Trial by Chaos

by J. Steven York

  He smiled. "Oh, yes! Many times. Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones, they were very nice guests. Good tippers." He looked around at the demolished room. "I don't suppose you are going to be leaving a tip, are you?"

  "You could identify these men?"

  "Of course."

  He looked at Janine. "I assume you checked with hotel security. Do they show up on any security camera records?"

  She frowned. "Half the security cameras in the hotel no longer work, and most of those that do cannot record. The cameras in the lobby and by the desk record, but at those times when we know they were there, such as check-in, the cameras are not operational. The recording is just video noise."

  "A jamming device."

  She nodded.

  Jamming even a halfway-decent security camera with a portable device was not easy. That told him only that the people he was seeking had access to expensive high-technology toys. People like employees of Jacob Bannson. He looked back at Fentun. "You could describe these men to a technician, so we can create a composite image?"

  Fentun looked surprised. "Well—sure I could."

  He looked at Janine. "Hold him until we can get a technician here."

  Fentun looked annoyed. "I have work to do."

  "It will have to wait. Go with the Inquisitor." Janine started to walk back to the door, but Fentun just stood there, a slightly confused look on his face. "Don't you want to see the note?"

  Ricco blinked. "Note? What note?"

  Fentun reached inside his white jacket and drew out a sealed hotel stationery envelope. He presented it to Ricco. "Like I told the nice lady, Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones checked out this morning. They told me that some people might come looking for them, and if so, I was to tell them everything they wanted to know, and give them this note."

  Ricco took the envelope cautiously by the corner between his thumb and forefinger. He examined it, then held it up to the window, looking for signs of a letter bomb or some similarly dangerous content.

  "Oh for the love of—!" Fentun's tone was scolding. "It's just paper! I watched him write it out and put it the envelope myself!"

  He scowled at Fentun again and took out a folding pocketknife, which he used to carefully slit open the envelope. He held it over a white tablecloth as he pulled out the note, in case anything of interest fell out.

  Nothing did.

  The letterhead, like the envelope, was hotel stationery. He had a feeling it was written with a hotel pen, too. It read:

  To whom it may concern: Sorry we missed you. Leave a message at the desk.

  Taylor Bane

  Bane watched through the heavily tinted windows of their new car—much nicer than the old one, a welcome fringe benefit—as Reese, the head of hotel housekeeping, was escorted to a waiting paramilitary police van. Doubtless they would shortly have reasonably accurate images of him and Vic, and a record of their actions while at the hotel.

  That didn't bother him. The high-profile part of their assignment on Vega was over. They'd made their presence known and left enough bread crumbs for the concerned parties to follow them. Now they had potential enemies here as well as potential friends, and stealth was called for.

  He wasn't much concerned about the paramilitary police. Clan cops were plodding and obvious, not really experienced with people actively trying to elude them. Clan criminals, from what he had seen, were prone to giving themselves up and invoking surkai—forgiveness.

  Chumps. If you could still feel like you needed forgiveness for something, you should never do it in the first place.

  He looked down at the two envelopes in his hand, which a hired agent had collected from the front desk shortly before the paramilitary police arrived. Collecting future information without tipping off the police would be slightly more complicated, but nothing he couldn't deal with. Many people at the hotel had collected big tips from him, with the promise of more for future service.

  He imagined that Reese had turned over the his third envelope to the paramilitary police. That still left seven in the stack he'd given the man, assuming that they were still locked in his office and that the police didn't find them. If he lost access to those envelopes, that would be too bad, but hardly tragic. The two notes in his possession were as much as or more than he'd expected to collect from the arrangement.

  He ripped open the end of one envelope—Bruno had already checked them with a bomb-detecting wand—and extracted the paper inside. He opened it and began to read. He smiled. "Good news, Bruno. One of the major players we came to talk with has finally entered the picture."

  "That's great, boss."

  "You bet it is. Because the package is on the way, and it's going to get delivered, one way or the other. The only question is, who's the lucky recipient?"

