Текст книги "Wolves On The Border"

Автор книги: Robert N. Charette

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

After a tactful interval, he reminded the Warlord of the waiting message pouch, which should contain dispatches on the outcome of the Barlow's End raid.

“The timing would be right,” Samsonov agreed, opening a panel on his desk to access the computer console within. As the screen rose from its recess, the Warlord keyed in his request for the appropriate message texts. “They are here,” he said.

Amber light flickered over the Warlord's face as words scrolled over the screen. Akuma watched as the muscles of Samsonov's jaw twitched, his eyes going wide, his face reddening. Something had gone wrong.

“Betrayed!” The storm broke. “The spineless mercenaries ran from battle!”

Samsonov started to rant about the Dragoons, but Akuma didn't listen. He swiveled the screen to face himself and read the text. A retreat by the mercenaries was the last thing he had anticipated. Frackencrack! It was hard to think about what all this meant with the fat old fool raving. The man really had little self-control, Akuma thought, much like himself a few years ago. At least Samsonov wasn't pointing the finger at Akuma's actions. He would have to calm the Warlord before they could deal with this disaster.

An hour later, Samsonov sat with hands clasped before him on the desk. His rage had subsided for the moment, but it still burned below the surface. “Wolf's Dragoons have embarrassed and insulted me too many times,” he said. “I will see them destroyed.”

Akuma drew back from the Warlord's coldly spoken resolution. He too wanted the Dragoons destroyed, but to him, it was not personal. Their destruction was a way to hurt Tetsuhara. Such a destruction was a thing to be carefully planned. It was a step-by-step process. A thousand little details orchestrated until there was no escape. Small bits might go awry, but the gathering momentum had to be nursed until nothing could stop it. Rash actions taken in a fit of anger were more likely to go wrong and upset the plan. Such actions could be as dangerous to the destroyer as to his target. If Samsonov did something foolish, the two of them could get “invited onward.” Akuma had no intention of slitting his own belly. He sought to caution Samsonov. “Is that wise without the Coordinator's leave?”

“No,” the Warlord said. “No, it isn't.” -A rare smile of pleasure creased Samsonov's face. Akuma hoped that it signified the dawn of a brilliant plan and not simply the anticipation of bloodletting. “We'll just have to be subtle about it.” He laughed harshly. “Call the Precentor back.”

Though Akuma feared that he had lost control of the Warlord, he had no choice but continue to do his bidding.

27

Royal Court, Avalon City, New Avalon

Crucis March, Federated Suns

15 November 3026

 

Quintus Allard passed the guards at the entrance to the private wing of the palace, giving them no more than a friendly greeting. The old man and the worn, slightly oversized business suit he habitually wore were well-known to the Royal Guard, who served Prince Hanse in his palace in Avalon City. The guards sent word ahead to the Prince that his Minister of Intelligence, Information, and Operations had arrived.

As the heavy door to the private audience chamber slid open, Hanse Davion looked up at his visitor with a smile of welcome. “Special delivery, Quintus? Not bad news, I hope.”

“I am not sure whether it is news at all, my Prince.” Allard drew a green and gold holodisk from his pocket and held it up.

Hanse was puzzled. If Quintus Allard wasn't sure, circumstances must be confusing, indeed.

“It's not that the circumstances are confusing,” Allard continued, as though reading the Prince's mind. “What confuses me is the motivation that urges your beloved brother-in-law to send this message. I am wondering what he hopes to gain.”

“Well, you've got me wondering as well. Let's see this message.”

Allard nodded and placed the disk in a slot on the viewer. The lights dimmed as the viewscreen came to life. The first image was that of Michael Hasek-Davion's personal heraldry, a golden lion against a green field. The artwork then dissolved into an image of Michael seated at his desk. The holotech had carefully composed the shot to place the lion's eyes where Michael's own green ones would appear. The conceit identifying Michael with the noble beast was marred by the restlessness in the real eyes. The voice that came from the speaker was a better match. It was a politician's voice, deep and sonorous.

“Salutations, brother. I hope that these greetings from Marie and myself find you well. I know what a tiresome job it is to rule the Federated Suns, and so I will take little of your time.”

Hanse and Allard exchanged glances at that. Both knew how quickly Michael would grab that “tiresome job” if he could. In the holofilm, the Duke of New Syrtis twitched his long braid of black hair off the shoulder of his spotless uniform. “I have recently come into a bit of information that might interest you,” he said.

