by Mike Moscoe
“Maybe we should back up,” came Jobe’s voice from the jeep’s speakers. “If they clobber this grain elevator, things could get real bad.”
One ’Mech backed up. The second one joined it. Wilson ran to his jeep, and his son gunned out to the left, away from the ’Mechs who retreated into Bliven, snapping off short bursts at anyone who sent fire their way.
For a long moment Yonni watched the expanding clouds of explosives. Around him, everyone did the same. Here and there a man, ’Mech or tank maneuvered to dodge a falling chunk of debris.
Then the Demon tank that hadn’t been blown up with the bridge expressed its opinion by snapping off a laser shot at the gray ’Mechs. They started backing up, firing back at anyone who fired at them. When they passed out of sight behind the multistoried buildings that must represent Bliven’s main street, the riverbank grew silent.
“Uh, sir, you probably can’t see it,” the XO reported from the vantage point of the van on the south bluff, “but there are about a dozen pickup trucks beating it for the hills fast.”
“Can you put fire on them?”
“Wait one,” the XO said, and was back well before the full minute was up. “No, sir, First Platoon’s tanks are out of position, and the ’Mechs were either heading down the riverbank or for the bridge. The land over there is full of folds, and we can’t get any good shots as they duck in and out of ’em.”
“So what else is new?” Yonni said, biting back worse comments he didn’t want on the radio. “I’m all right. ’Mech’s only slightly damaged. Call Battalion for the repair truck and try not to say what it’s for.” The cheap client had budgeted the companies for only one maintenance van each. That wouldn’t help his Legionnaire. “Also advise Battalion that we will need a bridging unit here, five spans’ worth.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thirty minutes later, First Platoon was across the river. Third was following them, and the HQ van waded to a stop beside Yonni. Climbing down his ’Mech to join the XO on the roof of the van he asked, “What’s the situation?”
“B Company should be here in two hours. I’ve assigned Fourth Platoon to guard the ford until they get here. We are ready to exploit forward.”
“Did the major have any luck in front of Amarillo?”
“Doesn’t appear so, sir. Snipers made the advance tough sledding. We have the only troops across, sir.”
“So let’s get busy exploiting,” Yonni ordered.
Outside Amarillo, Alkalurops
25 August 3134
“They are exploiting forward, sir,” the XO said.
“Now they are,” L. J. pointed out.
“That’s what they said, sir.” Art worked his jaw. If he wasn’t careful, he’d need caps before he made Major. The Colonel did not like paying high dental bills and did not trust worriers. L. J. made sure his jaw was loose.
“Art, why don’t you take your Arbalest and get yourself over to A Company—make sure its reports are accurate when they’re made, not an hour later. And find out what their casualties are. They’ve made two requests for the repair rig, but I still don’t have any damage report.”
“Yes, sir,” Art said, a big grin taking over his face. Getting free of the HQ in his BattleMech was great. Commanding the battalion’s spearhead wouldn’t look half bad on his next contract’s résumé.
L. J. turned back to his map table. So Grace’s right had turned out to be a bit tougher to crack than had first appeared. Still it was cracked, and as best as L. J. could tell, even the ’Mechs were just shooting and bugging out. If the opposition had any maneuverability, Grace should have counterattacked at that river crossing. Hell, if there was anything really in front of him, it should have attacked him when they saw one company head east, and before the other company got in from the west.
So, Grace, all I have to do is peel you. Wonder what that creamy white skin will look like when I have you down to the buff? L. J. glanced at the west side of his map. The Black and Reds still hadn’t made contact with his lone platoon covering his left flank. L. J. frowned. They were overdue. As much as he really didn’t want them, by later this afternoon he would have to go hunting for them.
Along the Colorado River, Alkalurops
25 August 3134
Jonathan Fetterman, Field Marshal of Special Police, wondered what the holdup was this time. Santorini, er, the Leader had told him it would be easy to get three hundred Special Police up to Amarillo and start cleaning out that nest of dumb-ass farmers who didn’t have the smarts to see which way the wind was blowing. “Send me a lot of pics of full lamp poles,” Santorini had told Fetterman before sending him off.
