Battletech: Shell Games: A BattleTech Novella, page 5
“Hai, Tai-shu!”
SAN MARTIN
DIERON
DRACONIS COMBINE
10 MARCH 3149
Marissa Dikembe was scared. She knew she was scared. Her tongue tasted like metal, and her fingers were near-cramping as they squeezed the stock and grips of the bulky O-12 shotgun across her chest. She hated that gun.
She wasn’t riot police.
She was a regular neighborhood Friendly Persuader. A beat cop.
“SNAKES GO HOME!” the crowd chanted. “SNAKES GO HOME! SNAKES GO HOME!”
I am home, Marissa thought. But she kept her eyes straight, almost unfocused, watching for movement out of place with the crowd. Being born on Dieron didn’t seem to matter to this bunch of protesters.
“Nobody do anything stupid,” Chu-i Powers said. His voice was tinny in Marissa’s helmet speaker, but it was clear. The covering cuff drowned out the dull roar of the crowd, and the active sound-cancelling cut in when there was an incoming transmission.
“Stupid like what?” she muttered almost silently. “Stupid like standing out here with a big-ass gun while people I know are waving rocks and broken bottles at me?”
Not quite as quiet as she’d hoped.
“Yes, Dikembe,” Powers said sardonically. “Exactly as stupid as that.”
Shit.
“Just keep it together. They’re having a yell. We’re getting paid by the hour. We’ll wait them out.”
“Yessir,” Marissa shouted.
If someone had asked her just forty-eight hours earlier if there would be riots in San Martin, she would have laughed in their face. Dieron was a quiet world. Sure, there were idiot kids and the odd crazy who got in a bit too much of the conspiracy crap from the rest of the Combine, but they were the exception.
There weren’t hundreds of them.
Marissa eyed the crowd again.
There weren’t thousands of them.
She shifted her grip on the O-12 and then her feet. She wasn’t a riot cop. This was a riot.
What am I doing here?
A glass bottle broke near her boots. She flinched.
“Hey!” the Persuader next to her shouted. He stepped forward and leveled his O-12. The stun stick on the end sparked and snapped. “I saw who threw it,” Marissa heard in her earpiece.
“Hold,” came Powers’s voice.
“We can’t just let them get worked up,” another Persuader said. “They’ll rush us.”
“You want to do what?” Powers asked. “Fire into the crowd?”
“If I have to!”
“You don’t have to,” Powers said in a cold voice. “Alderson. Off the line. Now.”
A Persuader four down from Marissa stepped back.
This is crazy.
Dieron was a Combine world. It had been for centuries before there even was a Republic of the Sphere. And since the Fortress Wall went up, Dieron had been a Combine world again. That was centuries of Combine lifeblood poured into the soil of the world, compared to a paltry few decades of Republic rule.
Most people on the streets still spoke Japanese.
And yet here they were.
Marissa knew if she turned and looked over her shoulder, down Ethel Avenue, she’d be able to see the bullet-shaped nose of the gigantic Republic DropShip in a pit at the spaceport. It was small, low on the horizon like a faraway mountain, but it was there.
And now there were riots.
In San Martin.
Against the Combine.
And the rioters were shouting in Japanese.
It didn’t make any sense.
DRAGON’S ROOST
DIERON
DRACONIS COMBINE
10 MARCH 3149
As the deputy commander of the Dieron Civilian Guidance Corps spoke, Kambei Okamoto slid the katana a thumb’s breadth from the scabbard and back in. It was unconscious. His hand moved of its own volition. He glared at the deputy and tried to remember his name. Otis or Osis or Onus. Something like that.
It wasn’t important.
The man was a toad.
“So you see, Warlord,” the deputy commander finished, “this event is far beyond the purview of the Civilian Guidance Corps.” The small man, sweating into the high collar of his shirt, smiled placatingly and spread his hands. “We can hardly be held responsible for the actions of those under the control of invading forces.”
“Enough,” Okamoto whispered. The whole command center was as quiet as it could be. Almost every ear strained to hear the conversation.