Michael flicked his hand at someone out of the recorder's view. The holo image changed, flattening to an ordinary black and white video. The scene thus revealed was a darkened room, lit fitfully by a flickering blue glow-globe on the center of a table. A small, rumpled man sat at that table, the light throwing strange shadows across his sharp features. The man's shifty gaze ran about the room before focusing on something or someone not in the picture.

The sparse furnishings and grubby walls were little help in identifying its location. Alcohol advertisements proclaimed it as belonging to a drinking establishment, and so it was probably the back room of a seedy bar that could have been almost anywhere in the Inner Sphere.

Michael's voice explained. “My agent intercepted this on Le Blanc. It was addressed to a certain Sten Weller, a notorious freelance hunter. I believe it was data intended to accompany an invitation to partake in some work.”

The Duke stopped talking just as the man on the screen began to speak. “I told you in the 'gram. Wuz her, all right. Couldna been anybody else. They wuz even black 'Mechs.

“Wents out to Kempis town myself, I did. After things was quiet. Talked to a guy'd seen her. Nailed her phiz and red hair. Even told me 'bout that fancy iron she carries. Gots the word on her Hammerfrom another rube.

“They wuz real professional-like. I seen the Fed 'Mech arm they left ta throw the trail. They wuz in and out real quick. Gots what they wanted and cleaned them Snakes out real good. Real pros. It all ties up. Had to be them.

“Done good work for ya. I did.”

Another man came partially into view. The cyan light from the glow-globe reflected off a cuirass and vambraces heavy with compartments and protuberances. Though the man's head was in shadow, stray gleams revealed that he wore a helmet as well. The reedy snitch flinched as the armored man moved forward, hand outstretched. That hand opened to drop a wallet onto the table. The rat-faced man snatched it up as though afraid it would disappear. Then it did, into his shabby clothes.

“Lordy, man. It's good work. Like a real detective, I wuz.”

“It had better be good cop, my well-paid friend.” The armored man's voice was electronically modulated, indicating either that his helmet was sealed from the environment or that he had an expensive voice distorter to conceal his voice as the helmet concealed his face. “If it's a set-up, Billy, ain't no place you can hide from me.”

“It's good cop. Honest. On my life.” The man was plainly frightened of his associate.

“That's right.” The cold voice made it a promise.

The scene dissolved, bringing Michael's face back to the screen.

“If you haven't already guessed, brother, the subject of that conversation is the notorious Black Widow, Natasha Kerensky. It seems that she and her ragtag collection of misfits and malcontents have been committing atrocities against House Kurita on the planet of New Mendham.

“As the little man said, they are real professionals. Professional killers, not soldiers.

“I know of your fascination with Wolf's Dragoons, and I thought this might open your eyes to see past their glamour. They are little more than bandits, rogues from the Periphery. It's true that they are well-equipped in these days of hand-me-down 'Mechs and half-functional factories. No doubt they have plundered some forgotten waystation left over from General Kerensky's exodus.

“Well-equipped or not, they are mercenary scum hiding behind the carefully constructed lie of being professional soldiers. They are professional looters,working their way through the Sphere, and they should be crushed rather than courted.

“As you know, I have only the best interests of the Federated Suns and our own glorious House at heart. I thought that you should see this before your agents on Galatea conclude a deal that could affect our prestige.

“I said I would take little of your time, and so I will sign off, leaving you to consider this revealing information.” Michael's face changed from earnest seriousness to his bland, everyday smile. “Farewell until we meet again, brother.”

The holo faded and Allard brought the room lights back to their normal level.

Hanse was frowning. “Atrocities. That's not like the Natasha Kerensky I knew twenty years ago.”

That Kerensky was twenty years younger and had not lost a lover to a Successor Lord's betrayal,Allard thought. She could have changed.

“I'll grant that she's bold and outspoken, but she's a showdown type. She's not a backstabber.” In spite of his defense of Kerensky's character, Hanse found it necessary to ask, “Is the story true?”

“That's what confuses me,” Allard confessed. “A Kurita supply convoy was looted and destroyed in Kempis on the date in question. Many civilian casualties occurred as well. There is no doubt that the atrocity occurred.

“The question of the identity of the perpetrators is open. The mercenary expeditionary force we dispatched to New Mendham reported no contact with the Black Widows, and my subordinates cannot reliably determine the location of the Widows during that time period. It is possible that Kerensky's company was on New Mendham and behaved as the witnesses report.”

“Why is Michael sending us this tape now?”

“If the allegation is true, he is acting as any loyal Davion concerned for our honor.”

“Michael, loyal?” Hanse laughed.

