RED KHOPESH
By Steven Mohan, Jr.
New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis
Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery
6 February 3066
The man who called himself Mark Castor walked through the charred and blackened ruins of the neighborhood to remind himself why he was about to do this terrible thing. Gray ash swirled in the light breeze brought by twilight, coating his polished black wingtips and staining his cream-colored slacks, lending the air the taste of soot.
Castor walked amidst the broken and collapsed buildings, eyes down, searching for something in the burnt wreckage that had once been someone’s home. He didn’t know exactly what the thing he sought looked like, but he’d know it when he saw it.
He always did.
He kicked aside a blackened timber and orange sparks flew up into the purple sky. The traces of wood that had survived the inferno still smoldered, even after four days. Something stirred in him at that thought, but it wasn’t enough.
He kept looking.
The bitter stench of smoke clung to everything, no doubt he’d have to toss the slacks and the blazer later. Not to mention his tie. It was impossible to get the smell of smoke out of silk.
He frowned, feeling churlish and put-upon, which wouldn’t do at all.
And then something caught his eye.
It was really no more than a scrap of fabric, oddly shaped and singed at the edges, but it was exactly right.
Mark Castor looked down at the little scrap of pale pink cloth, the blue button eye, the half-smile left over from when the doll’s face had been mutilated. He felt his insides cooling to absolute zero, his guts turning to an ice stronger than steel.
He knelt down and picked up the scrap, handling it tenderly, as if it were a treasure of great value. Then he shoved it into his pants pocket and turned to go, ready now to do what had to be done.
The bar — Ronnie’s Place — was only six blocks down and three over from the nineteen homes that had been destroyed during the pirate’s raid, close enough that Castor decided to walk. By the time he reached the bar, dusk had given way to night and the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.
Castor shivered and pushed his way inside.
Ronnie’s Place wasn’t well lit, but it was cheery. White tablecloths covered the small tables, candles flickered in sconces on the walls, a polished bar slick with moisture sweated off the translucent green bottles of chilled beer.
This time it scarcely took Castor a second to find what he was searching for.
Amidst the quiet murmur of the regulars, the clinking of glasses, the dance of golden light, he saw her at a booth in the far, back corner. A booth with a nice view of the door and situated (he guessed) not more than five meters from some kind of exit.
Tracy Malfont.
Her low-cut black tank top revealed plenty of cleavage and hinted at the absence of a bra. Skin-tight black leather pants covered long, slim legs. She was a dishwater blond, hair cut short, mouth set into a tight, hard line, gray eyes that were all calculation.
She was sexy as hell, but she wasn’t pretty. She was the kind of woman men would fall over themselves to sleep with, but wouldn’t look at twice if she hadn’t been showing so much skin. Castor thought maybe she had been lovely a long, long time ago, and the thought made him sad in the same way that finding the doll’s torn face made him sad.
A regret for something lost.
He slid into the booth next to her, blocking her exit.
Castor felt the tip of a blade prick through the white broadcloth of his shirt, dimpling the skin just beneath the ribs.
She smiled at him. “No one invited you,” she said in a low, menacing voice.
Castor didn’t look at her. Instead he waved the waiter over. “Do you have sake?”
The boy’s furrowed.
Castor sighed. “A scotch, then.”
The boy’s face lit up, and he went to get Castor’s drink.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” said the woman, putting a little more force behind her short blade. “You are not welcome.” The smile never left her face.
“You’re not up for a little fun?” said Castor, letting her think she knew what he was.
She laughed. “Not with you.”
The stab of pain told Castor she was pushing harder. The trickle of moisture told him she’d drawn blood.
The boy returned with his drink. The kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen and obviously not very bright. To make matters worse, his attention was focused more on the woman’s chest than on what he was doing.
Castor bobbled the drink as the boy handed it to him, spilling most of the scotch and drawing the woman’s involuntary attention for a crucial second.
Castor’s right hand darted down, grasped her wrist, and twisted.
Something gave in the woman’s wrist and she gasped.
Her knife clattered to the floor.
Just as he caught the falling shot glass in his left hand.
“Ah, what a shame,” said Castor to the boy. (He still hadn’t turned to face the woman.) “Could you bring me another?”
“Of course, mister,” said the boy, bobbing his head obediently, pulling up the damp rag he’d been sopping up the spilled liquor with, and scuttling away.
Castor and the woman passed the short time he was gone in silence. Once, she shifted her body subtly, probably angling for another weapon. Castor employed a sharp downward jerk of her wrist to persuade her that that was not a good idea. Afterwards she lapsed into stillness.
The boy returned and set the drink down on the table with a loud clack.
Castor smiled his thanks, carefully snared the shot glass with his left hand, and sipped the amber liquid.
He sighed again. “That really is bad.”
The woman said nothing.
