Far Country

by Fanpro

  The job finished, Knyte and Horg were already dressed in attire appropriate to the enclave before they noticed the small group of Tetatae children staring at them in open-eyed wonder. Then the little bird-like creatures fled before any explanation could be given. The team moved on, directed by Topi toward their goal.

  The little alien trotted ahead, chirping to any of his kind that she encountered along the way. She nodded and bobbed as she went, sometimes stopping for more lengthy conversations with the adults. But it was from the children that she seemed to get most of her information. The adults occasionally made scolding sounds as the humans approached, snapping their beaks in the direction of the team. The children crowded around at a respectful distance, their eyes bulging wider than usual.

  Topi directed the team through the streets, heading directly toward the highest point in the enclave. She finally stopped where an alley so narrow that they had to squeeze through sideways debouched onto a broad square. She hunkered down and gestured to Knyte, indicating a room on the second floor. She rattled off some words that the section leader didn't understand, but the little alien was quite insistent. Knyte made walking signs with his fingers, and she nodded. When he indicated that she should accompany the group, she shook her head violently. She would not enter the building.

  Topi stood to her full height and let the DEST members crawl between her legs until they were all in front of her. She spoke to Horg, the last in the line of four, as he passed and made some guttural sound. It sounded like a benison, and Horg took it as such. Knyte indicated that Horg was to stay outside and guard their escape route. Then they were ready to move inside.

  Knyte went first, stepping into the early afternoon sunlight that flooded the square. The building directly in front of them was an imposing structure of stone and gold. The edifice was apparently intended to dazzle and humble all who approached, but Knyte was too interested in deciphering its internal structure to be impressed. The broad double doors probably gave access to a central staircase that led to the second floor, he thought. That floor probably had a central corridor that ran the length of the building, with doors leading off to rooms on either side. Up the stairs and then down the hall toward the windows Topi had indicated. He made a mental map of the building just by looking at the exterior. The others were doing the same thing, coming to the same conclusions. Training and experience made a difference.

  They plunged through the darkness of the entrance. The stairway was ahead in the light that poured through a broad window halfway up and above a landing. The stairs doubled back on themselves to reach the second floor. They started up, climbing slowly, as though they belonged there. They made the turn, two going up each side.

  The transverse corridor was what they expected. They turned left, Miranda hanging back to cover the rear of the other three. The right hall was empty, but the one they chose had a uniformed guard. He raised his hand to stop them, but before he could utter a word, Knyte challenged him. "We're here for the prisoner. And why are you not at the door to her cell? You should be there and not wandering the hall. Go there at once, or I will report you immediately to your superior."

  The guard stood open-mouthed at the challenge. It took him a moment to recover, to remember that he was at his assigned post, to recognize that the language used by the stranger was just as strange as his garb. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late. The thrust took him square in the throat, crushing his larynx. He tried to speak, tried to gasp, but there was nothing. He reached for the pistol in the holster on his right side, but he felt a hand grasp his wrist. He struggled. Then a red mist covered his eyes.

  Knyte lowered the guard to the floor and lifted the heavy pistol from its holster. He motioned Miranda to stand guard while the others went down the corridor in swift strides. They came to the door of the suspected room. Knyte put his ear to the solid wooden door to listen, but he heard no clue as to who or what was beyond the portal. He motioned Holland to stand to one side of the door while he took the other. They brought their short-barreled laser rifles out from under their cloaks. He then nodded to Andi Holland.

  She crept forward to try the knob, the solid gold heavy and rich under her fingers. She twisted it gently until it came against the stops; the door was locked. She stepped back and leveled her rifle at the lock plate below the knob. Knyte tapped her on the shoulder and bent to whisper. "Not the laser. The gold will only absorb and dissipate the heat, fusing the lock. Use the slug pistol."

  "But the noise," whispered Holland. "Everyone will hear it."

  "Can't be helped. We'll have to move fast."

