But as the first grappling hooks flew up to snag the raider 'Mech's arms and shoulder ridges and the main communication antennas, the pilot must have finally noticed something amiss. His 'Mech took a lumbering step backward, and the PPC barrel of its right arm tracked around, trying to lock on to a target.
Charlene had been told what to expect, but it was still a sight to watch eight riders suddenly abandon their mounts to scale the sides of the giant war machine using their ropes and grappling hooks. Four others who had missed their initial throws galloped around in confusing patterns, trying to draw attention from their brother warriors, who were involved in a rite of ascent. When a shot from the Grand Dragon's left-arm medium laser vaporized one rider and half his horse, no one but Charlene seemed to pay any heed.
It amazed her that the abandoned horses never bolted or seemed to panic in the slightest. They waited patiently where they'd been left, heads held high and noble as they awaited the return of their riders. Some of them won't be coming back, Charlene thought as the Grand Dragon lurched to the right and threw off one of those warriors climbing up its side. One warrior had slipped partially into the 'Mech's knee joint, and as the Dragon now straightened, the man was torn in half by the pivoting metal. Another was caught against the monster's hip, smashed flat by the BattleMech's blocky lower-left arm. And a fourth fell when he tried to slide around the Dragon's hunched shoulders to get at the cockpit hatch— the 'Mech's deliberate step to the side burying the man under sixty tons of metal.
What a waste of fine warriors, Charlene thought. She stood forgotten by the Grand Dragon as it battled with the desert warriors clinging to its frame. Four of them had reached the cockpit hatch, where they clung to hand grips normally reserved for technicians and the 'Mech pilot himself. Charlene knew each man carried a small shaped-charge explosive. One of them must enter the cockpit and dispose of the Mech Warrior inside, allowing the machine to be taken almost perfectly intact. When the Dragon's head bobbed forward, a small puff of white smoke rising from behind it, she knew the cockpit had been breached.
Aidar Sildig had explained the ritual to her, but she'd barely been able to conceive of it, much less believe he was telling the truth. Horse-mounted warriors against a BattleMech? Using grapples and rope instead of the usual grapple-rod and anti-Mech infantry? Not to mention the fact that their only weapons were knives. It was suicidal at best, but the finest warriors of Aidar's tribe clamored for position among the twelve. Four were dead, four had merely failed, and four more now rode atop the Grand Dragon. Even as Charlene watched, dumbfounded at the waste of lives, one warrior made it through the hatch, knife in hand.
The shape-charges that had breached the cockpit were intentionally under-powered so as not to damage important control components. It wasn't because the desert warriors cared about the life of the pilot, but only that they wanted to take the 'Mech nearly intact. The raider pilot was almost certain to have a weapon stashed in his cockpit, something that would be more than a match for a single warrior with a knife. But being under-armed was part of the glory of the ritual. The other three waited for the first warrior to succeed or fail.
He apparently failed. The next warrior, knife clamped between teeth, dove through the hatch.
Charlene felt her gorge rise, but swallowed it back down. The ritual seemed barbaric in its simplicity, in its tragic cheapening of life, she thought, as the next warrior climbed through the Grand Dragon's cockpit. She could admire their raw courage and dedication to tradition, but their indifference to death made her shiver with dread.
It made her suddenly realize how wrong she'd been about Marcus, criticizing him for taking risks that unnecessarily endangered the lives of the unit. How could she have been so unfair to him? It must have been her grief over Brent that had made her thinking go astray. Just because Marcus tried to maintain some emotional detachment didn't mean he didn't care about his people at all.
Then the Grand Dragon suddenly moved forward again, but in an ungainly fashion, and the fourth warrior slid down his rope and back to bis horse. They've got it. She'd watched the whole thing—knife-wielding warriors capturing a BattleMech—and still found it difficult to believe what she'd seen. The surviving warriors were riding off, each leading at least one other horse whose ride would not be going back. They'll regroup an hour's ride from here where Aidar and I will meet up with the carriers that brought them out here. Until then I have to help the others break off and evade pursuit.