  11

  From the Great Work of Galaxy Commander Isis Bekker

  The fundamental principle of the Clans we do not owe to the man who founded them, Nicolas Kerensky. In fact, that principle predates the formation of the Clans, and is our gift from the Great Father, Aleksandr Kerensky. It is known as the Hidden Hope Doctrine, and as set forth by the elder Kerensky described how the Clans were destined one day to return to the Inner Sphere, bringing with them the enlightenment of the Star League.

  In recent times, Aleksandr Kerensky's once-sacrosanct role in history has come into question. Certainly he made mistakes, and dark events took place under his command. But in the larger scope of our society it is the Hidden Hope Doctrine that may have caused the most trouble for the Clans.

  Not the doctrine itself, which was clearly created with the most noble intentions and without which the Clans themselves probably would not exist. That there would one day be a return, a day when the Clans would come home to the Inner Sphere, was never in question.

  The problem was that, over time, various Clans and factions chose to interpret that doctrine differently, and also the meaning of the return. Eventually, this would develop into the one gaping fracture along which all the Clans were not-so-neatly divided, the division of Wardens and Crusaders.

  The Wardens believed that the Clans should remain in their place of exile and wait patiently for an external threat that would endanger all of humanity. Then, and only then, would they sweep in to be mankind's deliverers and finally fulfill their destiny.

  The Crusaders were not patient. It was their belief that the Inner Sphere had already fallen into barbarism, that its darkest hour was already at hand, and that only immediate conquest and domination by the Clans could rescue them from that darkness.

  Ultimately, the Crusaders would have their way, convincing the Clans to return to the Inner Sphere not as rescuers, but as conquerors.

  The Crusaders were wrong.

  The Inner Sphere was not as weak as they imagined, nor were the Clans as strong. Though victories were won and conquests claimed, the Inner Sphere rallied against Clan aggression and ultimately ended the invasion through the trial that came to be known as the Great Refusal.

  History had spoken, and declared that our destiny lay elsewhere.

  In my opinion, however, most of the Warden Clans also were wrong. The only great threat to the Inner Sphere had proven to be the Clans themselves. Though some Warden Clans still wait to make this commitment, the return to the Inner Sphere has already begun. My beloved Ghost Bears are living proof.

  Even now, most Clansman still define themselves and their Clans in line with those two camps, the Wardens and the Crusaders. As much as any Clan, in their long history the Ghost Bears have walked the line between these two camps.

  Since the time of the Great Refusal, we have clearly defined ourselves as Wardens. Yet we were willing participants in the invasion of the Inner Sphere, and it is we who have most visibly profited from it. It is we who continue to occupy holdings in the Inner Sphere. The duality of our position is obvious.

  Or, I should say, it is obvious if you define the world only in terms of Warden and Crusader. It is my assertion that history may judge the Ghost Bears to be
neither Warden nor Crusader, but something new. Something important. Something that may reflect the true destiny of the Clans as it was intended by the Great Father, and his son who followed.

  Could it be, by accident or by design, that we unknowingly hang on the ragged edge of our destiny?

  The Ghost Bears have returned to the Inner Sphere, but what have we done here? It is true that we helped foster Devlin Stone's Republic of the Sphere and its era of peace. It is true we have brought the native people of the Rasalhague Dominion together and given them the dual gifts of security and prosperity.

  But though we are in the Inner Sphere, we have never allowed ourselves to be of it. We have kept ourselves apart from the people around us, the people to which the Great Father said one day we would return.

  How then, are we to deliver to them the "enlightenment" of which Aleksandr Kerensky spoke?

  That is the riddle.

  If it can be solved, then our Hidden Hope may be much closer than we ever imagined.

  Confederate Mk III-class DropShip Vancouver

  72 kilometers above North Nanturo continent, Vega

  29 November 3136

  Star Colonel Conner Hall hung in the harness of his command couch as the buffeting g-forces of reentry increased. His 'Mech shook mightily, but the clamps in the DropShip's 'Mech bay held it securely.