“As much as he wants what he thinks is due him, even Michael would not see the Federated Suns destroyed by her enemies,” Allard reminded the Prince. “Whether the story is true or false, he may simply be a message boy, passing on things that the friends of his Liao friends wish us to hear.”

“An intriguing possibility,” Hanse said, his expression becoming thoughtful. “Despite my 'well-known fascination,' I have lost track of what Wolf and his people are up to these days. Weren't they in on that business on Barlow's End?”

“They were, my Prince. Battle intelligence reports that the raiding force was composed of the bulk of Alpha Regiment and Zeta Battalion, along with a substantial Kurita component.”

“House troops? Was that some kind of response to Operation Galahad?”

“Reports indicate that the Kurita raid on Barlow's End was planned before we staged our war games.”

“Still, they caught the Eridani Light Horse in transfer.” Hanse tapped a stylus against his chin, considering the possibilities. “How much can they have learned?”

“Little, I think. The battle went badly for them. The Dragoons abandoned the Kurita House troops shortly after the Light Horse became involved. Presumably, they deemed it impossible to achieve the goals of their mission. That left the Kurita unit unsupported. After another day of fighting, the Kuritans pulled out, too.

“We took losses ourselves, mostly minor, though the only existing prototype of Professor McGuffin's jump stabilizer was destroyed. The professor is, of course, furious. I am sure Doctor Banzai will be distressed as well. He put so much work into the design.

“There was an unusual item in the after action report from the Light Horse, though. The Kuritans did retreat, but those House troops seem to have been fanatics. We found the Kurita Commander dead in the command camp with a sword in his hand. He had been shot in the back of the head. It was some kind of ritual killing, perhaps a variant form of seppuku.”

Hanse shook his head, unable to understand a code that required a life for a simple military reversal. Enough lives were spent on the battlefield. “So you think that the Kuritans will be too busy piecing their units back together and placing the blame to understand the significance of the nature of our defenders?”

“I do,” Allard replied. “Galahad's cover is most likely still safe from them. I think, however, that the Dragoon intelligence network may be a step ahead of the ISF.”

“What do you mean?” Hanse asked suspiciously. “What have they been up to?”

“As you know, we have had agents recruiting mercenaries all over the Sphere, particularly on Galatea. The Dragoons also have an officer on that world who stays in touch with the market for mercenaries. Though still cool to our offers to jump contract, she has taken some interest in our hirings.

“Then there are the visits the Dragoon JumpShips have been making to some of our systems. Too many of those sites are our transfer lay-overs.”

“Not fighting. Just checking up on us,” Hanse observed, and Allard nodded agreement. “I don't think that is authorized surveillance. The Wolf is double-checking ISF intel. He's watching his rear.”

A sly smile began to grow on Prince Davion's face. “Perhaps things are not so cozy between the Dragoons and my old friend Takashi. How long does their contract run?”

“Almost another year and a half,” Allard answered promptly.

Hanse looked disappointed at that. It was a long time.

“What's going on inside the Dragoons?” the Prince asked. “Didn't we get an agent in there?”

“We tried, but the Dragoons rarely recruit from outside their own organization. They are almost a closed shop. The recent plan to infiltrate them has met no real success. Our agent posed as a potential recruit. We assumed that a ‘MechWarrior with a new machine like the Hatchetmanwould interest the Dragoons because they always seemed so interested in new and unusual technology during their contracts with us and with House Steiner. We thought their commanders would be tempted enough by the chance to get their hands on a Hatchetmanthat they'd accept our agent.”

Hanse snorted mildly and shook his head. “Sometimes I think that Wolf is more a fox than I am. They found a way to get our 'Mech without taking our agent, didn't they?”

“They did,” Allard confirmed. “They offered our agent a trade, one of their special-model Archersfor his 'Mech. They also offered a slot in Carter's Chevaliers, a subcontracting mercenary unit. They said the position was 'for a trial period.' In order to preserve cover, our agent had no choice but to accept.”

“Fortunes of war,” Hanse said resignedly. Not every gambit could succeed. At least, this one wasn't a total failure. It might still bear fruit in the future. Until then, they must try something else. “With things getting a little tense on the other side of the border, maybe we can stir up the pot. Do we have any combat footage of the Dragoons pulling out on Barlow's End?”

It was Allard's turn to look puzzled. “Some.”

“Have it edited to emphasize the timing of the Dragoon departure and to de-emphasize the strength of our forces. Then let a Kurita agent acquire the film. Maybe Takashi will help us out by turning on the Dragoons. They may not come to us, but at least they won't be working for him.”

Allard accepted the order in silence. He started for the door, but before he reached it, Hanse called his name. The minister turned and made a fumbling catch of the small object the Prince tossed to him. It was the holodisk he had brought.

