Trial by Chaos

by J. Steven York

  Still. I took my position with pride and have always strived to meld its unconventional traditions with the true honor of the Ghost Bear Clan. For my enemies, that would never be enough. The taint of the Omega Galaxy was on me, and I soon realized that I would never be free of it.

  And so began the seeming decline that eventually led us to Vega.

  You might wonder how we, least favored of the three Galaxies sent to stabilize those six worlds of The Republic, ended up with the two planets we did.

  Cebalrai is rather obvious. The planet is a hellhole, desirable more for its strategic location than for any advantageous characteristic. The disturbances there were minor, and the planet required a simple police action rather than a war.

  Our assignment to restore Vega likely seems more of a mystery to you. Of the six worlds, it was where the fiercest early resistance could be expected, and was therefore the source for the most glory to the unit and its warriors. Of the six worlds, it was the most important on any number of counts. Not only was it a former prefecture capital, a rich source of raw materials and historically a great industrial world, it was also regarded by many as the birthplace of the Star League.

  But it is this last characteristic that likely discouraged the other Galaxies from bidding on Vega. Certainly, great glory would adhere to any Galaxy that could restore order to a planet of such importance to all Clans. From the vantage point of our occupation zone, we could see that the task would be long and difficult. Even before we arrived, some said it was impossible.

  And if restoring the home of the Star League would bring glory to the Galaxy that accomplished it. to the Galaxy that failed it would bring eternal shame.

  Nasew Spaceport, Southwest Industrial District

  Nasew, North Nanturo continent, Vega

  28 November 3136

  Star Colonel Conner Hall walked the catwalk running the length of the 'Mech hangar, observing the activity as the 'Mechs along each wall underwent repair and service.

  Everywhere sparks flew from welders and grinders. The overhead cranes cycled back and forth constantly, carrying weapon pods, complete arms, myomer bundles, actuators, jump-jet assemblies. The recent influx of parts had sent the unit's technicians into a frenzy of repairs.

  It was good to see.

  Lack of parts had sidelined many of the Clan 'Mechs and left the technicians with little to do but organize their repair bays and scrub up the odd oil spot. He heard many complaints, most not intended for his ears, and knew that morale had been slipping.

  Doubtless this discontent and lack of work accounted for some of the Freeminder graffiti he'd been seeing. But now, looking down at the technicians, who outnumbered the warriors in his unit a hundred to one, he saw only busy hands and happy faces. Surely the Freeminder activity would subside.

  If even he, in the warrior caste, had been feeling frustration and doubt, how must it be for the worker ants teeming below?

  He tried to put himself into their minds, and found it a curious place to be. A warrior always had some control over his destiny. A warrior responded to order and discipline, of course, but they were the claws of the Ghost Bear. When the time came to act, they were the ones in action. A warrior was in control of his skills, of his emotions and, ultimately, his destiny. How would it be to work your whole life as simply a cog in a greater machine?

  A technician could repair a 'Mech. A scientist could design one. A laborer could build one. A merchant could secure the materials for one. But they would never sit in the cockpit and take one into combat. They could never experience the thrill of victory, except vicariously.

  How did one exist like that? It was tempting for a warrior to believe that the other castes were simply different, that they did not have the interest or inclination to enter combat.

  Yet often, late at night or when most of the warriors were out on missions, Conner had discovered technicians in the 'Mech simulators, fighting with great enthusiasm and energy if not a lot of skill. They would quickly explain that they were simply recalibrating the screens or some such nonsense, but he knew better. Some warriors would have been infuriated. Conner was secretly pleased, though he could not admit it to the technicians. He wanted his techs to have spirit, to want the kill as he wanted the kill.

  Of course, as Isis Bekker was fond of pointing out, simulators were not combat. To sit in the safety of a simulator and fire at an enemy that cannot truly harm you is nothing like facing death on the battlefield. But there too, Conner had seen things that made him think.

  During their landing on Vega, two descending Drop-Ships had been knocked down by unexpected ground fire, a loss of resources from which the Raging Bears had yet to recover. One of the ships had come down in a zone saturated in heavy fire, and Conner had led a salvage and rescue mission to the crashed ship.

  His column included a force of technicians in service vehicles and unarmed loader 'Mechs. They'd found the spherical DropShip looking like a dropped melon at the edge of a salt marsh. The lower half of the hull had been crushed, and the broken and burning dome of the upper hull loomed over them.

  While the warriors took up defensive positions and laid down covering fire, the technicians had waded into the wreckage through snake-filled marsh water, pulled out the few survivors and delivered them to the MASH units. Then they returned to the ship for salvage, hacking apart wrecked 'Mechs while mortar shells fell around them and lasers melted off what little armor their IndustrialMechs carried.

  Several fell to enemy fire, but none had faltered. None asked to retreat; Conner himself gave the order to withdraw. There were those among the technician ranks who did not lack for courage or nerve.

  He wondered how they saw him. He knew that every man and woman down on that floor knew his name and the name of every other Mech Warrior in Omega Galaxy. He knew the lower castes avidly followed the missions and victories of the warrior caste, as much as security allowed. Children collected and traded cards printed with warriors' pictures and combat statistics.

