Close quarters

by Victor Milán

  "The Clans," Bobby Begay said moodily. "We can't trust those witches. Sooner or later they'll break the truce."

  Kali looked from him to Cassie, caught her eye, and shrugged. From her many years in the Regiment, Cassie knew that a "Navajo wolf—also known as a "Skin-walker" or shape-shifter—was a witch of the very worst kind of the Dine, which was why most of the other Navajos tended to shun Bobby the Wolf. One reason, anyway.

  "Maybe that's so," Bar-Kochba said quietly, "but what'd make Uncle Chandy think we and the Dracs could hold 'em this time, any better than the last?"

  Into the uncomfortable silence, Lady K said, "Perhaps Lieutenant Suthorn could tell us why she thinks it's so important for her to go underground."

  All eyes turned toward Cassie, who stood at the foot of the table. "The last few days I've been investigating the buildings around the Compound with the Mirza's people. They've been showing me the sensors and booby-traps they have in place, and I've been making some suggestions about what else they could do."

  "I'll bet they're just thrilled," Angela Torres said.

  Cassie clamped her mouth tight shut. "Go on, Cassiopeia," Don Carlos said, showing his first signs of life since the meeting began. He was the only person in the unit who dared call her by her whole name.

  "I've been getting ... feelings," Cassie said. "I can't be any more specific than that. Just something I pick up from the population—from the way people look at us, from the things they say when they think I don't understand: something big is about to go down, and it concerns HTE. Which means it concerns us."

  The unit commanders traded looks. Baird sneered but said nothing. Caballeros of all flavors tended to trust their gut reactions. And they knew from long experience that Cassie's hunches were especially accurate.

  "What've we got to lose?" Kali asked. "It's not as if we've got a lot of other jobs only Lieutenant Suthorn can do, after all."

  "She's right," said Singer—White Nose Pony, Third Battalion's CO.

  Bar-Kochba nodded. The Cowboy rabbi and the Navajo Singer—whose secondary occupation, which was also his callsign, was analogous to Bar Kochba's—were close friends. As experienced MechWarriors and leaders, their voices carried weight in council beyond even what their rank entitled them to. Because the two men thought along similar lines, they not infrequently found themselves forming a bloc against the younger and far more impulsive commander of First Battalion.

  Cassie eyed Force Commander Camacho intently. Sometimes he seemed to go out of his way to ingratiate himself with her, sometimes to spite her. Gabby was hunkered down in his chair, a sullen expression marring his dark handsome features. Either he agreed with the older battalion commanders, or he was determined not to be shut out and lose face in front of his father, because he nodded abruptly and— uncharacteristically—held his tongue.

  "What about the work Cassie's been doing?" asked Don Coyote, Adelante's CO. He was another lean and handsome ranchero, with a trim mustache, sideburns to the point of his jaw, and a devil's grin. Despite his last name, which was O'Rourke, and the color of his skin, which was black, he came from a Cerillos norteho family of great age and honor.

  No wonder we give poor Archie fits, Cassie thought— incongruously, and to her own surprise, because in council she seldom thought about anything but her mission. She was still more surprised to discover that she thought of the FCNS reporter with more pleasure that contempt or even caution, though his real occupation was almost painfully obvious to her.

  I'll have to steer clear of him, she told herself decisively.

  "What?" sneered Bobby the Wolf, "touring the neighborhoods? Are we all going to take second jobs as janitors when things get too boring cooped up in the Compound?"

  Singer's eyes narrowed in his weathered, leather-colored face. It was a tiny gesture that perhaps only Cassie caught; she never let any detail escape her and knew the Force Commander's expressions well.

  "I like knowing about ground we might have to fight over," said O'Rourke, who thought that Bobby, Macho, Chango, and the other rougher-edged norteño s were idiots. "Especially when it has the potential to contain, you know, surprises. For us or them—whoever they might turn out to be."

  Don Coyote was a Locust pilot who specialized in recon work himself, frequently operating in close concert with Cassie. As far as she was concerned, even twenty tons of metal was a lot, and, no matter what kind of fancy sensors you had wrapped up with you in that armored cocoon, it basically isolated you from your surroundings. Within his limitations, though, he was good.