I plan to deduct the price of a new shirt from your pay.”
The woman blinked. “What?”
“Blood stains,” said Castor. “They’re just about impossible to get out.”
She shook her head. “No, I meant the part about the pay.” She opened her mouth. “Wait. You’re not Castor are you?”
Castor offered her a sharp smile with plenty of teeth and released her hand.
She snatched it away from him, cradling it against her chest while she massaged it with the other hand.
“I’m glad to see you’re not irredeemably stupid,” said Castor.
“You might’ve told me,” she muttered.
“I find this approach gives me a better idea of who my employees are.”
“So did I pass the test?”
“Oh yes,” said Castor, sliding a card across to her that listed a time and a place. “You’re exactly what I hoped you would be.”
Her eyes flickered down for a moment. “So tomorrow, then.”
Castor nodded. “Turns out you and I are going to have some fun after all.”
New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis
Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery
7 February 3066
Castor deliberately arrived fourteen minutes late to the meeting. Partly it was because Brother Richard Kittrick was a punctilious prig and Castor just couldn’t resist tweaking him. But mostly it was because Malfont’s crew was going to be there, and Castor was well schooled in the art of primate dominance politics.
Power meant never having to be on time.
So he made them wait.
When he stepped into the dark warehouse in the commercial district he found Malfont and the rest of her lance lounging around the cargo area, two women and two men, three of them leaning against the boxes stacked to the rafters, the fourth draped over a low wooden pallet, eyes closed, maybe asleep.
Primate dominance politics right back at you, Castor thought.
Kittrick of course stood in the middle of the group, practically at attention, but trying to look like he was not at attention, clipboard tucked neatly under his left arm. The man looked up and breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Mr. Castor. So good to see you. I thought you might not be coming.”
Castor chuckled. “I apologize Brother Kittrick, I was just enjoying the considerable charms your world has to offer.” He said it with enough enthusiasm that Kittrick had to wonder if Castor were making fun of him. Randis was not bad for a Periphery world, but not good for a world any place else.
Kittrick flashed him an uncertain smile and indicated Malfont with a gesture. “This is—”
“Oh, I’ve already had the pleasure of making Ms. Malfont’s acquaintance,” said Castor. He favored her with a warm smile.
“What’s the score?” asked the man laying on the pallet in a bored voice. His face was hidden by a thick, black beard, and his eyes were hidden by black sunglasses. He wore a royal blue ball cap pulled low over his forehead. That would be Colorado Henderson, Malfont’s second.
“Mr. Castor represents an organization called the Interstellar Relief Fund,” said Kittrick earnestly. “And he has come to this planet to help us get back on our feet.”
That was a lie, but Kittrick didn’t know that and he told the story beautifully, so Castor let him go on.
“He’s brought with him many items that will help our people: pharmaceuticals, seed grain, water purification units, and—”
“Money,” said Castor. “Two million C-Bills in currency, to be precise.”
Time seemed to stop for a second as the mercs digested that little piece of news.
“Supplies, equipment, and funds, all need to be disbursed to the outlying districts,” said Kittrick, “but—”
“But,” said Malfont, folding her arms across her chest, “after the latest hit you want to be careful. So you’d like a little extra muscle to escort your supplies.”
Castor nodded. “We can deliver supplies to the northern cities via DropShip, but we’re going to have to walk the material into the Golden Harvest Ag District.”
A man who hadn’t spoken yet folded his arms across his chest. “Why doesn’t the Brotherhood take care of it?”
He was tall, maybe two meters, with chocolate-colored skin. Khalid Iraabi. Most people would be intimidated by his size, but in a broken-bottle, no-holds-barred fight Castor would’ve been more worried about Henderson.
Or Malfont.
“Second Battalion is off-world searching for the pirates who hit New Hope,” said Kittrick, allowing irritation to creep into his voice. “And most of First is committed to defending the industrial cities to the north. That is why we hired you in the first place.”
“Our contract is for the static defense of New Hope,” said Henderson sharply. “Not escort duty.”
Castor shrugged. “If you’re not interested . . .”
The fourth member of Malfont’s Raiders was a slight woman leaning against a box behind Henderson. Comfort Sawyer looked over, displaying a little interest despite herself. Her skin was the rich red color of freshly-cut cedar. Her pretty face was framed by long raven hair. “So how much?”
Castor pursed his lips, made it look like he was thinking about it, even though he wasn’t. “Fifty thousand for the added risk.”
Iraabi glanced at Malfont.
You’re going to take it, thought Castor.
“These pirates are mean,” said Malfont. “Have you seen what they did to the town?”
Oh, yes, thought Castor, I’ve seen what they’ve done to the town. “OK, 50k more when the mission is complete.”
Malfont chewed her lip, thinking. No one else spoke. So they were disciplined. Good.
