BattleTech, page 25
Just need to get out of the city, he reminded himself. Get out of the city and then get off this rock. He had plans for both of those already, just had to execute them.
He was walking past a Hungarian eatery featuring a sumptuous-smelling goulash when he felt an arm slink around his neck from the side.
“Oh, Guillermo, there you are!” an unrecognizable feminine voice sang at him. “I thought I told you we were meeting at that Tamarind restaurant across the street?”
His fight-or-flight response nearly kicked in, and he came within seconds of killing this woman with a bone-shattering strike to the bridge of her nose purely out of reflex. But then a bucket of ice dumped over his soul as he realized who this was, what had just happened.
Lubov.
Damn.
Damn.
He’d thought his spycraft skills were high caliber, but for her to get the jump on him like this? She was good. Or he was more frazzled than he’d thought. Or both.
Her fashionable semiformal dress with dangerous-looking heeled pumps had made her blend in perfectly with the passersby. But unless he was mistaken, her attire was like his: a secret quick-change layer hidden beneath a completely different outfit, with heels that could likely deform into flats.
What have you been up to, Lubov? Did you come all this way just for me?
“Sorry, Abby,” he said, pretending he knew this persona she wore. “Got my days all mixed up.”
Sylas accompanied her across the street at the crosswalk. She led him into a parking garage, to an expensive-looking Aston-Martin Fiver Roadster. She unlocked the doors and beckoned him to the passenger seat, but he hesitated. Although she hadn’t threatened him—yet—she certainly had at least two weapons hidden in reach.
“Get in,” she said. “We’re wasting time.”
He complied, only because he could sense Kirkland’s noose tightening, and it was easier to avoid pursuit on wheels than on foot. If Lubov had wanted him dead, he never would’ve seen the shot coming.
In complete silence, his partner turned over the engine and drove the five-wheeled car out of the garage at a leisurely pace, heading away from the courthouse. A GPS on her dash displayed red zones that grew bigger by the moment, clearly marking where ACPD officers were already closing roads to hem him in. Being able to watch the police aspect of the APB play out in real time demonstrated the frightening efficiency of the Atreus City police, spreading like poison in the city’s veins, but such a detailed overview let Lubov avoid the largest concentrations on their way out of the city.
She did not speak until they’d circumvented the most problematic area of police presence. “I thought I recognized your hand in all of this,” she said coldly, reverting to her familiar Russian-tinged accent, the one she had always used in their safehouse. He didn’t know if that was real either, but continuity mattered to him.
“Of course you would, my dear Luba,” he said. “Better that you recognized it and not the Mariks.”
But then she gritted her teeth and struck him in the shoulder. Hard. “Why”—slap!—“didn’t”—slap!—“you”—slap!—“tell me?”
He suppressed the urge to retaliate, because he knew she struck him out of frustration and not intent to do actual harm. He deserved it. But every time she struck him, the sting of pain reminded him that he had succeeded. He had fooled everyone, even her. Had she deciphered his plans ahead of time, she doubtless would have ruined them.
A smirk of satisfaction bloomed on his face. “I would be terrible at my job if I had made all of my secrets public.”
“Your job”—slap!—“was to collect intel on the Halas-Hughes family.” The rage radiating from her eyes could’ve melted straight through the windshield. “But instead, you created an international incident, one I have to clean up. By whose orders did you murder the leader of the Free Worlds League?”
“Whose orders?” Sylas scoffed. “After all these years, after all we’ve been through together, you still have no idea why I requested such a miserable and humiliating assignment as babysitting an old fool like Philip Hughes?”
“Of course not,” Lubov said, keeping her eyes on the road. “In our job, we don’t ask why. We just do what we’re told. We are cogs. We do not question what the machine does.” She went silent a moment. “Who told you to eliminate the Captain-General?”
“My dearest Luba, you figured out it was me, yet you still don’t know why?” Sylas allowed himself a malicious chuckle.