  "Badlands can continue scouting the surroundings," Kali MacDougall pointed out. "If he needs or wants a 'Mech jock's perspective, I can go along. I don't have that much to do, either."

  "First Battalion's rotating out to the Sportsplex tomorrow," Gabby Camacho pointed out in that bored voice he often affected when he was being contrary. In this instance, Cassie guessed he was fault-finding because Kali was a woman. Despite the fact that a sizable number of the Caballero Mech Warriors were females, many of the men had trouble with that fact.

  And Gabby's got reasons of his owns, she thought. Not that she was prepared to cut him any slack for that.

  Kali shrugged. "So? Dark Lady's still likely to be down for a few days until Zuma gets the arm actuator fixed." As Senior Aztech, Zuma was entitled to attend the council, as was the equally absent Astro Zombie. Neither tech made any secret that he preferred working in the shop to sitting in on debates. "And it's not like it's that big a trip. I hop a train, and twenty minutes later I'm at the Sportsplex."

  At least for a preliminary rotation, Colonel Camacho intended that each battalion remain on duty in the Compound for no more than a week. He knew full well how garrison duty sapped morale, something the Seventeenth could not afford.

  His solution to the problem, as well as his doctrine in general, was incessant BattleMech drill. The intrinsically undisciplined Caballeros had one advantage over many regular soldiers they faced: most Caballeros—norteño , Cowboy, or Indian—had learned 'Mech piloting by handling AgroMechs almost from the day they learned to walk. Their gunnery skills weren't the greatest, their coordination was less than perfect, but as sheer 'Mech pilots they were right up with the Inner Sphere's best. Don Carlos was fanatical about keeping them sharp.

  Tomorrow Adelante, Bronco, and Cochise Companies would depart by train and barge up the Yamato. Maccabee's Second Battalion—Deadeye, Eskiminzin, and Frontera— would take their places. First would drill with Third at the Sportsplex until it was Third's turn in the barrel.

  "I've got training as a civil engineer," MacDougall said. "I know a little something about materials and structural strengths that might help the work along. And Father Bob can drill the boys and girls while I'm away."

  The assembled commanders looked to Don Carlos. The Colonel's head had drooped again, his eyelids hanging low as if he were about to fall asleep.

  He wasn't. Cassie knew what he was seeing on the insides of his eyelids.

  How long can we go on, she wondered, with him little more than a figurehead? She feared this gig was bad for the Seventeenth, right now—the inaction, the loss of purpose that came with it. Yet the money Uncle Chandy was paying offered the prospect of a comeback from the terrible losses the Smoke Jaguars had inflicted on the Caballeros. The material losses, at least.

  The other ones cut deeper. And they would be far more difficult to make good.

  It had been the Colonel's best judgment that they accept this assignment among their ancient enemies, and his judgment remained sound. He still gave the Regiment everything he could. It was just that what he was able to devote to the Seventeenth kept diminishing.

  Cassie tightened her mouth and gazed at the tabletop without focusing. Her world was in danger, and there was nothing she could do. She could only concentrate on those things that had kept her alive and functioning since childhood: her art and her work.

  The Colonel raised his head and looked at her. The bags under his eyes seemed f
illed with lead.

  "Do as you choose, Lieutenant," he said. "You're our scout. Keep us safe."

  * * *

  "Lieutenant? Talk to you a moment?"

  Walking down the white anechoic corridor away from the briefing room, Cassie felt her jaw and the muscles between her shoulder blades go tense at the sound of that Cowboy-accented voice. She stopped.

  "Sure, Captain," she said without turning.

  Lady K came alongside her, stilting easily along on those damned long legs of hers. She looked down at the smaller woman with a guarded smile, then glanced around to make sure no one was within easy earshot.

  "You seem to have some problems with me, Lieutenant," she said quietly. "In the past, that was fine—not everybody has to love me. But now that Suavecito's gone back to the League and I've got Bronco, we need to work together. I don't want any interference on the line between us if there's anything I can do about it."

  Kali paused. "Let me buy you a drink and we can talk," she said, giving Cassie that dazzling smile that had surely melted many a 'Kicker heart throughout the Trinity.

