Threads of Ambition

by Loren L. Coleman

  Today was for building a little goodwill with the newly made Capellan citizens of Denbar.

  Dho worked alongside his men as an example to them specifically; a lesson that warriors were just as responsible for the damage they caused as they were for their duty, which required them to inflict it in the first place. They'd shown up in the morning with picks, shovels, and other equipment borrowed from the local Parks Department to repair the damaged grounds. Some worked on the torn-up earth itself, as the sang-shao did. Others cleared debris or doctored trees. Even more worked inside the reflecting pool, the water having drained away through the huge cracks Dho's Victor had put in its bottom.

  Bringing back the reflecting pool would go a long way toward building a little good faith with the locals. It was truly the pride of the park. Barely six hours into the project, the Hustaing Warriors CO already saw improvement. For most of the morning his warriors had labored alone. Around noon Pinedale citizens had begun to trickle in, adding to the workforce. One of those civilians even now wheeled over a fresh load of sod, which she would pack into some nearby gouges where the feet of a 'Mech had cut through the park lawn. Not much, but it was a start.

  The radio clipped to Ni Tehn Dho's belt squawked to life with a quick burst of static. "Sang-shao, this is Sao-shao Evans. Two messages from the spaceport, sir. Would you like the good news, or the better news?"

  Dho frowned lightly, sweat beading in the lines on his forehead and then running down into his right eye. He rubbed at the burn and plucked the radio from his belt. At the edge of the park, Evans stood guard in a captured Blackjack, an older design but the only available replacement since the destruction of his Jenner. Think I need a sit-down talk with Evans. He's obviously been hanging around the Arcade Rangers a bit too much of late. Still, there was no reason to dampen the warrior's obviously good spirits just now. He keyed the transmitter. "Give me the good news, Danny."

  "The XO has finished with that armored lance that came in this morning," Evans said. "With your permission, she wants to clear them for reassignment."

  Making it the third Denbar Home Guard armor lance that has come in of its own accord since the formal declaration of Capellan occupation. Dho smiled. House Master Non's confiscation of equipment from resisting forces may have engendered some incredibly bad blood with the warriors released back to civilian life, but more units had either taken a neutral stance because of it or even come in to formally pledge to Capellan service. Dho pulled at the wisps of his beard. Not a bad trade.

  "Tell her to act as she thinks fit," he radioed back. "Though I would prefer that they are put back to duty in the same city they came from."

  "I think that was the XO's idea, sir."

  Dho nodded to himself, mostly satisfied but still feeling just a twinge of regret over his selection of an executive officer. Not that Zhong-shao Usa Cappuccio wasn't competent and even worthy of the post, but it was another deviation from the old Capellan ways. When has a BattleMech regiment ever named its armor support commander as its exec? It sometimes felt like the Hustaing Warriors were out to break as many of the older CCAF conventions as possible, despite Dho's belief that many of those conventions were critical to running a proper Capellan unit.

  He keyed the radio again. "So what is the better news, sao-shao?"

  "Marshigama's Legionnaires are in orbit. They intend to deliver to us a lance of brand new BattleMechs, as ordered, and then take up station on the eastern continent."

  The Legionnaires? Dho grimaced and he heard Sao-wei Hugh Feng groan as he eavesdropped. They were an older veteran mercenary outfit with long-standing ties to the Confederation, and one of the units recently "adopted" into the CCAF in a manner similar to McCarron's Armored Cavalry. But they were also infamous for their egotistical bent and extreme difficulty in working with other units. This is good news? "They are not integrating with the Warriors, are they?"

  Evans' humor was evident, even over the radio. "No, sir. That is the better news, aside from the new BattleMechs. I guess they were fairly clear about keeping the commands separate. They are simply relieving us of responsibility for half of Denbar."

  Well, they were welcome to it so far as Sang-shao Dho cared. His Hustaing Warriors occupied the capital city and the more important continent. The Legionnaires could chase resisting Home Guards through the southern continent's harsh mountain ranges. And, of course, four new 'Mechs never hurt.

