A Call to Arms Page 3

  Palos nodded. “Yeah. That’s the problem exactly. And it’s my problem until we get that egg dropped down and opened up. The crew claims to be on top of it. They just want to be sure about not plummeting down through the atmosphere.”

  Raul dismissed such problems with an airy wave. “Bah. Dropping without a drive flare isn’t the problem.”

  “No?”

  Raul grinned. “Huh-uh. It’s that sudden stop at the very bottom.”

  Fourteen hours on the job, a touch of dark humor was just what Palos needed. He smiled, briefly. “Thanks. That just leaves hourly waves of shipping agents and longshoreman reps to deal with.”

  “Tell them you heard the problem might be fixed. Tell them to give you a couple hours while you leave to go get a revised ETA. Then clock out and hand it to day shift.”

  Palos smiled fully this time. “You going to cover that?” he asked.

  Raul shrugged, looking forward to a sixteen-hour day himself now. Jessica would have to wait on dinner. “If I can’t, I’ll get someone to handle it. Go.”

  He nodded his friend on his way, moved his cart along the corridor and filed a mental reminder to check on the wayward DropShip as soon as possible. He shrugged uncomfortably. With luck, his fiancée would be working late at the hospital. It would save them from another discussion over the problems—her viewpoint—of performance-based citizenship. As Jessica Searcy liked to put it, in medical terms, the Sandovals and the Swordsworn were only symptoms of an ailment that had begun to exhibit even before the near-total collapse of the HPG network. The loss of interstellar communications, like the loss of a social antibiotic, simply allowed the sickness to fester and spread.

  She could very well be right, Raul knew. It wasn’t just the pro-Sandoval population. Achernar also had a small faction of supporters for Kal Radick and his Steel Wolves, and by all reports Ronel was dealing with independent raiders as well as a pro-Combine faction calling itself the Dragon’s Fury. Shots had already been fired between factions. And Ronel, like Achernar, had a working HPG. Two worlds among the twenty-five systems of Prefecture IV that did. Or, which at least were on speaking terms. How was it on a world completely cut off from everything, brought only shipboard rumor and a few hardspooled communiqués with each passing JumpShip?

  The word brought last week via JumpShip was not good, suggesting that several worlds of The Republic were under full assault. But by the schisms growing from within or some outside force? Raul didn’t know.

  The air around Docking Pad Seven was stifling and smelled of hot metalwork, still bleeding waste heat left over from the DropShip’s settling burn. The tunnels under Achernar’s San Marino spaceport had been excavated during the peaceful years of Devlin Stone’s reign, with landing pads able to accommodate up to the largest DropShip class. These docking pads lowered on thick, myomer trunks—the same artificial muscle system used to animate BattleMechs, only on a grander scale—to bring cargo doors below ground level. Ventilation was the only problem, requiring electrical motors and short-term tolerance to the residue heat from drive flares. Knowing how severe the weather on Achernar could get, running hot or stormy depending on the season, Raul was grateful for the underground service corridors.

  Just now Pad Seven accommodated a popular Union-class merchant conversion. The lower fourth of the spheroid vessel nested down into the service area, enough to gain access to its three cargo bays. Raul’s badge—double-checked against his identification—gained him unrestricted access to the secure landing facility. He drove his cart into the bay and straight up the secondary loading ramp, pulling aside once for a burdened LoaderMech and once more to edge past a crowd of spaceport technicians who had bluffed or bribed their way through security to see the same thing that had originally pulled Raul into the warrens today.

  It was a BattleMech.

  The bay smelled of grease and the must and dust from cargos loaded on a dozen different worlds. A cavernous space, once designed to hold two lances of BattleMechs, only two ’Mech alcoves with gantry support remained in this merchant conversion. One was webbed over with netting and charged-myomer restraints, tying down two stories worth of stacked crates. The other held a ’Mech. It squatted back on thick, reverse-canted legs. Unlike the box-jointed Legionnaire Raul had once trained on, this machine was designed with lean, purposeful lines and was rare to Prefecture IV. To Raul’s knowledge it was only found in lance strength among the Northwind Highlander Regiments.

  A Ryoken II. And a modified one at that.