  Cassie ducked her head low and seethed. Don't do this to me, she thought furiously. You're a MechWarrior and a blonde bimbo. Let it stay that way.

  Lady K's smile faded to a look of concern. "Please?"

  Cassie sighed. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Kali. Or Lady K."

  Cassie just nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

  Part Three

  Dangerous Ground

  13

  Masamori, Hachiman

  Galedon District, Draconis Combine

  2 September 3056

  The shiners Cowboy had caught when Cassie busted his nose were starting to clear up. He was in his usual spot by the bar, with the other usual suspects Buck and Reb, when Cassie and Lady K came into the Permissible Repose. The former Permissible Repose; the 'lleros had just about got Mr. Krishnamurti, the proprietor, talked into renaming the place The Sagebrush. They were even taking up a collection to buy him a new sign.

  Cowboy rose and hoisted a glass to the two women as they walked toward the table by the musicbox in the corner of the mostly empty bar. "Evenin', ladies," he called out. "You two lovelies feelin' a trifle lonely tonight, here on this foreign world amongst all these Snakes?"

  "Lonely, yes," Lady K said, "not desperate. Sit your skinny butt down, Cowboy."

  His buddies laughed. After a moment he grinned and resumed his seat.

  Kali paused by the table. Startled, Cassie realized her companion was letting her slide into the corner chair, from which she could keep an eye on the whole establishment. Grateful in spite of herself, she did so, while Lady K signaled to whichever of Mr. Krishnamurti's daughters was on duty tonight. The girl took their order, bowed, and scuttled away, making sure to steer a berth as wide as possible of the Cowboys at the bar.

  A soft ranchero ballad played from the box, which had a sticker pasted on it for the mythical Radio KATN, printed up on some long-ago world. "I thought Cowboy was making some headway with one of Krishnamurti's girls," Kali observed. "Reckon this isn't the one."

  Cassie looked at her. "I really shouldn't take too much time, Captain—" she began.

  MacDougall sighed and shook her head. "Cassie, what have I done to get crosswise of you?"

  "The Captain's behavior toward me has always been entirely correct," Cassie said in robot tones.

  Lady K snorted. "That's a load of organic fertilizer if ever I heard one. All right, let's see ... maybe I can tell you what you don't like about me. I'm too tall, too blonde, and you reckon that maybe when the good Lord asked me what I wanted to help me along in this vale of tears, I said, Lord, give me a double helping of boobs, hold the brains. Am I dropping close to the target, Lieutenant Suthorn?"

  Cassie stared at the other woman with enormous owl eyes while the chubby Krishnamurti daughter set a fruit juice down for Kali and a Borstal Boy beer for Cassie, bowed again, then scurried away again to elude Cowboy's amorous attentions.

  Like a windowpane fracturing, Cassie broke into giggles. Lady K joined her. The giggles turned into gusty laughter as the male 'Mech jocks turned from the bar to stare.

  Regaining control of herself, Cassie wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. She realized she had, well, overreacted again. Yet Lady K didn't seem to mind the display of somewhat inappropriate behavior. And she felt an undeniable sense of release that she could not explain.

  "Yes, Captain," she said, "the target is destroyed."

  Lady K sat back in her chair and took a hit of her juice. "The fact that I'm an Atlas pilot bothers you too, doesn't it? It was an Atlas blasted your house and killed your Daddy when you were a little girl, right?"

  Cassie felt as if shutters had closed over her face again. Yes, it was, she knew now. An Atlas with nonstandard weaponry—not unusual among 'Mechs of the Inner Sphere, to say nothing of pirate raiders from the Periphery. When a warrior lost a major weapons system, sometimes he just had to jury-rig in whatever replacement was available. The system wasn't as smoothly efficient as the Clans' modular Omnis, but with enough ingenuity—or brute-force determination—it often worked. And a genius like Zuma on the job could often rival what the Clans could do.

  "Cassie, Cassie, look, I'm sorry if I touched a nerve. I know why you feel the way you do about 'Mechs and MechWarriors, really I do. But, honey, I wasn't there. Shoot, I was maybe seven myself. Sure, I was learning to drive a busted-down old AgroMech around my daddy's spread back then, like any good little Cowgirl. But, believe me, nobody would've trusted me with an Atlas in those days."