Lubov’s lip curled; her fingers white-knuckled on the Fiver’s steering wheel. “The only reason you remain alive is because I am a true patriot,” she said. “Otherwise I’d have left you to rot. I believe you acted without authorization and without orders, and thus your attempt was unsanctioned. Do I have the right of it?”
“Does the method truly matter? One of our enemies is dead, and the rest of her brood shall soon follow.”
“Fine. Keep your secrets.” Her fingers clenched the steering wheel harder. “For now let’s concentrate on getting you away from here, so we can be debriefed.”
Sylas made a show of studying his fingernails, wondering if Lubov could tell which fingertip was fake. “So what’s the plan?”
“If the Ducal Guard and ACPD follow protocol, then Atreus City’s spaceport is already on lockdown. That means troops. Lots of troops. But more importantly, it means no new DropShips can launch from there until the lockdown is lifted—which they won’t do until they find us or they’ve given up on an active search. Fortunately for us, I have a completely different course plotted.”
“And do you care to share this plan?”
Lubov’s clucked her tongue and smirked at him. “If you’re allowed your secrets, then I am allowed mine.”
Sylas gave a hollow laugh. He and Lubov hadn’t entirely gotten along over the years, but he’d always admired her audacity.
They drove in a heated silence out of Atreus City, following the main intercity thoroughfare between Atreus City and Camp Karpov to the north. Lubov pulled off onto a smaller road that coursed through the rolling countryside of the Ionia continent. From there she diverted to an abandoned gravel road designed more for combines, autoharvesters, or horse-drawn carriages than wheeled civilian vehicles. The Fiver’s quintet of tires kicked up a rooster tail of dust behind it as it traversed the rough terrain.
Sylas grunted. “So your grand idea is holing up in a barn in the middle of nowhere until all of this blows over?”
Lubov threw her head back and laughed. “Degenerate pig. Give me a little more credit than that.”
She turned off the gravel road and down a hard-packed dirt path leading to one of the largest farms in the area. A vast orchard obscured most of the main farmhouse structure from view, but beyond it rose a handful of barns larger than warehouses.
“All I see are barns, Luba. Did you lie to me?”
“You have zero patience,” she retorted, driving between all of the massive corrugated-metal structures.
“You have no idea how deep my patience runs, my dear,” he said.
She chuckled quietly to herself. “And you, my dear—Joel, Carsten, Sylas, whatever you wish me to call you—have no idea how much deeper my own patience runs.”
She drove around several of the barns, warehouses, and silos. In the middle of this farming jungle, she stopped in front of a large barn, the largest structure on the property, and the huge doors slid open to allow them entry.
Lubov didn’t even need to drive all the way inside before he saw her plan. In the middle of this otherwise rural megafarm’s barn sat a battered Leopard-class DropShip in a nondescript civilian color scheme.
“The spaceport is undoubtedly on lockdown by now,” she said, “but that won’t matter.”
Sylas nodded. Lubov had certainly thought of everything. “Will she fly?”
“She might not look like much on the outside, but that’s deliberate. I assure you she’s spaceworthy. And she’s all fueled up and prepped for departure. We can leave as soon as you’re ready.”
Two figures emerged from the DropShip’s gangway to greet Lubov. Sylas recognized neither of them, but the way they carried themselves and the familiarity with which the trio all greeted each other suggested they were members of Lubov’s cell. Although he didn’t quite trust them—after all, what agent put complete and total trust in their fellow agents?—he had few other options?
Lubov must’ve seen his hesitation. “You want a way out of this mess you created? Then get on board. Otherwise you can stay here at the Ducal Guard’s mercy.”
Sylas loathed ultimatums. Would he be better off on his own, ducking Kirkland’s patrols until he could find a way to stow away aboard another DropShip? Or perhaps he should stay here on Atreus for as long as possible, and revel in watching the League burn down around him. So many possibilities…
Lubov held onto the gangway’s rail and scowled at him. “I have zero problems leaving you here to die,” she said. “You betrayed my trust, but there are greater forces at work here.”