“A hundred is nice,” she admitted, “but it won’t come close to covering our expenses if we get hit.”
Castor stared at her. She was good. Of course, Kittrick had no idea what was going on. He probably thought they were haggling over price.
Castor frowned thoughtfully. “If we run into trouble, I’ll promise you, hmm, let’s say 25% salvage.”
“Fifty,” said Malfont.
“Forty,” said Castor. “And not a penny more.”
Malfont glanced back at her associates. No one spoke, but she must’ve seen what she needed to, because when she turned back to Castor she said, “The terms sound good.”
“So, then, we’ve got a deal.”
Malfont flashed him a tight smile. “Maybe. First, I’d like to know a little more about my employer.”
“That hardly seems necessary,” Kittrick blustered. “The Fiefdom of Randis vouches for Mr. Cas—”
Castor laid a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Brother Kittrick.” He held his hands out palm up. “Ask your questions.”
Malfont studied him for a moment. “You’re Draconis Combine, right?”
“Turtle Bay,” said Castor.
That earned him a raised eyebrow. There was a slight pause as Malfont did the math. “You must hate Clan Smoke Jaguar.”
Castor said nothing.
“Of course, there is no more Clan Smoke Jaguar.”
“Of course,” said Castor evenly.
“Tell me how you came to be here,” said the woman, brushing a strand of dusky blond hair out of her face.
“I was a professor. English literature, if you can believe it. When the Jags destroyed Edo, it prompted a greater interest in interstellar relations. So I came to the Periphery to see if I could do some good.”
Like all good lies, it was swaddled in a bundle of truths. If anyone went to the trouble of checking Castor’s story, they’d believe it, because it would feel right. His name really was Mark Castor, and though that wasn’t his full name, it was what he’d gone by ever since he’d moved to Turtle Bay. That’s the name Malfont would get out of her sources, even if she was lucky enough to have an ISF contact.
And he really had been an English professor. He could talk for hours about The Canterbury Tales if he needed to prove it. And the destruction of Edo really had woken him up, though not precisely in the way he was suggesting.
It was a good cover.
Truth was always the best lie.
“Where were you born?”
Castor blinked. He hadn’t been ready for that question. Since he hadn’t prepared a plausible lie, he answered with the truth. “Lee.”
“Lee?” growled Henderson. “How did a FedSuns citizen turn into a Snake?”
Even Kittrick looked curious now.
“Does it matter?”
“Some of us used to serve in the AFFS before,” said Sawyer softly.
“Before what?” asked Castor.
“Before,” said Malfont crisply.
Castor nodded. And now that they knew they had a FedSuns citizen, they’d think he was an MIIO operative sent to retrieve them unless he explained exactly how he’d come to live on Turtle Bay.
He’d slipped. It was a small one to be sure, but still a slip.
Castor smiled gently, remembering Serina’s dark hair cut short, those blue eyes, her mischievous smile, the feel of her body under his hands. “I fell in love. You can look it up if you like.”
It seemed no one had anything to say to that.
“Anything else?” asked Castor.
Malfont shook her head. “Draw up the contract and we’ll sign.”
Castor nodded. “Good.” He turned to look at the Fiefdom official. “And now maybe Brother Kittrick can tell us about the pirate attack. So we know what we’re up against.”
Kittrick nodded. “They came in fast. They jumped into a pirate point and raced in at two gees. Their Leopard grounded just outside New Hope. They debarked two ’Mechs, a Hunchback and a Panther and headed straight for the water purification plant. Carried off a pile of spare parts. It’s like they knew exactly where to go.”
“And the damage to the city?” said Castor.
“The pirates made a bee-line for the plant,” said Kittrick bitterly. “They didn’t care what was in the way.”
“And I’m sure the fire fight with your garrison force didn’t help,” said Malfont mildly.
Kittrick gave her an odd look. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as Castor had thought.
“How many dead?” Castor asked. It was a bad question, but he just couldn’t help himself.
“Two hundred,” said Kittrick grimly.
“Any idea who they were?” Malfont asked.
Kittrick shook his head. “Someone new. The odd thing is we haven’t had much problem with pirates in the last year or two. Almost like someone cleaned them out.”
“Maybe you got complacent,” said Malfont easily.
Kittrick opened his mouth, but Castor cut him off before he could respond to Malfont’s jibe. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed tweaking the brother.
“Markings?”
Kittrick touched his heart. “They had black scarab beetles painted here.”
“Black Scarabs,” said Castor. “Sounds like a nasty bunch.”
Kittrick nodded. “I’d guess they’re a small band, too small to mess with any of the major Periphery powers, so they prey on small settlements. Sometimes an independent world like Randis.”
