by Mike Moscoe
Grace tapped the throttle and edged Pirate around the boulder that hid her. The attack on the tank seemed to hold the ugly ’Mech’s attention. Maybe she could do something the raiders would remember. MiningMechs often needed knee joints replaced, so maybe BattleMechs had the same weakness. She toggled her Gatling gun to full power. Mick said a light squeeze would send a few rounds out. “Good for ranging, me girl. When you got ’em where you want ’em, squeeze that trigger hard and that gun will cut them a new one, yes she will, a nice big new one.”
Grace nudged the joystick until her crosshairs were right on the BattleMech’s knee, squeezed off a few rounds, and watched as they cut the grass behind the BattleMech.
“Damn!” Grace grumbled as she walked the stream of high-powered 7.6-millimeter rounds into her target.
“Damn it, Godfrey,” L. J. snapped, “don’t play with them, boot them in the ass.” How often had his uncle growled that at Loren as he learned the fighting trade? Now L. J. watched his sergeant’s enthusiasm for the chase turn into a wild slalom. If he did any damage to the gnats that bit at him, no bodies were evident.
L. J. turned his ’Mech to face Godfrey, the better to give him a blistering dressing-down. At that moment the dirt and crud flying from the blowers that held the tank on a thin cushion of air took on more substance. For a second L. J. thought he was seeing rocks and chunks of earth flying out from under the tank.
Then he realized the truth.
The tank had charged into a section of the valley that wasn’t there. What had looked like solid ground a second ago vanished as the hover turbines sent woven grass mats flying. The tank hung in thin air for a second, like some cartoon critter Loren might have laughed at when he was four.
But this was not a cartoon, and L. J. was a detachment commander, and a hovertank may hover a few centimeters above the ground but not over the middle of a deep gully. The tank’s nose dropped. It smashed head-on into the dirt bank ahead of it, then flipped over, coming to rest with a screech of tearing metal and ripping armor. For a moment longer the blowers kept working, sending a cloud of dirt shooting into the sky as if to mark for all to see the resting place of this armored marvel.
“Damn,” L. J. breathed. They’d never get that tank out without a retriever, and this detachment was budgeted on a shoestring. Maintenance truck, yes. Retriever, not on your life.
Then he felt the thud of bullets hammering into his ’Mech’s knee.
“Damn!” he repeated, turning his attention back where it belonged. Slugs ricocheted wildly, but here and there a tiny bit of armor went with them. That ’Mech MOD on his front had some sort of multibarrel gun, and while its slugs might be tiny, it was enthusiastically sending them his way. Slightly off to the right of that tormentor, a second ’Mech MOD with an infrared signature stood up. Then things really got hot.
A river of fire curved toward L. J. It fell short, not even showing on his temp readout. He started to chuckle at these poor jokers’ attempts, then swallowed it.
The fire might have landed short, but it hit a clump of those green shrubs with yellow flowers, and they caught fire like an open gas tank. The morning calm was gone, and the wind now drove the fire right at him. Maybe it’s time to be somewhere else. L. J. turned away from Sergeant Godfrey’s mess, snapped off four salvos of short-range missiles to encourage the locals to mind their own business, and aimed himself at a bit of good level ground well away from the yellow-and-green fire hazard.
The jump was good, right up until the landing.
His entire ’Mech groaned as the gyros struggled to balance him on just his left leg. He overrode the gyros and let his ’Mech settle, left leg bent almost double, right leg deep in a hole that woven mats had concealed a moment earlier.
L. J. tapped his mike. “All hands, watch your footing. This plain is pockmarked with traps.”
“Now he tells me,” came Godfrey’s dry drawl.
L. J. ignored him and concentrated on his own problem. The enemy right was running; Godfrey’s shots had put fear in them. Webrunner was herding the left up the hill. Still, the locals were making good use of folds in the land, and stopping to return fire with single-shot SRMs and two of those dinky miniguns.
L. J. snapped off another volley of SRMs in the general direction of the center of his opposition and got his leg out of the hole. Limping off to the right, he eyed his tormentors.