  She nodded, shifted the rifle to her left hand and took the heavy pistol from Knyte. Poetic justice that she use the guard's pistol to smash the lock. The report of the weapon was loud in the confines of the corridor. The golden lock plate, knob, and innards of the mechanism exploded under the hammering impact. The door swung inward.

  Andi Holland was through the door before it reached its stops. She rolled to the right, ending her move in a crouch. Sunlight cascaded through the windows beyond, momentarily blinding her. Then she saw the table and the pinioned figure. She cleared the room with a quick glance; no use being surprised by someone else. Clear. She sprang to the table.

  The figure of Ariake Sanae lay motionless. Holland bent over the body, listening for the sound of breathing while she felt Sanae's throat for a pulse. A yes to both; Sanae was still alive. She slashed at the bonds with her vibrodagger, the straps giving almost no resistance. Behind her she heard the high-pitched whine of a laser rifle and Knyte calling, "Faster, Andi. We've got company!" There was motion beside her and then Johan Miranda was there, sweeping the prostrate figure off the table and into his arms. He turned toward the door. Holland jumped in front of him and led the way into the corridor.

  Knyte was waiting, a laser rifle in each hand. Holland saw the blast deflectors glow red as Knyte fired both weapons from the hip. She had a momentary vision— probably from some old vidisplay she'd seen as a youth—of hatted gunfighters moving down a street, weapons in their hands, firing from the hip. Then the vision was swept aside by reality.

  As they moved down the hall, Miranda fired into the darkened corridor, the laser hits splashing golden minnows of slag from the walls. His shots were unhurried. first at one side, then the other, a machine doing its job. She trotted after him. Behind her she could hear the heavy steps of Knyte.

  Miranda stopped shooting and led the way down the stairs, two at a time. Then they cleared the landing, with the others pounding along behind. Somewhere in the building a klaxon sprang to life, its shrill blasts echoing through the halls. From somewhere above came the sound of doors slamming. They didn't stop, didn't look back. Knyte fired up the stairs without taking aim.

  At the foot of the stairs Holland saw silhouettes to the right. She sprayed laser shots at them and saw figures fall away from the mob. Then there was a flash of light and a roar. Something hummed past her head to rattle off the wall behind her. A cloud of acrid, pungent smoke that stank of decay swept over her. She kept going.

  The square was blindingly bright. Holland paused, letting her eyes adjust. The others crowded behind her. Civilians were scattering across the bright stonework. There were other, uniformed types, who stood their ground. A sharp sound made Holland turn to her right. A lump of lead glanced off the stone pillar and howled away.

  Then a horrible, shattering, screeching roar drew the attention of the party to the broad central street that led from the square. Rattling into the plaza came a strange machine, all lumps and knobs and exhaust stacks. The copper-bound wheels screeched pathetically as it turned toward the building. Guards scattered from in front of it, others ran toward it cheering. Emblazoned on the front slope in green and gold was the symbol of the Usugumo. The monstrosity shuddered to a halt in front of the group. Holland raised her laser rifle and let the cross hairs center on a vision slit.

  The top of the hatch popped open and the head of Topi emerged. The l
ittle Tetatae bobbed out, waving her arms toward them. From somewhere to the rear came another roar and the howl of a ricochet. Topi ducked and looked hehind. She waved her arms more enthusiastically. "Let's go!" shouted Knyte as he vaulted into the vehicle. "We can't run from this mob, but we can use this. Let's go!"

  The team was no sooner on the vehicle, not yet even within its protective confines, before it shuddered into reverse. Holland heard shouts of terror and disbelief as the guards scattered away from the flailing wheels. Then the vehicle was moving forward, rumbling toward the main street and the gate beyond. It picked up speed going downslope, roaring past the gate guards as they raised their hands in protest.