  Raul left his cart parked safely off to one side. Tucking his service cap away into his belt, he strolled slowly over to a gathering of uniforms and spaceport suits, eyes only for the BattleMech. Part of his RTC cadet days had included training on standard BattleMech configurations and visual identification of weapons systems. Refresher courses during his twice-yearly reserves duty had kept him up to date.

  The Ryoken II was based on higher-level technology, developed by the Clans during their centuries-long exile from the Inner Sphere. Having left as saviors, members of Kerensky’s Star League army, the Clans came back as conquerors and were barely held in check. Such technology had been co-opted into The Republic’s small military when Devlin Stone accepted a sampling of Clan population after the Jihad.

  Normally the Ryoken II fielded four long-barreled X-class light autocannons with twin missile launchers beefing up its shoulderline. This Ryoken had traded away long-ranged missiles for beefy, short-ranged six-packs. Two small barrels tucked into the chest would be some type of medium-class lasers, but there was no mistaking the wide bore and high-energy flashing of the remaining two weapons. Particle projector cannons, the hardest hitting weapon for its range that any MechWarrior could want.

  “Now who’s this?” someone asked from the center of the nearby meeting. The voice was feminine, but hardly soft. “Some new vapor-brained appointee here to tell me that he only has the best interests of all in mind?” The offhand insult wasn’t nearly so attention grabbing as the casual way with which she tossed it out.

  Raul pulled his attention away from the redesigned ’Mech, mentally kicking himself for not making a more politic approach. Uniforms outnumbered suits by two-to-one in the small gathering, though now Raul noticed that there were DropShip officers present as well as the military reps he’d expected. Holding the center of the pack as if ready to take on all-comers was a strikingly beautiful woman. She had dark red hair and green, predatory eyes which sized him up in a glance. Wearing nothing more complicated than a standard utility jumpsuit, she had unbuttoned it down to the top swells of her breasts, showing off a touch of cleavage and a faceted crystal necklace charm wrapped in three golden bands. Compact and confident, everything about her screamed MechWarrior to Raul in a way he had only imagined from holovids.

  “You have something to contribute?” she asked. “Or did we wait around for an hour just so you can check out my hardware?” Raul wasn’t so certain she was speaking about the BattleMech.

  Still, an entire morning spent in the company of military officers and shipping clerks could set anyone on edge, and after Erik Sandoval he didn’t imagine anyone else getting as deeply under his skin. “You are?”

  “I am bloody annoyed.” Her eyes flashed dangerously, and this time Raul caught a hint of Germanic accent in her voice. Lyran? “I am tired of being told where I can and can not take my’Mech. That’s who I am.”

  Her ’Mech? So possessive . . . was this machine in private ownership? If so, no wonder her arrival set off a confrontation. “Are you being denied visitation to Achernar?”

  One of the suits stepped in a split second ahead of a shipboard officer. “As we tried to explain to Ms. Kay, we are only trying our best to decide whose jurisdiction most adequately—”

  “That is restricted military technology,” a line captain piped in, trumping the suit and ship’s officer both. He shared many of Raul’s Latino features, including the swarthy skin which came in so handy on Achernar, but he was taller and much
more slender. “Legate Stempres demands that it be held by secure forces.”

  Raul saw the building outbursts rising to the lips of several nearby people, and cut them all off with a raised hand and a calm “Hold.” The first rule of any negotiation, especially one that you want to deal with quickly and cleanly, was to pare the argument down to its primary opponents. “Ms . . . Kay? You own the Ryoken? It is your property?”

  “Master of the obvious.”

  Raul let her blunt manner slide. “Captain Norgales,” he read the nameplate pinned over the line officer’s breast pocket, “you are here to represent Legate Stempres, correct?” And maybe even Erik Sandoval, by association. Raul barely let the other man nod and start to speak before cutting past the spaceport clerk and roping the ship’s officer into the conversation. “And your position here is, what?”

  “Ship’s Second Officer Thomas. Captain Grey wants me to make certain that Tassa Kay is given full consideration, and that her . . . property . . . is not removed for any destination without her approval.”