Sylas grimaced. He’d always resented taking orders from Lubov, especially considering that they were technically peers. But what if she was playing him, even now? What were the odds she was intending to turn him over to their Maskirovka handler, to interrogate or torture him for what he had done?
Without conscious thought, Sylas tried resting his hand on the polymer pistol he’d sneaked into the courtroom—but it was gone. He quickly patted himself down, found it nowhere on his person.
With a crooked, disapproving eyebrow, Lubov held up her index finger, letting Sylas’ missing pistol dangle by the trigger guard. “Is this what you’re looking for?” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “I strongly disapprove of what you did, but we are on the same side here. Now get on board. We’re running out of time.”
Sylas furtively slid the readied ceramic-bladed throwing knife back down his sleeve and growled at her. He’d accept her help. For now.
The other agents were the only crew aboard the Leopard. Among the four of them, they could easily get this albatross into orbit on a hard burn.
“This is Agent Bashe and Jiangshi,” Lubov said in the cargo hold. “Bashe and Jiangshi, this is Sylas.”
“Good to see you in one piece, Huli Jing,” Jiangshi said.
Sylas’ thoughts reeled as though he’d been struck in the head by a Gauss-rifle slug. The Huli Jing? One of the most effective Maskirovka operatives in the entire Capellan Confederation? Her catching him unaware on the Atreus City streets, stealing his pistol without him realizing—he should’ve seen the clues already.
He stared incredulous daggers at his partner. In Chinese mythology, a huli jing was a trickster spirit who often took the form of a nine-tailed fox, and this agent’s code name was rightfully earned. How long ago had she received it? Had she been Huli Jing the whole decade-plus they had worked together? How many high-level plots of hers had he unwittingly contributed to while furthering his own agenda?
Lubov—no, Huli Jing—was right. There was no safer place in the entire Inner Sphere than at her side.
“All right,” he said, ignoring the dizziness of being starstruck, “what’s the plan?”
“Jiangshi, Bashe, go fire up the engines and taxi us out. You, however—” She stabbed a finger at Sylas. “Just stay put and let us handle this.”
35
DUCAL GUARD MOBILE HQ
ATREUS CITY, ATREUS
FREE WORLDS LEAGUE
25 MARCH 3148
The comm panel on Wil’s desktop clicked on for the first time in several long minutes.
“Sir, the ACPD reported finding some discarded clothes matching the perp’s description in an alley off Fifth Street. They’re trying to follow the signs, but it seems the trail’s already gone cold.” The police liaison’s line silenced for a moment. “Rest assured, both the city and the spaceport are on lockdown, so he’s got nowhere to go. We’ll nab him as soon as he sticks his head up for some air.”
Wil keyed back a perfunctory response while tamping down his disappointment and chewing on the end of his noteputer’s stylus. The police had failed to nab Collins, not that Wil had honestly expected them to: Collins, who’d been cataloged in the court’s guest list as Sylas Mitchell—another alias, for certain—had the mark of an intelligence agent. But who was he working for? Regulan SAFE? The Lyran Intelligence Corps? What if he was Maskirovka? Would he and Huli Jing have had any association? The only thing he felt fairly confident about was that “Sylas” wasn’t a Watch agent from the Wolf Empire—assassination wasn’t the Clans’ style—but that left far too many possible culprits. Wil needed to get Sylas in custody to determine the man’s origins.
He’d started forming a comprehensive plan for the police and the Ducal Guard to scour the city block by block and building by building, when his radio clicked on again:
“General Kirkland, this is air traffic control at Allison Memorial Spaceport.”
The chewed stylus froze in the corner of his mouth.
“This is Kirkland. Go ahead.”
“Sir, we’ve got confirmation of a DropShip launch—Leopard class—sector seven, heading for orbital insertion.”