  Despite herself, Cassie found herself smiling again. It was turning out to be difficult to keep disliking the Captain. Maybe that was why she'd worked at it so hard all those years.

  "Look, Cass," Kali said, "I can see why my looks put you off. A lot of people think I've got a little valve up here"—a hand fluffed blonde hair beside her left ear"—with a stencil next to it that reads, 'INFLATE TO ONE STANDARD LOCAL ATMOSPHERE.' And what the hey? I don't see any call to go 'round without bathing and with my hair hanging all matted in my eyes just so folks won't think I'm too blonde. I'm proud of the way I look. It's just that I don't let it define me. And if people think it does—"

  The smile she showed then was not altogether pleasant. "—why, now, that can be downright useful sometimes, can't it?"

  Cassie nodded slowly. Grudgingly. Her beer tasted flat.

  "Besides, Cass, you don't come up any too short in the looks department yourself. Not by half, as that cute Limey newscaster would say, just to mention someone who follows you around as if his eyes were tethered to the seat of your trousers."

  Cassie smiled, and to-her astonishment felt her cheeks grow warm. "Me? I thought he—you—" She dropped her eyes, unable to look at MacDougall any longer.

  "Some men like their women tall, blonde, and brassy. Others go for the dark, lithe, exotic types—you, for example. It's a big universe. And speaking just for myself, I'd be tempted to kill for that snub nose of yours and those almond-shaped gray eyes. Not to mention a metabolism that lets you eat like a Ranger bull in springtime and never gain a kilo."

  Rangers were the main product of the Trinity worlds, gene-tailored crossbreeds of American bison, Spanish fighting bulls, Longhorns, and the Zebu, a.k.a. the Brahma bull. Father Doctor Bob said they almost perfectly reproduced the ancient aurochs, a strain of wild cattle so ferocious it hunted men. True or not, they were huge, monstrously strong, and unbelievably surly. There was a reason Southwestern ranch kids learned to pilot AgroMechs at a very early age. Rangers did not respect anything less—and a full-grown bull could take one down hard if the driver wasn't careful.

  Cassie felt confusion bubble inside her, like silt obscuring the bottom of a clear mountain stream. She was aware of her attractiveness to men—had been much too aware of the fact, since childhood. She had put it to use often enough, as a street Arab and scam artist, and subsequently as a scout. Always the come-on, never coming acro
ss; she would never be a whore, no matter what. The memory of her mother was too strong for that. But Cassie could pull off the illusion.

  It seemed that the only man she'd ever known who'd evinced no interest in her as a sexual being was Guru Johann. No, she knew what it was that had drawn him: the hunger inside her, that thing near madness that drove her from waking until dream-troubled sleep. It made her the perfect student, the ultimate receptacle for his lethal art, which he had poured into her like seed. Her hunger was to be his immortality, and so it had come to pass.

  But Cassie had never thought of her physical attractiveness in such a benign way before. As if it might be something to enjoy for its own sake.

  She felt a stab of hatred for the tall blonde captain then, so furious and white-hot it took her all aback. I know myself, damn you! she thought. I know who I am and where I stand. And here you are, confusing things—

  She cut herself off before she could think the rest of the thought: you scare me. That was something she could never admit, that any individual made her afraid, especially not this pushy, pasty-faced bolilla bitch.

  MacDougall had leaned subtly away. "I don't mean to rattle you, Cassie Suthorn," she said softly, as if gentling a frightened horse. "I like you, I admire you, I respect you. I know what you mean to the Regiment. I'm proud to call myself your comrade."

  She reached out and laid a hand on Cassie's. "And if you'll let me, I'd be proud to call myself your friend."

  Cassie raised her head. Kali MacDougall was looking at her, clear blue eyes level, mouth smiling. A smile of real warmth, not a pasted-on glossy grin. Cassie Suthorn, who could read most people's feelings as if they were written in LEDs across their faces, and who could hardly have said what she was feeling herself from one moment to the next, studied MacDougall's features as carefully as she had ever scrutinized anything in her life. She saw only friendship.