over Haraldssen as the Verthandian trembled. "The penalty for resisting the Draconis Combine is extermination! Do you hear me? You, my spineless lap dog, are the ruler of this benighted planet... under my hand! I charge you to crush this rebellion, and that means tracking down these rebels skulking about in Verthandi's swamps and killing them! Not negotiating with them, not offering them terms or amnesty. Kill them! Kill their families! Destroy the villages that offer them shelter and food! If you fail, Academician, I shall not. If it means eradicating the jungles that give these vermin shelter, so be it, even if the process ends all native life on Verthandi!"

  "Y-yes, Lord!"

  “The raids on Combine garrisons and outposts, the pilfering of supplies and arms from Combine depots will cease. You and your people will maintain the Pax Draconis here, or I will intervene personally. I will burn Regis about your ears, if I must! I will order my BattleMech legions to dismantle your precious University stone by stone, shoot every third person in the city, and send the entire Council of Academicians and their families to Luthien in chains as slaves! I will have order restored'"

  "Of course, my Lord. You needn't intervene, Lord. I'll...I'll issue new orders at once. The rebels will be hunted down and slaughtered, my Lord..."

  "Then give the orders...and follow through with them. This world is Duke Ricol’s now, and has been given into my keeping. You will keep the peace in my name and his, or I will dispense with you and keep the peace myself—even if it means hanging every inhabitant and burning every village and farm between here and the Azure Sea! Now get out!"

  Haraldssen hurried from the terrace as if pursued by a jungle chirops.

  Nagumo watched the Academician go, then nodded to a black-uniformed guard who had stood unnoticed in a corner of the garden terrace throughout the interview.
The guard also departed instantly. A moment later, Colonel Valdis Kevlavic emerged from the double doors behind the Governor General, came to attention, and executed a crisp, fist-to-chest salute.

  "The man is a fool," Nagumo said, without preamble. "He wants to remain well-liked by the people, while maintaining the privileges of his position."

  "Perhaps it is time to replace him, my Lord." Kevlavic was a large, blond man. The ragged scar that creased his face from the corner of his right eye to the point of his chin pulled the right side of his mouth sideways, creating a caricature of a grin. His eyes, however, were unrelentingly cold.

  "Eventually, Colonel...but not yet Not quite yet." Nagumo rested the long, bony fingers of both hands on the ornate guard rail that rimmed the terrace. The jungle animals continued their chorus as the sun westered toward the brown hills on the horizon in a blaze of orange, green, and purple. He admired the beauty of the sunset, letting it sap the fury he had used as a lash on Haraldssen. "How went the campaign in Mountain Vista?"

  Nagumo knew the answer already, of course, from Kevlavic's personal reports as well as from his own agents among the Colonel's men. Everyone was watched within the ranks of Lord Kurita's regiments.

  "Quite well, my Lord. The town was 80 percent burned and the population driven into the hills. We uncovered quite a large cache of weapons and ammunition in the home of one of the village leaders. The man and his family tried to escape, but we were able to catch them. I had some of my boys make a long, slow example of them and then nail up the remains in the town square, where the locals'll find them when they return. They'll be a long time rebuilding. I don't think the rebels'll find a haven in Mountain Vista again."

  "Good," Nagumo said curtly, all the while thinking, You are as much a fool as Haraldssen. One raid will not change their minds any more than his offer of amnesty. The rebellion will end when they are dead. All of them!

  "We must continue our own campaign against the rebels, Colonel," he went on. "Our plan to allow the local government do our work for us is not progressing well at all. While you were gone last week, three of our garrisons were raided, as were seven Verthandian army posts. Eight Kurita troops were killed, and I don't know how many locals. Their raids are increasing."

  "Still, Lord, there seems to be no purpose or direction to those raids. They have no central leadership, no plan or cohesion among their units. They are harassing attacks only."

  "And they will cease! Duke Ricol has personally ordered me to end the rebellion here. It will be ended...one way or another."

  "Yes, my Lord."

  "We will take Verthandi in our fists and squeeze until the last drop of blood has trickled through our fingers. The Duke may have need of this world...but he does not need the people...not all of them, at any rate. Human beings are cheap, easily imported. We will bring in our own if we cannot bend these to our will, eh?"

  "Yes, my Lord."

  "Good. Now, another matter."

  "Lord?"

  "Our fleet base on Verthandi-Alpha has reported receiving radio transmissions and IFF codes from a freighter arrived at the zenith point. This visitor was not expected, but claims to be a freelance mercenary hired by the Combine. A Union Class DropShip is now bound in-system."

  Kevlavic's brow furrowed. "To what purpose, Lord?"

  "Most likely Procurement has scrambled things once again and has sent a shipment of supplies and ‘Mech spares early. Still, it is best to be prepared. Right now, the rebels in the swamps are little more than a nuisance. With outside help, they could begin to pose a real threat to our timetable."

  "It might be a Lyran raider, Lord."