  "I don't suppose one of the new machines is a Yu Huang, is it?" Dho worked to keep the eagerness from his voice, though another hesitant grin from Hugh Feng told him that he had not altogether succeeded. Dho's Victor was a good design, for all its Commonwealth origins, but the new assault 'Mech House Master Non had piloted really made an impression.

  "No, Sang-shao. A new Raven, Snake, and two Huron Warriors."

  Dho shrugged. Good Capellan designs, every one. "All right, Danny. Thank you for the news. Pass my compliments back to Sang-shao Marshigama and then find a relief."

  "Sir? You want me to switch out?" At the edge of the grass, Evans' Blackjack turned toward Ni Tehn Dho.

  Smiling mischievously, Dho waved across the park at the Blackjack. "Yes. It sounds like you're having too much fun riding around. Get down here and grab a shovel." He returned the radio to his belt, and then laughed aloud when Evans turned the Blackjack around with an almost resigned slump in its shoulders. Maybe I've been a bit too preoccupied with the past, he thought, the humor assuaging his concerns for the moment. The Warriors might just turn out to be a representative unit for the renewed Capellan effort; a true Xin Sheng outfit. We all acknowledge our Capellan heritage, proudly, but we aren't afraid of change. And most of all, we get the job done.

  Admirable sentiments, which lasted all of ten seconds and then were shattered as the civilian working nearby stumbled back with blood gushing out of a hole in her neck, the distant cra-ack of a high-powered rifle testament to the cause. Dho barely had time to grab his radio and yell, "Sniper," when Hugh slammed into him hard and drove him to the ground, pinning Dho under his greater weight.

  Half-lying in the shallow ditch carved by the old PPC hit, Ni Tehn Dho could still detect the ozone scent that had been burned into the blackened earth and grass. Not three meters away the Denbar native twitched a few last times and then lay still, her life's force staining the nearby grass red and darkening the ground. Was that shot meant for one of my warriors? Or is that the price she paid for collaborating with the enemy?

  A second rifle shot plowed a tiny furrow through the mound of soil in Hugh's wheelbarrow, and then buried itself in the ground a meter from Dho's head. He traced a line from the point of impact through the wheelbarrow and toward a high floor of an apartment building right across the street from the park. He shoved Hugh aside and keyed his radio. "Apartment building, south side. Fifth floor, maybe higher."

  Hugh did not waste time looking. He crabbed over to his wheelbarrow, then rose to his knees long enough to run it side-on to the apartments and dump the whole thing over toward his commanding officer. Ni Tehn Dho dove for the improvised cover, followed only a fraction of a second later by Sao-wei Hugh Feng.

  Not fast enough, as it turned out. The third bullet took the sao-wei high in his chest, directly through the breastbone.

  Hugh crashed to the ground without much more than a single sharp cry that echoed the rifle crack, and then silence. His blood geysered out for a moment, soaking Dho's sleeve in a warm fountain. "Sixth floor," a voice called out over the radio, its owner apparently having seen the third shot. "Fifth window."

  Dho punched the Transmit button, his breathing ragged from the excitement but nothing lacking in his fury. "Take that wang ba dan out, now! I don't care how. Just do it."

  The answer came in a staccato chain of bursts that sounded almost like cloth tearing. Light autocannon fire. Dho rolled out from behind the barrow to find Evans' Blackjack standing between his position and the apartment, its right arm with a thirty-millimeter autocannon leveled at the building. Glass an
d a few shards of brick still rained down from the shattered window and its ledge. Just for good measure, it seemed, Evans ripped off another quick burst that chewed through more of the wall to no doubt shred the room beyond.

  Sang-shao Ni Tehn Dho climbed slowly to his feet. He looked from the shattered apartment to his dead warrior to the civilian, who had simply been trying to heal some breaches in her own way. She'll be buried here, he decided, peeling off his uniform shirt and draping it over her. Both of them will be buried here, where their blood stained the ground, and a memorial placed over the site. Maybe it wouldn't mean much, personalizing the war in this way, but Dho could only hope that it would.

  And right now, it was the best he could do.

