A Silence in the Heavens

by Unknown

  The departure from his usual unbending posture spoke volumes to Tara Campbell about the depths of his fatigue. She herself was propped half standing, half sitting on the edge of the room’s heavy wooden desk.

  One more minute spent standing tall and unwavering, she was convinced, would have had her toppling like a felled tree.

  Tara and Crow had met in the Prefect’s small office in the depths of the Fort in order to go over the latest battlefield intelligence reports. By unspoken agreement, they had left the Combat Information Center in order to have that conversation in private. There was no point in making other people into unwilling eavesdroppers on a discussion that might damage their morale.

  Tara still had her freshly updated data pad in her hand; the Paladin made a weary gesture in its general direction.

  “What do we have by way of reinforcements?” he asked.

  “Nothing we didn’t have last night,” she said. “Mostly those Tyson and Varney retrofit ’Mechs. But they are all in the city now and moving west.”

  He nodded slowly, not looking at her, his gaze fixed on something out beyond the toes of his boots. “It’s enough to let us set up a line half a day out. If we hold, we can at least give the civilians time to evacuate.”

  “What do you mean—‘evacuate’?” she demanded. “Do you honestly think we’re so outclassed it’ll come to that?”

  “I don’t want anyone to come home to find their parents shot in their beds,” he replied, tight-lipped. He looked up at her then, his blue eyes intent and blazing. “Yes, move them out. All the available transport that isn’t needed for the fighting—that isn’t crucial to the fighting—should be ferrying noncombatants away.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “If you want to sleep at night afterward.”

  “I’ll give the order.”

  He looked back down at his feet, as if embarrassed by his own sudden vehemence. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  “It’s all right,” she said. There was an awkward silence. Then Tara cleared her throat and consulted the data pad again. “The aerospace fighter wing out of Halidon will be overhead by dawn if they can make it through at all. The weather doesn’t look good.”

  “Radick and his Steel Wolves aren’t going to give us until dawn,” Crow said. “After fighting their way through the pass, they’ll be too hungry for that.”

  “We’ll do what we can.” Tara made some adjustments to the data pad and called up a rough, diagrammatic map. She passed the data pad over to Crow, saying, “I know a good place to do this. Halfway from here to the mountains. Look—I’ve got it marked.”

  Crow took the data pad and glanced over the contents of the display. “What’s the ground like?”

  “Low rolling hills, mostly,” Tara said. “We can draw up our forces along this north-south ridgeline, with the tanks hull-down just over the crest. There’s a stream along the bottom of the ridge that might slow down some of their tracked vehicles.”

  “Speaking of slowing them down . . . has there been any new word from Colonel Griffin?”

  She shook her head. “You were there for the last one.”

  “Then we have to assume that he has fallen, and make our plans accordingly.”

  “He promised me the time,” she said. “He’ll deliver it whether he’s fallen or not.”

  She forced herself to stand up straight and pull her shoulders back, in what she hoped was a convincing facsimile of a ready-for-anything posture. “And if his time isn’t going to be wasted, you and I need to get into our ’Mechs and start the army moving.”

  46

  Plains north of Tara

  Northwind

  June, 3133; local summer

  The approaching storm brought darkness unnaturally early to the plains north of the capital. Lowering clouds obscured the sunset and hid the twilight stars from view. Shifting, unpredictable gusts of wind disturbed the still air at irregular intervals, throwing up dust and leaves into miniature whirlwinds that swirled briefly in the headlight glare of passing vehicles, then fell apart.

  The Northwind Highlanders had set up their advance command post in the gymnasium of an abandoned consolidated secondary school. The small farming and grazing communities of the plain had emptied out upon hearing that the Wolves were in the northern pass; the capital was packed with refugees.

  If we fail now, Tara Campbell thought with an inward shiver, the whole city is vulnerable. And we cannot evacuate everyone in time. No matter how hard we try.

