BattleTech: Vengeance, page 1
VENGEANCE
Men ought to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared.
—Niccolo Machiavelli
PROLOGUE
Landing Zone Nurikabe
Lesser Dasentica Continent
Ryde
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
3 October 3046
“Koketsu ni irazunba koji wo!” the officer shouted, brandishing a katana. “If you do not enter the tiger’s cave, you will not catch its cub!”
Thirty-three MechWarrior cadets stood at attention in the Dropship’s cavernous BattleMech bay. Chu-sa Arik Arlansson stood on a gantry beside his Wolverine, staring down at them. He held his sword over his head for a moment longer, then lowered it. He slid the blade home into its scabbard without looking, his hands and arms making the long-familiar motions without conscious thought.
“You are buso-senshi,” he said, naming them MechWarriors, the elite warriors of the Draconis Combine, honored to pilot the ten-meter-tall BattleMechs in House Kurita’s service. Despite his name, and his Swedish-speaking parents back on Thule, Arlansson spoke Japanese, the language of the Kurita-ruled Combine. The victory of Gunji-no-Kanrei Theodore Kurita’s Ghost regiments in the War of 3039 had done much to erode the racist bent toward ethnic Japanese, but Arlansson knew his skin was not the issue. His blood was the issue.
My name is the issue.
There were few ethnic Rasalhagians, descended from largely Swedish and Norse stock and still embracing those cultures, left in the Combine. Most had defected in 3034 to the Free Rasalhague Republic, the newly-won realm carved out of the former Rasalhague Military District of the Draconis Combine. Those that remained—men and women like Arik Arlansson and his officers—were scrutinized and ostracized.
We are sent on fool’s errands such as these.
“You are eta,” he said. “So say our masters. They call you trash, less than warriors, undesirables ranked even lower than the yakuza who man the Ghost regiments.” Arlansson searched the faces he could see closely, watching for angry glares or shifting eyes. The thirty-tree cadets stood stock-still, listening. A proud smile twitched his mouth, but he controlled it.
“Here, we will prove them wrong,” he said. “Here, we will enter the tiger’s cave and snatch her cub. Here, we will prove ourselves against the honorless soldiers of the Federated Commonwealth.” Now he allowed the grin onto his face. “Here, we will earn our place in the Mustered Soldiery.”
Behind the ranked warriors, the giant ’Mech bay doors began to open, breaking free of the old DropShip’s warped hull with a cracking clang. The air was immediately tainted. Sulfur from Ryde’s atmosphere pinched at Arlansson’s sinuses, but he didn’t sneeze.
“By the grace of Duke Ricol, you have been given ’Mechs. You are, no matter what anyone else says, buso-senshi.” He stopped, blinking as the air pricked his eyes. “We will crush our objective, and earn our place in the Combine.”
He drew his sword again, thrusting it over his head.
“Banzai!” he screamed.
Below him, the thirty-three MechWarrior cadets raised both hands over their heads.
“Banzai!” they shouted back.
“To your ’Mechs!”
As the cadets broke ranks and headed for their machines, Arlansson rode the gantry lift down to the bay floor, where two men stood waiting. Like Arlansson, they were both much older than the cadets. The shorter, more wiry man on the left threw his hands up, grinning.
“Banzai!” he fake-shouted.
Arlansson grinned back. “Quiet.” He looked at the two men, one, then the other. Both wore red-backed blue katakana 5’s pinned to their cooling vests. The katakana, like the green 3 on Arlansson’s vest, denoted their rank—in their case, tai-i, what other militaries called a captain. His own rank, chu-sa, was equivalent to a lieutenant colonel.
The man who’d spoken, Connor Latham, was, like Arlansson, an ethnic Rasalhagian who’d remained in the DCMS when the Free Rasalhague Republic had formed. He was an irreverent man, with many citations on his record of impertinence and uncouthness. Arlansson, who carried many of the same citations, didn’t care about his attitude.