  He had heard some compare this activity with the way spheroids followed football or soccer, and there were parallels. But it was not the same. The Ghost Bears had their own sports and were quite fond of "American" football. There were leagues, and games were broadcast over the tri-vid nets.

  But while there might be some small matters of personal honor at stake in the outcome of a game, football was just an entertainment, like an Honor Play or a Clan Spaniel cartoon. The accomplishments of the warriors were the lifeblood of the Clan. They were the measure by which all castes judged their value, and the success of their work.

  A lift rose up to the catwalk ahead of him and jolted to a stop. A female technician stepped off onto the steel grating, oblivious to Conner's presence.

  Conner recognized her as Chief Machinist Joanna, one of the ship supervisors. He stepped forward and announced himself. "Chief Machinist!"

  She turned and, seeing him, snapped to a respectful attention. "Star Colonel! I was not told you were on the hangar floor."

  He grinned. "Technically, I am forty meters above it. I came up here via the outside stairs. Sometimes I just like to stand up here and watch, especially when your teams are busy."

  "Yes, sir. We are certainly busy today, and glad of it."

  "How is the progress?"

  "Warrior Jorgen's 'Mech is fully operational again. I anticipate that you will reassign it since he will not return to duty for some time. With the new parts, we expect to complete the overhaul on the two other 'Mechs in the bay within five days. They have been out of service since the final battle with Jedra Kean. I think the one on the end may actually be the machine in which the Galaxy commander brought down Kean's Atlas, though by now it is about sixty percent swapped-out parts. It was in bad shape when they brought it in."

  He looked down to the end of the near row of 'Mechs, where four non-Clan units, two Spiders, an Uller and a Rifleman at least appeared to be coming together well. "How about the salvage units? How are they going?"
>
  She glanced at them and wrinkled her nose. Clan technicians generally felt that non-Clan tech was inferior and barely worthy of their attention. "We are still missing a few small but critical parts. I have been in contact with our units in other cities, and we are engaging in another round of battlefield salvage as schedule and hostile action permit. We think we know where to find the parts, but we have to collect them, and then they may have to come from as far as Neucason. It could take us two more weeks."

  "Make it a priority. I want to start moving the FVR MechWarriors into real 'Mechs as quickly as possible."

  She gave him a strange look, and he flashed back to his curiosity about how their minds worked.

  Making a guess at her question, he added, "Chief Machinist, though they are not Clan, the FVR is central, vital even, to our mission here. Perhaps if you ask your technicians to think of their victories as our victories, that may make working on these 'Mechs a little less distasteful."

  She smirked. "Yes, Star Colonel. Perhaps a little."

  "Get to it then."

  "Yes, sir!" She turned and walked rapidly away.

  Conner caught movement from the corner of his eye and realized a lone warrior standing on a connecting work platform had overheard his conversation. The warrior stepped closer, out of the shadows, and Conner could see that it was Duncan Huntsig, a dark expression twisting his broad features.

  He walked up to Conner, planted his feet apart, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why do we waste our resources on them, Star Colonel? You plan to give these 'Mechs to the Vegan freeborn, when many of our own MechWarriors lack functional 'Mechs. You allow the freeborn to fight with us, when their worthless IndustrialMechs only slow down our formations and make us convenient targets for our enemies."

  He studied Huntsig, considering how he should respond. He was glad to finally have the man's concerns out in the open. His resentment had been simmering too long. "Rebuilding the Vega forces so that they can defend and police themselves is one of our primary missions here, MechWarrior. We cannot do that without putting them into combat and, for the moment, that means fielding them in the best equipment we can spare.

  "These are not Clan 'Mechs. Our MechWarriors would not feel comfortable in them, even if I were to assign them to our units. Parts for them are not available through our supply chains, so their operational readiness will never come up to our standards. In effect, I am using them as training 'Mechs, which is their best application at this time."

  Waves of anger and disgust warred on Huntsig's face. He literally quivered with suppressed emotion. Finally, the true reason for his anger came out. "You will put them in 'Mechs, and they will take the few real targets available on this forsaken world!

  "There is no glory here! All around us The Republic is crumbling and its territories are in question. There are battles everywhere, and we rot on this world, facing invisible enemies without the honor to face us in honest combat!"

  Conner sighed. He did not blame Huntsig for his attitude, because part of him felt the same. Loyalty kept Conner here, because loyalty was as much a part of Conner Hall as his bones.

  "Put in for a transfer to another Galaxy. I will not stop you."

  Huntsig laughed harshly. "When was the last time another Galaxy accepted a transfer request from the Omega Galaxy? A year? Two years? Such a request would only put me at the end of a long line that no longer moves. To be part of Omega Galaxy is to carry a taint on one's reputation. Without an outstanding battle record, there is no escape, but without escape, there is no chance to achieve such a record. No, what glory I can bring to my codex is here, and I swear I will find it!"

  "Have patience—there may yet be opportunities for proper battle. Our intelligence sources continue to find evidence of Draconis Combine agents on Vega. They have a long-standing interest in this world, and its instability has not escaped their notice."

