BattleTech, page 5
“Two, close door seven,” Wayne ordered, and the exit snapped shut. Wayne had caught far more rain than Aden had, so, after they stood, Wayne said. “I’m going to go dry off, go see if Three needs any help.”
Phan had been asleep on one of the fold-out beds in the cabin, and Aden found Mika sitting on the bed, her legs stretched across onto the opposite bench seat. She was scrolling through Phan’s tablet as Aden sat down on the bench.
“Phan was still alive when we threw him out,” Aden noted.
Mika flicked her eyes at him. “That going to be a problem?” she asked neutrally.
Aden shook his head. He’d been thinking about it the whole trip, comparing it to all the death he’d already seen in his life. Not only the ones from combat, but death’s ever-present specter. Decompression accidents onboard arcships, any number of mechanical failures, deaths in the shiver while training or sometimes just while sparring simply because the trainees didn’t realize they’d been taught to kill their whole lives but not taught how not to: for a Clan warrior, death was a constant companion, and he’d wondered how life in the Watch might make it different. There was no honor in the kill, he’d decided, but he was an enemy of sorts, and dead is dead.
“No,” he answered firmly. “It’s part of the job, right?” At her nod, he continued, “You looked annoyed when I came in,” he noted, and she frowned. “Everything okay?”
“Two wasn’t able to hack Phan’s datapad earlier, and now that I have it, I know the piece of information we were still missing,” Mika said. “The why. Phan was originally from the Commonwealth, and the Lyrans didn’t know why he was betraying them.” At Aden’s raised eyebrow, she sighed and looked back at the pad. “Phan was in love with the SAFE agent, and they had a physical relationship. He’s sent multiple love messages, many recalling prior sexual activities and what he’s hoping for this weekend.”
Aden hmmd thoughtfully, and when Mika looked at him, he asked, as gracefully as he could, “will it be a problem?”
“No,” she answered. “All part of the job.”
NELLAS MEMORIAL DROPPORT
SON HOA
THE PERIPHERY
8 OCTOBER 3151
The light from Son Hoa’s star started as a thin line stretching across the cargo bay and then quickly expanded as the DropShip’s ramp descended. With the light came the cold, the vast cargo bay’s temperature immediately plunging as an icy breeze swept through it.
Janelle stood in the bay, surrounded by a clatter of commotion. Tie-down chains were popped, straps uncoupled, and forklifts fired up in preparation for the day’s activities.
Son Hoa had an eight-month year: a month each of spring, summer, autumn, and three months of winter. Winter, however, was bookended by twin months of monsoons, one as the world transitioned into the frigidly cold season, and another as it transitioned out.
Janelle had departed mid-April, the tail end of the previous winter, and managed to return in the first month of the new winter. She sighed deeply. She’d understood this, of course, but knowing the situation in advance didn’t make her any happier about it.
In preparation for the weather, she was wearing her winter formal uniform: white pants and a trim, cornflower-blue jacket over a long-sleeved shirt. The jacket and pants were wool, with a water-breathable membrane sewn on the inside. Under her shirt and pants, she wore her dark-blue MechWarrior sweat-wicking catsuit. In winter, it functioned in reverse, wicking the sweat away from her body so it wouldn’t chill her. White insulated sheepskin gloves, white wrap-around earmuffs, and a white knit muffler wrapped around her neck and down her jacket completed her outfit. General Winter has no allies, it was said, and only the foolish batchall against him.
The ramp lowered past horizontal, then tilted down to connect with the ferrocrete pad, allowing Janelle to take in the view. As always, it was magnificent. The fraternal-twin monsoon months made Son Hoa a world of avalanches, mudslides, and an unfathomable amount of water moving in every which direction. Quasong, in the far distance, used a clever series of aqueducts and human-made wadis running toward the nearest ocean to carry the rainwater away from the city.
However, because the surrounding floodplain was simply too waterlogged to build a long-term spaceport, Son Hoa’s main DropPort was separated away from the closest cities. Located on a massive plateau a kilometer and a half high, it had a commanding overview of the plains. An elevated highway and twin rail lines ran from the DropPort down to the west, where they separated into three directions: north to Xiang, south to Hayestadt, and west toward Quasong and the StarCorps plant.