“Two ’Mechs,” said Henderson, stroking his beard. Sometime during Kittrick’s dissertation he’d sat up and pretended like he was paying attention. “Versus our lance and . . . “ He looked at Kittrick and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“I’m leaving the Blackjack and the UrbanMech here to garrison the city. But I’ll bring along my JagerMech.” He glanced at Castor. “The Fiefdom of Randis will guarantee that the Interstellar Relief Fund’s kind charity is properly directed to the people who need it.”
“So five against two,” said the tall, dark man. “Sounds like good odds.”
Kittrick snorted. “Just because the Scarabs only used two ’Mechs before doesn’t mean that’s all they have.”
“Still,” said Malfont, “we have five.”
“Six,” said Castor softly. “I have a ’Mech as well.”
Malfont’s Raiders were in for a big score, so none of them ventured their opinions on their employer’s ability to pilot a ’Mech, but Castor noticed a smirk flit across Henderson’s face, watched Iraabi and Sawyer share a look.
Malfont, however, didn’t look amused. She studied Castor thoughtfully while she rubbed her wrist.
“Six ’Mechs,” said Kittrick. “Half a company. “I almost hope we do find the pirates.”
Oh we’re going to find them, my friend, thought Castor. You don’t know it yet, but we are going to find them.
New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis
Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery
9 February 3066
When Malfont showed up she was wearing less make-up and showing less skin. She wore a cotton blouse dyed turquoise that made her gray eyes look blue and a long black skirt. She’d gathered her dishwater blond hair into a pony tail. It was a softer look and Castor liked it better than her Vixen from Hell.
He thought she looked lovely.
She seated her self next to him at the conference table, not across, a choice that told Castor something about her considerable skill as a politician.
“Do you have the contracts?” he asked.
“Right here,” she said and produced three sheaves of paper from a leather-bound folder. Paper. Castor had to stop himself from shaking his head. This was the Periphery, after all.
They sat in a conference room in New Hope’s biggest hotel. It was a small room with pale green wallpaper decorated with a couple of bland landscape prints. The table was pressed wood. The chairs were pre-formed plastic. It was the kind of place less suited for interstellar intrigue than for a meeting by the local book club.
Castor couldn’t think of a reason to sweep the room for bugs beforehand, but he had anyway, more out of habit than anything else.
The room, of course, had been clean.
Castor reached for one of the packets of paper and turned to the last page. He looked up. “You haven’t signed.”
Malfont flashed him a smile. “I wasn’t sure what name you wanted to use. Mark Castor or Mark Davion.”
Castor managed to keep the surprise off his face, but it was an effort. So. She had very good contacts indeed. He sat back in his chair. “It’s Mark Castor-Davion, actually. How did you know?”
“Once she knew you were Lee, Comfort thought you looked familiar. Then it was just a matter of looking it up.”
Castor nodded.
“Are you in line for the throne?”
He barked a laugh. “Everyone named Davion is in line for the throne. Unfortunately, the line stretches from New Avalon to New Syrtis, and I’m not anywhere near the front.”
“You’re a baron.”
Castor snorted. “My brother’s a baron. I’m just a family embarrassment.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I haven’t called myself ‘Davion’ in almost twenty years. When I moved to Turtle Bay I stopped using the name. You’ll understand that it’s not too popular in the Combine.”
Malfont favored him with a level stare. “I think you’re lying. I think you know we would’ve pressed for more money if we knew we were negotiating with a noble.”
Castor shrugged. “What’s done is done.”
Now it was Malfont’s turn to laugh. “I don’t think so, highness. What do you say we revisit the matter of our fee?”
Castor fingered the doll’s face in his pocket. “No,” he said coldly. “We agreed to terms in good faith. If you won’t proceed, I’ll hire someone else.”
Malfont offered him a sharp smile. “There is no one else on this dirty, backwater world.”
Castor nodded. “Very well. Then I’ll have to withdraw my offer of charity. I’m sure the Brotherhood of Randis will be most distressed to learn you’re the reason they lost out on such a nice deal.”
Worry flashed across Malfont’s face, but she didn’t fold. “I wonder what the Brotherhood would have to say about a man who lies about his identity?”
“I told you the truth. My name is Mark Castor. I was an English professor on Turtle Bay. And I work for the IRF.” He shook his head. “A debate over my exact name won’t be enough to break a verbal agreement duly witnessed by a brother of the Fiefdom of Randis.”
Malfont folded her arms across her chest, pursed her lips. “Tell me,” she said softly.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me why you left the Federated Suns.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s none of your damned business.”
Malfont slowly exhaled and sat back in her chair, watching him warily. “Look. Something doesn’t quite add up here. If you don’t help me understand what it is, I will pull out of this contract and the Brotherhood be damned.”
Castor closed his eyes and drew a deep, shuddery breath, not wanting to remember and not able to stop. After a minute, he spoke in a husky voice.
