A Call to Arms Page 6

  “That’s for the longshoremen and technicians. People who actually do something for a living.” Like doctors. Raul smiled at their shared joke, but thinly. He leaned back into the chair, feeling his fatigue now that the boost from her arrival had passed.

  “You look awful,” Jessica said, a touch of worry crowding into her voice.

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean it. Have you been hunched in this room all afternoon?” A glance around. She prodded at the decomposing maple bar. “Let me guess . . . your idea of lunch?” She dabbed the back of her hand against her own forehead. “Don’t you have climate control in here?”

  Raul nodded at his office’s narrow window, which looked out over the San Marino spaceport. From his angle, he could just see the rounded curve of the merchant-Union sitting on Pad Seven. “That window is it until we get the heat pump fixed, but I never open it. The dead heat that hangs over the ’port simply drifts in and makes the office hot and sticky.”

  “Well fine, then let me take you out of here. Dinner? Las Palamas?” She saw his hesitant glance toward the pile of work on his desk. “Margaritas and mariachi bands? I’ll let you get me drunk.”

  A weary smile fought its way back over his face. “Now that’s an offer hard to pass up.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and tried to get some enthusiasm into his dark eyes for her to see, a leer which died with the return of professional sense. “Can you give me one hour?” he asked, saw Jessica’s building anger. “An hour! I promise. Customs is on to a new smuggling operation, we’re overseeing a snit between the legate’s office and a private owner, we have an inbound DropShip that’s been stuck in orbit for five days,” he ran out of steam, his enthusiasm waning, “and we’ve just been designated Achernar’s news police. Let me get a few of the big-ticket items off my desk and make them someone else’s problem for a while.”

  Jessica stood, shaking her head. Her dangling earrings flashed and sparkled even in the room’s dim light. “I don’t know why I put up with you,” she said wistfully, then bent forward and pecked him on the cheek.

  Raul reached up, trapped her in his strong arms, and hugged her. He had pushed his sleeves up to his elbows while working, and his swarthy arms looked exceptionally dark against the pale cream skin of Jess’s neck. “Because you have wisdom beyond your years,” he offered, pulling out another old joke.

  “And you’ve had another job offer from Bannson Universal,” she reminded him matter-of-factly, standing back up again. “We’d have to move over to Agnetenar,” Achernar’s smallest continent, “but I can shift my practice.”

  “Not tonight, Jess.” He exhaled a long vent of frustration. “Anyway, there’s too much going on to entertain their offer.” Raul wanted to kick himself for continuing. Hadn’t he just said, ‘not tonight?’

  But he had opened the door. “There’s always too much going on, Raul.” Jessica sat forward, chin up and eyes boring into his, giving him her debate-team attitude. “You wanted to stay with the Reserves. Fine. You earned your citizenship. Congratulations. Now why continue to beat yourself up? Just for the sake of those holovids and histories you like so much?”

  Here it came. Resident honor. The argument people gravitated toward when they have clearly made up their mind that chasing after Republic citizenship wasn’t for them. That so long as you contributed your best work to The Republic—through its work force, professional service, or art—you had just as much right to claim the honors of the Republic if not the benefits of being an actual citizen.

  It was how the two of them had met, actually, over that argument. Raul had come in to the hospital to visit a friend in his reserves unit who had been hurt in a VTOL transport crash. A freak accident, really. Jessica had been the attending physician, a few years older than him but only a year out of her internship. She’d made a comment—he couldn’t remember it exactly anymore—something about the military providing her with more work even in peacetime. He had responded by telling her that Jonathan was simply trying to earn his citizenship. And it had begun. A nurse finally shooed them out of the patient’s room, and they continued the debate in the hall, and then over lunch in the hospital cafeteria.

  They were still at it after three dates, when Raul conceded that ‘official’ citizenship was certainly not required to be a good citizen. He’d said it mainly to forge a truce, thinking that he might be falling hard for the good doctor. He’d even gone so far as to admit that most privileges of citizenship were beyond the enjoyment of most who earned them. Jessica had told him that, at last, he was showing a hint of wisdom beyond his years.

