by Victor Milán
When the Valkyrie reached the apex of its leap, the van exploded. Port Howard's bomb squad, made up of well-seasoned blasters from the mining camps up in the mountains, later estimated it was carrying over two tons of high explosive. All that was ever found of the 'Mech was the legs and hip actuators, which crushed a freight car parked on a siding in the TTC yard.
Shortly before midnight an unscheduled train pulled out of that same yard, heading east. It carried the Caballero noncombatants along with a scratch security force of volunteers, under the command of Diana Vásquez. It was covertly bound for the Copper Queen Mine in the western Eiglophians, a property Chandrasekhar Kurita happened to own. Accompanying them were two lances of 'Mechs, hidden under tarps rigged to look as if they covered heavy mining equipment, a frequent cargo for TTC cars. Diana's own experimental O-Bakemono went too; it would be of limited use in a city-fight, since the mission was to save as much of Port Howard as possible, not level it with salvos of massive Arrow FV missiles.
No trace of Lieutenant Junior Grade Janine Esposito was ever found. But for twenty-four hours Port Howard's three universities and the police stations all over town were deluged by calls from citizens who claimed to have seen butterflies, perched on snow banks or icy sills, gently opening and closing their brightly colored wings as if to dry them. When approached, they flew away, some callers said. Others claimed they simply vanished.
It was just another case of mass hallucination. No doubt.
12
Prince John Spaceport, Outskirts of Port Howard
Aquilonia Province, Towne
Draconis March, Federated Commonwealth
19 December 3057
The Phoenix Hawk, its lower legs painted with the transverse red, blue, and green stripes of the Towne Guard, soared high above undeveloped snow-covered flats between the southern suburbs of Port Howard and the spaceport. At the apex of its leap, ruby light flashed from the heavy Harmon laser "rifle" in its right hand in the direction of the Western Ocean, just visible beyond a low line of dunes. The 'Mech passed over a company-sized wedge of heavy Fusilier armor and touched down into billows of freshly fallen powder snow being blown along the ground by a gust of wind.
It caught its foot on a mogul and slammed face-first into the ground.
The man who stood beside Colonel Carlos Camacho, safe from the wind behind the polarized transpex of the spaceport control tower, winced at the impact. Don Carlos himself imagined he could feel the impact through the soles of his boots, though it was half a kilometer away. He kept his face impassive.
The Phoenix Hawk skidded forward on its face, plowing up mounds of dirt and snow. Swerving to miss the fallen BattleMech, a Rommel tank burst through the cloud of snow thrown up by the crash. Snapping from its whip antenna was a flag showing an argent pony rampant on an azure field, the personal insignia of Sir Osric Gould. The rest of the Fusilier company flowed around the downed PHX like water around a rock.
Next came a Cabellero Wasp painted with yellow and black stripes. It took off in a long, low jump, then hit the ground directly next to the motionless Phoenix Hawk, and took off running after the tanks. It was the Colonel's turn to wince.
"There's no love lost between your men and the Towne Guards, is there, Colonel?" the man beside him asked with a half-smile. He was a head taller than Camacho, with a long narrow face and the kind of body affluent urban gringos paid gyms and private trainers handsomely to acquire.
"The Guards haven't been very receptive to us, Señor Blaylock," Don Carlos said. In fact only a rumored threat by Sir Osric to withdraw technical support from the officially recognized militia had persuaded Hauptmann General Janice Marrou to honor her promise to cooperate in maneuvers with the Seventeenth. The Colonel had no plans to mention that to his companion.
He turned to face the taller man. "I have to ask you, señor, man to man: why do they attack us so viciously?"
Howard Blaylock shrugged. "People on Towne are suspicious of things Draconian. It's hard to blame them, after all. You're in the pay of the Combine, and a Kurita to boot. What else can you expect?"
"But we've come to help you fight against the Dragon! Against Drac renegades, anyway."
"A lot of citizens have a hard time seeing the distinction, Don Carlos."
"But we're trying to strengthen your defenses! Would we do that if we were only front men for the invasion? It makes no sense!"