“Her name was Serina. She was beautiful, she was . . .” He shook his head. “I met her at university when I was doing my postdoc. She was a writer. We, we fell in love.”
Malfont watched him gravely, absolutely still, measuring him with those gray eyes.
“I followed her to Edo. We married, had a little boy.” Castor’s voice caught on the word. He didn’t have to fake the emotion in his voice.
“Just like that,” said Malfont.
“No, not ‘Just like that,’” Castor snapped. “It caused a hell of a scandal. Marrying a Drac. My mother told me she’d never speak to me again. It took a lot of time and effort to win them back over. I had to take a trip to Lee just to mend fences.” He covered his eyes with his hand. “I left Serina and Tommy back home.”
“And?”
“And that was May of 3050.”
Malfont sucked in a startled breath.
“When I got back, Edo was a sea of radioactive glass and everything I’d ever loved was gone.” His words were sharp, brittle, all the sorrow cut right out of them.
Malfont reached forward and took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”
He glanced down at that hand, her skin warm against his. Looked up and met her eyes.
“And now I suppose we go back to my room and really seal the deal.”
Malfont blinked. “I don’t—”
“One thing I’ve learned, Ms. Malfont, one thing the Jaguars taught me, is that there are no selfless acts. Everyone’s out for number one. I would’ve thought you’d have learned the same thing.”
She withdrew her hand. “You don’t sound like a philanthropist.”
“IRF is a charity organization,” said Castor. “That doesn’t mean we’re stupid.”
“So you’re angry,” said Malfont. “You want to bust a few heads. And where better to do it than the Periphery? And IRF hired you because they want someone who can provide security.”
Castor said nothing. It was easier when they told themselves the lies.
She shook her head. “It’s not a pretty story, but it does make more sense than your cover.”
“You think we’ll see some action?” Castor asked.
“Oh, I think you’ll be obliged.”
“You’re in, then?”
Malfont thought for a second and then nodded. “What do you want from me?” she asked.
He reached forward and signed the contracts, then pushed the pile of papers towards her. “I have certain expectations. I want you to meet them.”
She studied him for a second and then jerked her head down in a rough nod.
Castor pushed his chair back and stood. “Very good then.”
He stalked out of the little conference room, but not before he read something in those stormy gray eyes, something he hadn’t expected to see.
Hurt.
Main Road, Southern Continent, Randis
Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery
11 February 3066
Castor stalked his assault ’Mech along the reinforced ferrocrete road that connected New Hope to the Golden Harvest Agricultural District. The road trembled under the passage of his 95-ton Banshee. Castor hoped the highway would hold. It was supposed to be rated for 100-ton vehicles, but this was the Periphery and not everything always lived up to expectations.
Golden Harvest was little more than a scattered collection of ten or twelve buildings, home to scarcely a hundred souls, but all it would take was one water reclamation unit to pull moisture out of the vast salt lake the locals called the Sea of Poison and the land around the town could be made to bloom.
Unfortunately, on the sparsely populated world of Randis, Harvest was a good 1400 klicks from New Hope. And of course it lacked the spaceport needed to support DropShip ops. So there was no choice but to slog it out over ground, no matter how questionable the highway might be.
Not that the highway was likely to be a big problem for anyone else.
Castor’s BNC-3M was by far the biggest and most powerful ’Mech in the convoy, and he had no doubt it had drawn several startled looks from Malfont’s Raiders when they’d formed up outside the warehouse. The Banshee was painted the lustrous black of a moonless night.
No emblem.
Along with the black paint job, the demon’s head gave the Banshee a fearsome appearance, one matched by the machine’s actual armament. Twin PPCs mated with medium lasers jutted from its torso. A small laser mounted just above the cockpit rounded out its offensive capability.
The M-variant’s total reliance on energy weapons made heat a problem, but it also allowed its pilot to operate far from a friendly base. And Castor couldn’t have been farther from a friendly base.
And he could always step the massive ’Mech forward and throw an armor-splitting punch if he had to.
Castor had organized his force in standard escort formation. Brother Kittrick’s blue and silver JagerMech led the procession of sixteen trucks hauling semi-trailers at a stately thirty, forty kph. Malfont’s people patrolled the convoy’s flanks. Castor had reserved rearguard for himself.
The road curved around a stand of dark Douglas firs and Castor lost sight of the last truck. They were moving through East Kandlia, an area of rolling hills and fluorescent green foliage. The two-lane highway cut through an evergreen forest undergirded by heavy bracken. Decent cover for a ’Mech force, Castor thought. Even better for infantry.
No.
The ambush wouldn’t go down here.
Still, he would’ve felt better if he could’ve seen the whole convoy.
He walked his ’Mech around the trees and the road straightened out, giving him a view of the last half-dozen trucks and Malfont in her leopard-spotted Quickdraw a couple hundred meters ahead of him and to the left.
