BattleTech MechWarrior Dark Age 05 Truth and Shadows 2003 Page 13

  You took their money, said the voice of reason, and you didn't expect them to cheat? You deserved to have your plan blown to pieces on the first day.

  Crow told the voices in his head to stop arguing. His old stupidity-and he agreed, he had been amazingly stupid when he was young-didn't matter anymore. The path leading to the fatal discovery was clear. His enemy, whoever that might be, had chanced to read this book, and had caught the passing reference to Daniel Peterson-and had pulled on that single thread until the whole fabric unraveled.

  He felt a strong urge to destroy the contents of the envelope, but he knew that it would do no good. The items sent to him would all be copies or duplicates; the originals would be kept safely elsewhere.

  Instead, he forced himself to think about the problem as objectively as possible. How bad was it, really? Allegations-it was always wise to think in terms of allegations rather than facts-could be countered, threats could be neutralized, but not from here on Northwind. For that, he needed access to the Senate and to the Exarch and to the influential media; in short, he needed to be on Terra.

  I have to leave here now, he thought. It shouldn't take much more than a couple of months to handle this, as long as I'm in the right place. And as soon as I've taken care of everything, I can come back.

  Actually getting to Terra, however, presented difficulties. He needed a DropShip, and preferably a civilian DropShip. Was there one in port? He tried to remember the schedule for the shipping line that had won the mail-service contract for Prefecture III in the aftermath of the HPG disaster, and realized that he couldn't remember it, or even the name of the shipping line itself. Stupid, he thought. You've been slipping, and you never noticed.

  He'd also put off the inevitable for too long already. Willing his hands to steadiness, he opened the sealed letter.

  It wasn't handwritten. Not surprising; he might have recognized the handwriting of a known enemy or a supposed friend. Anonymous black words printed out on white paper could have come from anyone. The paper itself was of high quality, but that meant nothing. Anyone who could afford to track down Daniel Peterson-a person who had, in all but the crudest physical sense, died twenty-three years ago in Chang-An, his identity put into a mass grave with all the rest of the dead and covered up with dirt-anyone with that much money could afford to use good paper for his or her blackmail notes.

  The letter contained only three sentences: Farrell's mercenaries are at your disposal. Anastasia Kerensky wants Northwind. See that she gets what she wants.

  32

  The New Barracks

  Tara

  Northwind

  February 3134; local winter

  Captain Tara Bishop was working late in her office at the New Barracks. Night had already fallen outside, but she still had files and papers to go through in the interest of preparing economic and intelligence summaries for the Prefect-who had left her own office and gone back to her quarters precisely at the end of the working day, in direct contravention of her usual practice. Tara Campbell was a habitual overstayer at the office, to Captain Bishop's periodic dismay-since unlike the Prefect, the Captain had something approaching a private social life.

  Of course, the Captain thought, there was always the chance that Tara Campbell had at last acquired a social life of her own that didn't revolve around will-attend, will-have-fun diplomatic and military occasions. The Prefect hadn't said anything to that effect-she was a very private person, most likely in response to having grown up in the political spotlight-but she'd had the look about her this morning. Not as tense as usual, and happier, and just a little smug. Captain Bishop recognized the signs, and there was only one person who could be the cause.

  I wonder, Bishop thought, if I tracked down our friend Paladin Crow, would he be smug and happy too? Captain Bishop smiled to herself and opened up the next file. She wasn't going to begrudge either one of them the chance. Both the Prefect and the Paladin were too straight-arrow to let a relationship get in the way of their duty; what would have been hormone-addled slacking off in less driven and committed types was likely to manifest itself in the pair of them as nothing more than a retreat from their usual high levels of overwork.

  And even that, she suspected, wouldn't last for long. Give them a while to get used to the idea, and they'd go right back to working eighteen-hour days. They'd just be working them together instead of separately.