  She said nothing aloud, however; Michael Griffin and Ezekiel Crow, who stood with her at the communications center—a fine name for what was in reality no more than a collection of modular consoles set up at one end of the gymnasium underneath the game clock and the scoreboard—both understood the situation without having her betray her own nerves by mentioning it. And Crow, at least, who knew firsthand what could happen when enemy troops ran wild in a city, would not appreciate having those memories stirred up without need.

  One of the consoles beeped and spat out a printed sheet. Michael Griffin retrieved the paper and scanned it, frowning. Griffin had sustained several broken ribs in the last minutes of the battle for Red Ledge Pass, and his Koshi would lie on the field of battle until one side or the other won the war and brought the crippled

  ’Mech in for repairs, but he had refused to leave the front lines.

  “Meteorology reports bad weather coming,” Griffin said.

  “We didn’t need Meteorology to tell us that,” Tara said. “Do they have anything more specific?”

  “There’s a major storm system coming up from the southeast; it should hit the local area around dawn. The forecast calls for high winds, heavy rain, thunderstorm activity, and localized flooding.”

  Ezekiel Crow said, “That’s not good weather for ’Mechs and armor.”

  “That’s not good weather for anything,” Tara said. She tugged distractedly at a strand of her yellow hair—when she was a little girl, she’d believed that the harder she pulled, the better she thought, and in times of stress her fingers believed it still—and came to a decision. She turned to the communications tech on duty and said, “Broadcast a message on the open channel. Tell Prefect Kal Radick that we want to parley.”

  Griffin stared at her. “We want what?”

  The Colonel was visibly taken aback by her proposal, as was Ezekiel Crow. Tara made haste to reassure them.

  “I want to propose a temporary ceasefire until the storm system passes. That’s all. Fighting conditions aside, we can always use the extra time.”

  The signal went out, and within minutes, Tara and Ezekiel Crow were in a Fox armored car, heading out for the designated meeting place—a set of map coordinates in the midst of open ground not held by either army.

  The drive from their temporary headquarters took close to an hour, even at speed. Nobody wanted the leader of the Steel Wolves any closer to the Highlander lines than that, even for a parley, and by the time they reached the gridposition, it was full night. They exited the Fox, leaving all the vehicle’s lights on and blinking as per the arranged signal, and waited.

  The Wolves were prompt. Only a few minutes passed before Tara saw a vehicle approaching from the north—another Fox armored car, this one bearing Steel Wolf insignia. The Fox came to a halt a few meters off and two people got out, a woman and a man. They drew closer—and Tara repressed shock, keeping her face still with effort.

  The man was not Kal Radick. Tara knew enough about Steel Wolf gear and uniforms to see that he wore the insignia of a Star Colonel, but not that of a MechWarrior. The woman, though—with her dangerous good looks, nobody was ever going to call that one the Angel of Anyplace, or try to make her over into a recruiting-poster darling, and for an instant Tara felt a wash of pure, irrational envy. Things in the Steel Wolves had clearly changed faster than the Highlanders’ intelligence reports could keep up with, because the woman was the one in charge.

  “Galaxy Commander,” Tara said.
It was a good thing, she thought, that she’d trained in diplomacy from toddlerhood on up. She could keep a calm face and a polite voice no matter what the circumstances. “Am I to infer, then, that Kal Radick no longer leads the Steel Wolves?”

  The woman gave a curt nod. “You are. I am Anastasia Kerensky.”

  Hell, thought Tara. A Kerensky. Stay calm, and don’t ask what happened to Radick. She probably cut his throat and ate him boiled for breakfast.

  Her answering nod was as brief as Kerensky’s had been; perhaps even a fraction briefer. When she spoke, her voice was cool and steady. “I am Tara Campbell, Countess of Northwind and Prefect of Prefecture III.

  My companion is Paladin Ezekiel Crow.”

  Crow had donned plain civilian attire for the parley, thus avoiding rank insignia entirely—a tactful move, ensuring that he did not undercut Tara’s authority as Countess and Prefect. Polite as ever, he bowed and said, “Galaxy Commander Kerensky.”

  She nodded. “Paladin.”