Sylas. Fury welled up within, and Wil spat the stylus out onto desktop. “The spaceport’s supposed to be on lockdown, goddammit! How did this happen—”
“Sir, this contact didn’t take off from the spaceport—”
“Where?”
“Looks like it took off from a farm, about a hundred klicks north of here.”
Wil nearly fell across his desk reaching over to smash the channel switch on his comm panel. “Aerie, Aerie, this is Eagle Prime. We have an unauthorized Leopard-class DropShip launch in sector seven. Put as many birds in the air as you can, and bring her down!”
He sat ramrod straight in his chair and listened to his pilots spring into action.
I’ve got you now, you sonovabitch.
* * *
UPPER ATMOSPHERE
ATREUS
Surging toward the planet’s atmospheric transition, Major Valerie “Vortex” Gannett rechecked her Eagle’s instruments, and beneath her aerospace neurohelmet, her smirk grew into a full, face-cracking grin. Her radar had gotten a positive tag on a Leopard carrying a known fugitive. And not just any fugitive—the fugitive. The prime suspect General Kirkland believed responsible for killing Jessica Marik.
Val had served in the Ducal Guard for her entire career, and this would be her defining moment.
Assuming she could even pull off this interception.
“Aerie, Aerie, this is Calamus Leader,” she broadcast back to base, “I have confirmation on the target. Weapons are hot. Hitting atmospheric transition in three, two, one…”
Whooshes of air buffeted her cockpit canopy, and the whole Eagle airframe rattled around her, but both she and her bird would hold together. She’d done this a thousand times and always kept a level stick. Just ride it out. Just hold on for a few more moments—
And suddenly it all fell away. The air, the vibration, the noise, the inner turmoil—all gone, replaced with the cold, comforting quiet of space. The stark beauty of the darkness. Even on a high-pressure mission like this, the emptiness filled her with an unspeakable calm.
The target still lay several hundred kilometers out, with a large head start, but the reality of space physics meant she and the rest of her aerospace wing could easily catch up with the right amount of acceleration and let inertia do the rest of the work in this frictionless void. Success was inevitable at this point. The dangerous thing was whether they could bring this ship down before any of her pilots were seriously injured—or worse. Fugitives of this nature usually didn’t surrender easily. They’d fight to the bitter end and take out as many of their pursuers as possible, so Val’s job was to disable the ship as quickly and with as few casualties as possible.
Courtesy of her aerospace neurohelmet, she could see the carets and wireframes of her fellow Calamus Group pilots even when her Eagle’s fuselage obscured them from view. They all looked good—same trajectory and velocity—but she had them all sound off to make sure. On her most important mission yet, she could not afford to take chances.
Val rode as much G force as she could handle to further cut the distance between her and the target. If she couldn’t catch a 1,900-ton albatross like a Leopard in a 75-ton Eagle, then she might as well just turn in her wings and get drummed out of the FWLM in disgrace.
They were to pursue and disable. General Kirkland had some words for the suspect aboard—none of them polite, many of them involving four letters.
The tiny speck of DropShip enlarged out in space as Calamus Group’s afterburners further narrowed the gap between them. “Almost in range of their LRM batteries,” Calamus Two announced over the wing’s channel.
“Begin evasive maneuvers,” Val ordered.
She and Calamus Two banked to starboard while Three and Four banked to port. Five and Six maintained their general heading, but Five arced upward, Six downward. Like blown dandelion seeds, they scattered from the approaching threat, with intent to re-converge and group their fire on the target.
Calamus Three spoke the obvious into existence: “Why aren’t they firing?”
The Leopard had three LRM launchers, all currently in range; now that the craft wasn’t in atmosphere anymore, all the DropShip pilot had to do was yaw the ship on its axis while maintaining the same inertial velocity and bring all of the wing- and nose-mounted missile racks to bear on its pursuers. But the ship maintained its course, continued on full burn toward whatever JumpShip it was rendezvousing with.
