by Mike Moscoe
Again, the Black Hawk took to the air. This time its driver leaned it forward, trying to get as much distance out of the jump as he could. An experienced Mech Warrior never would have made that error. Even without the patter of thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs on his BattleMech, leaning into a jump was a bad idea. The Black Hawk landed, took two running steps to try to catch its balance, then—with its gyros screaming almost loud enough for Benjork to hear—fell flat on its face to spend the rest of its forward momentum in the dirt before it came up hard against one of the rocks that time and erosion had left dotting the plain.
For a moment the Black Hawk just lay there, venting heat from more places than it should have been. Then its driver pried it from the dirt with its huge claws, got its feet underneath it, and began again to run for the distant horizon.
Not averse to kicking a surat while it was down, Benjork squeezed off his last rockets as the Black Hawk struggled to its feet. The fleeing BattleMech ran right into them—and the two Sean had fired, then two more from Maud.
Reeling, it almost missed a step. Catching its balance resulted in a dance complicated by the rock it had hit going down and the shells all three gray ’Mechs sent its way.
As if maddened beyond reason, the Black Hawk fired off a full salvo that hit nothing but sky and dirt. Straightening itself in a hail of tungsten slugs, the BattleMech fired lasers and volley after volley of its missiles at its tormentors.
Benjork zigzagged, trying to throw off the Black Hawk’s targeting computer. He succeeded, but Maud took a full volley before the Black and Red turned to flight again.
Ben slammed his throttle forward, and his ’Mech began to eat up the dry ground with long strides. His Gatling gun renewed its staccato, sending chips of armor flying from the Black and Red’s back. Sean followed, Gatling blazing. Even Maud stumbled forward, though at half-speed, her fire doing less damage as the Black Hawk lengthened the distance between them.
Benjork gave chase, footpads moving in long strides, Gatling striking sparks or chips off armor. He watched with grim satisfaction as the strange heat vent on the back of the Black Hawk grew. The fleeing BattleMech twisted as it ran, turning back its left arm with two SRM quads on it. The Lone Cat angled off to the right, forcing a deflection shot. Missiles set sage to burning, but nothing else.
Benjork concentrated on the hot spot. He aimed his Gatling gun, but modified the targeting computer’s aim to match the correction he saw in his heart. Then he fired. A stream of thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs stitched a circle on the back of the Black Hawk. The infrared readout flared in Ben’s cockpit.
Now the Black Hawk’s other arm with its missiles came around. Benjork sideslipped to the left. Eight missiles volleyed into the sand and sage as Ben’s thirty-millimeter slugs again flaked armor off.
Twice more the Black Hawk tried to shoot while running. Twice more it only slowed him down. The process started again, with Benjork again edging outward to complicate the Black and Red’s firing solution. This time the runner did not fire.
Suddenly the Black Hawk came to a hopping stop, twisted in place, and fired off a barrage of SRMs and lasers.
Benjork did not slow down but twisted his course hard right. The shooter tried to compensate, but the missiles only left a stuttering line of explosions behind the MiningMech MOD. All but one, which slashed into Ben’s rock cutter, smashing it.
Again the Black Hawk turned in place to flee. Having centered his fire on the closest gray ’Mech, the fleeing pilot had left Sean free to close—and free to carefully aim his fire.
Now both Sean and Benjork concentrated their fire on the back of the Black Hawk. Again armor flew, only now in larger chunks, and the heat plume shot out white hot for a second.
But only for a second, because the next moment, the Black Hawk disappeared in a flash that made the blue sky seem shadowed.
“What happened?” Maud asked on-channel, hurrying forward.
“H-hellfire escaped and claimed its own,” Sean said. The flaming wreckage spat and smoked—its own little hell—as Benjork slowed to a pace that dropped his engine gauges out of the red. Turning, he began a cooling jog back to the other battle. Sean held back to assist Maud’s limping ’Mech. They were good warriors. Benjork wished them whatever joy they could find during this time of sudden death, glory and grief.