“Contact,” Iraabi snapped over the command circuit, jerking Castor out of his reverie, “North-nor’west, range 400 meters plus.”
Castor scowled. What the hell was going on? “Say again, over.”
“Moving to engage,” shouted the big man. He was piloting a Javelin, a small but fleet ’Mech. If he chased after the contact, the situation could quickly get out of hand.
“Negative, Iraabi,” Castor shouted back. “What are you facing?”
“Light ’Mech.” The man’s signal wavered and broke under the sound of multiple missile hits. “Warb— static —classifies it— static —a Koshi.”
Damn. Suddenly Castor understood exactly what had happened. No time to dwell on it now. He’d have to move fast to salvage the plan.
“Convoy halt,” Castor roared over the battle circuit. “Kittrick, Henderson, and Sawyer, hold your posits.” He stepped off the ferrocrete highway and pushed his 95-ton Banshee into a lope.
“But—” said Henderson, ready to argue.
“The Koshi is fast,” snapped Castor. “This could be an attempt to draw us away from the convoy. Stand your ground. Malfont and I will converge on Iraabi’s position.”
“Enemy is stepping back,” shouted Iraabi.
No doubt the Koshi was keeping out of range of the Javelin’s SRMs while simultaneously pummeling the small ’Mech with its longer range missiles.
“Don’t pursue,” Castor shouted.
As long as the Koshi kept a few hundred meters between it and the Javelin, Iraabi was a sitting duck. At least until Malfont and Castor could get there with their longer-range weapons.
It took extraordinary discipline for a MechWarrior to stand his or her ground and take fire without the option of hitting back.
But Castor couldn’t have Iraabi chasing after that Koshi.
He reached a clearing and took in the tactical situation with a glance. Iraabi’s Javelin was down on one knee. The Koshi had scored multiple hits with its LRMs, shattering armor and scorching the Javelin’s green paint job.
Malfont’s Quickdraw crouched next to the wounded Javelin, pouring crimson fire into a distant hillside. Her lasers suddenly cut out. “Damn. He was just there a second ago.”
The big man managed to stand his ’Mech up.
“What did you see, Iraabi?” Castor snapped.
“Take a look,” said the merc and a still picture came up on one of Castor’s data monitors. The gun camera shot was grainy and out-of-focus, nowhere near the quality of the video feed an Inner Sphere warrior would expect. Still it told the tale well enough.
The pic showed a light, bipedal OmniMech. That was a Koshi all right.
The ’Mech was painted red except for a red logo outlined in white over the left side of the machine’s chest: a knife with a narrow handle and a long, curved blade. This was a nasty weapon, one that could be used for either slashing or hacking. It was an ancient design.
One the early Egyptians had called “khopesh.”
Castor dropped down from his chain-link ladder, hitting the soft earth in an easy crouch. The cool evening air drank the heat from his body. Castor closed his eyes and stretched, working the soreness out his much-abused muscles. Somewhere a cricket chirped noisily.
Malfont’s angry voice cut through the peace like a blade slicing through flesh.
“What the hell was that?”
Castor exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. “Excuse me?”
Malfont looked as tired as he felt: khaki shorts soaked dark with sweat, cooling vest glued to her chest, dark blond hair matted and rank.
But she was mad, too, standing there with her hands on her hips, legs spread apart. Yeah, mad as hell. “Where did that Koshi come from?”
Castor shrugged. “You saw the same pics I did.”
She folded her arms across her cooling vest and scowled at him. A flush of pink colored her cheeks. “That wasn’t a Black Scarab,” she snapped.
“How can you be sure?” said Castor evenly.
“Well, how about the damn paint job?”
Castor pursed his lips. “Comfort’s ’Mech is mirror gold. Henderson’s is painted like a lionfish. Yours has leopard spots. And Iraabi’s is green. Yet you’re all Malfont Raiders, correct?”
She leaned in, pointing behind her. “But the Scarabs had the same paint job. Why would other members of the same unit be painted differently?”
“Maybe the two who attacked New Hope had the same paint job because they were brothers,” he said. “Or lovers. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. The red paint job doesn’t prove the Koshi isn’t a pirate.”
She put her hands on her hips. “’Koshi’ is the Snake designation for a Mist Lynx. That’s a Clan OmniMech. So why are we being attacked by Clanners?”
“Come on,” Castor scoffed. “We’re not being attacked by Clanners. Maybe the Koshi was captured. Or maybe it’s being piloted by a disgraced Clanner who joined up with the pirates. Or an ex-Smoke Jaguar.”
He stared at her steadily, daring her to push the issue further. To risk her secrets to gain his.
“You know what I think?” she hissed.
“No,” said Castor, “what do you think?”
