Trial by Chaos

by J. Steven York

  Blinded by exploding missiles and a nearby lightning strike, Kean hesitated before targeting me again, and I was able to slip closer. I traveled a serpentine course towards him, forcing him to swivel and turn to keep his weapons trained on me. Even though this machine boasted improved heat dissipation, the massive Atlas is still a slow and cumbersome 'Mech. Though I could not use my damaged jump jets, my Pack Hunter was maneuverable and at least twice as fast as the bigger 'Mech. I used that fully to my advantage.

  He fired his lasers and Gauss rifles, near misses and glancing strikes that did minor damage to my already bleeding 'Mech. I watched the red lights growing in number on my heads-up display. Even if Kean did not score a direct hit, I could not take much more of this punishment, and the closer I came the easier a target I presented.

  "Operation plink," I announced on the command circuit.

  From a dozen points around the Atlas came weapons fire and the huge 'Mech paused, its torso swiveling as it tried to choose a target. Lasers played over its armor, and missiles exploded with little effect, but that was not my intent.

  Conner Hall had not come alone. On his way, he had rallied what forces he could. No BattleMechs. But there were Elementals, the Clans' giant warriors in their fearsome battle armor; tanks crewed with aging warriors past their prime, desperate to die in glory; and a few other elements of light armor, far outclassed, but able to distract the big 'Mech for the precious seconds I needed.

  Closer I came. Closer. I opened up with my microlasers, and the distracted Atlas again turned its attention to me.

  I remember the flash.

  At first I thought it was lightning, but my cockpit lurched violently, and I heard the screaming of metal as the lasers cut through something critical and the right arm of my 'Mech began to rip free at the shoulder. Hot oil scalded my face, and a haze of smoke filled the cockpit.

  Still I advanced on the Atlas as he turned his missiles to bear on me. In a flash of lightning I saw the tips of the ready missiles, and the skull mask of the Atlas looking down at me.

  I switched to an open radio channel and told as close to a lie as a Clan warrior is likely to tell. "What," I asked, "are your terms of surrender?"

  Mind you, I never said that I was interested in agreeing to those terms, or that I would even consider them.

  I was just asking, you see.

  Nasew Spaceport, Southwest Industrial District

  Nasew, North Nanturo continent, Vega

  22 November 3136

  Despite the late hour, the FVR barracks were a buzz of activity: folding bunks being hustled down the corridors. lockers being pushed around, beds being made and room assignments being handed out by the FVR's executive officer. Conner Hall stood near a corridor junction, his back against the wall, powerful arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the proceedings with interest.

  The Vega personnel seemed somewhat tentative around the Clan MechWarriors, even the FVR MechWarriors who worked with them on a regular basis. To work with the Clan warriors, to fight with them, was one thing. To live in intimate proximity to them was apparently quite another.

  Conner had to admit he felt out of place himself. The layout of the barracks seemed strange. The building predated the current conflict and was built to the standards of a time of peace and relative plenty. Originally, each MechWarrior, regardless of rank, had been given a private room with a very solid door. A door equipped with a lock. It bespoke a need for privacy and modesty that was alien to Conner. Their own barracks had been divided into only a few rooms, each MechWarrior assigned a bunk and a few items of functional furniture, each bunk separated from the rest only by a movable curtain.

  Most of the time, the curtains had been left open. If they were drawn, it usually meant someone was inside coupling, but occasionally they weren't drawn even then. He had spent enough time around non-Clanners to know there would be incidents. A Clansman of either gender would think nothing of walking to and from the showers or latrines naked, or of changing clothes in a common area.

  It had been his experience that while non-Clan warriors were less modest than the general populace—combat often made modesty a luxury—they still maintained their modesty where possible. Most especially, they made a habit of averting their eyes from their fellow soldiers' nudity, especially when dealing with the opposite sex.

  To a Clan warrior, it was unnecessary nonsense. There was nothing unnatural, shameful or forbidden about the human body. It simply was. To surround it with elaborate social taboos was ridiculous.

