A Silence in the Heavens (22 page)

She nodded. “Paladin.”

Tara looked at Anastasia Kerensky’s male companion, the Star Colonel. Her expectant expression did no good; Kerensky didn’t provide any identification. If the man resented the omission, it didn’t show.

Politeness, Tara reminded herself. Ever politeness. “I asked for this parley, Galaxy Commander, in order to give you and yours one last chance to leave Northwind in peace.”

She’d expected a refusal. The offer was a standard opening, like the Ruy Lopez in chess. She hadn’t expected outright contemptuous laughter, in which the Star Colonel joined.

“Why should we leave?” Kerensky demanded. “We have taken out your air support, we have pushed through the mountains, we are poised even now to capture your capital. Northwind is as good as ours.”

Tara kept her face calm, and put on what she privately thought of as Polite Smile Number Twenty-three, the one which implied that the speaker had made a gross public gaffe but couldn’t be expected to know any better. The Kerensky woman’s lips tightened; she’d obviously spent enough time outside the Clan enclaves that she could recognize the expression and know what it meant.

Tara said, “Don’t go claiming Northwind just yet, Galaxy Commander.” The Clans didn’t like casual language and contractions; the imprecision irritated them. Irritating Anastasia Kerensky seemed like a good idea just now, or at least an enjoyable one. “There’s the small matter of a battle that we’ve got to deal with first.”

Kerensky’s hand—the splinted and bandaged one—twitched slightly, as if at another time and place she’d be pounding a table. Tara noted the motion. It was nice to know that impatience was an issue here.

“Then by all means,” Kerensky said, “let us fight the battle and be done with it.”

“Of course . . . but perhaps not today.” Before Kerensky could draw breath for an indignant reply, Tara said, “Have you taken a look at the sky lately? There’s the mother and father of a storm system rolling in, and it’s not going to let up until tomorrow afternoon at least. If you aren’t going to do the sensible thing and leave Northwind, then I’d like to propose a thirty-six-hour ceasefire to let both sides wait out the bad weather.”

Kerensky’s lip curled. “Afraid to fight in the rain, Countess?”

“Not crazy enough to think I’m proof against the lightning, Galaxy Commander.”

“And I am not crazy enough to let talk of bad weather scare me into losing an advantage. No ceasefire, Countess.”

“In that case, Galaxy Commander, we fight, and let the rain fall on both of us equally—on the just and on the unjust, as it were.” Tara smiled again, because it seemed to annoy Kerensky when she did so. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my offer? I do have the advantage of knowing what the summer weather around here can be like.”

“No,” said Kerensky, thin-lipped. “No ceasefire.”

Tara glanced over at Ezekiel Crow. They had discussed this bit in the Fox on the drive out to the rendezvous point, and now it was his turn to speak.

“The Prefect has warned you off of Northwind explicitly,” he said, “and has three times offered you an honorable avenue of escape or delay—offers that have three times been refused.” His lean dark face was somber, his eyes grave. “As a Paladin of the Sphere, I must warn you: You are officially considered to be in active rebellion against the Republic, and must expect to be dealt with accordingly.”

Once again, Anastasia Kerensky laughed. “If there were any honor in it, only your heads would return to your Highland rabble. This parley is over.”

She turned and strode back to her waiting vehicle. Over her shoulder, she said, “Star Colonel.”

The man who had come with her moved to follow, but not before raising a handheld radio to his lips.

“Advance column, this is Darwin. Weapons free. Forward.”

47

Plains north of Tara

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

T
he truck carrying Will Elliot and his friends lurched to a stop in the rain-filled dawn. Will had fallen asleep sitting up in the corner behind the cab, and the abrupt cessation of the truck’s motion brought him awake with a start, grabbing for his Gauss rifle with one hand and his pack with the other. Somebody else had fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder; from the size and feel, it was probably Lexa McIntosh.

And both of us too tired to appreciate the experience, Will thought.

“Right, then,” a Sergeant’s voice shouted. Will didn’t recognize the speaker, but only a Sergeant could yell like that. “Out of the trucks. Find your units.”