“While you're sending out packages, see if you can find an anonymous way to get that to Jaime Wolf. The Wolf is an honorable man. If there is some plot to discredit his people, he won't like it. He might even break his contract off short.”

Hanse smiled at his own cleverness. No one had ever denied that he deserved his nickname of “the Fox.”

28

Hoshon Mansion , Cerant, An Ting

Galedon Military District, Draconis Combine

24 November 3026

 

Morning sunlight slanted in from the garden, throwing rippling shadows over the wooden floor. The open panels allowed the cool air to move through the room in a gentle breeze, but Minobu did not feel the chill. He was absorbed in his painting, completing a delicate chrysanthemum on the black vase he held in his left hand. The sable sheen of the ceramic shape reflected the light in subtle and harmonious ways.

Minobu held up the vase and turned it in the light. Satisfied with his work, he placed it on the drying stand and cleaned his brush. He had just turned to face the inner door when the panel slid open to reveal Jaime Wolf standing there. Though the lintel was low, the mercenary did not need to duck as he crossed the threshold.

“Finally found time to visit the invalid?” Minobu said as the Dragoon came forward.

“Things have been a little hectic since Barlow's End,” Jaime replied evenly, though the harsh note in his friend's voice surprised him.

“I expect they were.” Minobu's days had not been busy, but they had been full of pain as his battered body gradually healed. The convalescence had been long and slow, empty of the support of friends. He had seen little even of Tomiko, for she had fled the room at first sight of his prosthetic arm and leg.

“Marisha is with Tomiko,” Jaime offered.

“My wife will enjoy the company.” Perhaps now things will change,Minobu thought. Marisha may be able to help Tomiko accept the new reality of her husband.

Jaime's visit might be a sign of the end of his estrangement as well. In the seven weeks since his accident, Minobu had felt deserted. Even Michi's return a week ago had brought no relief. The young Tai-iwas distant and reserved, all business. Much about him seemed changed. It was as though he, rather than Minobu, had been injured on Barlow's End.

No,thought Minobu, caught in self pity. Not Barlow's End—Minobu's end.

“I was remiss in not thanking you for the report you sent concerning the action on Barlow's End,” he said woodenly. “It was most enlightening.”

“Don't pull this inscrutable samurai crap with me,” Jaime said, annoyance flaring. “We've been friends for too long.”

Now Minobu was taken aback. Lost in his own problems, he had failed to notice that Wolf was troubled, too. “When first we met, I knew you were perceptive, my friend. I did not know your perceptions would make you a pain in the butt.”

A faint smile touched Minobu's face but it vanished with his attempt to stand. He swayed from the pain that shot through his leg. Shifting his weight onto his cane, he steadied himself. The knife-sharp pain subsided to an ache under the driving force of his will. “I have enough pains right now.”

Annoyance struggled with sympathy on Wolf's face.

“I apologize for my lack of courtesy. Come, have some tea,” Minobu said, gesturing with his free hand.

Minobu and Jaime moved out into the garden. Walking along the gravel paths, they passed miniature castles and carefully tended dwarf trees. As they reached the top of the bridge over the stream, Minobu halted.

“You have done what you could,” he said, picking up the earlier thread of the conversation. “If I am disappointed with the Ryuken's performance on Barlow's End, I should not take it out on you.”

“It was a bad break to have the Horsemen show up there. You couldn't have anticipated it. Problems like that can make even experienced units look bad.” Wolf's comment told Minobu that Jaime also had concerns over the outcome of the ill-fated raid.

“Kelly says your people were doing just fine until Satoh got hold of them.”

Satoh! Minobu frowned at the mention of that name. Samsqnov's pawn had been incompetent and unthinking—a dangerous fool! Minobu mastered his passion and relaxed the muscles of his face. There were more suitable topics for polite conversation. He would not speak of that man and what he had allowed to happen on Barlow's End, not even to Jaime.

“How is Major Yukinov?”

“I got him the best available. He's been back to duty for a week, limping a little though. The myomer implant didn't set quite right.”

Jaime's voice faltered as he realized that he had touched on a subject that was difficult for Minobu to face.

During the weeks in which he'd waited for his own surgery, Minobu had not seen Wolf. Kurita Brotherhood physicians had attended him and replaced the mangled arm and leg with artificial limbs. They assured him that he would be able to do everything almost as well as before the accident. The prostheses Minobu had received could not compare to the myomer substitution technology that Wolf had arranged for Yukinov, however. Minobu was grateful that he could still pilot a 'Mech, even if it was at reduced efficiency, but he couldn't help but feel some envy. Still, his kiwould help to overcome any remaining disability.