As the wash came into view, it looked like Hicks had the situation well in hand. Ten Black and Red ’Mechs were surrounded by nine gray ones. The militia pilot had even managed to get his limping ’Mech in. Things had turned out better than the veteran had had any right to hope for.
“Sir, am I glad to see you,” Hicks called on-channel. “We have a problem here that’s beyond my pay grade.”
“The situation, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, these civilians have seen a lot of their people killed. Most ran because the Special Police strung up people they loved.”
“And they want revenge, quiaff.”
“In spades, sir. They want the captured Black and Reds hung from the arms of their ’Mechs, sir.”
“They are our prisoners?”
“They surrendered to me, sir.”
Benjork popped his canopy to cheers and awed stares at the damage. A few quick words with the survivors verified that any offer of assistance to the fugitives, or even to have been in a position to possibly help meant quick death. Some joined the flight because they had had enough of Santorini. Most joined because they had no other choice. Of the three AgroMechs at the rock, two were from people recently joined in the flight. Somewhere to the south were two burned-out AgroMechs holding what was left of a father and his oldest son.
“They’re gonna hang. Hang ’em now,” spat the widow with cold anger as Benjork approached.
“You hang convicted murderers on Alkalurops, quiaff?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man at her elbow answered.
“These men are my prisoners,” Benjork said, “taken under the rules of war. I cannot allow you to be judge, jury and executioner, ma’am.”
“You think you’re better then me—better than us,” the woman said, her eyes cold slits.
“I am no better than you, ma’am. I just follow the laws laid down for me. If these men have violated those laws, they will be so charged, tried, and punished. It is not our place.”
“Ma, there’s been enough blood today. Let it go to a judge. Nothing’s gonna bring Pa or Brother back,” the young man said.
Finally the woman wept, leaned on her son, and turned away.
Benjork eyed the prisoners. “Who are they, Hicks?”
“A mixed bag, sir. Some punks from around here. Others who somehow managed to buy ’Mechs off-world and get Santorini to hire them. That Black Hawk you burned was the boss man of this crew. Field Marshal of Special Police by the name of Pillow.”
“Field Marshal, quineg?”
“I swear it. Santorini is easy on promotions.”
Benjork shook his head and changed the subject. “Where is our guide?”
“He lit out in his pickup. Said Nazareth needed to hear about this fast. I think I can follow our tracks back.”
So the gun trucks led the withdrawal. One of the Black and Red trucks had a complete suite for hijacking ’Mechs, so ten poorly done ’Mech MODs crewed by the next-best militia pilots grouped themselves as a cover for the exhausted fugitives. Benjork led his ’Mechs as rear guard. If they met more Black and Reds, it would be a hard fight. Their rocket launchers were empty and the magazines of their Gatling guns were not that far from it.
Nazareth was empty except for their old guide. “Most folks lit out north as soon as you went through here the first time. Them that stayed left plenty fast when I told them what happened out by the old Harlingen place. I figured I’d hang around to catch anyone who missed out on getting the word.”
They gassed the rigs, then headed north, the old rancher showing them a faster way. Benjork suspected they’d need it.
L. J. knew his client was m
ad; these days Santorini called only when he was screaming hot. It was also the only time the Net came up, so it was easy to respond when his ’puter blinked red and beeped. Santorini always seemed to pick the worst times to call.
L. J.’s last platoon was just motoring through the gate—dusty, bullet-holed and straggling. Scrawled in tall letters on each of its trucks was “Please ignore us. Save your ammo for the Black and Reds chasing us.” L. J. really wanted to get that story. Instead he activated his ’puter and said, “Yes, Mr. Santorini. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Can you do anything for me?” came like a slap of cold iron.
“I am concentrating my battalion, sir. Several more platoons came in today. They were pretty beat up on the drive in, lots of sniping going on out there.”