  Tara looked at Anastasia Kerensky’s male companion, the Star Colonel. Her expectant expression did no good; Kerensky didn’t provide any identification. If the man resented the omission, it didn’t show.

  Politeness, Tara reminded herself. Ever politeness. “I asked for this parley, Galaxy Commander, in order to give you and yours one last chance to leave Northwind in peace.”

  She’d expected a refusal. The offer was a standard opening, like the Ruy Lopez in chess. She hadn’t expected outright contemptuous laughter, in which the Star Colonel joined.

  “Why should we leave?” Kerensky demanded. “We have taken out your air support, we have pushed through the mountains, we are poised even now to capture your capital. Northwind is as good as ours.”

  Tara kept her face calm, and put on what she privately thought of as Polite Smile Number Twenty-three, the one which implied that the speaker had made a gross public gaffe but couldn’t be expected to know any better. The Kerensky woman’s lips tightened; she’d obviously spent enough time outside the Clan enclaves that she could recognize the expression and know what it meant.

  Tara said, “Don’t go claiming Northwind just yet, Galaxy Commander.” The Clans didn’t like casual language and contractions; the imprecision irritated them. Irritating Anastasia Kerensky seemed like a good idea just now, or at least an enjoyable one. “There’s the small matter of a battle that we’ve got to deal with first.”

  Kerensky’s hand—the splinted and bandaged one—twitched slightly, as if at another time and place she’d be pounding a table. Tara noted the motion. It was nice to know that impatience was an issue here.

  “Then by all means,” Kerensky said, “let us fight the battle and be done with it.”

  “Of course . . . but perhaps not today.” Before Kerensky could draw breath for an indignant reply, Tara said, “Have you taken a look at the sky lately? There’s the mother and father of a storm system rolling in, and it’s not going to let up until tomorrow afternoon at least. If you aren’t going to do the sensible thing and leave Northwind, then I’d like to propose a thirty-six-hour ceasefire to let both sides wait out the bad weather.”

  Kerensky’s lip curled. “Afraid to fight in the rain, Countess?”

  “Not crazy enough to think I’m proof against the lightning, Galaxy Commander.”

  “And I am not crazy enough to let talk of bad weather scare me into losing an advantage. No ceasefire, Countess.”

  “In that case, Galaxy Commander, we fight, and let the rain fall on both of us equally—on the just and on the unjust, as it were.” Tara smiled again, because it seemed to annoy Kerensky when she did so. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my offer? I do have the advantage of knowing what the summer weather around here can be like.”

  “No,” said Kerensky, thin-lipped. “No ceasefire.”

  Tara glanced over at Ezekiel Crow. They had discussed this bit in the Fox on the drive out to the rendezvous point, and now it was his turn to speak.

  “The Prefect has warned you off of Northwind explicitly,” he said, “and has three times offered you an honorable avenue of escape or delay—offers that have three times been refused.” His lean dark face was somber, his eyes grave. “As a Paladin of the Sphere, I must warn you: You are officially considered to be in active rebellion against the Republic, and must expect to be dealt with accordingly.”

  Once again, Anastasia Kerensky laughed. “If there were any honor in it, only your heads would return to your Highland rabble. This parley is over.”

  She turned and strode back to her waiting vehicle. Over her shoulder, she said, “Star Colonel.”

  The man who had come with her moved to follow, but not before raising a handheld radio to his lips.

  “Advance column, this is Darwin. Weapons free. Forward.”

  47

  Plains north of Tara

  Northwind

  June, 3133; local summer

  The truck carrying Will Elliot and his friends lurched to a stop in the rain-filled dawn. Will had fallen asleep sitting up in the corner behind the cab, and the abrupt cessation of the truck’s motion brought him awake with a start, grabbing for his Gauss rifle with one hand and his pack with the other. Somebody else had fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder; from the size and feel, it was probably Lexa McIntosh.

  And both of us too tired to appreciate the experience, Will thought.

  “Right, then,” a Sergeant’s voice shouted. Will didn’t recognize the speaker, but only a Sergeant could yell like that. “Out of the trucks. Find your units.”