  He had never let her live down that slightly pompous remark.

  She was right, of course. Raul was never likely to own significant land grants, and the idea of a noble title was so far above his station as to make him laugh. He would never own his own BattleMech. But he could vote. It was a right he had earned with his college years in MRTC, two years in the Militia Reserves, and in two years with Customs. But he also understood Jessica’s position. After her drive to qualify for med school, her internship and residency, she had never had a chance to look at five years’ service for citizenship. In her mind, she had done enough for herself and more than many others.

  His continued stand—that citizenship was always best earned by taking that one additional step beyond your own goals—never failed to annoy Jessica. But he just didn’t have the strength for it today.

  Or so he thought.

  “Will you at least consider the Bannson proposal?” she asked.

  The buzz of an alarm in the outside hall interrupted his initial reply, jolting Raul with a quick burst of energy. As the distant wail of the spaceport’s seldom-needed siren joined in, a real adrenaline rush flooded him with warmth and jangling nerves. He leaned past Jessica and snagged his wireless comms from the top of his desk. With practiced efficiency he dialed the building’s switchboard with one hand while tucking the clip over his ear with the other.

  He settled the microphone wire just next to the corner of his mouth, waiting for the circuit to connect. “Jess, I like what I do. It’s important.” He glanced through his door as a few other Customs officers scrambled by, heading for their own offices. “Bannson Universal wants a glorified rent-a-badge.”

  If he wasn’t going to set the discussion aside, Jessica certainly wasn’t either. His fiancée shuffle-stepped to one side, getting out of Raul’s way should he need his desk-top system. “Maybe Bannson is looking at a bigger picture. They claimed to be impressed with your BattleMech training.”

  “Every potential security position will claim that. How many of them will actually put that training to use? Yes, hello?” Raul held up a hand to Jessica as his call went through. Rather than fight his way through to Rossiter or the spaceport’s command center, Raul went for Customs’ switchboard operators. “Can you tell me what’s happening?” The technicians down there always knew the good info first.

  He gave the on-call tech only ten seconds, and then disconnected with a sharp stab at his comm unit. He dialed another number. “This is CSO 5589.” He swallowed against the dry taste of adrenaline. “I need to register off-duty and out of contact.”

  Jessica frowned a question at him, and Raul raised his hand to cover the mic. “Bannson isn’t the only one who needs a Mech Warrior right now,” he said, dark eyes wide with excitement. “The Steel Wolves have jumped in-system. They’ve deployed fighters, and are refusing all orders to stand down.

  “We have twenty-two hours.”

  4

  Change of Fortunes

  Achernar Militia Command

  Achernar

  16 February 3133

  Officially, the Achernar Militia’s command post butted up against the spaceport’s northeast border. In truth, Raul knew, that fenced-off portion of the garrison command was little more than a trio of old, rarely used landing pads. The militia manned it with a skeleton crew, usually reservists serving their two weeks out of a ye
ar, except for the days when a military DropShip was due. A small security team stood by, mostly to police that crew from taking too many unscheduled breaks. The base proper actually began twelve kilometers out with a large collection of bunker-style warehouses. From there, the militia’s Reserve Training Command spread out to the east, like a common meeting ground between the military base and River’s End. The standing barracks, maintenance bays, garages and administrative buildings belonging to the Republic Guard clustered in their own little protected world north of the RTC grounds.

  The day before—the day of the alert—Raul had never known a longer drive than his trip back into River’s End for uniform and gear and then back out to the base. Jessica rode with him for the first leg, giving up on questions to which Raul had no answers and finally lapsing into a worried fret. She kissed him goodbye at his apartment, and then he had an hour of city traffic and highway klicks to imagine what the base would be like under a real military alert.

  Except for a kind of frantic energy that crackled in the air like static electricity, Raul saw no difference. Routine had already taken over by the time of his arrival. A corporal signed him in and assigned Raul to shared quarters rather than the barracks, the perquisites of being a Mech Warrior, even as a reservist. He was handed official orders activating him to full duty and asked to sign his name to them, and then was put on a five-and-dimes rotation working as an aide-de-camp inside the command center itself. Five hours on duty, ten hours off, with his first five-on taking the midnight shift where there was nothing really to do but monitor preparations and discuss the inbound DropShips.