  "Possible, but unlikely. It might also be a freelance raider, but I don't think that likely either. Any raiding force would have to come with more force aboard than a single DropShip could carry. Still, we will not take chances. If that ship sets down, you will shuttle a force there immediately and take command of local defenses. A DropShip in the employ of hostile forces must not be allowed to lift off again, nor must its crew be allowed to establish contact with the rebels. Understood?"

  "Yes, my Lord!"

  "Very well. Dismissed."

  Colonel Kevlavic saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and strode; from the terrace.

  Across the savannah, the shrieks of the jungle chirimsims Seemed to redouble in intensity, wailing as though the creatures were in pain. At this distance, their eerie calls were mournfully human.

  Governor-General Masayoshi Nagumo found the faint jungle noises most pleasant.

  6

  The straight-line distance from the Norn zenith point to Verthandi was 1.39 AU, a hair over 207 million kilometers. At a steady boost of 1 G, allowing for a mid-course turn-over and deceleration, the trip took 80 hours. On the decks between bunks stacked six-high, the facilities of a DropShip loaded with ‘Mechs, supplies, and personnel were too crowded to allow much in the way of training. The fifty-odd men and women aboard spent the time huddled over dice or cards or lay in those bunks reading, trying to sleep, or simply thinking.

  The ship's lounge offered the illusion of more space, but not many could fit in at once. It was also the only area aboard the Phobos large enough to accommodate Grayson's entire company staff. That meant Legion troops or Techs looking to stretch their legs or use the lounge microfiche reader all too often found the door closed and hung with a hand-penciled sign saying "Staff Meeting".

  Held once during each of the ship's 24 standard-hour days, these meeting were Grayson's best opportunity to observe how the members of his staff worked together and with the other MechWarriors of his command. The meetings also served for discussion of alternate strategies and possibilities for the coming weeks, as well as to air worries, disagreements, and objections.

  "It's what you signed on to do," Grayson was saying now. His head hurt because they had been around this point a dozen times already. As the hour of confrontation with the Kurita garrison drew closer, the Gray Death's two Chippewa pilots were occupying more and more of Grayson's time in these meetings. Their experience at Sevren had made them wary of promises of assistance.

  "Look, we weren't told our DropShip would be a pop-gun-mounted freighter," Sue Ellen Klein said. She stood at her place at the conference table, stabbing an accusing forefinger at Grayson. "You say you'll bail us out if we get in deep, but you're going to have trouble bailing yourself out if it really goes down!"

  "You may be right," Grayson said quietly, "but you and Lieutenant Sherman are this unit's air-space fighter power, period. I have no one else I can use, and I'm going to need a fighter screen out there ten hours from now. It's a long way back to get replacements. If you didn't want the billets, why didn't you walk on Galatea, when I gave you the chance?"

  "I didn't know then we were signing a damned suicide pact!"

  Jeffrie Sherman spoke from the seat alongside Klein. "We assumed we were signing to provide cover for ground operations, Captain. We're good at ground support, and we'll be an asset to your unit. But a plan like this..." He tapped the portable computer screen in front of him. "Pick-up is going to be crucial."

  Grayson folded his hands in front of him on the table. How he dealt with this could be critical to the mission...and to the future of the unit. The staff knew only too well that Sue Ellen Klein and Jeffrie Sherman were the sole survivors of an AeroSpace Fighter wing that had tangled with two full squadrons of Combine Slayers over Severn; that a failed pick-up had resulted in the deaths of their comrades, including Klein's brother. When their squadron had disbanded, Klein and Sherman had become mercenaries, and joined the Gray Death Legion.

  Now these two wanted assurances that the Legion's DropShip would not abandon them to the Kurita pursuers.

  Grayson spread his hands. "I don't have any answer for you, people. I know you're good at ground support, and I intend to employ you in ground support the moment we set down. But if Combine naval ships close on us, I'm going to need a fighter screen. Agreed...if we get caught in a running battle all th
e way to atmosphere, providing pick-up may not be possible. Things will be happening fast when we hit atmosphere, and Captain Martinez is not going to want to open docking bays to incoming missiles or to take time for complex maneuvers. All I can say is that you have our landing coordinates. Once the Phobos is clear of pursuit, break free, and rendezvous with us on the ground." He looked across at Erudin, who had joined this particular briefing. "Do you have something to add. Citizen?"

  "Only that if you land anywhere in the polar basin, just stay with your ships. Our people will get to you sooner or later. Combine forces never enter the jungle if they can help it They tend to get...bogged down."

  "How is the Gray Death supposed to move ‘Mechs through all that mud?" Sue Ellen demanded.

  Erudin chuckled. "You'll be meeting a man on our council named Ericksson, and he has a place...an island...all dry land and full of surprises. As for the rest..." He shrugged. "There are swamps, of course, but lots of dry land. Logging is big business around the Azure Sea. There are logging roads and trails all through the Basin."

  Grayson frowned at Erudin. The names of the rebel council's members were not good items to share with people who might one day find themselves beating their way through the bush on an enemy-held planet.