“Here we go,” Lexa said, pushing herself away from Will’s shoulder. “Now we get to add muddy to wet.”

The three unloaded from their truck. The falling rain kept the sky dark, almost black, in spite of the early morning hour, with no visibility beyond the reach of the truck’s headlights. Will heard the rushing of a stream nearby, and checked his compass.

“We’ve come a long way,” he said, “but we’ve got unfriendlies coming up behind us. The Wolves are heading straight for Tara, and we’re standing right in their path.”

Out in the dark, a Sergeant was shouting again. “Set up, form up!”

Will and the other Highlanders from the truck drew up in a ragged formation. The Sergeant this time turned out to be Master Sergeant Murray, the same man who had sent Will and his friends on their reconnaissance mission the day before. Murray paused on his way down the line to give the three of them a long look before continuing on.

“Gather round, children,” Murray said, after he had reached the end of the line.

They gathered.

“Well, lads and lasses,” Murray continued, “here’s the word from company: This is where the Highlanders save Northwind. But on the off chance that we don’t save it, if you get separated from your unit make your best way to Carcross. That’s in the hills, off any of the main highways the Wolves are likely to be using. And hold on, hold out, right here, as long as you can.”

“That’s it, Sergeant?” Lexa asked. “That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“That’s what company had for us,” Murray said. “But here’s what I have for you. You’re infantry. Don’t try to mix it up with tanks or ’Mechs. They’ll eat you for breakfast and go looking for more. Your job is enemy infantry, and their skins aren’t any thicker than yours. Keep them off the ’Mechs and the tanks. If one of our units gets in trouble, support it. If one of their units gets in trouble, use your can openers.

“If you can take an enemy ’Mech—and I don’t want anyone here to go looking, because ‘hero’ is a name people give to dead men—but if you
can
take an enemy ’Mech, take it intact. Those things are valuable and we’re going to need every one of them we can get our hands on. If you can get their MechWarrior out alive, even better. Those people have information that our side needs, and they have high value in hostage exchanges.

“If you have to destroy a ’Mech, though, do it. Better a burned-out hulk on the battlefield with a crispy at the controls than an active opponent.

“Now, form groups of four, get a location to the west of the stream, and dig in.”

“How long do we have, Sarge?” Jock Gordon asked.

A long, lancing arc of fire sprang overhead, from away in the west. It passed above them low and fast, heading east, and an explosion bloomed behind the ridge line.

“They’re here right now. Places, everyone. Remember, stay loose, and no heroes.”

It was going to be a long, hot morning in spite of the cold wind and the rain outside.

Anastasia Kerensky had dressed down for the battle, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts under her MechWarrior’s cooling vest. She did not expect to leave the cockpit of her ’Mech until she had driven the Highlanders out of Tara.

The
Ryoken II
’s massive head swayed as she looked north and south along the lines of troops and tanks that were the striking force of the Steel Wolves, and to the east at the Highlanders arrayed against her. Her

’Mech’s cockpit display showed the location and status of all friendly units, including those not directly visible, with markers indicating presumed enemy locations as the intelligence came in.

The Highlanders have a thin line, she thought, and a brittle one. Crack it at any place and it will shatter, leaving the road to Tara open.

“On my command,” she said. “Artillery. Find targets. Lock on. Fire.” And again, “Artillery. Fire.” And a third time, “Artillery. Fire.”

Then, “On my command. Long-range missiles. Fire.”

An overarching curtain of fire, torn and obscured by rain and wind, spread out over the opposing troops in response to her words. Ahead of her, the artillery shells were already detonating, the light of their explosions refracted in the lashing rain.

The rain would be hell on the infantry, Wolf and Highlander alike, but in her ’Mech Anastasia was dry. And the rain would help cool her
Ryoken II
even as it strode forward.

“Stay close,” she ordered her troops. “Hovercraft, find the ends of their lines. Then swing around behind.

Envelop them. I want attacks from the rear. I want attacks wherever you can find them. Forward, guide on me!”