And if I'm lucky, I'll get the chance to apologize to Marcus someday.
36
'Mech Staging Area
City of Rashier, Rashier Caliphate
Astrokaszy
The Periphery
8 July 3058
Hooks sailed up the side of the Spider, two out of five catching one of the back "wings" that acted as cooling fins and helped stabilize the light recon 'Mech in its longer jumps. Two of Rashier's men clambered up the ropes, one fumbling his first few swinging grasps and only making it about two meters off the ground before the high-pitched shrill of The General's whistle stopped the whole exercise.
Marcus watched as The General contemplated the sorry trainees from his perch atop a packing crate labeled: Dangerous! Explosive! MG Ammunition. Hanford Lee was commander of the Angels' ground forces, all fourteen of them. They'd made it away from the downed Head of a Pin in the Savannah Masters, and had managed to reach the Heaven Sent before running into raider patrols or the roving packs of desert warriors. The Angels rarely employed ground troops except for sentry duty or cleanup detail, as on New Home. But from forty years with the DCMS and then the Rasalhague Drak0ns, Lee knew how to train and command and keep troops ready. Everyone called him The General, but despite his age and battlefield experience he had no problem deferring to Marcus as his superior officer.
Lee opened his mouth to let the whistle fall to the end of its lanyard. "You call that an assault?" His voice was strong and powerful, accustomed to calling out orders across a hot battle zone. He jumped down from the crate and walked over to the group of Astrokaszy warriors. He limped only slightly, favoring the right leg with its artificial knee.
The two men still hung onto the rope, dangling above the floor as their muscles strained. The other three stayed frozen at attention. They'd learned not to move without orders on the very first day, when one of them had let go his rope and then argued his point with The General. After the man had picked himself up off the floor, Nihail Sallahan had walked over and knocked him down again for insubordination.
"Why are these two the only ones hangin' off the ground?" The General asked. He jerked a thumb toward a long, heavy bar set across two ladders at a height of about three meters off the floor. All three of the men who'd missed their throws moved, jumping up to hang from half-flexed arms. The General turned his attention toward the uppermost man, who hung just above the Spider's knee.
"Going for the hip, weren't you, Flash?" He waited for the dark-skinned man to nod, responding to the nickname given him by The General. "You got maybe ten seconds when these babies pause in combat. If your charges ain't planted, they're off like rockets again and there ain't a lot you can do trailin' behind them like a banner. Until you know you can make it, don't get greedy. Take it in the knee." Another nod. "Get down."
"Speed Bump," Lee called out loudly, turning to the man who was barely two meters up. "Ankles don't count. You need to swing up that rope. Never lose your momentum. There's no reason why you can't get a meter with every pull. You're gettin' only thirty centimeters, if that. If you weren't so damn good with the hooks I'd bounce you outta the squad. Then again, if you had grapple-rods you'd probably never miss." He sighed heavily. "Get down."
"As for the rest of you, hang there awhile and think about how you'll hit the target next time."
Marcus hid his grin behind a cough. He had voluntarily sat in on such training in the past, and his muscles remembered the torture of hanging there. Then he swallowed his mirth and broke the silence with some of
his own observations.
"MechWarriors will tend to ignore you," he said. "Until those hooks start flying. You can't do enough damage with portable weapons unless there are a lot of you with really heavy equipment. They'll underestimate you. Use that! And don't count on ten seconds. We may be slow sometimes, but that doesn't mean we're stupid. Hooks and ropes mean explosive charges, and any MechWarrior who's had to limp back to his DropShip with a ruined knee actuator won't want it to happen twice."
Lee nodded his agreement, then had a comment of his own. "And don't get cocky if you happen to knock a tin can over. Even lyin' on the ground with a bad gyro and bleedin' heat out the fusion reactor a 'Mech is a dangerous thing. It can still fire and thrash about. If you catch one prone, great. Give it an enema. In fact, one of the best things you can do for your MechWarriors is to swarm a 'Mech they've downed and turned their backs on. Right, Commander?"