  But that was not the most pressing problem at the moment. Everyone needed to be situated, and there were countless minor logistical challenges; for example, most of their uniforms and personal kits had been destroyed in the fire. Replacements were in short supply. Some of his MechWarriors now wore borrowed FVR uniforms, with a few in mechanics' coveralls.

  There was no sadness, no mourning for the day's losses among his warriors, only a cloud of anger and frustration that hung over them all. To die bravely in combat was a warrior's death, and something to be celebrated. Death by terrorist action—this was something they were less prepared to deal with.

  Conner's mind flashed back to those first glorious days after their landing on Vega. He remembered the hot-metal-and-oil smell of his 'Mech's cockpit, the fusion flare of descending DropShips as they'd dug into the shattered spaceport and set about securing it to bring in the heavier aerodyne transports. They'd encountered a surprisingly heavy resistance: tanks, lots of light armor, armored infantry, artillery fire from emplacements far across the city and even a few 'Mechs.

  It was then they'd first encountered the First Vega Regulars, though they hadn't given themselves that name yet. Then, they'd only been a ragtag resistance force loyal to The Republic, piloting whatever crudely modified IndustrialMechs they'd been able to lay their hands on. They took out the artillery batteries and helped Conner's warriors secure the spaceport. Given their inferior equipment, their losses had approached sixty percent by the time the fighting let up but, by then, they'd won Conner's respect. He'd personally advocated forming the survivors into a formal part of their defenses, to coordinate closely with Clan forces in restoring order to the war-torn planet.

  As for Karen, she had been a junior officer when the fighting began. By the end of it, she was the most experienced and highest-ranking MechWarrior in the loyalist force.

  Conner remembered the first time he'd become aware of her. Her MiningMech had been taking fierce fire from a damaged Blade that was defending the control tower. Though the BattleMech was damaged, it was in every way her superior, and its guns had been peeling the makeshift armor from her patched-together machine like a farmer shearing a sheep.

  But still she'd waded forward, using the MiningMech's digging wheel to shield her cockpit until she could move inside his weapons' range and engage hand-to-hand. She squeezed every last erg of energy from her damaged machine, bleeding coolant and hydraulic fluid as she chewed into the Blade's cockpit with her rock cutters. Her 'Mech had finally quit on her, slumped over from mechanical failure, but the Blade had fallen first, and its pilot would not live to fight another day.

  That seemed an eternity ago. He treasured the memory of proper combat, as sweet as a lover's embrace.

  "Are you all right, Conner? You seem a million klicks away."

  He blinked, and looked down into Karen's eyes. She tilted her head and smiled ever so slightly, a look of concern on her face.

  "Just thinking of better days."

  "Well, there have been better ones than this, that's for sure. I'm just happy it's over."

  "Let us hope that it does not happen again."

  "They've doubled security around the base, and no vehicles are being allowed within fifty meters of any building until further notice." She watched two of her officers slide past them carrying a rolled mattress. "In any case, I think you'll be safer here. The insurgents are aggressive, but I think they're less likely to attack a barracks occupied by native Vega
citizens."

  "Perhaps you underestimate them. They seem as though they'll stop at nothing to drive us off this world."

  She frowned. "I'm not counting on their mercy. I'm counting on their desire to court the goodwill of the common Vegan. Kill a Clansman in his bed, and you're a folk hero. Kill a Vegan in his bed, even one who opposes your philosophy, and you're a murderer. Our enemies are well versed in courting public opinion."

  Then the frown turned into a sad smile. "That's the difference between this and so many other conflicts in human history. Vegans, despite all our differences, have a sense of ourselves as one people. Like the ancient Russians I gather you people so admire. Time and again our world has been invaded, fought over, occupied, and yet another government installed. Ultimately, we are all rats on the same leaking ship, cursing the raging sea, grimly awaiting our fate with little hope of controlling it."

  His eyes narrowed. "Cursing, too, the pirates that have recently come over the rail?"

  She shrugged. "I'm sure that's the way the insurgents see it."