  Raul’s second five-on made up for the uneventful night. Feeling a little lethargic after catching a fitful day-nap, he walked into the command center wholly unprepared for the raised voices of argument and the blizzard of papers that struck him in the face.

  Hot coffee sloshed over the edge of Raul’s Styrofoam cup, scalding his hand. He quickly passed the beverage to his other hand, shaking his injured fingers dry and searching for his attacker. He recognized several of the voices, but knew which one in particular was behind the paper shotgun.

  “You can cite Stumpy’s directives and Republic emergency authority all you want, Colonel. You can’t just take my ’Mech.”

  Tassa Kay.

  Tassa stood toe-to-toe with Colonel Blaire, white-hot fury burning on her face. She had pulled her dark red hair back into a loose ponytail, and wore only shorts, boots, and a ’Mech cooling vest which left very little of her curvaceous figure to the imagination. A necessity in the often-sweltering confines of a cockpit. The unofficial ‘uniform’ of a Mech Warrior wasn’t designed for modesty. The crystal charm Raul had seen on Tassa before still hung around her neck, but now nestled very snuggly down into the swell of her breasts.

  “Stempres,” Isaac Blaire corrected her, his powerful voice carrying though the room. He held his ground before the fiery MechWarrior, only slightly favoring his prosthetic leg. “Lay-gate Brion Stempres.” His face, normally a ruddy pink, had flushed a deeper, warning red. “And you know very well Ah can do it.”

  The militia commander’s Zaurak accent showed through. Considered Achernar’s outback, Zaurak natives always had a bit of a twang in their voices. Raul hadn’t heard it in Blaire’s talk since the officer—then a major—headed Achernar’s Reserve Training Command. This argument had either been going on for some time or Tassa Kay had gotten under Blaire’s skin exceptionally fast.

  “Your transit papers on every world in The Republic included a binding agreement which allows me to press into service any military equipment—privately owned or not—Ah see fit to need.”

  That quieted the argument for a moment. Bending down, Raul scooped up a handful of the papers. He carried them and his half-full coffee over to one of the small metal desks shoved up against a wall. The entire room was listening in on the argument, talk held down to a minimum and eyes dancing in between workstation screens and the pair of verbal combatants. A nearby communications tech nodded Raul a nervous greeting.

  “How long will it take you to prove that I was presented with that information?” Tassa asked.

  Raul looked up sharply. He knew that she had. He’d handed it to Tassa Kay himself as a part of the Customs process, and obtained her signature over the document. But he kept quiet, unwilling to barge into the commander’s argument and waiting to see, first, how he would handle her. Tassa Kay was formidable, he knew. Besides the fact that Raul had dealt with her once before, that she had managed to bull her way into the militia’s command center—during an alert—spoke a great deal about her.

  Colonel Blaire recoiled as if struck. His surprise was genuine, or well feigned. “On your honor as a Mech Warrior,” he asked simply, “you never received that information?”

  Raul sipped at his highly sweetened coffee, glancing in between the rescued papers and Tassa Kay. He saw that Blaire’s comment had struck right to her personal pride, and had maybe touched on something else even deeper. Tassa’s tongue drew a slow line over her top lip as she thought about it, relented. “All right, I received it. But I still have the command codes, which means you cannot get more than a quarter power out of the reactor and the weapons remain locked out. So there is a bargain to strike here. My offer was good enough for your Exarch. It should be good enough for you.”

  “It would be. It is. However, that is not my call. The decision rests with Lay-gate Stempres. He has already ordered up Erik Sandoval’s people, who are on a forced march over the Taibek Hills. Now he demands the codes to your Ryoken.”

  So that was Tassa’s ace. Her command codes. No doubt Blaire’s need to get them had facilitated her entry into the base. She had already pulled out the verifax from Exarch Redburn and placed that on the table as well.