The equatorial city of Quasong was northwest of the StarCorps production facility, both located on the shores of the Vanishing Sea. It was a working-class city supporting the factory and its employees, very few of its denizens ever able to afford one of the motorcycles she’d hauled for eighty-five light-years. Son Hoa’s wealthy would fly to StarCorps from Hayestadt or Xiang on the occasions they needed to visit, skipping over the—in their eyes—coarse city of Quasong altogether.
Four cerulean VTOLs with white pinstriping were parked in a diamond formation off to the side of the ramp—two Warrior attack VTOLs escorting a pair of Cardinal cargo helicopters—with a collection of labor caste in Sea Fox winter gear and other people in cerulean uniforms milling about. A parade of forklifts and empty trucks had started rolling up and down the ramp the moment it touched ground, and walking up the side, out of the way of the forklifts, were three people.
In the lead was Merchant Point Commander Gunther, a former Elemental. A finger over two-meters tall, he’d suffered a permeant tear in his rotator cuff even Clan medicine was never quite able to repair. This left him with a weakness opponents always exploited in Trials and challenges; seeing the writing on the wall, he had voluntarily transferred to the merchant caste, and Janelle considered herself lucky to have him in her Star. He possessed an analytical mind and the ability to know exactly how much touman discipline to apply to his merchant caste subordinates, keeping them focused without stifling their market acumen.
“Gunther,” she said, shaking his hand. Like the labor caste, he was dressed in a quilted Sea Fox jumpsuit, with thick winter boots and a white knit cap covering his bald head and ears. He wore insulated leather work gloves, and his breath came out in giant clouds in the freezing air. This early in winter, the temperature averaged in the negative teens; by the middle of winter, however, Xiang would see windchills around minus forty, with even lower temperatures at Son Hoa’s poles.
“Merchant Commander,” he greeted her formally. “May I introduce Captain Olivia Garrido of Priam’s Sentinels, and Miss Mika, your administrative aide throughout your stay. I am tracking a 72-hour turnaround, with a 24-hour extension if necessary, quiaff?”
“Aff,” Janelle replied, shaking Mika’s hand—wearing an outfit identical to Gunther’s—and immediately turning toward Captain Garrido. During the week-long travel from the jump point to Son Hoa, she’d received a short message from Watch Agent Aden, the Sea Fox agent on-world. He mentioned Mika worked for him, and she’d get Janelle to the safehouse, where he’d brief her on the world’s activities since her departure. She didn’t want to draw attention to Mika—she assumed Gunther knew her real function—and besides, she really wanted to know who this captain was. Who or what are Priam’s Sentinels?
The captain was about her height, with an olive complexion, and a full head of dark hair that matched her eyes. She wore a cerulean winter outfit with white trim, white gloves, white boots, and there was the gleam of a tiny crucifix nestled in the fabric folds of the thick white turtleneck sweater she wore under her jacket.
“Ma’am, it is nice to finally meet you,” said the captain.
“Priam’s Sentinels,” said Janelle. “A mercenary unit?” The Clans originally held a virulent disgust of mercenaries when they’d first invaded the Inner Sphere over a century ago, most even executing captured prisoners. The distaste—on both sides, for mercenaries were decidedly ruthless against foes that offered no quarter—had subsided over the intervening decades. She, like many others in her Clan, figured it was just a matter of time before various Clans started putting mercenaries under contract.
However, thought Janelle, that day has not yet arrived.
“Neg, Merchant Commander,” Captain Garrido replied. “We’re a private security company, and since you have limited force strength on Son Hoa, we’re on retainer to ensure the delivery of high-value cargos.”
Janelle’s eyes narrowed. Son Hoa was seeing an increase in banditry and attacks on shipments. Taking precautions was a responsible action; still, for honor’s sake, she had to double-check the situation. “And what exactly is the distinction between your company and a mercenary unit, Captain?”
Garrido’s chin came up. “Ma’am, my whole team will fight to the death for your cargo, but we do not fight other people’s wars, we do not chase the paychecks. We provide a service. We cut your defense requirements to alleviate a cost-burden to your Clan, which improves your bottom line.”