  29

  Khingan Foothills

  Nashuar

  St. Ives Compact

  24 April 3061

  In the morning shadows of Nashuar's Greater Khingan Mountain Range, among the foothills and shallow valleys where a combined-arms company of the Seventh FedCom RCT had been assigned to patrol against any flanking efforts, Lance Sergeant Maurice Fitzgerald found the battlefield. He coasted the J. Edgar to a stop in the middle of the clearing, right in plain sight, and shut down his fans, which died with a final exhale of air from the hovercraft's skirt. He grabbed an assault rifle and handheld radio, checking to make sure the batteries were good, and then undogged the hatch. Fitz knew better than to exit his vehicle on an unsecured battlefield, but he had to get out and look for himself.

  Besides, there's no one left here.

  "Fitz, are you crazy?" That from Lance Corporal Chi Kung, Prowler Two, her voice a shocked whisper over the small radio. "Hey, Moe. Button back up."

  Standing at the forward edge of his tank, the spring sun warming him through his padded uniform, Fitzgerald swept his gaze about. For as far as he could see, before stands of Ponderosa pine or the rise of a hill blocked his vision, lay a graveyard of 'Mechs, armored vehicles, and the bunched corpses of infantry squads. A good twenty meters from the nearest bodies, he still smelled the ripe, rotten stench of death. Many vehicles were little more than burned-out shells, and a few 'Mechs had suffered such catastrophic damage that only a few parts were even recognizable in a mass of twisted, plasma-scorched metal. The light sound of birdcalls seemed very incongruous with the carnage and destruction.

  We figured on this. Two days, no contact. Fitzgerald rubbed a hand roughly against the back of his neck and tried to breathe lightly. But to see it.

  With the scavenging practices of the Inner Sphere, born over several centuries of the Succession Wars, a battlefield like this was a rare sight. Salvage teams of the victorious side, if not both, were usually on the scene before the flames had completely died away. Bagging their own dead, burying the enemy if necessary, and picking the field over for useful equipment. From where he stood, Fitz saw at least three BattleMechs worth millions of C-bills each that could be piloted off the field if not for a missing leg or scrapped gyro. Did they fight to the last man? No quarter asked or given?

  That seemed to be the case. Fitzgerald glanced about for any signs of motion. He found none, except the wind pushing around some tall but sparse grasses. He pulled off his helmet, listening for the calls or the moans of wounded but heard only wind in the trees. Tossing the helmet back down through the hatch, he then brought up the radio. "Prowlers Three and Four, recon the area," he said tersely. "Give me an accurate and independent count of vehicles and 'Mechs. Include design and colors, when you can tell." From where he stood he could read the Lyran Alliance insignia on several BattleMechs, as if their powder-blue paint would not have been indication enough. "Let me know right away if you find a survivor, or a Confederation 'Mech."

  Why a Confederation 'Mech would mean anything special to him, except that House Hiritsu had forces present when the Lyrans hit the Seventh, Fitz wasn't sure. He jumped down to the ground, and walked toward the nearest bodies. An infantry squad, light rifles only, and by the looks of their mangled corpses ripped apart by heavy autocannon fire. He turned away and moved on to a wrecked Goblin infantry support vehicle.

  Maybe I'd rather think that Capellans, even ones who are my enemy right now, were not involved in this slaughter. Because if they could do it, so could we. In his view, this wasn't the way battles were fought. Eventually, one side or the other retreated, or offered terms of surrender. Ransoms were paid or terms of salvage negotiated. As he moved from one vehicle to the next, one dead body to the next, Fitzgerald tried to figure out what had made the difference here.

  "Did they kill each other off?" Prowler Two asked once.

  Scanning the field, trying to get even a feel for what had happened, Fitzgerald shook his head. "Negative," he said. "At least, I don't think so. There will be a few soldiers limping back in at least one direction. Probably both, but neither with any good communication gear left to them." He continued his personal survey.

  "Prowler One, this is Three," eventually came the call as Fitzgerald headed back for the J. Edgar. "No survivors and no Confederation units present. Count twenty-three, that is two-three, BattleMechs or pieces and twelve armored vehicles. I think I can confirm that all FedCom 'Mechs are present. And the Lyrans never landed armored support." Prowler Four echoed the results.