  Captain Bishop turned her attention to an economic report on reforestation policies in the planet's lumber-producing regions. She was scarcely a page in, and chewing her way through a dense paragraph on the development of second-growth forests in the lower Rockspires, when her desk's communications console suddenly erupted in flashing red lights and began sounding an alarm. And not her own desk alone-the sound-and-light display was also coming from the Prefect's empty desk in the outer office, with backup alarms echoing from desks both occupied and unoccupied all over this part of the building.

  The alert might be sounding throughout the New Barracks, but the message was coming in straight to the Prefect's desk. Captain Bishop pushed the button that routed the absent Prefect's calls to her own desk, picked up the handset, and said, "Prefect's office Captain Bishop speaking this is not a secure line how may I help you?" all in one rapid nonstop breath.

  "This is Tara DropPort," said the voice on the other end of the line. "We have DropShips landing without authorization. I say again, DropShips landing without authorization."

  Oh damn, Captain Bishop thought. Oh damn oh damn oh damn. We didn't find them in time.

  With her free hand, she slapped the button that sent the "wake up and get the hell back up here" alarm to the Prefect's quarters. As an afterthought, she sent it to the Paladin's as well, then went on to hit the General Quarters alarm, the signal that would have every soldier in the New Barracks at his or her duty station within minutes.

  At same time, she asked, "Do you have an ID on the ships, DropPort?"

  "It's the Steel Wolves-we saw their insignia and configuration enough times last summer to know."

  "Recommend you evacuate your personnel now, DropPort."

  "Already on it," said the voice at the other end. "It'll take the Wolves a little while to open up and roll on out, and everybody who isn't going to fight should be gone by then. We've got a couple of civilian ships caught down on the ground; they'll just have to button up tight and wait for the dust to settle."

  The DropPort commander sounded calm, almost cheerful, but Captain Bishop knew it for the calm that comes after ceasing to waste energy on things like hope. If the Wolves were planning to force their way from the landing field into Tara proper, the fighting was going to be vicious, and the troops stationed at the DropPort would be the city's first line of defense. Bishop racked her brains, trying to remember the size of the force stationed at the port. Her mind eventually supplied her with a dismayingly small number.

  This, she thought, is going to be a very long night.

  Even the few minutes it took for the Prefect to come at a run from her quarters to the office in the New Barracks seemed to stretch out forever. When the Prefect arrived, Captain Bishop handed over the conversation with the DropPort commander-and the responsibility for the defense of the entire planet-with an unvoiced sigh of relief. Ezekiel Crow arrived a few minutes later, looking grim.

  "Paladin Crow," the Prefect said as soon as he entered the office, "I need you to take command of Farrell's mercenaries. If we can hit the Wolves from two directions at once before they penetrate too deep into the city, we've got a good chance at pushing them back onto their ships. Or at least of pinning them down hard enough to force a negotiation."

  "Anastasia Kerensky doesn't negotiate, that I've noticed," Crow said.

  "Then she needs to learn," said Tara Campbell. "And I'm counting on you to help me teach her."

  33

  Fort Barrett

  Oilfields Coast

  Kearney

  Northwind

  February 3134; dry sea
son

  The Balac Strike VTOL taking the General back to Fort Barrett took off in a cloud of white dust and arrowed away northward at top speed. Will Elliot was already urging the members of his scout/sniper platoon back onto their Shandras before the noise of its departure died. Up and down the line he could hear the voices of Jock and Lexa and the other sergeants chivvying the rest of the soldiers into the troop trucks. Not more than a minute later, the major who commanded the reinforced rifle company-with General Griffin gone he'd be the senior officer, and in command of the whole task force-gave the order to mount up and move out.

  "Sarge?"

  Thatvoice, on the other hand, belonged to one of the privates in the scout/sniper platoon. Will suppressed the urge to look over his shoulder for Master Sergeant Murray or Sergeant Donahue or one of the other godlike figures of his own early enlistment.

  "What is it, soldier?" he asked.

  "Were those the DropShips we've been looking for?"

  Will bit his tongue. Be patient, he thought. You were this green once yourself, not so long ago.

  "That's right, soldier."