His first salvo made gravel out of the rock that the minigun was hiding behind. The fire-throwing ’Mech and the infantry were retreating but still firing as they backpedaled. The minigun slashed out at him from behind a new and larger outcropping. Without thinking, his hand worked the joystick to center the crosshairs where he wanted them. Fast as he could punch them out, he salvoed three of his four SRM quad-packs, reserving the fourth in case the first three blew a hole through to his target.
For a moment L. J. thought he might have gotten the joker, but as the dust begun to settle, his BattleMech’s damaged left leg was taking fire again from another boulder. He sidestepped to the right. When that didn’t throw the minigun off, he mashed out another full salvo at his attacker, turned in place, and throttled up to quickly cover the quarter-klick back to where a fold in the land hid his leg. That guy sure is a leg man!
L. J. snapped off another volley. Damn, this is becoming a meat-grinding attrition fight. That’s not why I’m here.
“Captain, town is empty except for a gray-haired old lady who waved a Bible at me and lectured me on the evils of my life,” Sergeant Tanuso reported.
“You shoot her?” Godfrey asked. The sergeant would have.
“I asked her for a date Friday night,” Topkick shot back. “A woman with fire like that is worth more than the gilded cats you hang with any night. I see you need some help, Sergeant,” the topkick finished, taking skin off Godfrey with that observation.
“I am in a bigger hole than usual,” Godfrey admitted.
“I’ve warned you that fooling with married women could leave you walking home. Have a mind to leave you right here.”
“Would make it hard to catch the JumpShip at recall.”
“Would cost you some stripes,” the topkick said as he brought his hoverbike to a stop at the rim of the gully that had eaten the hovertank.
L. J. cut off the banter. “Topkick, help our darling gift to femininity while Webrunner and I keep the locals busy.”
“You do that, sir, and I’ll see what we can do here.”
L. J. turned back to the battle. His problems were now farther up the hills. Normally a stern chase was a long chase, and while his BattleMech could easily outrun IndustrialMechs, these folks did know the territory. Then again, they were tasting battle for the first time and the hills were cut with gullies. Maybe he could cannibalize this bunch if they weren’t careful how they retreated. “Webrunner, you’ve got the left pretty much in reverse. I want you to edge over toward me. Let’s see if there’s a way to cut off that minigun.”
“Will do, Captain.”
Grace was in reverse. Reverse was all in a day’s work for a miner, but for a fighter, it was hardly the road to success.
The rifle crews fled up the ridge, having learned to dash from one clump of cover to another. Even the slow learners caught on after they got shards of rocket in their backsides. Dan was being more careful now as his ’Mech picked its way from cover to cover. For a bloody disaster, it didn’t look too bad. Winning hadn’t been on Grace’s mind for a couple of hours.
Grace put Pirate’s engine in the red as she charged from a rock outcropping to a dry wash behind a knoll with a struggling evergreen perched on it. The engine screamed, but she got all the horsepower Pirate’s builder had put in him, as well as the extra Mick had souped him up to. She fired a burst at the short ugly BattleMech—more to let it know someone was still fighting than to issue any kind of a challenge. She got a lot of rockets for her effort. One shredded the tree, showering her with burning splinters. Rich with turpentine, some stuck to Pirate as they bur
ned, and Grace worked the edge of her drill bit to brush the bigger chips off. When the next salvo was aimed at Dan, she zigzag-jogged to a large boulder. She saved her ammo this run and hoped the damn cuss in the valley would ignore her.
Then it came to her. Except for the terror of possibly being blown to bits in the next second, fighting was just grunt work—harder than any day mining, even breaking ground for a new shaft. She offered a silent prayer: Just let me get out of here and I’ll leave this to the Knights of The Republic and all the other nuts who like it.
“Uh, Gracie, I think we have a problem. Look at the Wilsons,” Dan said, his voice straining over the radio. That team had also been retreating up the ridge. They were still running, but edging south as well. The taller BattleMech was now almost even with Grace. Maybe that meant nothing. Then again, only MacGilly’s Gulch stood between Grace and the hunter. Of course, that gulch was plenty deep. Not the kind of thing you jumped… Unless you could jump like that thing in the valley had.