“I think you’re engaged in some mad vendetta against the Clans,” she said, her voice rising. Suddenly others in the camp were watching. Teamsters, Malfont’s people, Kittrick. “You’re going to make them pay for Edo. I think that ’Mech was a member of some kind of Clan hit squad sent to hunt you down.”
Castor’s pulse pounded in his ears, but somehow he kept his voice level. “So I’ve attacked the Clans, huh? Now how exactly do you suppose I’d do that? It would take at least a company to raid even a garrison world. And a battalion would be better. If I had a battalion of ’Mechs lying around, why would I need to hire you?”
Malfont balled her hands into fist, her face twisted with rage. “Because you’re a damned Davion coward.”
That got everyone’s attention. For a second the camp was filled with perfect silence.
Castor raised his voice, making sure everyone could hear. “So today we were hit by a Clan hit squad? They sent a single light ’Mech against us and then withdrew. Sound like Clan tactics to you?”
Malfont opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“Don’t know, Malfont? Well I do. Believe me, I know all about the Clans. He turned away from her, facing the crowd, and put out his arms, palms up. “So where are they? Why haven’t they attacked? Do you think they’re trying to work up their courage? Or maybe they’re so sick of bloodshed, that they’ve given up altogether?” He wheeled on Malfont. “Is that what you’re saying?”
She glared at him, arms locked tight across her chest, jaw set.
Castor shook his head. “No, the Koshi wasn’t Clan. He was acting like something else.”
A moment of silence drew out.
“Pirate,” said Kittrick.
“That’s right,” said Castor savagely.
Malfont stood there for a moment, eyes glittering with hatred, and then she turned on her heel and stalked away.
Main Road, Southern Continent, Randis
Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery
12 February 3066
The road dropped away from Castor’s Banshee, carried away by the dip in the earth. The convoy was passing through a narrow defile, cut by a long-dead river. The walls of a great canyon rose up on either side of the convoy, grand accumulations of sedimentary rock formed and then eroded away by the same forces, as if the earth was nothing more than a plaything for the winds and rains and flowing water to shape according to their capricious will.
Tension stretched Castor’s nerves taut.
Surely this was where the attack would come. In this remote area where they couldn’t get a signal out, where they were forced to wander through a warren of narrow passages, passing heedlessly under the guns of an unseen enemy.
He fingered the scrap of pink cloth stuck into the waistband of his shorts.
This was where the whole sordid game would play itself out.
The narrow gap between the rock walls forced the convoy to proceed single file and so Castor had rearranged his force, accompanying Brother Kittrick at the head of the convoy and placing Malfont in the middle and the remaining three ’Mechs in the rear.
Malfont had complained bitterly about the arrangement, arguing it was unwise to leave the rear without even a single heavy to guard it. Castor pointed out that a trio of ’Mechs ought to provide ample protection for the formation’s rear and sent her fuming back to the line.
Up ahead the defile opened into a narrow valley, wide enough for a ’Mech to pass by the convoy on the left. Kittrick was in the lead and Castor watched the Randis MechWarrior step his squat JagerMech past an opening in the right wall.
The big machine was ugly, with its rounded cockpit set well below its powerful shoulders. It stalked the world on clumsy-looking spade feet. But it was a dangerous ’Mech. Even with an idiot for a pilot.
Especially with an idiot for a pilot.
In his rear monitor, Castor saw Malfont’s Quickdraw rise on a pillar of plasma, using her Chilton 460 jump jets to leap over the trucks.
Just as emerald and ruby laser beams sliced into Kittrick’s right side, vaporizing armor and tracing black scorch marks across the JagerMech’s royal blue paint job. Castor’s external sensors picked up the heavy rattle of an autocannon.
“I’m under attack,” shouted Kittrick.
Castor immediately stepped his Banshee to his left, pivoting as he did so, just as Malfont’s Quickdraw came down near the head of the convoy. He pushed his ’Mech into a lope, heading away from the battle.
“What’re you doing?” she shouted. “Kittrick needs our help.”
“It’s the Scarabs,” shouted Kittrick. “I see a Hunchback and movement, at least two ’Mechs. I need help.”
Castor moved his Banshee just as fast as it would go.
“Castor,” shouted Malfont, “you coward.”
Castor brought his ’Mech to a sudden stop, reached out with his left hand and locked it on the Quickdraw’s right wrist. Then he reached back with his right arm, tightened the hand into a fist, and smashed it into the other ’Mech’s cockpit.
Ferroglass shattered under the impact and steel groaned as the canopy frame buckled under the impact.
Castor hit her again.
And again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Malfont shrieked.
Castor leaned down, so that his head-mounted laser was pointed directly at Malfont’s cockpit. It was only a small laser, but he was at point-blank range and he’d savaged her canopy. No ferroglass remained to offer even a hint of protection.
The slightest caress of his finger on his pickle and Malfont would die.