“I am sorry, Warlord—” the deputy began, but Okamoto cut him off.
“I said enough!”
The shout silenced the last of the holdouts for a moment of pregnant pause; an instant of silence before the business of the command post lurched back into the murmurs of hushed tones spoken into microphones. The deputy commander lurched backward, stumbling. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
Sho-sho Hijana cleared his throat. “I think what Deputy Ovis was trying to say—”
Okamoto silenced him with a glare.
“The daily loyalty of the Combine citizenry is the responsibility of the Guidance Corps,” Okamoto ground through clenched teeth. “It’s in the name, isn’t it?”
“But Warlord—” Ovis started.
“There are riots in almost every city,” Okamoto said, talking over him.
“Riots—”
“Riots.”
“The CGC would never allow riots.” Ovis showed a moment’s backbone, but only a moment. “Unless the Republic has already taken control…”
“The Republic has not taken control of Dieron,” Okamoto said. “The Mustered Soldiery will never allow that. I will never allow that.”
“Of course not,” Ovis put in.
“But that doesn’t mean we can allow the people to convince themselves that we will fail.” Okamoto clasped his katana’s hilt so hard his hand ached. “You will reestablish control of San Martin and every other city where the people are confused. You will set the example that the Combine’s control of Dieron is absolute.”
He glared between Hijana and Ovis. “Because it is,” he told them.
No other situation was acceptable to him.
SAN MARTIN
DIERON
DRACONIS COMBINE
10 MARCH 3149
Marissa just happened to be looking at Chu-i Powers when he slapped a gauntleted hand against his helmet. Only his mouth was visible, but she saw it form the words “repeat that” before he glanced up at the line of the mob and then away.
Marissa frowned and looked at the mob again.
The no-man’s-land between the line of Friendly Persuaders and the mob was down to just a couple meters. More cops had reinforced the Persuader line, these with riot shields rather than shotguns. They were doing an okay job of keeping the near-steady rain of bottles, trash, and rotten fruit from hitting anything vital.
The shield-bearer on Marissa’s right was a patrol officer she barely knew, Jones or Jonas or something like that. He was young, maybe twenty-two standard years. He was half turned so he could grin up at her with the shield braced against his shoulder.
While she watched, a rock the size of her head hit the top of his shield. The impact drove the top lip back to smack against the rim of his helmet. He laughed and rolled his eyes at her. There was too much padding in the CGC helmet for that to hurt much. The laugh made her remember: his name was James.
“Listen up,” Chu-i Powers broadcast. His voice was flat. “We’ve got new orders.”
“About time,” Marissa muttered. Hopefully they were about to pull back and leave the street for these thugs until they calmed down.
“On my command, Beta units will withdraw,” Powers said. Marissa frowned and looked down at James. He was a Beta—that was the riot shields. His eyes were wide as teacups.
“At the same time,” the chu-i went on, “Alpha units will present arms. I will call on the crowd to disperse.” There was a long pause. Marissa glanced at Powers. He was staring at the pavement.
“If they do not, we will open fire.”
The line erupted with overlapping voices. Above it all she heard Alderson shouting from the rear, “Yeah, we gonna get some!”
“Quiet!” Powers screamed. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But those are our orders.”
“Sir—” Marissa began, but he cut her off.
“Betas. Back from the line.”
James frowned at her, shook his head sorry, and stepped back. All the shield-bearing Persuaders did. Marissa felt sweat break out on her lips. She tilted the O-12 enough to see the safety tab, next to her thumb on the stock. The gun was on safe. Her other hand hefted the long barrel, but her index finger was on the trigger for the bayonet stunner.
“GO HOME!” Powers’s voice shouted from the speaker of every Persuader on the line. It echoed down the avenue, off of the building facades. “YOU ARE ORDERED TO DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY, OR WE WILL FIRE ON YOU.”
Marissa’s breath came short and fast. She snugged the shotgun tightly into her shoulder. The hard contact felt safe. It felt real.
This is a mistake! her mind shouted over and over again.