  Tassa Kay. Raul had her full name now, and a problem he could deal with quickly. “Second Officer Thomas, you can assure your captain that no one will remove the BattleMech without giving him proper notice. Until the ’Mech walks out the cargo bay door, it’s still his cargo and under his orders.” Thomas seemed obliged to wait and see that for himself, but Raul nodded curtly. “Thank you, Shipman.” He looked around. “And thank the rest of you for your time and effort here. I’ll speak with MechWarrior Kay and Captain Norgales now, please.”

  The suits were the only ones to leave without muttered protests, happy to wash their hands of the issue and land it fully in the lap of Customs. Ship’s Officer Thomas pulled his supporters to one side of the bay, giving Raul some privacy. The line officer nodded his own subordinates aside.

  “Divide and conquer gets you only so far,” Tassa Kay said, though a touch less harsh than the moment before. In her eyes, Raul thought he might have climbed up a notch. A flush warmed the back of his neck.

  “Mr. Ortega,” Norgales began much more civilly this time. “Legate Stempres wants to make his concerns very clear. With the trouble on Ronel, and elsewhere, the arrival of a privately owned BattleMech is not a small matter.”

  “He wants it under his own personal lock and key,” Tassa added. She shook her hair back over her shoulder, and Raul watched it fall back in a graceful shimmer. “Not going to happen.”

  Neutral, Raul warned himself. Stay neutral. “It is standard procedure to secure such equipment in Customs lockup here at the San Marino,” he reminded Norgales. “And Customs is not under the Legate’s authority. We’re civilian law enforcement.”

  Norgales shrugged his indifference over the semantics. “But a request from Achernar’s military leader, on a military matter . . .”

  Raul knew where Norgales was heading. If the Legate’s weight didn’t sway a CSO’s opinion, it would certainly land upstairs on his boss, or even on the Director of Customs herself. Raul needed an unassailable position if he were to deny such a request. More than his general attraction to the visiting MechWarrior. “MechWarrior Kay.” He struggled to find placating words, knew they’d be useless against the growing fury which creased her brow. He decided to ask the question outright. “Do you have any mitigating circumstance which suggests your property would be better protected under Customs authority?”

  “No. Not as such.” Tassa pursed her lips in thought, obviously debating something with herself. With a rueful shake of her head, and a suspicious glance toward Norgales, she reached inside the deep neck of her jumpsuit and pulled out a folded piece of paper that she handed to Raul Ortega.

  The folded document still held the heat of Tassa Kay’s body, warm to the touch and smelling ever so faintly of jasmine. A verifax, the CSO noted, seeing the edge of a hologram woven into the fibers. All but impossible to forge. Opening the first fold, the hologram shone forth like a beacon—and a gut punch to Raul’s stomach. It was a sword, driven point-down through a novastar and surrounded by ten tiny suns—one for each Prefecture of the Republic.

  The official seal of the Exarch.

  If there were any doubts those were erased by the signature of Exarch Damien Redburn, written in a tight military scrawl just above the hologram. Raul opened the next two folds with greater care, almost reverence. The verifax message was as short as it was compelling, and definitely in keeping with the manner of the Exarch.

  Please extend to the bearer, Tassa Kay, all possible courtesy. She has earned the gratitude of this Republic. Damien Redburn.

  Raul swallowed dryly, and looked at Tassa Kay with new eyes. Her anger and frustration were still apparent, but also he noticed a slight air of amusement about her. The way her lips tipped up in one corner, and the jaunty set of her shoulders. A cat, toying with two mice. Or even a spider, which had just invited two flies into her parlor.

  Well, one of those flies was happy to see the fangs behind her . . . well . . . not-so-honeyed words. Still, Raul had wanted to help Tassa out, and she had handed him ample justification for any decision he cared to make. Legate Sempres certainly couldn’t argue with the Exarch, who was both the civilian and military leader of The Republic. He passed the verifax over to Captain Norgales and waved Second Officer Thomas back into the fold.

  “Customs takes charge of MechWarrior Kay’s Ryoken,” he told Thomas, but never straying his eyes too far from Tassa. “It will be held at our remote station here at the San Marino,” he backed Tassa Kay’s impending outburst down with a shake of his head, “for the additional security offered by the presence of local militia. Customs will retain authority. Captain Norgales?”