Latham was an excellent light BattleMech pilot and a decent leader. More importantly, he was an excellent MechWarrior instructor. He commanded the training battalion’s third company, Inugami Company.
The other man, Tai-i Gunnar Fritofsson, said nothing.
“A fine speech,” Latham said, lowering his arms. “Believe any of it?”
“What I said applies to us as well,” Arlansson said, pushing past them to walk toward the open hatch. “If we can prove this training battalion concept, perhaps our honor can be restored.”
“You mean if we can prove copying a Davion concept works?” Latham asked.
“Impertinent,” Arlansson muttered.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“No, I didn’t.” The trio reached the open hatch. Arlansson looked up at the exposed side, seeing the fresh scrapes where the ill-fitting hatches had forced themselves apart. The DropShip was a powerful Overlord-class vessel, capable of transporting an entire BattleMech battalion, but it was not young. In port on Dieron, a WorkMech had pounded the hatch closed from the outside.
“ISF reports nothing more than militia on this continent,” Latham said, after a moment.
“Yes.”
“And ISF is never wrong.”
Arlansson snorted. The Internal Security Force, the Draconis Combine’s secret police cum intelligence-gathering service, was universally feared. If ISF was wrong, it eliminated those who disagreed with it, and after several decades of being controlled by the dreaded Smiling One, Subhash Indrahar, its reach spanned the Inner Sphere. “Of course not,” he said.
The quiet giant Fritofsson, more than two meters tall and Scandinavian blond, stirred. “They are not ready,” he said.
“For militia?” Latham said with a chuckle. “Nonsense.”
“We should have held them to training,” Fritofsson insisted.
“There was no more time,” Arlansson said, in a tone that made it clear he would brook no more argument. “The Red Duke”—Ricol—“required us to move now. And so we are here.”
“They’ll be fine,” Latham said. He slapped a hand against his bare thigh, beneath the off-white one-piece bodysuit he wore beneath his cooling vest.
“Even if they are not,” Arlansson whispered, more to himself than in answer, “there wasn’t any more time.”
CHAPTER ONE
Armored Station Nineteen
Lesser Dasentica Continent
Ryde
Skye March, Federated Commonwealth
3 October 3046
Leftenant Galen Cox stood at attention in Hauptmann Rychert’s office, staring at a spot on the wall behind and above the seated officer. He stood at parade rest, his feet spread shoulder-width apart and his hands folded behind his back. He was young, barely twenty-six standard Terran years old, with blond hair and blue eyes. Two days’ stubble dusted his chin. A red scrape marred the left side of his jaw.
“Explain yourself,” Rychert said.
The company commander was older than Cox, almost forty. He sat in an expensive, banth-leather chair. His uniform—a second-class uniform, not the Steiner-blue jumpsuit that was uniform of the day for the Twelfth Donegal Guards and the same jumpsuit Galen wore—was immaculate and, had he been standing, obviously well-tailored and of better quality than the standard-issue uniforms. Dennis Rychert was a scion of the old school of Lyran BattleMech officers, more concerned with appearance and social grandstanding that military readiness. Such officers were quickly being marginalized in the new Armed Forces of the Federated Commonwealth.
Not quickly enough, in Galen’s opinion.
In 3028, just before the outbreak of the galaxy-changing Fourth Succession War, Prince Hanse Davion of the Federated Suns had wed Melissa Steiner, soon-to-be archon of the Lyran Commonwealth, thereby sealing the alliance that became the Federated Commonwealth—or, rather, would become the Federated Commonwealth when young Prince Victor Steiner-Davion, all of sixteen years old, took the combined archon-prince’s throne.
The marriage of the Federated Suns and its elite military to the economic powerhouse of the Lyran Commonwealth had made the Federated Commonwealth the largest, strongest, and most militarily powerful empire since the ancient Star League. Despite the setbacks of the War of 3039 against the Draconis Combine, most people believed it was only a matter of time before the other three Great Houses of the Inner Sphere—House Marik, who ruled the Free Worlds League, House Liao of the Capellan Confederation, and House Kurita of the Draconis Combine, all bent the knee and submitted to Steiner-Davion rule.