And why else put wings on the taller BattleMech? Oh, damn! It gave the Wilsons a short laser burst. Another miss. Then it paused. “What’s it doing?” Dan asked after he made a short move from one boulder to another higher up.
Grace studied the taller ’Mech, then glanced at the shorter one below her. It had been quiet for a while. Low on ammo? What else could make one of those killing machines slow down?
“Cooling?” she guessed.
“Cooling what? Speaking of cooling, I could sure use a cool one about now.”
“Cooling themselves, maybe before they do something that will really heat them up,” Grace said, not liking the sound of her words. “BattleMechs can overheat. You’ve seen it in the vids. Why do you think you’re carrying that field burner?”
“Oh, right. I forgot.”
“Get a move on. God only knows what they’re gonna do next, and She ain’t exactly talking to me these days.” Grace slammed the throttle forward, broke cover, and headed for a fold in the ridge that would hide her from both ’Mechs. She fired off a burst at the tall ’Mech across from her, but it fell short.
Grace was back to cover before anything new came her way. It wasn’t her imagination—both ’Mechs were facing her now. Grace broke cover, maxing out Pirate, galloping for a boulder. She checked; her rifles were well up the ridge. Not being attacked made them bolder runners. McCallester’s and Brady’s ’Mechs were way out ahead of their folks, but all were out of range of the two BattleMechs still herding Grace like sheepdogs.
Well, Falkirk wasn’t burning, she had accomplished that much. Now, if she could just get out of this alive.
Halfway to another fold in the ridge, Grace spotted glare out of the corner of her eye. The taller ’Mech was up in the air, now falling to a landing on her side of MacGilly’s Gulch. The other ’Mech was racing toward her, quickly cutting in half the distance Grace had managed to put between them. Grace paused, caught the descending ’Mech in the sights of her Gatling gun, and fired. A few rounds sparked fire as they ricocheted off, but they didn’t even slow the BattleMech’s flight.
The running BattleMech lofted a barrage of rockets her way.
Grace slammed Pirate’s throttle forward, but she hadn’t taken two steps before rockets smacked down around her. At least two hit Pirate, bouncing Grace’s head off the side of the cockpit. Her vision grayed, and the ringing in her ears didn’t cover the screaming of gyros as they struggled to keep her upright. She tried a step forward. No go. A plate of Mick’s armor was off and wedged between Pirate’s middle and the ground. Grace activated her drill and applied it to the dangling slab as she staggered left.
Rocks sizzled as a laser slashed through where she’d just been.
Below her the ugly BattleMech disappeared in the smoke of another salvo. Grace twisted in place, still working on the armor, then staggered back as another pair of rockets struck Pirate. One spent itself on the busted plate, the other smashed her drill, but also knocked the dangling plate free.
A stream of fire flew high over Grace’s head. Dan had turned back and was taking on the taller ’Mech. The fire fell short, burning only some heather. A moment later Dan sent fire down the hill at the shorter, ugly BattleMech.
At least the smoke hid Grace as she nursed Pirate to an outcropping. Half his instruments were dead. Two cylinders weren’t firing, and the engine gauges were a horror. Her Gatling gun hadn’t been much good, and now Pirate couldn’t move quickly. “Dan, pull back,” Grace shouted on circuit. “I’ll cover you.”
“Gracie, I can’t leave you.”
“You stay here and they grab two ’Mechs. You go and they get maybe one. I’ll cover you and then bust out of Pirate and run for it. They’re after the ’Mech. They won’t waste time on me.”
“If you keep covering us, when will you bust out?”
“Soon, if you move it.”
“I’m pulling back, Grace, but I don’t like this.” Dan shot off two more rivers of fire, one toward each BattleMech, then disappeared in a shallow draw only to reappear as his AgroMech hotfooted it from one bit of cover to another.
Grace kept Pirate upright, but one leg was grinding as he moved. She edged around the outcropping, keeping it between her and the taller ’Mech. It was the other one she wanted dead.