She set the
Ryoken II
in motion toward the enemy lines, reveling Tassa Kay–like in the knowledge that she was about to do something which few in the Inner Sphere could do better. She was a Kerensky, and for those of her Bloodname, fighting in a BattleMech went gene-code deep. The ’Mech’s skeleton was her skeleton, its armored skin, her skin. After a lifetime’s practice, she needed no more thought to guide seventy-five tons of deadly metal than she needed to walk in boots and leather through the dark streets of Tigress or Dieron or Achernar.

“Galaxy Commander.” The words sounded in her ear. “We are picking up a signal from the Northwind troops. They have it on all frequencies.”

“Patch it through,” she said. Now a smattering of fire was coming her way. Ahead, a tank destroyer behind a camouflage net spouted fire. She targeted it, without pausing to calculate, and sent a Streak in its direction.

They would have to move or die.

A babble of rising and falling voices sounded over the cockpit’s speakers.

“What is that?” Anastasia demanded.

“The Highlanders’ signal, Galaxy Commander. They are singing.”

Now that she was listening, she could make out words in the babble.
“ . . . if you’ve never been laid on a
Saturday night, you’ve never been laid at all!”

“So they are,” she said. “And badly.” Though Tassa Kay remembered that chorus very well, and a Highlander on a boring DropShip transit who had claimed that the song had over five-hundred and fifty-six verses, though he himself could only recall forty-two of them.

He had been wrong. Tassa Kay had counted them one night, and he knew forty-seven, at least when he was drunk. Anastasia wondered if he was out there singing again today.

“The Highlanders are making their location known for us,” she said. “Target them.”

Beside her, a Demon tank stopped abruptly, lurching sidewise on melted and deflating tires as the ammo in its rotary autocannon arced and sparked. The Demon’s hatch sprang open and its crew ran for cover—any second now, the tank’s flamers would catch, and anyone left inside would be caught in the fireball. Anastasia traced back the probable trajectory of the barrage of missiles that had taken out the tank, and put a burst of pulse particles onto the location.

Forward, she thought. Do not outrun the troops, but lead them. The Highlanders have nothing, no hope of resistance, or they would not have been seeking delay.

A line of fire stitched up the
Ryoken II
’s leg, chewing at the surface layers of metal and myomer—an autocannon, tracking and ranging her. She spun toward the enemy and engaged the
Ryoken II
’s jump jets, in order to ruin the autocannon’s firing solution.

Hitting the ground running, she sprinted toward the autocannon emplacement—past lasers to left and right, their light scattered by the rain but still burning through; past the mud . . . no,
into
the mud that was churning up. She was wading in mud. They’d drawn her into a bog.

She deployed the
Ryoken II
’s jump jets again, desperately seeking higher ground. Resistance as strong as this could not go on forever. The Highlanders were expending troops at a reckless rate.

“Star Colonel Darwin!” she demanded over the command circuit. “Darwin, report!”

“We are taking heavy fire,” came the reply. “And there is a ’Mech over here . . . we have not made the ID

yet. But we know it is fast, and the engineer says that it must have hell’s own power plant . . . coordinates twelve-thirty-five-one.”

“I am on my way,” Anastasia said. A ’Mech like that had to belong to the Paladin. “If we are in open rebellion against The Republic, then so be it. Paladins will just have to take their chances.”

48

Plains north of Tara

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

“T
hat’s something you don’t see every day,” murmured Lexa McIntosh in Will’s ear.

The two of them were sharing a hastily dug foxhole that threatened to fill up with rain before many more hours had passed. The drizzle that had come down intermittently all night was now a steady driving downpour, lashed into sideways sheets by the driving wind. Visibility wasn’t much better than it had been during the night, except when the flashes of lightning lit up the open, rolling landscape.

“What is it?” Will asked.

“One—no, make that three—’Mechs. Crossing the ridge line.”

“I don’t see them.”

“Wait for the next lightning flash . . . there.”

Will squinted out through the rain. Yes, she was right. Three dark, lumbering shapes were moving out onto the battlefield and toward the Highlander lines.

“Identification,” he said. “We need identification.”

Lexa fumbled in the cargo pocket of her fatigue trousers and pulled out a waterproof flip chart of silhouettes.

“Give me a moment to look ’em up, all right?”

“You mean you don’t have them all memorized yet?”