  “Here we go,” Lexa said, pushing herself away from Will’s shoulder. “Now we get to add muddy to wet.”

  The three unloaded from their truck. The falling rain kept the sky dark, almost black, in spite of the early morning hour, with no visibility beyond the reach of the truck’s headlights. Will heard the rushing of a stream nearby, and checked his compass.

  “We’ve come a long way,” he said, “but we’ve got unfriendlies coming up behind us. The Wolves are heading straight for Tara, and we’re standing right in their path.”

  Out in the dark, a Sergeant was shouting again. “Set up, form up!”

  Will and the other Highlanders from the truck drew up in a ragged formation. The Sergeant this time turned out to be Master Sergeant Murray, the same man who had sent Will and his friends on their reconnaissance mission the day before. Murray paused on his way down the line to give the three of them a long look before continuing on.

  “Gather round, children,” Murray said, after he had reached the end of the line.

  They gathered.

  “Well, lads and lasses,” Murray continued, “here’s the word from company: This is where the Highlanders save Northwind. But on the off chance that we don’t save it, if you get separated from your unit make your best way to Carcross. That’s in the hills, off any of the main highways the Wolves are likely to be using. And hold on, hold out, right here, as long as you can.”

  “That’s it, Sergeant?” Lexa asked. “That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

  “That’s what company had for us,” Murray said. “But here’s what I have for you. You’re infantry. Don’t try to mix it up with tanks or ’Mechs. They’ll eat you for breakfast and go looking for more. Your job is enemy infantry, and their skins aren’t any thicker than yours. Keep them off the ’Mechs and the tanks. If one of our units gets in trouble, support it. If one of their units gets in trouble, use your can openers.

  “If you can take an enemy ’Mech—and I don’t want anyone here to go looking, because ‘hero’ is a name people give to dead men—but if you can take an enemy ’Mech, take it intact. Those things are valuable and we’re going to need every one of them we can get our hands on. If you can get their MechWarrior out alive, even better. Those people have information that our side needs, and they have high value in hostage exchanges.

  “If you have to destroy a ’Mech, though, do it. Better a burned-out hulk on the battlefield with a cr
ispy at the controls than an active opponent.

  “Now, form groups of four, get a location to the west of the stream, and dig in.”

  “How long do we have, Sarge?” Jock Gordon asked.

  A long, lancing arc of fire sprang overhead, from away in the west. It passed above them low and fast, heading east, and an explosion bloomed behind the ridge line.

  “They’re here right now. Places, everyone. Remember, stay loose, and no heroes.”

  It was going to be a long, hot morning in spite of the cold wind and the rain outside.

  Anastasia Kerensky had dressed down for the battle, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts under her MechWarrior’s cooling vest. She did not expect to leave the cockpit of her ’Mech until she had driven the Highlanders out of Tara.

  The Ryoken II ’s massive head swayed as she looked north and south along the lines of troops and tanks that were the striking force of the Steel Wolves, and to the east at the Highlanders arrayed against her. Her

  ’Mech’s cockpit display showed the location and status of all friendly units, including those not directly visible, with markers indicating presumed enemy locations as the intelligence came in.

  The Highlanders have a thin line, she thought, and a brittle one. Crack it at any place and it will shatter, leaving the road to Tara open.

  “On my command,” she said. “Artillery. Find targets. Lock on. Fire.” And again, “Artillery. Fire.” And a third time, “Artillery. Fire.”

  Then, “On my command. Long-range missiles. Fire.”

  An overarching curtain of fire, torn and obscured by rain and wind, spread out over the opposing troops in response to her words. Ahead of her, the artillery shells were already detonating, the light of their explosions refracted in the lashing rain.

  The rain would be hell on the infantry, Wolf and Highlander alike, but in her ’Mech Anastasia was dry. And the rain would help cool her Ryoken II even as it strode forward.

  “Stay close,” she ordered her troops. “Hovercraft, find the ends of their lines. Then swing around behind.