Marcus winced at the memory. "Hey, he was powering down."
"Yeah. But he powered right back up again, didn't he?" The General glowered and Marcus held up his hands in surrender. "Never trust a MechWarrior," he said, emphasizing each word as if it was the greatest advice he could give.
Then The General let the other men climb down, and after giving them a moment to rub life back into their arms, he ran them through the drill again. Four of the five connected with their hooks. Marcus saw a look of desperation cross the fifth man's face, and wondered at how The General could inspire such terror in what had been a belligerent and hostile trainee three days ago. He wouldn't get to see this round, though. Even as the whistle shrilled out again, Marcus noticed Caliph Rashier and his island of guards crossing the old hangar toward him. He jumped down, preferring not to have The General interrupted since he couldn't guarantee what the man might say in front of the caliph.
Or even to the caliph.
Nihail slid out from between two of the advancing guards and parted the way for Marcus to directly approach Rashier. Their eyes met for a moment, and as always Marcus felt as if the other man was trying to tell him something he simply could not understand. It was irritating that Nihail was still such a mystery, but not in an unpleasant way. More like a puzzle you had to admit you had yet to solve.
Marcus considered what he knew about him. Nihail Sallahan held a high position in the caliph's circle of advisors, and also seemed closer to understanding the common people in a way the caliph could never hope to. Nihail had been the one to suggest that Marcus leave his personal weapons aboard the Heaven Sent.
The Caliph's protection is all you will need in the city, Nihail promised. He'd been right. Marcus had never seen the man dressed in anything other than the flowing black robes of a desert warrior, belted with a red sash and sometimes with a red cord holding his kaffiyeh in place. He didn't seem to carry any weapons but the two swords that sometimes appeared from the folds of his robes, though he seemed able to hide almost anything under there. But what does all this tell me about the man?
And then Marcus knew what it was about Nihail that made him stand out, and it had nothing to do with the garments he wore. The people support Rashier because he has power and they fear him. The warriors fight for him for much the same reason. But it was not fear with Nihail. He served Rashier out of respect and loyalty, Marcus felt sure.
And maybe that's another reason why I dislike the caliph; he doesn't seem to deserve the loyalty of a man like Nihail, who seems to have the makings of a much better ruler. He remembered thinking the same thing about Shervanis' Arch Vizier, Ji-Drohmien. Is it a rule of Astrokaszy that superior men must serve under tyrants or religious fanatics? Then Marcus considered the alternative—being the caliph with a dozen other powerful leaders drawing a bull's-eye on your head—and wondered if Ji-Drohmien and Nihail might not both be smarter than he gave them credit for.
"Commander GioAvanti," Caliph Rashier said in greeting. "Forgive any interruption to your training schedule."
Marcus wondered what the man wanted to extort from him this time, but of course he didn't say that. "No interruption, Srin-pasha. I've finished with your MechWarriors for today, but The General could continue working even if the hangar was burning to the ground around him."
Rashier's eyes flicked to the walls of the old building with concern. "Yes, well, I would hope such things could not happen in my city."
For some reason Marcus was reminded of the tales he'd heard of Romano Liao and her bloody purges all in the name of personal security. He thought that could easily happen here if Nihail were not around as the voice of sanity. "What can I do for His Highness today?"
"I want to know if your warriors could be ready to move against the cur Shervanis within three days."
Three days! Marcus had been thinking maybe three weeks, to give him enough time to locate more of the Angels. "Why so quickly? Has something happened?"
Rashier nodded to Nihail, who picked up the explanation in his patient manner of speaking. "The evil Shervanis is trying to convince the heretic commander to join him in an attack on Caliph Rashier's holdings. We wish to strike first."
"I can understand that. But there is such a thing as striking before you're ready. We couldn't hope to take the city."
Nihail shook his head. "We think we could. But we probably couldn't hold it. The attack would be intended to deeply wound Shervanis' forces, as you have suggested before. Then we could hope to win in the next attack. Or possibly the next."