At the thought of House Kurita, Galen’s hands, safely out of sight behind his back, clenched into fists.
“Sir,” he said, “it was a dispute over tactics that got out of hand.”
“A dispute.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over tactics.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rychert slapped his clean desktop with the swagger stick he liked to carry everywhere, even into of his Banshee’s cockpit. “You began a brawl that cleared two cafes in Nisibis,” he said, “over a tactical dispute?”
Galen frowned. “In my own defense, sir, it is not fair to say I ‘started’ the brawl.”
“You did not strike First Leutnant Rhaegar first?” The swagger stick snapped down again. “I have an affidavit from several Ryde Militia witnesses that say you did.”
“I was provoked, sir.”
“Provocation to start a brawl?”
Galen blinked. The wall he was staring at was, like most of the walls on Ryde, cast-formed ferrocrete heavily reinforced against tectonic activity. Ryde was an active world, a young world in geological terms. The ground shook on average once a week in some parts of the planet. Here in Lesser Dasentica, far to the north of the planetary capital at Heaven’s Gate, it was about one week in three. The bare walls were gray with spots of mildew the militia staff hadn’t been able to remove before the company from the Twelfth Donegal Guards had occupied it.
The Ryde Militia were well familiar with their homeworld, and some of them, including First Leutnant Enrico Rhaegar, had words to say about the placement of the Guards’ C Company—Galen’s company—so far from the main regimental laager at Heaven’s Gate. Galen, rightfully so in his opinion, had defended Leftenant General Jeremy Hawksworth’s decision to send the sole company so far out.
“I may have shoved the first leutnant, sir,” Galen said, not looking down, consciously not looking down, “but no one else except in self-defense.”
And by shoved, I might mean a snap-elbow into his solar plexus, but I’m not going to say that, he thought.
“And how,” Rychert said, and Galen glanced down to see the hauptmann glaring up at him, “does that not qualify as starting a brawl?”
“I cannot be responsible for the actions of others, sir,” Galen said. It was a flimsy defense, he knew, but it might be enough—
“Poppycock!” Rychert spat.
Or not.
“You,” the hauptmann said, rising to his feet, “are an officer in the archon’s military,” he said. “As such, you are always responsible for the actions of others.” He pointed the swagger stick at Galen. The tip stopped before touching him, but not by more than a few centimeters. “By your example, by your order, by your very presence in the chain of command, you are responsible for the actions of every member of the LCAF in your command.”
“AFFC, sir,” Galen said. It’s not like I can get in much more trouble…
“What?”
“You said LCAF, sir. There is no LCAF, not anymore. We’re the AFFC now.”
Rychert stared at him. His mouth opened and closed several times.
“Did you seriously just correct me while I was—” Rychert’s quiet astonishment was cut off by a knock on the door. “Not now!” he shouted.
“Kommandant Rhinestag’s compliments, sir, and there’s a contact report from one of the remote stations,” the orderly said loud enough to be heard through the flimsy door. Rychert’s fierce expression morphed into consternation and then confusion. He looked past Galen, who hadn’t moved, and sat back down.
Rhinestag commanded the local Ryde Militia. If he’d sent a message by courier, rather than trying to push something through the oft-broken landline communications systems, it must be serious.
“Enter!” Rychert shouted.
The door slid open behind Galen, and he stepped smoothly to his left to let the orderly walk past him and hand the noteputer to Rychert. The working staff of Armored Station Nineteen had been seconded from the Ryde Militia when the derelict station had been named C Company’s laager. A working party of mechanics and technicians, both Donegal Guards and militia, were working double-shifts to get the station up as a forward base. As it was, a C Company ’Mech damaged in combat would have to return to Nisibis, twenty-four kilometers north, for repair.
Rychert took the noteputer. “Acknowledge receipt of the message and return here,” he told the orderly. The enlisted man—still wearing a Lyran senior corporal’s pin, despite the rank’s erasure under AFFC regulations—stiffened to attention, saluted, and withdrew when Rychert gestured with his swagger stick.