"Sometimes politics doesn't." Assemblyman Blaylock gestured out the window at the recovery vehicles steaming through the blowing snow like tugboats toward where the Phoenix Hawk still lay motionless. "Can we walk? It's getting stuffy in here."
* * *
"An impressive machine, Don Carlos," Blaylock said, staring up at Great White. Its bullet-shaped snout painted with a red and white shark's grin, the Colonel's 75-ton Mad Cat stood with head tipped forward as if peering down curiously at these insignificant insects presumptuous enough to face it without apparent dread. "I hear you captured it yourself?"
"Indeed," the Colonel said.
"An impressive act of skill and courage, Colonel."
Don Carlos thanked him, but Blaylock had already turned and begun walking up the runway. The day wasn't bitingly cold, even given the wind chill, but the Colonel felt a certain admiration for the way the other man was able to stroll casually along, hands thrust into his trouser pockets and dressed in nothing heavier than a dark suit-coat. The Colonel also felt irritation at the way Blaylock was imposing on his hospitality, gaining dominance by towing him out into the weather like this. But his deep courtesy compelled him to go along, a fact he suspected Blaylock knew well.
Towne's main spaceport had originally been named in fond memory of Augustus Pons, by settlers who were reasonably grateful to him for letting them live on this pleasant world, even if he made them give things foolish names. After the Towne Debacle it had been renamed Prince John Davion Spaceport, by Prince Davion in honor of himself.
The two men approached a large hangar. In front of it techs looking like sausage men and women in heavily insulated jumpsuits swarmed over the pride and joy of the Fusiliers' aerospace assets, Towne's lone 100-ton Stuka. Camacho gave it a sour look in passing. The aerojocks had bowed out of the day's exercise, claiming the weather made flying too risky; replacement parts for their fighters were hard to come by in the current situation.
Don Carlos had seen hundreds of sorties safely flown in weather far worse than this. Leftenant General Gould's men and women seemed briskly competent and willing overall, but they had their weaknesses. An even bigger problem was that the Planetary Guard, when badgered into performing, showed little but weakness. And the outlawed Popular Militia, despite the fact it made the regular politicians so loco, hadn't shown at all, despite the best efforts of super-scout Cassie Suthorn.
"I'm glad to have the chance to talk to you face to face," Don Carlos called out, though he was addressing Blaylock's back. The Townian's longer strides kept pulling him out in front of the Colonel. "We need all the help you can possibly give us waking the people of Towne to the danger they're in."
"Hmm." Blaylock made a sound that could have been a grunt, or a laugh, or damned near anything. "Well, you know, Colonel, from where I stand, this 'ronin' threat of yours is pretty hard to see. I'd have to say that's the bottom line here."
Camacho frowned in exasperation. "Chandrasekhar Kurita has gone to the greatest effort to send us here.
I assure you, Señor Blaylock, he would not do so without a compelling reason."
"Perhaps. But maybe he has other motives in mind. Using you—unwittingly, of course, don't get me wrong—using you as fronts for an economic takeover on Towne. We are very vulnerable here, and don't doubt for a moment that everybody knows it. And don't forget that our economic straits are more real to the man or woman in the street than any threat of war."
"But the evidence!" Don Carlos burst out. "We have made public—we've made mountains of data available, to you, to the government, to anyone who's even int
erested!"
Blaylock shrugged. "We live in a devious age, Colonel. Evidence like that can be faked, even mountains of it. Weighing against that, you have almost a decade of alliance with the Draconis Combine—and the fact that most people, myself included, find it hard to believe that anything happens inside the Combine without the full knowledge and approval of Theodore Kurita. We're pretty familiar with the ISF hereabouts, let me tell you."
Not like we're familiar with them, the Colonel thought. And they've been wrong before. He was unaware—only Cassie in all the regiment knew—that the Smiling One's suspicions that Uncle Chandy had been treating with the Clans last year were perfectly correct. Chandy had almost gotten himself assassinated when the Director of the ISF ordered the Ninth Ghost Regiment to attack the HTE Compound. All Subhash Indrahar had really gotten wrong was the spin: betraying his cousin Theodore and the Combine was the last thing on Chandrasekhar Kurita's mind.