“A lot of lawlessness. If you’d apply the same procedures my Special Police do, you might have less trouble.”
Or more, L. J. didn’t say. “Sir, I am not a police force. I operate within the rules of war.”
“Well, that damn woman up the Gleann Mor Valley is waging war against me. She has sent her troops to aid insurrection and to shoot down my police.”
“Oh, is it that bad out there?” L. J. said, keeping a solid grip on his tone. The mayor’s wife had made another trip out and given him their side of what took place outside a small town called Nazareth. The town had been burned to the ground by the Special Police, she reported. Fortunately, everyone had fled into the valley. Damn, but that valley must be getting crowded.
“You will move out as soon as you consider your battalion capable of offensive action. You will seal off the Gleann Mor Valley and conduct search-and-destroy through it. All arms, all commercial facilities capable of dual use, are to be destroyed. All people taking up arms against their lawful government will be turned over to the Special Police I assign to interrogating such prisoners, their wives and families. Understood?”
L. J. could almost hear the recording being made. Nothing in his military training applied to this. How do you keep your fighting honor when given orders for mass murder? Guess the academy needs some new courses. “I have recorded your orders, sir. I acknowledge them and will be ready to move out in two days, sir. Where will I rendezvous with your Special Police?”
“Amarillo.”
“I assume they will be outside my chain of command.”
“Of course. They are my Special Police.”
L. J. wanted that clearly on the record. “Understood, sir.”
“Good-bye then, Major.”
“Good-bye, sir,” L. J. said. He closed the com unit with a firm click, watched until the Net died, then turned to Mallary. “Now let’s find out who came up with the idea of writing messages to the locals on the sides of that platoon’s trucks.”
14
Outside Amarillo, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
24 August 3134; local summer
Grace studied the sun-seared rolling land before her. As her mind switched from miner’s to soldier’s thoughts, she could almost hear a click. Beside her, Ben eyed the defenses thrown up ten klicks south of Amarillo where the main road made a series of hairpin curves through a deep wash. A culvert covered a trickle of a river, but a gully-washer anywhere in the valley would have water pouring over the riverbed’s five-meter-high banks. Regularly washed out, the road was mostly potholes this summer. Few folks were feeling motivated toward their civic duty to repair the road.
Chato’s Navajos had taken a good three hundred riflemen from the south valley and shown them how to vanish. Even ’Mech MODs were either in cover, in fighting positions or hidden behind rocks. The command post was a small cattle shed, its roof falling in, lined with a double wall of sand bags. It smelled of heat and shade and cows.
“We have the main road blocked here,” Grace said. “East and west of here, the riverbank is deep and nasty. Bliven’s the only other good crossing,” she said, pointing to a map and the town a hundred and fifty kilometers east. “Syn and Wilson are down there setting up ambushes. West is your territory, Ben.”
“Any other defense in front of Amarillo?” the albino asked, his pink eyes squinting as he studied the potential battleground.
“None. Everything from here to town is too flat.”
“So we give up the town when this falls, quiaff?”
“We’ll have to. Most folks have already fled. Everyone’s heard stories of the Black and Reds. Nobody wants to be here when they show up. ’Course there are always stragglers, but with luck they’ll be too few for the mercs to notice.”
Ben eyed the land for a long time. Below them a rickety, overloaded truck chugged through the potholes at the bottom of the wash, then began its slow climb out. Once at the top, it halted and a woman in a huge straw hat and shapeless dress struggled down from the packed flatbed. She shouted her thanks, then plodded toward the barn as the truck drove off, its people, bedding and boxes swaying. One of the passengers began to sing, and others joined in.
“Nice people, those,” the woman said, setting down a box in the shade of the barn and sitting on it.
“Excuse me,” Grace said. “We’re kind of busy here. Don’t you belong somewhere else?”
The woman lifted the sleeve of her sweat-drenched smock, sniffed, and made a face. “Three days on the road, and I think a barn’s the only place that’ll take me.”