“Weapons safe until I give the order,” Powers said, privately. Then he switched channels.
“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!”
Marissa looked down her barrel, over the simple button sight, at the man in front of her. He was in his midthirties, with thin black hair and bad skin. He was brandishing a length of high-pressure tubing. His eyes were fixed on the black maw of her shotgun barrel, and he wasn’t moving. Her eyes flicked both ways. All down the line the tableau repeated.
But that was just the rioters in the front rank.
Those behind couldn’t see the guns. Or at least those guns weren’t pointed at them.
A bottle came flying from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Light flashed on it as it flew.
BOOM! The bottle exploded.
Powers had caught it in the air like a skeet shot.
Marissa’s thumb snicked the safety off her O-12.
This is a mistake! her mind screamed. This isn’t you!
“GO HOME OR—”
Powers didn’t get to finish the sentence.
Those in the front rank of the mob were scared, but there was nowhere for them to go. Marissa saw the fear in the tube-wielding man’s eyes. But she also saw determination.
The crowd surged forward.
Down the line, on the other side of Powers, an O-12 fired. Then another.
Another.
The man in front of her raised the tube.
Marissa closed her eyes on the sight picture and pulled the trigger.
Inside, she was screaming.
7
MOUNT SHANYU
DIERON
DRACONIS COMBINE
16 MARCH 3149
“So this is Fortress Dieron,” Mogami quipped. The young MechWarrior stood in the poorly lit ’Mech bay with the rest of the Red Ring Stalkers and looked around. “It looked bigger on the HV.” A few of the Stalkers chuckled.
Tanaka ignored them. He was bent over a noteputer with Kashira Heruzu. Her finger ran down a list of IDs on a parts inventory, then stopped. “Okay, yeah. There’s one in storage here, it says. Bay November Echo Four-four, pallet twenty-seven.”
Tanaka looked up and around the bay. The Stalkers were alone. “And that’s…where?”
Heruzu grinned. “Hell if I know,” she replied. “But I’ll find out.”
Tanaka slapped her on the shoulder. “I know you will. Let me know if you get stuck and need backup.” Heruzu walked toward the wall and the recessed bank of workstations in it.
Tanaka turned back to his MechWarriors and pointed to Chu-i Koto. “Good news,” he said. “There’s a PPC in storage here, so we can get Zazie’s Grand Dragon back up to snuff.”
“I’ll tell him, Tai-i,” Koto said. “I haven’t heard which med bay he’s in, have you?”
“Not yet,” Tanaka said, then frowned and looked around. “I haven’t heard much of anything since we came in here.”
I haven’t heard much of anything from anyone, he didn’t say.
The retreat from that first engagement hadn’t been too bad. Not as such things go. He’d lost Respeth’s ’Mech, and Hajas wouldn’t be back in a cockpit anytime soon, but the infantry had gotten them out. They’d rejoined the rest of First Battalion and made a stand against a different Republic regiment, something called the First Fides Defenders. Or at least that’s what ISF told them. Tanaka looked over to where Respeth was helping Missy Hogun work off a loose armor plate on her Wight’s shin with a pry bar. ISF informer or not, he was a solid MechWarrior and trying, at least, to be a good member of the company.
That second engagement hadn’t gone well. Not at all. That had been where Zazie had gotten his zap, and although he’d managed to get his ’Mech back into the Fortress, Tanaka was waiting to hear from the medics whether he’d be able to fight again.
The retreat into the Fortress, cut into the bedrock of Mount Shanyu, had been painful. No ’Mech force likes to know it has been pushed back into a fixed position. ’Mech jocks were the spiritual descendants of those ancient tankers who’d first invented the blitzkrieg. Tanaka knew firsthand the yearning to be out on the field, moving, taking it to the enemy.
But this enemy was too good.
And too many.
The sentiment tasted bitter in Tanaka’s mouth.