What the Colonel did know he couldn't tell. He didn't dare let this lead spokesman for a previously hostile group know how closely the Internal Security Force and the Caballeros had rubbed up against each other on Hachiman.
The politician had pulled out in front again. He stopped and looked back as Don Carlos pulled up. "Not even Sir Osric believes these invasion stories of yours, you know. He's just going along with the gag because he's happy for any chance to shape his troops up, and also to rattle the PG's cage."
The two men were in step now. "If you really want to do something for us, Colonel, then back our play when we go for a no-confidence vote on the Planetary Government. Oh, not like you're thinking—I'm not talking anything overt here, anything dishonorable. It's just that—"
Blaylock waved out across the flats, where the Guard forces had fallen hopelessly behind the 'lleros and the Fusiliers. "You can see what a mess the current government has made of things. Charter isn't even a party in any real sense; it's just a false front propped in front of a bunch of political hacks who happened to be holding office when our beloved Marquis went on his extended vacation. Even their name's a joke; to them this so-called Towne Charter is a museum piece, a curiosity with no relevance to the world we're living in today, the same as we do. They just picked it in hopes of appealing to the great unwashed, the self-styled patriots out there with their sunburned necks and their gimme caps. But they're not fooling anybody."
The Colonel finally found his voice. "What exactly are you asking of us, then?"
Blaylock shrugged again. "Support. The main thing, maybe, would be to use your influence with the managers of these holdings your boss has acquired. This Kurita has bought himself a fair chunk of clout, though maybe he doesn't realize it. The first thing is, we get the Charter deadwood cleared away, get our people in, along with some folks we have to make deals with along the way to solidify support. You can make swinging that a whole lot easier. Then we disarm these Popular Militia crazies, settle their hash for good and all. And after that—"
Howard Blaylock gave Don Carlos a big grin. "After that maybe we can get people to pay attention to this ronin threat of yours. Nothing like a good global emergency to pull everybody together, shut up all the nay-sayers and nit-pickers.
"What do you say to that, Colonel?"
* * *
It was a good crowd tonight in the gym of the Randolph Carter Lyceum on Skelos Street in downtown Port Howard. Talbot could feel the electricity in the air. People were going to get galvanized soon. People were going to be ready to make some moves.
"Hey, Talbot!" It was Mac Hainey, a long-haul driver for Nemedia Cartage. Talbot suppressed a wince. Hainey was a smart-ass who hardly ever had a nice thing to say but said plenty anyway. Their paths hadn't crossed since Talbot's mishap.
"What'samatter there?" Hainey demanded, voice cutting through the echoing auditorium buzz like a foghorn. "Cut yourself shaving?"
"Real goddamn funny, Hainey," Talbot said through gritted teeth. He had an allergy to plastiflesh, couldn't even tolerate it. The cut that snaky little Island bitch had given him in the diner had to be patched up with old-fashioned sutures. Sewn with guitar strings, by the looks of them.
Hainey walked away laughing uproariously. Laugh all you want, buddy, Talbot thought. Come the revolution, you're going to find out why they say payback's a mother.
Somebody grabbed his biceps painfully hard. He turned around, ready to unload, and found himself looking into the face of his partner Lumlee. That always cheered him up; Lumlee looked worse than he did. It was true he no longer resembled a raccoon, with two well-blacked eyes peering out of his dark-skinned face, but he would still be wearing the splint taped down his nose for quite some time.
"What?" Talbot asked, grinning through mock-belligerence.
"It's her."
"It's who?"
"Her. The little trash who did this to us." Lumlee nodded toward a rear exit. "And crap, she's aiming a camera at us!"
It took Talbot a moment to pick her up, half-obscured by the end of the slowly filling bleachers. But there was no mistaking her, even with the little palmcorder in front of her face. The stupid slut was wearing the same coat as the night she'd busted him and Lumlee up. She had a ripstop pack slung over one shoulder. The kind somebody might carry video equipment in.