  He glanced out through the ferroglass cockpit at Karen's AgroMech, locked into the rack next to his. Her cockpit was several meters lower than his, and he was surprised to discover that he had a clear view into her cockpit.

  Usually, the thick ferroglass of a 'Mech's cockpit prevented two pilots from clearly seeing one another. But here, through some trick of light and angle, he could see her perfectly, like a fish in a bowl.

  He felt like a spy, looking down on her from above. She sat rigid in her cockpit, a grim but determined look on her face, like someone enduring an uncomfortable but necessary medical procedure.

  He thumbed up a private com channel. "Karen."

  She started, glanced up toward his cockpit, and smiled. He suddenly realized that the trick of light worked both ways. She could see him as well. The smile turned sheepish, and she almost seemed to blush. "Hi, up there."

  "Hi, yourself. You don't seem to be enjoying the flight."

  "The good thing about this," she said, " is that it will make the part at the end with the people shooting at us seem so nice by comparison."

  He laughed. "It will be done soon enough. I wish I could say the worst is over, but this is a combat landing, and we will be coming in hot and fast. The pilot will not hit full throttle until the last instant, and even then he will count on the landing gear to take up some of the shock. It could be a rough ride."

  She grinned. "Well, thanks for that comforting preview."

  "It is better to know what is coming."

  "I'm not so sure about that."

  He glanced at the flight status screen on his heads-up display, a glowing outline of the DropShip descending steeply toward a moving display of the terrain. Time was short, and Karen was not the only officer under his command. "I should go," he said, getting ready to change to the command-loop frequency. "Time to address the troops."

  "Wait!"

  She gazed up at him, a strange look in her eyes. She licked her lips, nervously. "When we get back to base— Well. . . that coupling thing." She swallowed. "We could have another talk about that."

  He laughed softly. "I would like that."

  "Don't sound so smug."

  "That was not my intention. Actually, I had made some inquiries with the locals about your customs. I have had any number of dining and dancing establishments recommended to me. I only regret security concerns make them pretty much out of the question."

  "We'll pop open some field rations and turn on some music. That's good enough for me."

  "We will consider it a—date, then." The ship shuddered especially hard, reminding him that the landing was coming up fast. "I must go. Gravity waits for no man."

  He switched over to the command channel. "Your attention, Star. The good news is, we are about to engage in the first 'Mech combat on Vega since the fall of Jedra Kean. The bad news is, we have not had time to practice DropShip deployment. Listen up, FVRs. Wait for external clamp release when we land. Fight them, and you'll damage your machines. Release them internally, and you might release too soon, which could leave you bouncing all over the inside of the bay, damaging yourself, the ship and the rest of the 'Mechs in the Star.

  "Keep in mind that the DropShip is a flying fortress, with armor and lasers of its own. You will not need to protect it and, initially, it can protect you. The five laser turrets are located between the bay doors, so stay clear of their lines of fire. Let them cover you, and concentrate on disembarking and forming up. Once we are clear of the ship, I will take point. Captain Tupolov, you are left flank. Lieutenant Chow, you are right flank. Lieutenant Kortlever, you watch my back. MechWarrior Huntsig, you are end cap."

  He heard an unhappy grunt from the radio and assumed it was Huntsig.

  Conner ignored him and continued. He could hear the fusion drive kick in at minimum throttle, creating a plasma sheath that would reduce the amount the hull heated in the atmosphere. G-force was approaching maximum, but his training kept him alert and talking.

  "We are responding to a report by a local militia patrol out of Fargo City, about four hundred kilometers from Nasew. That makes this a relatively short trip on a high ballistic arc, and a rough ride. The description of the enemy is a single light 'Mech, possibly an Anubis. If that is accurate, the unit will be light and stealthy, with long-range missiles and lasers. AgroMechs will need to be cautious. This 'Mech has light armor, so if we can corner it and hit it. we can take it out quickly and easily."