Janelle studied her for a moment, then allowed herself a small smile. “You practiced this pitch, quiaff?”
Garrido smiled back. “Aff, ma’am. Gunther warned me I would have one chance, and I needed to make it count.”
Janelle nodded, then turned to Gunther. “Excellent work, Gunther. You have my itinerary, quiaff?” At his nod, she said, “Excellent. Let us get moving.”
Forty-five minutes later, Janelle sat in the cockpit’s left-hand jump seat of a 50-ton Cardinal transport VTOL heading toward Xiang. In nylon troop seats lining the cargo bay sat two platoons of heavy mountain infantry, quietly talking among themselves. Following their Cardinal was a second one containing a jump support platoon, both cargo VTOLs flanked by the twin 20-ton Warrior H8s.
It was a heavy guard force, Gunther admitted as the Cardinal was loaded, but he’d paid top price to ensure her cargo got through. It wasn’t just the motorcycles sitting in the Cardinal’s cargo bay, it was what they represented. Janelle was announcing that her Clan had unmatchable resources, that they could get anything from anywhere to anywhere for the right price. While militaries saw accessibility in terms of BattleMechs and weaponry, the ones holding the purse strings saw it in luxury goods. The motorcycles were more than works of ridable art, they were a promise, a guarantee. The ultra-rich were jealous and competitive, and now—if everything went right—when one of them wanted something located or moved in the future, they would turn to her Clan.
They had three stops in Xiang, and then two in the mountains. Between the fourth and fifth stop, she’d make a detour. Lashed down in the second Cardinal was an inconspicuous SUV, with Mika and a former Elemental named Rosalina. Once they landed at the fourth location, Mika would drive Rosalina and her to a nearby safehouse, where she’d receive a debrief from Aden and his team.
After that, it would be back to the VTOL and on to the final delivery, a domed resort. She and Rosalina would spend the night there and travel back to the DropShip by SUV the following morning.
The VTOLs screamed across the kilometers of open cropland toward Xiang, and Janelle glanced back at her motorcycle, lashed down next to the others. I have not ridden since Buena, she thought. It will be good to get some riding in tonight.
She reviewed reports as they headed to their first stop. A spot of turbulence shook her out of her work, and she realized they were on approach to the Drake estate, a square kilometer of rolling fields and deciduous forest just outside the capital.
Household staff guided the Cardinal down while the other three vehicles circled, and two infantry soldiers helped her unlash the soft nylon rope securing the first motorcycle to the deck. The ramp lowered as the blades spooled down, and Janelle could already see her first customers, the opulently dressed millionaire and his handsome, teenage son, Jaster Drake, the motorcycle’s intended owner.
Janelle immediately slipped into sales mode, a broad smile appearing on her face as she started rolling the motorcycle down the ramp. “Gentlemen,” she called out, “allow me to congratulate you on your purchase.”
It was mid-afternoon before she arrived at the Watch safehouse. After dropping off the motorcycle at the fourth estate, the two Cardinals set down in a remote field, where they would wait for her return.
With the infantry securing the area, Mika drove the SUV out of the VTOL, with Rosalina in the back and Janelle up front. Traveling down narrow mountain roads, Mika took a few double-backs and false turns up logging trails to watch for possible pursuers before they finally arrived at a discreet cabin tucked into the side of a mountain.
As a merchant-commander, Janelle was authorized to carry weapons in self-defense, and she normally carried a needler in a shoulder holster and a small holdout laser pistol usually hidden in the thick cuff of her right sleeve. Approaching the entrance alongside Mika, Janelle drew her needler and charged it, Mika doing the same. Rosalina, as part of the merchant caste, officially couldn’t brandish a weapon. However, Janelle noticed she was carrying a tire iron, the tool looking impossibly small in the former Elemental’s grip.
Mika rapped on the door in a pattern, and there was a responding pattern before the door opened. A bald, dark-skinned man quickly glanced over her before turning to Mika.
“How was traffic?” he asked.
“Practically bumper-to-bumper,” Mika replied.
Janelle quirked an eyebrow and half-glanced over her shoulder at the spy. I have not seen another car in hours, she thought. However, she saw the man relax and step out of the way, welcoming them in, and understood. Ah, a reverse password. Clever.