  Setting his still-hot beverage aside, Raul shuffled the papers back together. As Tassa had mentioned earlier, they were copies of the Republic’s Emergency Powers Act and Legate Stempres’ own decision to press civilian assets into military service. To wit: Tassa’s Ryoken II. He didn’t need to read the legal text, he knew it by heart. . . . such as the needs of the Republic dictate, civilian assets may be confiscated and pressed into service with adequate compensation to be decided . . .

  To be decided and agreed upon by both parties unless the Republic will guarantee full replacement value on said civilian assets.

  “Excuse me.” Raul spoke up just as Tassa was warming to the next round of her refusal to cooperate. He strode forward. “Colonel Blaire. May I interrupt a moment?”

  Blaire glowered at the uniform, at first seeing only Raul’s honorary rank of lieutenant. Then, recognizing the reservist, he relented somewhat. “Lieutenant . . . Ortega. Ah saw your name on the lay-gate’s report, didn’t Ah?” He swallowed back his accent then, as if noticing it for the first time. His weathered face was filled with shadowed valleys, but a pair of unclouded blue eyes still stared out hard and bright. “Yes. I’d like your input.”

  “So would I,” Tassa said, eyeing Raul with interest, obviously remembering him.

  “I don’t know how much you’ll like it, sir.” Raul remained properly deferential to his commanding officer. “The way I read the EPA statute,” he handed the paper over to Blaire, “if MechWarrior Kay doesn’t agree to your order, the only way you can trump her is by personally guaranteeing, up front, full replacement value on the Ryoken.”

  Blaire’s face darkened again. “You want me to sign a marker for twenty million stones?” he asked, using the slang name for Republic money.

  Smiling, her good humor replacing fury in the blink of an eye, Tassa said “Twenty-four. It is a custom design you would have to bring in from the Lyran Commonwealth.” She awarded Raul a brilliant smile. “That’s two I owe you.”

  Raul would have liked to say that he was only doing his duty, presenting useful information to the discussion, but the warm glow in the pit of his stomach put the lie to that idea. He had jumped in on Tassa Kay’s side. Again. “Worth the story of D
ieron?” he asked.

  “Worth something,” she promised.

  Blaire was less amused. “Wipe that kay-det grin off your face and snap to, Lieutenant. Are you telling me that Customs’ stand on this would demand Lay-gate Stempres sign a voucher for her estimate of twenty-four million stones?”

  Careful. Raul swallowed, tasting the bitter traces of his earlier coffee. He shook his head. “That’s my own read on the text, Colonel, though I’m fairly certain that Judicial would back me up on it.”

  “And if Ah allow her to pilot her own machine?”

  “It’s vague, sir. My opinion . . . it falls under the heading of an agreement between the civilian owner and the military.”

  Tassa shrugged. “Same offer as before. Guarantee me the closest you have for replacement parts, and maintenance time and workers, and you will have my BattleMech.”

  Which by Raul’s way of thinking was either incredibly generous of Tassa Kay, or incredibly naı ¨ve. Under those terms, her Ryoken would suffer some degradation, and there was no offer of recompense for her services either. Colonel Blaire obviously worried at the offer as well, frowning, trying to see what it was he was missing in the deal.

  “Colonel Blaire!”

  “Now what?” Blaire rounded on the communications tech, more than a little frustrated at yet another interruption. “You have something to add to this, Corporal?”

  “Yes sir. I mean, no sir.” The tech looked confused, but only for a second. The excitement in his eyes was too bright not to quickly overshadow any worry of reproach. “Sir, we are getting a space-to-ground transmission from the Steel Wolves. A Star Colonel Torrent, of the Kerensky Bloodname, is requesting you specifically.”

  At the mention of the Steel Wolf officer, Blaire rocked back in thought while Raul swore he saw Tassa Kay suddenly lean forward in predatory interest. Could the Steel Wolves have been involved in her “trouble” on Dieron? That seemed a bit far outside of Prefecture IV—through Prefecture III and into II—for Kal Radick to be involved.