As she peeked around the rock, she found the short ’Mech right where it had been. It wasn’t moving in for the kill! It stood tall, scanning the hills behind Grace. She worked the pedals, trying to turn Pirate, but the gyros screamed and nothing happened. She wanted that ’Mech. She jiggled the joystick until her sights were dead on it, then waited for it to come.
“Captain, you see them?”
“Roger, Webrunner, I see them,” L. J. said.
Twelve ’Mechs were moving over the crest of the ridge ahead of them. The distance was too far for him to make out their types and equipment, but if they’d been modified like the ones he’d been fighting, they might be able to take him and Webrunner in their damaged state. Well, his damaged state. He looked at his ammo levels—not much left.
Pickup would be at the mouth of this valley. He had to expect that some fight might be left in the locals. For a moment longer, he considered continuing his pursuit of that troublesome MiningMech, but he had no way of knowing just how badly he’d damaged him. It was time to cut his losses.
“Task Team, fall back to the U in the road. Topkick, can you do anything with the mess Godfrey made of his tank?”
“No, sir. It’s wedged in there real fine.”
“Render it unusable,” L. J. ordered, keeping his voice even, disappointment out, exhaustion not present. A commander leads, Uncle said. And a real leader never lets anyone know things are going bad. Because when things are really bad, that’s when your men and women need leadership the most.
L. J. would show the Roughriders he knew how to lead.
2
Near Falkirk, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
3 April 3134; local spring
Grace lay beside Pirate’s battered hull. The clear sky above her had never seemed such a pure blue. A flowering sprig of Scotch broom smelled heavenly, almost overpowering the stink of burned carbon armor and the residue of exploded rockets.
She was alive! She hadn’t been splattered all over the hill by rockets or lasers. She’d escaped and would live to see tomorrow. It was a heady feeling, especially if she didn’t think too much about how she didn’t deserve it. Luck. All luck.
She looked up to see Mick’s flatbed truck bouncing from rock to rock, its engine struggling as he approached her. Mick backed up to Pirate, got out to take a good look, then gave a low whistle. “Well, that extra armor kept you alive.”
“Just barely. He’s all knocked around inside.”
“Shock. Yeah,” the short, wiry mechanic said. “We build MiningMechs to take the normal wear you jockeys put on them, not the crap a rocket does. Help me with the crane so we can lay your Pirate out. I want a look at that tank your
Navajo friends caught.”
Once they had Pirate loaded, gravity and the ’Mech’s weight urged the truck to go wild, pick up momentum, and leave them all dead at the foot of the hill. Fortunately, Mick was a maestro on the brake and gears.
Chato’s weathered and lined face had a big grin on it as they drove up to the hovertank. A dozen other Navajos, dressed like him in plaid shirts and work jeans, gathered around the tank, which they had managed to right.
“Looks to be in pretty good shape,” Mick said as he and Grace joined Chato.
“They tried to burn it,” Chato said, pointing, palm open, at a still-smoldering area of the canyon floor. “This contraption was upside down, and they couldn’t get their charges to stay put. They tossed grenades into the underside. That’s a mess.”
A younger version of Chato, raven hair held back in four rather than the older man’s two braids, popped his head out of the tank. “Uncle Chato, you have to look at this. They have sensors in here I never even dreamed of.”
“And if Joseph hasn’t dreamed of them, I didn’t think a human could make them,” the Navajo said.
Mick shook his head. “It’s the engine I’ll be wanting to tear apart. Never could understand electric stuff.”
Grace and Chato squatted around the hatch as Joseph settled back into the belly of the monster. Gadgets were wrapped around the seat, leaving just enough room for one person to sit. “Will you look at this, Uncle,” the young man chattered happily. “Their infrared scope. It’s measured in kilometers, not meters. Coyote, grant me one wish: Let whatever sensor feeds that thing be working. I have to see it work.”
“So they knew we were waiting for them,” Grace said bitterly. “Knew just when to attack us.”
“So it seems,” Chato said. “We’ll need to study this war pony a lot more.”
“Lot of stuff to study,” Mick said from where he’d pried open the engine compartment.