  "Why then has it escaped ours? We should not be engaging in a futile effort to repair this broken world. We should be claiming it in the name of the Rasalhague Dominion, or more properly, for the Ghost Bear Clan! They need order and we can give them order, but on our terms, not those of idiotic Inner Sphere politicians."

  Huntsig's anger seemed to diminish. "I will not be placated with rumors of spies and saboteurs, Star Colonel. We have enough of those here without imagining shadowy threats from off-world. As for patience—how patient were Laumer, or Bruce Tseng, or any of the others who have fallen without glory?"

  Conner experienced the dead calm of acceptance he always felt entering a battle. "If you find my command incompetent, MechWarrior, you know your right. You know your duty.

  "Do you wish to challenge me in a Trial of Refusal? For I would welcome it."

  Huntsig considered. There was no fear in his eyes, only the hesitation of someone thinking through his best course of action. "No, Star Colonel, I do not. For if I bested you in trial, my next challenge would have to be the Galaxy commander herself, and I do not wish to attain her position."

  He turned as if to walk away, then turned back. "I will not die in my bed. Star Colonel. I will not rest until I have earned honor for my codex by laying down my life in battle. So I swear."

  Conner watched him march to the nearest stairway and begin the long climb down to the hangar floor. Then he turned away, and left by the same door he'd entered.

  Huntsig only said what many other warriors dared not. at least not to their commander's face. Huntsig only wanted to be the best MechWarrior he could be, to bloody himself in service to their Clan. There was nothing wrong with that.

  The problem was that Huntsig said all this and yet refused to properly challenge him. Now was perhaps not the best time for a trial, but at least the matter would be settled according to Clan tradition. The spheroid military had a term for this situation that seemed to apply. Insubordination.

  He stepped through the door and out onto the landing. As the door swung shut, a hissing noise above and behind him caught his attention. He turned to see a small man in maintenance coveralls hanging from the roof by a narrow cable and a leather harness. He stared at Conner, eyes wide, a paint wand in his right hand and a small control box in his left. On the wall in front of him were the words think free. The last E was not quite complete.

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then the man pushed a button on the control box. Somewhere above, an electric motor whirred and the man ascended rapidly up the wall of the hangar, his feet leaving smears in the wet paint as he bounced past, until he scrambled over the lip of the roof and disappeared.

  Conner looked at the not-quite-completed graffiti and blinked in amazement, not entirely able to accept what he had just seen. Who did he think had been painting graffiti on the walls? Laborers? Janitors, or perhaps groundskeepers?

  But the coveralls proved this was one of his own mechanics. One of the people he and his MechWarriors trusted with their lives every time they climbed into their 'Mechs.

  And though he didn't know the man's name, he had seen him before. He knew that face!

  * * *

  Security Chief Ricco stood in the middle of the empty hotel suite as his officers searched the abandoned rooms, pulling out drawers, turning over mattresses, moving furniture, looking for any evidence of who the occupants had been or where they had gone. So far, they had found nothing. The room's occupants had been thorough.

  This carefulness extended to their vehicle. They had registered a car when they checked in, and records showed it leaving and returning several times since. But the vehicle registration system had been destroyed in the Warlord Massacres, and there was no way to trace ownership through the recorded license.

  In any case, Ricco was sure that would be a dead end as well. They'd put out an alert for their patrols to watch for the license number, then discovered the car was still parked in the garage, empty and just as clean as the room.

  Not that they had left no evidence. There were plenty of fingerprints. Hairs on the sink and bathroom
floor. A used tissue in the wastebasket. But the care with which gross evidence had been removed suggested to Ricco that this was not an oversight. He suspected that he would have no luck identifying the men using fingerprints or DNA.

  A man wearing a white housekeeping uniform entered the open door to the suite, followed closely by Inquisitor Janine. Since Ricco was keeping quiet the possible involvement of Bannson on Vega, and Janine already knew about the gold that had been found so far, he had decided to keep her involved in the investigation.

  Ricco studied the man. He was tall, round-faced, dark of hair and complexion, with a neatly trimmed goatee. He looked curiously at the activity in the suite, but did not give the impression that he was particularly nervous, or that he had anything to hide. He looked at Ricco, clearly choosing him as the man in charge. He pointed a finger accusingly. "Are you sure you have the authority to do this? Because my people are going to have to clean all this up."

  When the man spoke, there was a slight accent that Ricco couldn't identify. Probably not a native Vegan then, and that caught his interest. Could this possibly be a Draconis Combine agent? He discarded that idea. Ricco's reading of Inner Sphere criminology texts told him that hotel work was always a magnet for immigrant labor, so there was no likely reason to be suspicious. "We are acting under the authority of the Provisional Government. We have the authority to burn this place to the ground if we can think of even half an excuse."

  The man seemed taken aback, but not intimidated. "Well," he said, "okay then."

  "You have a name?"

  "Yes." He stared at Ricco. "Oh! That was a question!"

  The man was playing dumb, Ricco was sure of that.

  "Reese Fentun. I'm in charge of the housekeeping staff at the hotel, what there is of it."

  "You saw the men who last occupied this room?"