  "Where do you think they've gone?"

  "I don't think anything," Will said. "But the General thinks they're heading for Tara."

  "What about us, Sarge?"

  That one was easy. "We're going back to Fort Barrett, on the double. And after that, we're going where we're told."

  Thinking on it afterward, Will decided that the forced march back to Fort Barrett rated as one of the most unpleasant experiences of his entire first term of enlistment-worse even than making a fighting retreat out of Red Ledge Pass in the pouring rain. The misery that time hadn't lasted nearly as long, and he'd been able to relieve his feelings by shooting at things. This was nothing but hard going from before dawn to after dark, in the choking dust and the relentless sun. The column stopped periodically for rest and food, but only long enough to ensure that the soldiers did not collapse from exhaustion. But worst of all was knowing that on the other side of the world, the Steel Wolves had already landed at Tara DropPort.

  When the column arrived at Fort Barrett, they found the base in a state of furious activity. The barracks were crowded with soldiers from units normally stationed at smaller bases all over Kearney; some units were even housed in rows of tents set up on the sports field and the parade ground. And every Regimental troop-transport aircraft in Kearney-or what looked like it-was lined up on the landing field, wingtip to wingtip, with barely enough room left open for landing and takeoff. Mixed in among them were passenger craft bearing the insignia of three different civilian airlines.

  Lexa McIntosh whistled in amazement as soon as she saw the civilian aircraft. "Where the hell did they get those?"

  "The General commandeered them, I suppose," Will said.

  "Can he do that?"

  Jock said, "Doesn't look like anybody's stopping him."

  "I'm surprised he hasn't sent troops off to Tara already," Lexa said. "I don't know what the Wolves are planning, but it can't be good."

  "They have to be bleeding over there," Jock rumbled in agreement.

  Will shook his head. "Look at it. He's planning to hit the Steel Wolves with everything that Kearney's got." He was speaking slowly, because he hadn't had to think about things this way before.

  "It must have taken him this long to get all those aircraft together, and to get all the troops and supplies and weapons ready."

  "Couldn't he have sent some on ahead?" Lexa wondered.

  "He probably wishes he could send himself on ahead," Will said. "Remember the Pass-he was in the thick of it there. But he can't do any good this time unless he brings enough muscle with him to make a difference."

  34

  Jack Farrell's Mercenary Encampment

  The Plains Outside Tara

  Northwind

  February 3134; local winter

  Ezekiel Crow left the New Barracks at a run, heading for the hangars outside the Armory where the 'Mechs were stored. The Countess of Northwind's words rang in his head: Take command of Farrell's mercenaries. If we can hit the Wolves from two directions at once before they get too deep into the city, we've got a good chance at pushing them back onto their ships.

  The Countess was right, he thought. Bringing the mercenaries into action was the solution to the current problem. The regimental forces in and around Tara would not be enough by themselves to meet the attack. Anastasia Kerensky would have brought more Wolves to the battle this time than she had before- all of the ones who hadn't gone home to Tigress, augmented by those who had left Tigress over the past months for an unknown destination. The Highlanders needed the mercenaries to make up their missing numbers, if the streets of Tara were not going to become another Chang-An.

  He could still stop it, Crow thought; he could . . . but other words also echoed in his mind, words not spoken but printed in cold black type on a sheet of good white paper: Anastasia Kerensky wants Northwind. See that she gets what she wants.

  The letter contained no threat; whoever had written it hadn't seen the need. The information alone was enough to convey the desired message: Keep Anastasia Kerensky from taking Northwind, and all of this becomes known.

  When he reached the Armory he found it brightly lit despite the late hour, its windows and skylights glowing yellow against the dark. The whole building was full of furious activity, roused to action by the word from the port. Crow made for the 'Mech hangars, mostly empty until recent months, now filled with modified Industrial and Forestry and MiningMechs. There were only three real BattleMechs in the lot- Captain Bishop's Pack Hunter, the Countess's Hatchetman, and Crow's own Blade. Not much, against the forces the Wolves would bring to bear.