"The she-wolf was right," he said. "She's got to be a police spy. And a pretty dumb one at that."
"What're we gonna do? What if she makes us for doing that old white-haired beezer?"
"She can't prove anything," Talbot said, but a slight hesitation gave him away. He was far from sure how far the cops would go on the basis of her story, especially if she really was working for them. It occurred to him that their superior might not be too happy with them if they brought police scrutiny down on themselves and their activities.
Talbot smiled unpleasantly and started to walk toward her. To his vast annoyance Lumlee went clutching at his arm again.
"What now?"
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
His smile widened. "I'm going to take her around out back and have a nice little chat." His nerves were zinging with happy anticipation. A career as an activist had rewards he hadn't even dreamed of as a student of political science.
"You're out of your mind," Lumlee hissed. "What if she raises a fuss? What if she screams rape? Some of these damned Bubbas would just love to bust up a couple of jokers they caught manhandling a pretty little helpless girl."
Talbot's nostrils flared like a bull's, and much of his enthusiasm blew out through them. His partner was a bit on the excitable side, but this time he was spot-on right.
"OK," he said, "here's how it is. You hang here and keep an eye on her—discreetly, but don't let her out of your sight. I'll just make the rounds, tell a few people we have a spy in our midst." He slapped his friend on the back. "We play this right, we might just get a nice little solidarity-building exercise out of it. And who knows what else?"
"Yeah," Lumlee agreed without enthusiasm, flicking his eyes sideways for a glance at the girl. She was aiming her holocamera off across the gym floor now, taking in the crowd.
As good as his word, Talbot did a little drift, did some concise and quiet talking. Everybody he approached fell right in with his plan, and didn't buck at all about doing just what he suggested.
He was mightily pleased with the way his leadership skills were shaping up when he circulated, as if by random, back to where his buddy was standing. Behind him, one of the district organizers mounted a little movable dais they'd rolled out under the basketball net. He tapped on the microphone sprouting from a podium set in the middle of the platform. Naturally it made a sound like a firecracker going off, causing everybody to wince.
"Sorry, sorry—forgive it." A weak flicker of a smile. "We're all comrades together, though, aren't we?" Through thunderous silence he went on, "All right, everybody find a seat, we're about to commence—"
"Everything's set," Talbot said in a low voice as Lumlee looked at him with relief as plain on his face
as his bandages. "Got the other exits covered, and some of the boys circling around to watch this one from outside. All we have to do is move in nice and quiet. Piece of cake."
He looked past his friend to the end of the bleachers. Nobody was there.
"Hey! Jesus, she's gone!"
"What?"
"You were supposed to watch her, dammit!"
"I did! She was standing right there a minute ago, until you walked up."
The two ran for the door, shoving aside stragglers headed for seats in the bleachers. They burst out the back door into the night air so cold it hit them in the faces like a spike-headed mace.
There were half a dozen burly guys standing around. Some of them were staring off between darkened school buildings to the parking lot. Others stood staring at one of their number who lay on a patch of ice, curled about himself in a tight little ball.
"Don't tell me," Talbot said disgustedly to no one in particular. "She got away."
"Jeez, Tal," said one of the outside contingent through a white cloud of condensation. "You didn't tell us how quick she was."
"Or how mean," another added with a meaningful nod toward the sufferer on the ground. "She came flying out the door like she was shot from a rifle, gave poor Jimmy there a knee to the nads, jumped on a Krauthead bike parked over there by the dumpster and was just plain gone."
"She didn't get away scot-free, though," a third man said. He walked over to kneel down beside the moaning Jimmy and gently eased something out from under him.
"Jimmy had a hold of this when she nailed him," the man said. He stood up and displayed the spy's shoulder-bag.
Talbot and Lumlee exchanged glances. Talbot grabbed the bag, opened it enough to peek inside by the shine of an inadequate security lamp tacked high up under the gym roof. A glance was all it took: the bag was crammed with expensive-looking electronic gear.
"Son of a bitch," he said.