  Then they were out on the main road, still careening along, the vehicle lurching and banging as it went. Horg sat in the driver's seat, cursing at the unresponsive controls like one possessed. Inside the dark interior, the little team held on to whatever they could find that was not burning hot. Cradled among them was the unconscious form of Ariake Sanae.

  30

  Vost slammed his fist down on the mahogany table, making the teacup rattle. He hated sitting cross-legged; there was no way a man could be aggressive while sitting in the lotus position. And he wanted so much to be aggressive. He was angry enough at Hoond for her bungling of the Sanae affair, and now he had to deal with obstructionist bureaucrats. Didn't anyone have any brains or imagination? he wondered angrily.

  He was faced with the impassive stares of Homma Sirayuki and the senior members of his council. They sat along one side of the long table, while he and the commanders of his 'Mech force occupied the other. Elizabeth Hoond was there, sullen over her loss of the prisoner and unsure of her position within the mercenary force. As neither a pilot nor a technician, she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of this alliance. Equally sullen, but for a different reason, was Kendall Pesht. The Javelin pilot had not yet recovered from the embarrassment of the recent action in the woods. His 'Mech had been trapped, snared, tripped, and generally humiliated by unseen infantry enemy. His only consolation was that Vost had suffered equal humiliation.

  Seagroves was the only member of the mercenary force who did not seem to be pouting. The LAM pilot had slurped his tea with equanimity, sitting flat on the cushion with his legs straight out under the table. He had seemed oblivious to any of the discussion, casting bright stares at the serving girls who moved silently about the room. He had not mentioned his near-miss on the Panther, and Vost was sure that if the subject came up, the man would blame the "fog of war" for the accident. The mercenary struck on the table again. "You've got to understand the danger presented by those people in the woods," he said through clenched teeth. "If either of the other enclaves decides to deal with them, you people will have a real problem on your hands."

  "It would seem to me, Honorable Commander," purred Sirayuki, "that it is you who has the problem. You were supposed to demonstrate the power of your giant beasts to deal with such a small and weak force. You have not done so. It is all very strange."

  "We can go elsewhere, you know."

  "That is perfectly within your right, Honorable Commander. But as you well know, we have already came to a working agreement with you."

  "It's not me you've come to an agreement with," sneered Vost. "You have an agreement with Seagroves. He's the one who's done all the talking so far."

  "That is quite true," nodded Sirayuki. "Your man who flies has been quite persuasive in his arguments. It is he who has the most special abilities, not you. Your strengths are very great, or so we have been led to believe, but it is the one who flies who is the most impressive."

  Vost shook his head in frustration. "Shidosha Homma Sirayuki, you do not grasp the concept of the BattleMech or how to use it. I understand that you are amazed by the abilities of young Seagroves, here, but he is not the most powerful. Even he will admit that." From the look on Seagroves' face, Vost saw that this was not a good time to call for an answer. Seagroves might just argue the special value of the LAM.

  "We now know the location of the other humans. In the first attack our navigator was not completely accurate.

  But now we know. The problem is the woods. Our machines have difficulty maneuvering in the woods. But we could use the Usugumo infantry and tanks to flush them out. Then we could get at them. We must act quickly, for although they currently pose no real threat, they could be quite dangerous if they join with the Osio or the Amatukaze."

  Sirayuki considered the situation. Certainly the 'Mechs had not done the job of destroying the enemy in the woods, a fact that had serious consequences not even these humans could fully understand. The Tetatae in the city had learned of the defeat, had even learned of the part their brethren had played in it. The residents of the sumaru, the mass of tetties huddled within Usugumo, had changed as a result. It was not yet any great change, just something in the air. Some of the human waste had caught the scent as well. It would be best, thought Sirayuki, if the problem could be solved quickly.

  The act was agreed upon, but the plan took longer. Sirayuki had many objections, not the least of which was how to deal with the other enclaves while the Usugumo forces were out attacking the others. He was afraid, and justifiably so, that they might take advantage of the situation. He wanted the mercenaries to neutralize the opposing forces. And he wanted the mercenaries to use the LAM.