“Totally untrue,” Ben said, turning to the woman and actually smiling. “On you, mademoiselle, it is merely what other perfumes strive to be.” Grace looked at her Lone Cat. Had he gone totally crazy? “Grace, do you not remember Betsy Ross?”
Grace looked closer at the woman under the straw hat. The interloper stood, made a formal curtsy, then hiked up her dress, giving a good eyeful, and rummaged around her waist for something. With a slight victory yell, she pulled out a flat block which, when unwrapped from a reeking cloth, turned out to be an unusually large ’puter.
“I have here the full download of Alfred Santorini’s personal files. Brilliant of him to turn off the Net. Most of his security went down with it. Left his files wide open once I cracked his encryption. Here’s everything you need to know about his little operation.”
“What’s the most important thing you found?” Grace asked.
“My old master always used to say, ‘Follow the money,’ so here’s the money,” Betsy said, and brought up a spreadsheet. “Or here’s the money,” she said, bringing up another. “Or it could be this or that,” and two more screens filled with numbers, then flashed away. “I’ve been in a few ops that ran two sets of books, but four! Santorini’s way twisted.”
Betsy frowned for a moment, then shuddered. “By the way, we are killing this bastard, aren’t we? ’Cause if you folks aren’t, I’ll do it myself. He dies. Slow and very dead.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Grace said, “that’s the plan. You have the proof in your ’puter that says we should kill him.”
“There and a few other places,” Betsy said, started to rub at her hip, then stopped herself. “Just so long as we’re agreed that bastard dies, I’m in this with you all the way.”
“What do you make of those spreadsheets?” Ben said.
“I’m sure an accountant will find all sorts of funny money in them, but taken as a whole, they point in too many directions. This one,” she said, bringing one up, “is what you’d expect him to send to his boss at Lenzo Computing. Nice, easy-to-swallow numbers for not a lot of activity.”
She flipped to a new screen. “This one has a lot more in it. For example, he lists his acquired properties. Seems that all the property that got into tax arrears was sold at auction. A very private auction. He bought it for not even pennies on the C-bill. Even that was covered by a loan he wrote himself on the Allabad Mechanics and Agriculture Bank. He’s gonna make a killing when Lenzo Computing moves here.
“But then there’s this one,” she said, frowning at the screen. “I think it’s for if he gets in trouble and has to cal
l for help, say Landgrave Jasek Kelswa-Steiner and his Stormhammers. Here he sells a lot of stuff at a discount.”
“And the fourth?” Ben said.
“A whole lot more interesting. Note the bottom line,” Betsy said, pointing at a blank space on the sheet. “There is none. Everything gets converted to cash-producing holdings. And there’s another change. The mercs go from the cost side of the sheet to the asset side. All their property’s there, but no costs.”
“Troopers have to be paid,” Ben said. “No avoiding that!”
“He thinks he can. Santorini sends a lot of e-notes to the Roughriders’ adjutant. This one didn’t get sent. He wrote it the day things started to go bad, so maybe he was saving it. He asks the adjutant to take on a cook from Santorini’s staff.”
“The mercs are that hard up for staff?” Grace asked.
“The Major was trying to hire my maid services.”
Grace scowled. Hanson hadn’t come across to her as the kind who couldn’t keep his hands off the help. Betsy shook her head. “What I really think he wanted was info from Allabad. Anyway, I turned down the job offer in a chatty letter that told him stuff that would have cost him a pile of stones if he was paying my usual fee. He came right back with another nice, friendly note, and we kept up the chat, me feeding him intel before he asked for it. But why would Santorini send a cook?”
“He knifed the Governor and Legate,” Grace pointed out.
“And if he declared the mission accomplished and called for a victory dinner, there might be few survivors if his cook had orders to poison them,” Betsy said as if she were practiced at that.
“That wouldn’t get every merc,” Grace pointed out.
“No, but it would get so many that even his Black and Reds could sweep up the leavings.”