  The mercenaries would have more, he thought, and called the roll of them in his mind: a Spider, a Firestarter, a Mad Cat III, and Farrell's own Jupiter.

  Those would be enough, if they were used.

  His Blade waited in its hangar. To the guard outside, he said: "Paladin Crow, on the Prefect's business. I'm taking the 'Mech."

  The Blade was probably his fastest way to the mercenaries, no matter what he decided to say when he got there. Ordinary vehicles-even tanks and armored cars-might be stopped and questioned, blocked and delayed. But nobody would force a 'Mech to halt; and even if somebody were foolish enough to try, Crow's Blade would be recognized, and people would assume he was on business too important to be stopped.

  He climbed into the cockpit and dogged the hatch shut behind him. While the 'Mech's fusion engines and musculature were warming up, he quickly stripped down to his shorts, donned the cooling vest and neurohelmet, and slipped into the command chair. As soon as he'd gone through the primary and secondary security protocols needed to gain full access to the 'Mech's controls and capabilities, he switched the viewscreen over to IR mode. He'd need the infrared for taking the Blade through the city streets in the dark, and the cockpit's polarizing windows would mitigate the risk of getting blinded by flares and searchlights.

  Another touch of the controls awakened the Blade's fusion engine to full life. Crow brought the 'Mech out of the hangar, taking it past the New Barracks and past the Fort, into the streets of Tara.

  Soon the Blade was striding down the main road leading out of the city into the countryside beyond.

  Farrell's mercenary units had not yet been dispersed to garrison duty, but were still in their holding encampment; at the Blade's cruising speed of seventy-six kilometers per hour, it would not take Crow long to reach them.

  Then he would have to decide what he was going to do.

  Giving over Tara-the city and Countess blurred together in his mind, until he wasn't certain which would be the more poignant loss-giving over Tara to the Steel Wolves would mean betrayal and bloody slaughter.

  It's not as if you aren't used to it already, said the voice of reason, cold as always in the back of his head. Anastasia Kerensky wants Northwind, and the person who sent you that packet of damnation wants for you to give it to her-o
r have Paladin Ezekiel Crow unmasked to The Republic of the Sphere as the Betrayer of Liao.

  How is that going to be different, he asked the voice of reason, from having him branded as the Betrayer of Northwind? Either way it brings me down. Is that the true goal-are Anastasia Kerensky and Countess Tara Campbell both nothing but pawns in somebody else's game to checkmate me?

  The idea was not impossible. He'd said enough and done enough over the years that anyone involved in the upper levels of The Republic's politics could guess that he aimed high. And no one could rise to join the ranks of the Paladins, from whom the next Exarch would be chosen, without making enemies.

  The line of thought brought a surge of irritation along with it. Later, he told himself, later he could sort out who had the whip hand over him, and why. But not now, not when the Steel Wolves were landing at the port and Farrell's mercenaries are at your disposal- what Paladin Ezekiel Crow said and did in the next few hours would decide the course of the battle to come.

  Anastasia Kerensky wants Northwind. See that she gets what she wants.

  There was something not quite right about that. Why should Anastasia Kerensky want Northwind, other than for the usual motives ascribed to the Clans: glory and reputation and a famous name? Why should she make a try- twice- for Northwind, instead of concentrating her attentions on places like Small World and Addicks? The Countess of Northwind had gotten it right, months ago when The Republic of the Sphere first sent him to Prefecture III: Northwind was the gateway to Terra.

  Kerensky doesn't want Northwind, he thought. Kerensky wants Terra, just as the Clans have always wanted it. Seizing control of humanity's home planet would allow her to fulfill what the Clans believed to be their manifest destiny, and it would make her- what was the word they used?- ilKhan. Northwind was just the springboard.

  The idea made sense, and chilled him even in the heat of the Blade's cockpit. After Anastasia Kerensky had finished with Northwind, when the Highlanders' homeworld was no longer a threat at her back, then she would strike at Terra.