  The psychological effect of the LAM would be more powerful than any real damage it could do. The members of the enclaves had a deep-seated fear of flight. Their legends said that although they themselves had come from the stars as voyagers, they must never fly. Their great star, a single, bright light that hung over the land in the night sky, was the beacon of their only home. They were, so said the legends, incapable of reaching that star and they must never try. They could do many things on the land, as they had proved over the last five hundred years. But flight—and there were some early legends that spoke of it—had only brought devastation to the people. They did not, could not, would never, fly. And now there were people here who could and did. Attack from above would be ruinous to the morale of the others.

  Vost argued against it, knowing that the LAM was having a real fuel problem. It had refueled in the last encounter at the DropShip, but unless they could find a substitute for the KR-4, the LAM's endurance would be limited. That limit was great, but it was also finite. And a stroke against the other enclaves would bring that limit ever closer. The arguments for the strike were, however, too compelling, and in the end he had to give in. The strike and the move against Takuda's people were scheduled for the following morning.

  The force moved out at dawn. The Usugumo were fully mechanized, even to the infantry. Those who could not fit into the carriers, great boxes on copper-bound wheels with twin exhaust stacks protruding from their backs, rode clinging to the sides of the fighting units. A cloud of choking gray fumes rose from the roaring, clanking vehicles. Great clouds of half-consumed oil blotted out the weak sun that attempted to pierce the low, thin clouds. The steam, blown or seeping from numerous joints in cooling systems, curled down and mixed with the ground fog that crept in from the river beyond. When they reached the gates, they swung open to the cheers of the crowds of people lining the streets. The column moved out.

  The 'Mechs stayed in the bastion until the corps was well on its way. The pilots knew that they would be able to catch the column at their ease. The slow serpent would, they thought, take hours to reach the target area. But they had not counted on the speed that the giant machines could achieve once they were fully underway.

  Internal combustion contraptions—and that was the best description for what the Usugumo had deployed— gain efficiency with the passing of time. Fuel and cooling water are expended, making the vehicle lighter. In addition, the pistons and cylinders heat up, getting better and better at what they do. Thus, the leaders of the column began to gain speed. By the end of the first half-hour the vanguard had reached fifty kilometers per hour. The column began to spread out as the heavier v
ehicles, with their lower power-to-weight ratio, dropped to the rear. Relief drivers, drawn from the riding infantry, were pressed into service. It became a race to reach the DEST group, almost like a carnival atmosphere.

  The light vehicles reached the designated location first. They slowed to begin their deployment, but the lumbering heavies were close on their heels. Pressed forward by the fighting vehicles, the four-wheeled reconnaissance units careened across the field to make way for their fighting brethren. The light units were thrust aside to the left and front of the formation, the tanks spreading out as best they could to the right and rear. Unit cohesion was lost. Some of the tanks could not find their mates, but rather than slow and search, they pressed on toward the distant forest. The infantry, those still clinging to the sides, those who had not been flung from their perches when the vehicles first left the road, cheered and waved at the spectacle. Never in memory had they seen such a force go into action with so much speed and power. It was all the holidays they had ever experienced rolled into one.

  Behind them, surprised by the speed of the ground forces and aghast at what they saw, the Panther and Javelin came up from the river. Vost tried to decipher what he was seeing. The neat squares, drawn on the map the night before, had vanished—assuming, of course, that they had ever existed. He searched the formation for the deploying infantry that was supposed to lead the heavies into the scrub. They were not there. Deep in the pit of his stomach, Vost felt the sour burn of impending disaster.

  The bloody Usugumos weren't waiting for the 'Mechs. Vost was torn between the urge to stand back and watch the disaster and the need to move forward and become involved in what was sure to be a hopeless situation. He chose a midcourse between the two. He moved forward cautiously, waiting for disaster. It came, and came even more violently than he'd expected.