Well, moving a bunch of commandeered trucks and sixteen ’Mechs in various states of conversion was no picnic—no, sir, it wasn’t. Fetterman scowled at the Atlas under him. Buying it on time had really impressed Santorini back on Nusakan. He’d made him a Field Marshal in a snap, or rather in a snap after Jon had helped another dozen guys buy up every available ’Mech. Like him, they bought on time, mortgaging stuff they really didn’t own and wouldn’t need if things turned out as well as they looked here. Jon grinned, remembering that he’d already tossed his payment book in the trash can. Let old man Benton try to repossess a Field Marshal’s ’Mech on Alkalurops when he’s sitting at the right hand of the Leader. Fetterman enjoyed a laugh, which got his whole body moving. He’d forgotten his hands were on the joysticks. His laugh got the laser-equipped arm of his ’Mech moving. In the truck ahead of him, people pointed and acted as if they were really scared.
He’d never gotten that reaction selling siding on Nusakan. He could have used a bit of that fear-mongering when he was foreclosing on scumbags who didn’t pay, claiming it was his fault for selling bad siding. It had cost him a fortune to keep judges around who believed in enforcing contracts.
“Field Marshal Fetterman, are you having problems with your ’Mech, sir?” Colonel Brisko called over the radio.
“No, I am not, Colonel. What I am is hot in here with the sun beating down. Do we have to travel in the heat of the day? Isn’t it time for a break yet?”
“No, sir, we’re due in Amarillo before sunset. Between potholes and breakdowns, we have to keep moving when we can. This is why I suggested you not wear your uniform, sir. Having it between you and your cooling vest is heating you up, sir.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you that clothes make the man? I am not going to show up in Amarillo half-naked. What’s holding us up?”
“Sir, the lead truck has a flat. It’s off to the side now, being fixed. Had to assign a new lead truck.”
“Well, tell them to hurry up.”
“I will, sir. Remember what I told you about moving those arms.” Brisko started into what Fetterman knew would be another lecture on how to shoot the damn thing.
“I remember how to work it, Brisko. You just keep the trucks moving,” Fetterman snapped. After all, he was the Field Marshal. Three months ago Brisko had been a cashiered merc who couldn’t handle his whiskey. I pulled you out of a homeless shelter. If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be singing hymns for your supper.
Fetterman glanced down at his cockpit. Damn, the yellow tabs he’d stuck on things so he could remember what was what and how to work it had come off. He reached down to collect them off the floor and found he’d accidentally bent his ’Mech at the waist almost to the ground and dumped the tabs in a heap on the controls. He’d get them straight later. There was a manual he kept meaning to read. Maybe tonight. Well, not tonight if the hotel had three hotties like last night’s.
Fetterman concentrated on walking. Brisko was right. If you worked the pedals just right, you could miss most of the potholes.
Benjork Lone Cat wondered what he had done to deserve such a fate. The trap was laid, and then the lead truck went lame and limped to the side of the road. Now the convoy was moving again, apparently none the wiser, but six men were standing around that truck while three struggled to change the tire. Already they had all pissed.
They had drunk water. Some were now passing around a bottle. How long before even blind men spotted that they were in the very epicenter of a trap?
Through the crack of the door, the MechWarrior eyed the terrain, which had decreed where to spring the trap. Here water cut a narrow passage through a tight canyon, less than a hundred meters wide, with walls of aged and worn rock almost ten meters high. All morning, troops had labored with pickaxes and shovels to dig rifle pits close to the road. Behind two parked dump trucks in a road-maintenance yard, a metal garage gave cover to a dozen gray ’Mech MODs not sixty meters from the road.
A blind cub should have spotted the danger here and sent a foot patrol to scout ahead. But the Black and Reds were truly blinded by their confidence that it was their destiny to kill, not to be killed. They drove into the trap with only a slight delay, as they argued who would take point and who would absorb any mines on the road ahead. Now the trucks full of infantry filed by. Coming soon would be the ’Mechs. A huge Atlas led them, or at least stumbled in the first position. That one would be almost comical if he didn’t have at his fingertips the power to smash every machine that stood behind the Lone Cat.