Jaime tried to revive the conversation by turning to business. “Kelly's busy whipping Alpha back into shape. Already I'm hearing gripes that they had it easy with J.E. in charge. Kelly runs a much tighter operation and doesn't allow the latitude Jamison gives Zeta's hellions. Alpha will be back in action soon.”

“Your losses were serious?”

“Serious enough,” Jaime said. Just as in the old days on Quentin, he offered no details, keeping his secrets. “We'll recover, though. We have our ways.”

“Ah, yes. Your mysterious source of supplies and troops that lies out in the Periphery. The greatest of the Dragoon secrets.”

Wolf stopped and stared up at his taller companion. “Look here, Minobu. What are you playing at with all this baiting?”

“Am I baiting you?”

“Unity! There you go again. I'm not one of your zen students to be answered with a question.” Jaime shifted to his drill-field voice. “What's the game?”

“If it is a game, it is not frivolous,” Minobu answered gravely. “There is tension, distance, between us today. I know my own concerns, but not yours. I do know you well enough to see that you're avoiding something unpleasant. Speak frankly.”

Minobu and Jaime locked eyes for a moment. Without signaling any surrender, Jaime said, “Let's cut the games, then.”

Minobu nodded.

“I came to talk to you about what's happening with the regiments,” Jaime began. “This Akuma bastard is still making trouble every time I turn around. It just keeps getting worse. I've got officers calling for his head. We're headed for a flash point.

“I smell Samsonov's hand in it. He's certainly letting Akuma jerk us around. We've also heard that he's been dropping hints all over the Combine that the Dragoons are out of control. That we are too strong. That we are a threat to Combine security. Youknow better than that!

“I think they're going to try to break up the regiments again.” Wolf's shoulders slumped. Having finally spoken of his problem, his energy seemed to ebb.

“Which you will never allow.” Minobu put his hand to his head. It ached again as much as in the first week after the accident, but it could not be from his injuries. Those headaches had stopped a month ago. “Why have you come to me?”

'The Dragoons are threatened,” Jaime answered softly. “And you will do anything, even use up your friends, to protect them.”

“Yes.” There was no contrition in Wolf's voice.

Minobu spent a long time gazing out across the pond. Jaime stood silent at his side. Wolf's admission brought a new light into their relationship. Each knew that Minobu's response would affect their friendship irrevocably.

“What would you have me do?” Minobu asked.

“You understand our situation and you know that the Dragoons are giving the Combine good, honest service. Talk them out of it. Tell them the truth and uncover Samsonov's lies. You were appointed by the Coordinator himself. You've got weight. I'm asking you to use it.”

“If I try to do as you ask, I can make no promises about results. And there are things I need to know.” When Wolf frowned, he added, “I am not asking for your secrets. I need to know what you will accept. What is the limit?”

“Bottom line?”

“Yes.”

Wolf wet his lips and drew a breath. “The bottom line is that each regiment must stay together. I won't have even one of them broken up, and I won't let the independent units be isolated from the rest. As long as we have An Ting, I'll keep up the rotations to the planet because I won't leave our civilians defenseless.”

“I would not think of asking that.” Neither man felt it appropriate to mention that others might request that very thing. Minobu looked out over the garden, weighing Jaime's words. “Your position is not unreasonable. Perhaps the Coordinator will listen.”

“But you expect Samsonov will be hard to argue down.”

“Yes. He is a Warlord. The failure on Barlow's End has given him reason to flex his muscle. The action of your troops there will be hard to deny.”

“We won't deny it,” Jaime said matter-of-factly. “We did what we had to do. I'll give you all the data I can—tapes, transcripts, sworn statements. Anyone with half a brain will see that we only did what had to be done.

“The Dragoon combat record is good, better even than most Sword of Light Regiments. We are valuable to the Combine. Takashi Kurita will surely see that my troops are worth more to him than satisfying some megalomaniac's ego.”

Minobu studied Jaime's earnest, imploring expression. The Colonel was calling on Minobu's loyalty to a friend and comrade in adversity. That would be enough for many men, but Minobu was also bound by other chains. Because he had saved Jaime Wolf's life, he was responsible for Jaime's actions. Under all laws, Jaime, as a commander, was responsible for his troops. That meant Minobu was also responsible for their actions. If the Dragoons acted against the Combine, Minobu would be responsible. He could not allow the Dragoons to be forced into unjustified acts of rebellion.

“Very well, friend Jaime. I will try.”