And since following automated nav points into this company sized ’Mech bay somewhere in the bowels of the mountain, Tanaka and his company had heard nothing. Their support staff, headed by Kashira Heruzu, had appeared shortly after in a couple of beat-up wheeled APCs, but that was it. Heruzu and her team were trying to get into the Fortress’s computer net to get replenishment. That was where the note about the PPC had come from.
But they’d done that themselves.
They might as well be the only DCMS company on the planet, for all the help they were getting.
Tanaka shook his head.
Someone would show up. This was Fortress Dieron. At least a thousand men and women were garrisoned here, all the time.
Someone would show up.
DRAGON’S ROOST
DIERON
DRACONIS COMBINE
16 MARCH 3149
Kambei Okamoto stood in the holotank, looking at a map of Dieron and grinding his teeth. He wanted to wring his hands, but he knew what that would look like. The walls of the tank were clear. Anyone who cared to look from the ops room could see him.
He felt exposed, but it wasn’t the room.
It was the map.
Flashes of blue and red were spread all across Dieron. Blue for Republic forces and sightings and his own red Combine forces. There was more blue than red on the map. His Dieron Regulars were losing the battle for their own homeworld.
It defied explanation.
Okamoto had spent years trimming the fat from the Regulars. He had worked with the Internal Security Force to weed out the disloyal. He had sent regiments into the fray in Davion space, to battles where they’d won glory over their ancient foes. The losses there he’d deemed tempering. Only through tempering does a blade become hard and sharp. Only a tempered blade is worthy of a samurai’s hand.
Yet they were losing, and to what?
The army of the Republic of the Sphere. And worse yet, the coward army that had hidden behind their Wall for long years. Whom had they fought to temper their own blades? Pirates? Brigands?
Okamoto scowled.
It made no sense.
He turned and strode out of the holotank to the plotting table, where Sho-sho Hijana stood waiting. “How much of the Second made it into Fortress Dieron?” Okamoto asked.
“Early reports are about seventy-five percent,” Hijana said. The staff officer’s uniform was immaculate, though Okamoto could see the faint whiteness of dried sweat on his collar. “I estimate seventy-five to eighty, though, once we get final reports. A retreat is never quite as bad as it seems at first glance.” Hijana glanced up, met the tai-shu’s eyes for a moment, then back down to his noteputer.
Okamoto said nothing. It was good for Hijana to show a little backbone. Even if it is for expertise in retreats. “And the enemy? What losses have they sustained?”
Now Hijana lost his backbone. “Unknown, Tai-shu,” the general said. “Certainly heavier than ours, but we don’t yet have a clear order of battle on them, so we cannot gauge the rate of their losses against the whole.”
Okamoto said nothing.
“Tai-sho Gonzalez—” the Fortress Dieron commanding officer, “—reports between one and two regiments outside his defense perimeter. They appear to be making preparations to invest the base.”
Okamoto laughed. “Two regiments cannot take Fortress Dieron.”
“Of course not, Tai-shu,” Hijana agreed. “But they can keep the Second from sallying out.” He gestured across the map table, toward San Martin. “Which leaves their third regiment free to move around the continent at will.”
He was right. Okamoto scowled, but of course he was right. Fortress Dieron was now a stalemate. Its strong walls and guns would preserve the strength of the Second Dieron, allow them time to repair and reorganize, but that was it. Unless the Republic commander was a moron, they’d keep their forces mostly concentrated and use recon detachments to keep an eye all around Mount Shanyu. If the Second attempted to sally forth, the Reps would concentrate force against it.
Still, Okamoto told himself, a force-in-being keeps the option of a breakout open. “What does the staff recommend?”
“We have identified two options,” Hijana said. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “We can request additional troops from the kanrei. The flow of reinforcements into the Federated Suns can be diverted—”
“No,” Okamoto said, swiping a hand through the air. “We will not ask the kanrei for help.”
Okamoto knew Toranaga well from his time in the Izanagi Warriors, the elite regiment that formed the Coordinator’s bodyguard. The gunji-no-kanrei, the deputy for military affairs of the whole Draconis Combine, would not react well to a request from one of his district Warlords to send more troops to save him on his own throneworld.