But it was the Spider following the Atlas that caused fear. The pilot of that one knew what he was doing. While those ahead and behind him moved with a tipsy jerkiness, that one walked smoothly, even through the inevitable potholes. Ben turned to Sean and Maud, who were beside him. “That Spider is the one we must kill.”
“Looks a whole lot easier than the Black Hawk we took down,” Maud said.
“Th-three ’Mech MODs against one real B-BattleMech driven by a trained MechWarrior will be j-just about even odds,” Sean told her. Usually, the boy agreed with whatever the girl said. Now Sean looked past her to the enemy. “It can j-jump. It has two lasers and a cooling system that lets it jump, f-fire, and run when others might be overheated and locked up. With an average warrior, it would take the th-three of us to bring it to ground. If th-that man is good, it will be b-bad for us, Maud.”
“Aw, it’ll be fun dancing with someone who knows how,” the girl shot back. “Those guys out Harlingen way were pussycats.”
“Close up,” Benjork ordered. He tightened his harness and made sure all his cooling lines were free. The lightweight neurohelmet had shifted, so he repositioned it. He set his Gatling gun spinning slowly and punched his mike.
“Lieutenant Hicks, flares on my count. Three, two, one, fire. ’Mechs advance,” he ordered.
Rather than charge out the garage door, the strike team had rigged the thin metal walls with charges. They blew out, dropping metal sheets on the ground. The ’Mechs stepped over the pole frame and in two seconds, twelve ’Mech MODs stood ready for battle, facing other ’Mechs that were still concentrating on following their leader.
Then the daisy chain explosions went off.
Dynamite charges set under the road blew up in a running explosion that quickly flew from the front of the line to the rear. The leading Atlas was just past the first explosion. Benjork doubted the charges were strong enough to knock that huge thing down, anyway. It swayed, but remained on its legs.
The Spider driver showed his worth. Knocked sideways, he hit his jump jets and shot into the air. Working his wings, he stabilized himself in midflight and even got off a slashing shot. Benjork gave the Spider a burst of thirty-millimeter tungsten slugs as it set down in the stream. Even with surprise, water, rocks and incoming fire, the Spider made a good landing.
Farther down the line, the explosive charges did their best to convert Black and Red ’Mechs into pretzels. Those that survived the initial experience came under fire from the gray ’Mechs from Falkirk. The Black and Reds that could, fired as they backpedaled into the river. Nearly half could do nothing more than pop their canopies and throw up their hands.
Trucks with their loads of potential hangmen came under fire from rocket grenades and machine guns. A good chunk of the men stood up in the trucks, hands in the air. Others grabbed at the mounted machine guns or tumbled over the truck sides, pulling back the arming levers on their automatic rifles. They died quickly. In the ditches on either side, men and women fired from the concealment of their fighting pits, taking down those who wanted to fight, usually missing those who did not.
The Spider clearly fell into the fighting category. He raced upstream, back the way he’d come, his laser raking the back of the fighting holes, killing men and women as they killed those around the trucks.
“Get him!” the Lone Cat shouted, sending bursts after the Spider and leading Sean and Maud in chase. Behind them, militia infantry began peeling drivers out of damaged Black and Red ’Mechs. Four men in Gnome battle armor began an assault on the still befuddled Atlas.
In a shower of white water, the Spider jumped for the top of the stream bank. He landed well, twisted around, and fired twin lasers. He missed Benjork, but there was a short scream on the radio before it cut off.
Ignoring everything but the fleeing Spider, the MechWarrior put his engine in the red, raced for the wall, chose a fallen stone for his launch pad, and threw himself at the top of the riverbank. Here it wasn’t quite ten meters high, and he landed just below the lip. Firing two rockets to keep the Spider busy, Ben used his repaired rock cutter to slowly pull himself up the rest of the way. Not pausing to regain his balance, he threw himself after the Spider, converting the near fall into speed.