  "Star Colonel, should not I be in the front of the formation with you? Our 'Mechs are a better match for this machine, and we can run interference for the FVR units. They could take damaging fire from those missiles before they can close to fighting range."

  Well, that was unusually polite. Perhaps Huntsig is changing his strategy.

  He heard the fusion engines throttle up even more. The pilot was scanning for their target and maneuvering to put them down as close as possible.

  "Negative. Our intelligence here is uncertain. I will keep Kortlever close and take fire for him. The rest of the formation is to hang well back and cover us in case our target has friends. Huntsig, you are responsible for covering Tupolov and Chow. If a secondary target appears, draw fire and help them maneuver into fighting range."

  "Secondary targets? This is the first 'Mech we have seen in almost a year."

  The fusion engines cut and the g-force slacked off; Conner felt his stomach trying to leap up into his chest. The DropShip was currently a falling object.

  A female voice spoke in Conner's headset.

  "Pilot to 'Mechs. I'm having trouble getting a solid lock on your target, but I should be able to put you down within a few kilometers and give you a vector."

  "Good enough," replied Conner. "Give us a deployment count as soon as you are ready."

  The fusion drive rumbled to life again. For a moment it remained at minimum throttle, as though anticipating. Then it roared to maximum throttle, the roar deafening, the intense vibration causing Conner's vision to blur. The g-force was intense, and he knew the nozzle linings wouldn't survive more than a few seconds at this thrust. Either they were very low and the pilot knew what she was doing, or they were dead.

  There was a teeth-rattling impact, a bang as the landing gear telescoped out and slammed against the stops before recoiling slightly. The fusion drive cut and it was suddenly quiet except for the turbine pumps winding down and the hydraulics in the landing gear shifting as the DropShip leveled itself.

  "Pilot to 'Mechs. We have no visual with the enemy. Landing zone looks cold. Ten seconds to clamp release. Doors in twenty seconds. Ramps deploying now."

  Conner heard the whir of electric motors a
s the loading ramps extended down. It was a critical moment.

  Often, if there was going to be enemy fire, the sudden movement would trick them into firing prematurely.

  Above the 'Mech bay he could hear the whirs and clunks of the defensive turrets moving as they swept the surroundings looking for a target. But they did not fire.

  "Zone is still cold," said the pilot.

  This may be a quiet mission after all.

  Conner stretched in his couch, feeling compacted by the reentry and hard landing. He shifted his 'Mech's systems out of standby, scanned all his system displays and armed his weapons. He took hold of the grip on his control stick and tested his feet against the pedals. Through his neurohelmet he could feel the 'Mech come alive, its weight and balance shifting.

  "Clamps," said the pilot. "Three, two, one, release."

  There was a loud clanking noise behind his head and Conner's 'Mech was suddenly free to move. He put his weapons on standby and let the sensors and targeting systems do a quick diagnostic: all green. "Huntsig, you and I are first out. FVRs, exit on a three-count. Kortlever, get close and stay close. Keep your eyes open."

  "Yes, Star Colonel!" Kortlever was green, but a good marksman and sharp under pressure.

  "Doors." said the pilot, "three, two one, open!"

  The DropShip's 'Mech bay was a donut-shaped space surrounding the fusion drive. Five doors, one for each 'Mech, rolled up in unison.

  Conner throttled up and walked his 'Mech rapidly forward. He could see Huntsig moving out of the bay to his right. They both strode down the ramps, the 'Mechs' feet thundering on the metal. Conner kept going, but Huntsig slowed at the bottom of the ramp. In his rear camera, he could see the FVR AgroMechs emerging from the other doors. Kortlever's immediately throttled up to a full run and pulled in behind him.

  The rest of the formation fell in behind.

  The DropShip had landed at the bottom of a shallow valley. A small river snaked along the valley floor through marshy grass meadows. Steep, rolling hills surrounded the valley.