Moments later, the three of them were sitting in chairs or couches in front of a roaring fire. The cabin had an open floor layout—a large living room directly connected to the kitchen—with a pair of beds in a loft bedroom over the kitchen. Wayne was making drinks and snacks in the kitchen, while Daniel and Aden fussed with connecting the tri-vee to Daniel’s datapad. Once Wayne was done, Mika served everyone a drink before plopping on the couch between Wayne and Janelle, throwing her feet up on the coffee table and ignoring Daniel’s dirty look. Janelle took a sip from her tumbler—an excellent whiskey, but not as fine as Colonel Hokala’s.
Why am I not surprised at that? she thought. Then, smoothing down her suit jacket, she nodded to Agent Aden. “I apologize for rushing you, but I must remain on schedule,” she began. “First, who owns this cabin?”
“Several weeks ago,” began Aden, “the Lyrans came to us with a problem. The owner of this cabin was passing information to an on-world SAFE agent about Lyran troop movements.”
Janelle frowned slightly. “The League?” she asked, recognizing the name of the Free World’s League intelligence agency.
Aden nodded. “Yes. The Lyrans asked for help in removing the problem in a way that wouldn’t raise questions. Wayne knew a couple friendly detectives that wouldn’t look too hard at any notes Phan left behind, so, officially, Mister Phan Son threw himself into the Vanishing Sea over a broken heart.”
“Daniel,” Aden continued, “knew a lawyer and a forgery artist, and suddenly, we were left the cabin and the surrounding land in his will.”
“How fortunate,” said Janelle with a slight smile. She sipped her whiskey and then asked, “what happened to the SAFE agent?” She felt the mood of the agents shift, becoming much less relaxed, more formal.
“Mika,” said Aden, “replaced Phan and went home with the agent. She knocked him out, and we brought him up here—out to the garage, specifically—and I interrogated him.” Janelle nodded, and then tilted her head questioningly.
“You interrogated him” she asked. At his nod, she asked, “Using Clan drugs?” He nodded again. “You have an interrogation system here?” she asked in surprise. Though she’d never conducted an interrogation herself, she knew the process: first, the subject would be injected with a combination of chemicals that loosened their decision-making abilities, making them more susceptible to talking. Then, they were injected with a catalytic agent that reacted to electricity, causing anything from mild to excruciating pain throughout the body. The interrogation module allowed interrogators to precisely modulate how much electricity to give the subject, breaking their will to resist preferably before breaking their sanity.
“No,” Aden replied. “The Watch did not issue me a system, so, we made do with a pair of car batteries and a voltmeter. It took a bit of trial and error, but we eventually broke him.”
From her chair, Rosalina grunted in approval, and Janelle took another sip of whiskey. I am not here to question how he accomplishes his tasks, but he is far more capable than his superiors led me to believe. “The agent is dead, I assume?”
“Aff,” said Mika, throwing Janelle a smile when she turned toward her at the use of the Clan word. “Our cleaning business allows us to have a lot of industrial-strength chemicals on-hand, many of which make bodies disappear quite neatly.”
“Nicely done,” Janelle said, saluting them with her drink. As a member of the Watch, Aden did not answer to her; but as the senior Sea Fox in the local area, she was the one he would call for help if he and his team got in over their heads. Reciprocally, he was the only Fox Watch agent on-world—making him the lead agent by default—and his efforts would be vital to her maintaining a steady stream of profit to and from Son Hoa for her Clan.
Wayne turned down the lights, and Mika turned on the massive tri-vee screen. Daniel tapped on a datapad, and the tri-vee displayed a presentation of the local systems, with known units marked with icons. Nearly every world within thirty light-years had at least one red flag indicating an attack.
Aden moved to the far side of the room and gestured at the screen. “Combining Republic, LIC, and our own data, we now have a fairly accurate picture at the scale of the pirate attacks. Almost like clockwork, a nearby world has been struck by bandits every few weeks for the past eighteen months. Brion’s Legion has been essentially off-world chasing these attacks for about a year now, and we’re fairly certain this situation has been deliberately manipulated.”