Behind him, Sean’s voice was intense. “I’m coming. Quick, s-somebody give me a hand up.”
Benjork left Sean to others. The Spider was just disappearing over a small rise. Following, he upped his periscope for a quick check before crossing that rise.
The Spider was trotting backward, both arms up, lasers aimed back at the exact spot where he had crossed the hill.
Benjork sent his ’Mech ten long paces past that point, then pedaled it into a turn. Using his periscope—this time for targeting—he lobbed his last two missiles over the hill. The Spider staggered sideways, firing his lasers at nothing. Benjork trotted his ’Mech across the rise, sending stream after stream of heavy tungsten slugs at him. The Spider’s right winglet took hits—possibly the right rocket outlet as well.
“No more flying, rocket boy,” Benjork growled.
The Spider backpedaled, bringing his lasers around to aim at his tormentor. Then a burst of thirty-millimeter fire from the right grabbed the Spider’s attention as it shattered his left laser.
“G-got you that time!” came from Sean on radio. “How do you like that, you bloody hangman?” He loosed two missiles that sent the Spider hopping sideways to escape them. The Spider regained its balance and fired its remaining laser at Sean.
That left Benjork free to carefully aim his Gatling gun at the Spider’s side. Rounds slammed into the BattleMech, spalling off its armor. The Spider tried to sidestep out of the line of fire, but Ben followed him, holding him, pinning the Spider and hammering it with shot.
So the Spider hit his jump jets.
Maybe he didn’t know how damaged his wing and rocket outlet were. Maybe he forgot. It didn’t matter. The Spider shot up, arcing to the left as soon as it left the ground. The pilot tried to correct, but the damaged wing drove the Spider to the left as misdirected plasma from a split rocket motor burned through the bottom of the ’Mech.
The flight ended in a pair of wild uncontrolled loops. Then the Spider buried itself in a surprisingly small hole only a hundred meters from where it had taken off.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Sean. Never trust one of those jumpers,” Benjork told the young MechWarrior and anyone listening on the radio as he turned to the young man’s gray ’Mech.
The ’Mech stood deathly still, a red-hot hole in its chest sending up wisps of smoke.
“Sean!” Benjork shouted, and put his engine in the red as he raced for the ’Mech standing frozen in place, as if even a soft breeze might be more than it could handle.
He slammed to a halt in front of the ’Mech. Now he could see that a laser had
cut through it, straight as a diamond drill. He peered into the armorglass hood as it slowly fogged over with sweat and blood. Sean’s lips moved. Over the radio Benjork heard a weak, “W-we got him.” Then the gray ’Mech that had meant so much to the young man whose regiment would not entrust one to him, toppled over.
As a Nova Cat, Benjork had learned that the universe is a fickle place. He did not expect material things to reflect what other people call rationality. He knew that karma rules us all whether we be rock and water or flesh and blood. Nova Cats do not weep for what must be.
Benjork Lone Cat knew all of these things—not as a man might know it in his head, but as only a dreamer can know it in the deepest essence of his being.
So now he walked apart from the others who gathered around their fallen comrade, murmuring about how sad it was that the young girl had died, too. Distant from all others who mourned, Benjork opened his cockpit and let the spurious dampness that some might mistake for tears flow from his eyes and be swallowed down by the thirsty red dirt of Alkalurops.
When the dampness was gone, the Lone Cat lifted his right arm to the universe. He shook it, his threat to the very stars. “Know you who watch, you who send dreams. I will stand with Grace and all her kin. This land beneath my feet is my land, the land of my dream. And neither hell nor demons may take it while I breathe.”
15
Kilkenny, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
28 August 3134; local summer
Damn near getting killed while leading a losing fight had to be the worst day of Grace O’Malley’s life. Or so she’d thought. Now she knew she’d thought wrong. Leading a losing battle while safely in the rear, chained to maps, was a whole lot worse.
Worse still, it left her time to think she just might be winning.
Grace looked out over Kilkenny from the Congregational Church steeple. For a moment she let the wind blow in her face and blow the cobwebs from her brain. She didn’t feel any better.