Rashier finally being reasonable? Marcus was astonished. "We try to lure off a heavy or assault lance and then destroy them with little damage to ourselves. That kind of loss would hurt him."
"No," the caliph said. "We must be ambitious. You will lead your entire force from the open desert, directly south of the city, through the badlands, and then draw out these men who fight under false colors. These offworlders. After the battle is joined, my machines and two hundred of my finest warriors will hit them in the flank, from the northwest, and together we will destroy them. Then Shervanis is left with only his own machines."
"Shervanis expects reinforcements," Nihail said. "More of these godless minions."
Marcus started. "You're sure?"
Caliph Rashier looked insulted. "I told you. Nothing goes on in Shervanis' realm that does reach my ears. Now, can you do it?"
Marcus shook his head. "Five BattleMechs against two companies of improved 'Mechs? We couldn't hold out long enough for your troops to show up." He wasn't about to let Rashier use the last of the Angels as mere bait. "Even then we'd still face two to one odds."
"But if you had double that?" The caliph's voice was almost a silky purr.
"With your machines in the main strike force? That would leave us nothing substantial to use in a hit from the flank." Marcus paused, Rashier's emphasis on "you" catching up. "The Angels?"
Nihail produced a sheet of rough paper from the folds of his black robes and handed it to Marcus. As Marcus opened and scanned it, Nihail informed him of the exact contents. "Your unit co-commander, your exec, she says she has recovered five of your people, plus one other. Only five machines, though, and not all in good repair. They wait in the care of the Desert Wind tribe."
Five Angels! And the sixth had to be a member of Jericho's lance. The Angels were hurt, but now he saw the possibility of their resurrection as much more than a promise made to Jericho. His mind worked in overdrive, calculating time for travel and rearmor of the damaged machines. "This Desert Wind tribe. Where are they?"
A shrug from Rashier. "No one knows, and they wouldn't say if they did. Somewhere between here and the black city of Shervanis."
"So within a five hundred kilometer-stretch east of here, and probably closer, or the Heaven Sent's radio couldn't have picked them up in the condition it's in. We could force-march to meet up with them in a day. I'm sure. Give me a day to rearm and armor with the last of our reserve materials, and yes, we could be attacking in three days." Marcus could hardly believe the Angels would be back together again. "Can you guarantee the timing of
your arrival, though? I can hold if we keep on the move, but without your flanking attack to throw them into some confusion, I couldn't hope to win. These raiders are good."
Rashier waved Marcus' concern aside as if it bore little consequence. "Your approach is well-concealed. You can make it all the way through the badlands into the region we call The Fringes, an area of rough and broken ground leading into the flatlands. By taking the northern route, my smaller force should be hiding in place before you reach that position. And if not, there is a maze of arroyos just to the east, where you could effectively tie up these raiders for perhaps an hour, with only acceptable losses."
How many lives in an acceptable loss, Rashier? Marcus wanted to ask, but didn't.
"In the meantime," Rashier continued, "I will order my agents in the city to stage minor raids and other disturbances. This will guarantee that a few of these heretic warriors will be left behind in the city, along with all of Shervanis' machines. That will cut your odds down further."
"We have trained for some time for this attack," Nihail said. "We know the terrain and a dozen ways to approach any area around the city." He glanced meaningfully at the Centurion, the other 'Mech stationed in the hangar, giving Marcus his first clue that the man was also a Mech-Warrior. Somehow it didn't surprise him. "We can be there," he promised. "And Shervanis' minions shall be driven before us."
Marcus nodded, comforted more by Nihail's simple words than any of Rashier's promises. "That's good enough for me," he said directly to Nihail, then returned to more general address. “The plan sounds workable. I'll want to see maps and perhaps make some minor adjustments. To start with, Caliph Rashier, I'll need two of your MechWarrior trainees to move the extra BattleMechs aboard our DropShip to the warrior camp. I can move our ground infantry in conventional hovercars, but I'd like to borrow your Savannah Masters as escorts until we're set up for our final run toward Shervanis." You owe me for a change, Marcus thought, and you'd damn well better pay up.
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