  Norgales didn’t look at all happy, but he carefully handed Tassa Kay back her verifax and nodded.

  Raul smiled tightly. “Good enough. Second Officer Thomas, if you’ll get the appropriate noteputer forms, I’ll attach my authorization. Good afternoon,” he said to Norgales. And to Tassa, “Good luck.” Raul stepped away from the two of them, knowing it was always best to distance one’s self from any difficult negotiation as soon as possible. Let the decision stand on its own—no discussion of the merits.

  He occupied himself instead with another look over the Ryoken II, walking directly up to its berth, standing in the overhang of the BattleMech’s forward-thrust cockpit. The upper legs had an extra-wide flare of armor near the back—something he hadn’t noticed before. If he didn’t know better—

  “So tell me what you see.”

  Tassa Kay stood just behind his left shoulder. Raul hadn’t heard her approach, which seemed impossible given her forceful presence. He felt it weighing against him now, radiating a subliminal warmth. He swallowed against a knot in his throat.

  “Ryoken II, obviously,” he said. “Six-packs swapped in for the usual longshots, medium lasers over the top—I’m guessing extended-range—and PPCs at the waist. It must run hotter than an inferno round in combat, but its damage profile would be equally severe. And unless I’m mistaken, you’ve added jumpjet ports. The chassis can’t support so much modification, though.” He considered, hedged. “Unless you also lightened up your armor profile by using ferrofibrous material.” All in all, it sounded like a military evaluation right out of the book.

  Tassa must have thought so as well. “You don’t talk like a cop,” she said, almost accusing him. She stepped around to his side, where she could see his face.

  “Republic Guard, Achernar Second Militia,” he admitted. Then, “Reservist.”

  “Great Father, more weekend warriors.” The oath slipped out quickly, but didn’t seem to be a personal slight so much as a general observation. “No offense,” Tassa offered. “I should not be surprised, after Dieron.”

  For the second time since meeting her, Raul was actually able to forget—for a moment—the physical pull he felt. “You came here from Dieron?” That was one of the worlds where heavy fighting had supposedly occurred. A hundred questions sprung to mind. One fought its way to t
he fore. “What happened?”

  Tassa looked down at her shoulder, as if staring through her jumpsuit fabric to the Exarch’s verifax. “It was . . .” She seemed uncertain of the words. Her eyes glanced back to Raul, head still cocked down. “It was messy.”

  “Meaning you aren’t going to tell me?”

  “Not right now,” Tassa agreed. “But I owe you. You buy me a drink sometime, and maybe I’ll talk about it. Maybe.” She raised an eyebrow, turned on her heel and started away.

  Raul smiled, laughing at himself, at his obviously male reaction to Tassa Kay’s every move. A shadow of guilt darkened his thoughts as he remembered Jessica and the dinner date he was going to break tonight, but not so upsetting that he couldn’t make one more stab. “How long are you going to be on Achernar?” he called after her.

  Tassa Kay never looked back. “As long as it takes.”

  A cryptic remark, but somehow very much in keeping with the MechWarrior’s entire person. Raul watched until she left the cargo bay, and then with one more glance at the Ryoken, went to find Ship’s Officer Thomas. He still had a job to finish here, and more on his plate with Erik Sandoval’s request and several reports to file with his Superintendent concerning both events.

  And with those priorities, and the memory of Tassa Kay still large in his mind, Raul let slip one more small job. One he would remember, and see to eventually, but too late.

  2

  Predators

  Steel Wolf JumpShip Star Hunter

  Zenith Jumppoint, Tigress

  Prefecture IV, The Republic

  15 February 3133

  Star Colonel Torrent forced an expression of calm confidence as the Steel Wolves’ JumpShip Star Hunter counted down from its final warning, preparing to jump between stars. Muted, metallic tones clocked each second. The bridge crew’s excitement and the nervous energy of his two companions washed against him in wave after wave of raw emotion. Torrent felt each one break against his resolve, shattering into a spray of smaller, more manageable worries. Standing firm against the undertow, he let the strains of interstellar travel and his coming mission wash through his body until they bled down into the diamond plate decking and dispersed.