  So the Seventh's combined-arms scouting force had been hit by a company of Lyran 'Mechs, and lost every unit but managed to at least account for all but one Lyran 'Mech. Considering the edge the Lyran force had in the way of experience, on the tally sheet that wasn't a bad showing. Fitzgerald climbed back up onto the J. Edgar and gave the killing field one last look. Maybe not, but tally sheets never show this.

  Returning radio and rifle to their racks, Fitz pulled on his helmet and strapped himself back into his seat. "Okay," he said over his regular communications gear, dialing for a strong voice. His people would be feeling rather vulnerable after seeing this slaughter. "We have one Lyran 'Mech probably limping home with a busted radio. That makes it a race, and we need this salvage to stay in the game." His voice cracked a bit on the last bit. A very deadly game. "Cruising speeds until we hit the plains, and then it's flank for home." And with any luck, this is the last time we'll have to make this kind of recon.

  But Fitzgerald didn't believe that. Not even for a moment.

  * * *

  Sitting alone in the mess hall and still not especially hungry, Fitzgerald ignored the buzz of conversation around him and stared at his tray. Breaded fish and rice. Atypical meal, and one that the mess rarely ruined. He pushed the food around on his tray, quickly becoming more absorbed with the patterns he could make in his rice than in eating.

  "You going to eat that, or frame it when you're done?"

  Danielle Singh set her tray on the table and slid in next to him. "Heard about this morning's recon," she said. "Figured you would have led the salvage team back out there."

  Fitz continued to play with his food. "They put my lance on a twenty-four-hour standdown. We've been pulling long hours lately." He looked over at her, wondering if Danielle had run into him by chance or design. Was she going to make another pitch for the 'Mech company? "What about you? Home Guard not providing cover?"

  "Armor corps only. They wanted to get out to the site as quickly as possible." Danielle took a bite of her fish and chewed slowly. "Turned out to be a good decision. A battalion of Canopian Fusiliers walked in before they were half done and secured the area for the Confederation."

  That got his attention. He pushed his tray away. "Fusiliers? I thought they were on Milos?" Fitz had been following reported troop movements, as if his knowledge of them might somehow make a difference. He was almost trying to handicap the war like some giant Solaris match, and the odds didn't engender much hope.

  Danielle shrugged. "Who can follow all the players anymore? Rumor mill has it that the Lyrans have been pulled off-world, and the Fusiliers are here to take their place." She glanced meaningfully at his tray. "Why aren't you eating, Fitz?"

  "Not hungry," he said, thinking to
leave it at that, but then relenting. If there was anyone he could talk to, it was Danielle. "The battlefield," he said simply. "It's bothering me." He stared at her hard then, no longer wondering if her presence here was an accident. "You came looking for me."

  She nodded. "I ran into Chi Kung. She said the scene was disturbing, and that you'd begged off a dinner in Hazlet with the three of them." Danielle looked him over carefully. "I never thought of you having a weak stomach."

  No brains, yes. Weak stomach, no. Fitzgerald shook his head. "It made me a little queasy, sure. But that passed. It was something else. Driving that light tank around a field where BattleMechs had fallen." He shook his head again. "Makes me wonder what I can hope to accomplish in recon." What we can hope to accomplish against the Confederation.

  Danielle set her fork down and pushed her own tray toward the middle of the table. "They managed to remove five salvageable machines from the field out there before the Canopians ran them off. We'll be needing Mech Warriors. You thinking about accepting Nevarr's offer?" She sounded genuinely hopeful.

  "I haven't stopped thinking about it, Danielle." He exhaled sharply. "But I don't think I'm ready yet. I glitched up bad in the sims. I won't let that happen again."

  "Sure you will."

  Fitzgerald snapped his head around. After the meeting with Danielle and Nevarr, he was surprised to hear her say that.

  "I'm not saying you will make the same mistake," Danielle said quickly. "I think you've solved that little problem of yours. But you will make mistakes out there. We all do. And they'll cost lives sometimes." Her brown eyes sought out his green. "The Seventh RCT and the Arcadians can only do so much for us, Fitz. We need more MechWarriors."