He read quickly. Galen waited, again centered on the now-open door.
“Remote Mike Four-Seven shows heavy MAD contact, moving west-to-east,” Rychert muttered. “That’s insane.”
Galen closed his eyes briefly and concentrated. The Mike chain of remote sensors was to the west, centered on Nisibis, and the four-seven station meant… “That’s only thirty kilometers from here, sir.”
Rychert grimaced. “I know that.” He set the noteputer on his desk and looked up, but his eyes were unfocused. “Are we expecting a training sortie from Heaven’s Gate?” Then he shook his head. “No, we’d have seen the DropShip come down, that close.” A DropShip falling from orbit was visible, like an old spaceflight rocket, for hundreds of kilometers.
“Would we, sir?” Rychert’s eyes snapped back into focus and he scowled. “I mean to say, with the eruptions, there’s near-permanent cloud cover for as far as we can see. If they came down during the right time of day, we’d only see them during the last couple klicks of descent. There are plenty of mountains to block that little bit of sky from direct observation.”
“Damn it,” Rychert muttered. “You’re right.”
Another of Ryde’s special gifts, being a teenage planet, was a severe case of acne. In Ryde’s case, that manifested as inherently unstable and active volcanism. A chain of small volcanoes two hundred kilometers to the north had been spewing ash into the sky for weeks, turning daylight into a darkened twilight. Ash storms were common, like snowstorms on Galen’s homeworld, Alexandria.
The MAD—magnetic anomaly detectors—were designed to detect large masses of moving metal—like BattleMechs. The remote stations could be spoofed, of course, but they were entirely passive and well-camouflaged, and the militia took keeping them clean seriously.
“There’s enough metal here for a company or more,” Rychert said, tapping the noteputer.
Galen frowned. His reason for being in Rychert’s office in the first place had drifted to the back part of his mind. He knew the prancing daisy would bring it up again, but right now the needs of security overrode something as minor as a bar fight.
“If it was the general,” Galen said, speaking of Leftenant General Hawksworth, “he’d have warned us an exercise was in the offing. Maybe not the exact time, but there’d be warning, so we didn’t charge out to blast Dog Company with war shots.”
“Mmm,” Rychert grunted. He’d picked the noteputer up and was scrolling down with his finger.
“Is it raiders?” Galen’s fingertips prickled. He’d been on Ryde for four years, and so far he’d only faced the odd pirate problem. House Kurita’s Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery had only raided the planet once during his tenure, and Hotel Company, where he’d been serving, had been out of position to oppose it.
Galen controlled his breathing carefully. He ached to fight House Kurita. He yearned for it, dreamed about, obsessed over it. The coiled-snake insignia of the Combine haunted his mind like the banner of an angry god.
Kuritan ’Mechs had killed his parents in 3039. Kuritan ’Mechs had driven him into the then-LCAF and the Tamar War College.
Kuritan ’Mechs had made him a soldier, and he would get some of his own back.
Christ’s bones, please let it be today!
“We have to assume it is a raid,” Rychert said. To his credit, the hauptmann’s voice had settled down. He dropped the noteputer onto his desktop and pressed a key inset to the desk’s right corner. A Klaxon wound up in the distance—the alert signal. He looked at Galen.
“See to the company, Leftenant,” he said formally.
Galen braced to attention. He didn’t salute. “Sir.”
“This isn’t closed, Galen,” Rychert said. “But right now, you’re my XO, and I need my company in the field. I’m going to the com center to start a report on its way to Heaven’s Gate.” As he rose, he muttered, “Assuming anything can get there faster than dispatch rider.”
Galen turned and reached for the door. “I’ll report back as soon as we know something,” he said. “I presume you’ll wait in the com center?”
“Hold it.”
Galen let go of the door handle and turned back around. Rychert was halfway around his desk, swagger stick clutched under one arm. He was a dozen centimeters shorter than Galen, and as the leftenant had surmised, his uniform was immaculate.