  He studied her, and could tell by the look in her eyes that she sometimes saw it that way too. "We are not pirates. We're the rescue party, come to reset the masts, mend the sails and help bail, if only you'll let us."

  "Out of the goodness of your hearts." There was a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  "The Ghost Bears have their agenda, it's true, but ultimately we want what you want. A strong and stable Vega, that can once again take its rightful place as the capital of this prefecture."

  She looked away and shook her head. "I'm sorry if I sound ungrateful. It's hard not to be cynical, after all we've been through these last few years." She again met his eyes, and there was something there that had been missing before. Something sad and desperate. She quickly looked away.

  The frenzy of activity had finally slowed, and they were alone in the corridor, except for a few people sorting uniforms at the far end, out of easy earshot. She lowered her voice, so only he would hear. "I don't know that I'd be here if it wasn't for you. Conner. There have been so many times I've just wanted to give up the fighting, find someplace relatively out of harm's way, and try to live out my days with as much simplicity and peace as possible." She licked her dry lips. "Then I hear you talk about the lost glory of the old Star League, and how the Clans have devoted their entire existence to restoring that to the Inner Sphere. You don't talk about it often, but when you do, it isn't for show. It isn't a speech, or rhetoric, or a pep talk. You talk about it as naturally as you breathe."

  She pursed her lips, and ran her fingers through her hair. It was dirty and tangled after their long, difficult day. It didn't bother him. He had a sudden desire to wash it for her. to run his fingers through her long, soapy locks. He shook off the image, and blinked himself back to reality.

  She didn't seem to notice his distraction. "I never understood the Clans before. Probably I still don't. But when you talk like that, I understand why you exist and something deep in my heart wants—no—demands—that I help you. The Star League was born here on Vega, Star Colonel, and we hold it more dear, mourn its passing more deeply, than you can imagine. You remind me that we're fighting for something bigger than ourselves, something abstract, and grand and glorious. A fool fights for nothing. An idiot fights for trinkets or land. But a warrior—a true warrior—fights for the greater glory of all. If that's really what we're fighting for, then I'll fight on. I'll fight on with my last breath, and my last drop of blood."

  His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her words had snuck up on him, sliding past the distraction of his growing passion for her and crashing home like a storm wave breaking on rocks.

  He inspired her? Yet to hear her repeating his own words and beliefs, it was as though he had never heard them before. He realized that after the Omega Galaxy's growing troubles, what many called their decline, and his time on Vega, it had made him cynical, dulled his sense of purpose.

  What are we fighting for?

  To restore the lost glory of the Star League.

  He felt a clarity he had not felt in a long time. It was a good feeling, one he wanted to share. But there would be time enough for that.

  She tilted her head slightly. "Have you been assigned quarters yet?"

  He shook his head. "I did not want to complicate the process. I will take whatever bunk is left."

  "You're the commander. I assumed you'd want your own room."

  "Space is tight. I will share. It does not matter with whom." Or did it? He stumbled over the words, and it made him foolish and un-Clannish. "I could share yours."

  She looked by turns surprised, bemused and then amused. She laughed softly, not as derisively as when he'd proposed coupling with her earlier. "You don't give up, I'll give you that." She grinned.

  "I already have a roommate. Lieutenant Rodriquez, a new recruit from down south. You may not have met her yet, but I'm sure you will." She stepped back to allow an FVR MechWarrior, carrying a bathrobe and toothbrush, past her on his way to the showers. "It will be hard to avoid anyone from now on."

  "Then I will not be able to avoid you."

  She gave him a lopsided grin, a twinkle in her eye that made his heart pound a little faster. "No, I don't think you will."

  * * *

  Isis Bekker came awake suddenly, some instinct putting her mind in a state of instant alertness. Her training and experience allowed her to remain motionless, kept even her eyelids from fluttering. Though she could tell that the room was still dark, any movement she made might be detected by someone with night-vision goggles.

  She lay still, forcing her body to remain relaxed, tried to keep her breathing slow and regular, listening intently for what had awakened her.

  Long seconds glided past like dark, drifting clouds filled with the portent of a storm.

  Then— There! A slight creak of the flooring. Not a step. Perhaps someone shifting their weight. She estimated that the sound came from somewhere in the direction of the bathroom door.

  Vince? She listened closely, trying to hear breathing. There it was, barely discernible, but high in pitch, more like a child than a full-grown man. Certainly it wasn't Vincent Florala. The man had suffered some kind of congenital breathing difficulty as a child. Asthma? Allergies? Regardless, it was the sort of thing that had by now been bred and engineered out the warrior bloodlines, and she wasn't even familiar enough with such conditions to know what it was called. Whatever, it had left him with a slight but characteristic wheezing sound in his exhalation.

  No, this was not Vincent.

  She lay on her stomach, naked as she always slept, a cool sheet draped over her body, legs akimbo, left arm sprawled next to her body, right hand half tucked under her pillow. Slowly—ever so slowly—she uncurled the fingers of that hand, stretching out. Her pistol was out of her reach without obvious movement, but she just felt the smooth pearl handle of her dagger under her fingertips. Slowly, carefully she slid it closer, until she could wrap her fingers around it.

  Again, the shifting of weight.

  What are you waiting for? Why do you hesitate? I certainly wouldn't.

  Then there was something else. A noise that was not the cocking of a gun, but something mechanical—things under tension.

  She rolled, tossing the sheets to disguise her movement. There was a thwip, and something shot past her, so close that she felt the breeze from it against her ribs, and struck the mattress where her torso had been only a moment before.

  She hit the floor in a crouch, knife at the ready. It was dark, but a slight glow came from the simulated window, and her dark-adjusted eyes could see well enough. A slight figure dressed in black, carrying a small crossbow.

  Assassin!

  Her instinct was to strike without mercy, end this decisively in blood.

  Yet the dark silhouette she could see was small and unimposing, and there was an old saying that dead men tell no tales. Isis wanted to know who her assassin was, and more importantly, who had sent him
or her. A corpse might not give her those answers.

  She pounced, tackling the dark figure. She encountered little resistance. Her attacker was as small and thin as he or she had appeared to be, though wiry muscles flexed as they struggled.

  Isis had jumped hard, just in case her attacker was more formidable than they had appeared. Now this worked against her as the attacker fell back, using her momentum against her, tossing her into a roll. She landed on her back, snap-rolling instantly into a crouch, blade still at the ready.

  But the attacker was already swinging the stock of the crossbow at her. It connected painfully with her right cheek, slamming her head back, making her taste blood. She cursed herself for her sloppiness. She was old for a Clan Mech Warrior, and right now she felt the weight of her age.

  She shook off the momentary lapse like a dog shaking off water. Deep inside, she felt the bear spirit rising. She bared her teeth and snarled.

  The attacker seemed to hesitate, crossbow held ready to swing again. Still he—or she—Isis thought she might have felt the curve of small breasts in their brief grappling—did not retreat.

  You're not a coward. Good. That will make this easier.

  Isis knew the location of every object in her room, the layout clearly defined in her mind's eye. Her left hand found the bathroom door frame, and instantly she was oriented. Just to her right was a floor lamp, a simple metal shade atop a long metal pole, all attached to a weighted base. It would make a good weapon, and with three times the reach of that crossbow stock.

  She stepped quickly toward the lamp, the knife—she didn't want to drop it—clanging against the metal pole as her fingers wrapped around both. She lifted the lamp, grabbing it with her left hand as well, putting as much force as she could into an upward swing. The base swept the crossbow aside and slammed into the assassin's chest, throwing the intruder back.

  In one continuous motion. Isis swung the lamp high, and brought it down hard between her attacker's shoulder blades, slamming her opponent facedown on the floor. Isis tossed aside the lamp and leaped onto the assassin's back. The attacker reached for something on his or her belt. A gun, a knife—it didn't matter. Isis grabbed the arm. twisted and with practiced skill pushed until there was as high cry of pain from the assassin (definitely female) and the crack of bone.