She quailed before him, sexy as hell in her shorts and cooling vest.
“Order the Scarabs to stand down,” he said over the command circuit.
She shook her head frantically. “I don’t know what—”
“Do it,” said Castor harshly. “Or I’ll fry you now.”
“OK, OK,” said Malfont quickly. “All Black Scarabs stand down. I say again stand down.”
Castor’s eyes flickered down to his rear monitor. The fire from the opening in the wall stopped. Kittrick’s JagerMech had been forced to its knees. Slowly it stood up. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“Malfont’s Raiders and the Black Scarabs are the same group,” said Castor, keeping a careful watch on Malfont.
“No,” Kittrick whispered.
Malfont said nothing.
“It’s true,” said Castor. “Why do you think she was so certain the Koshi wasn’t one of the Scarabs? Because she knew it wasn’t one of hers. Part of her crew acts as the pirates, while the rest are defenders. They provide both problem and solution and clean up on both sides. It’s the oldest game in the book.”
He saw Iraabi’s battered Javelin settle to the earth on its jump jets between the Banshee and the JagerMech. It landed with its back to the road, facing Castor’s weak rear armor. The light ’Mech’s SRMs were an itch Castor could feel in his back.
“W-why did you agree to accompany us on the convoy?” asked Kittrick, puzzlement in his voice.
“Are you kidding?” asked Castor. “The odds were six against two. They pick up all the equipment and money in the convoy, plus a couple of big ’Mechs. And it would all be low risk, since they’d take us unawares.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Malfont.
“Negotiate, of course,” said Castor.
“The odds are still six against two,” said Henderson.
Castor shook his head. “Five against two. The instant someone fires, Malfont is dead.”
“Still,” said Henderson.
Malfont’s bitter laugh filled the command circuit. “Don’t think you’re going to use my life to ransom yourself, Castor. My crew will see my death as an opportunity to split the take one less way.”
“I will fight to the death,” said Castor coldly. “You may take me down, but I’m going to do a lot of damage. To you, to the trucks, to my Banshee. This op’s going to turn into a big loss.”
“I don’t think you have the guts,” Henderson sneered.
“I do,” said Malfont quickly. “Listen to him, Colorado. He’s dangerous.”
“You’re just trying to save your own skin,” said Iraabi.
“Let’s call it a draw,” Kittrick whined. “We’ll allow you to withdraw. Maybe take a portion of the convoy.”
“We didn’t come here for a kill fee,” said Comfort. “We came for the whole deal.”
“Then take the whole convoy,” said Kittrick, “but leave us alone.”
“No,” snapped Castor.
“You don’t have a choice,” said Malfont.
Castor chuckled. “Don’t I?”
Suddenly multiple beams of energy stabbed Iraabi’s Javelin in the back. The little ’Mech was lightly armored to begin with and the rear was its weakest point. Powerful energies sliced through the Javelin’s Star Guard armor, reaching for the missile storage within.
The Javelin erupted into a brilliant orange fireball.
The ’Mechs in the side passage started firing again, targeting Kittrick’s JagerMech.
“Hold fire,” Castor shouted, “HOLD FIRE.”
“We don’t take orders from you,” Henderson snarled.
But the fire stopped.
“Don’t you want to see what you’ll be facing before you decide to fight?”
Beyond the wreckage of the burning Javelin, stood a Jenner and a Stormcrow flanked by a pair of Manticores. All painted red. All bearing the mark of the Khopesh.
’Mechs were beginning to appear on the cliff overhead, too: a Bishamon, a Timber Wolf, the Koshi.
“So the Koshi was yours all along,” breathed Kittrick.
“My scout forces were shadowing the convoy from the start,” said Castor. “They were supposed to stay out of sight. Too bad for Iraabi he had such sharp eyes.”
“That’s cold, Castor,” said Malfont.
“Yes, it is,” he answered. “You should have some company about now, Henderson.”
“I make out a Pack Hunter and—” The strength sagged out of his voice. “And an Atlas,” he whispered.
“By my count, that makes it twelve against four if you count the tanks,” said Castor. “Still want to fight?”
“What do you want?” Malfont whispered.
“I want you to join me,” said Castor.
“What?” snapped Kittrick.
“So that’s what this was all about,” said Malfont. “It wasn’t about charity or seeing some action. It was about recruiting.”
“That’s right,” said Castor.
“Listen—” said Kittrick.
“Why should we join you?” asked Henderson.
“You mean other than the fact that if you don’t I’ll burn you to ashes.”
“Yeah,” said Henderson. “Other than that.”
“All right,” said Castor, “fair enough. How about this? I’m a winner. Ask my people if this little exercise doesn’t convince you. You’re going to make lots of money. I won’t even take a share, other than what’s needed to keep you in armor and weapons. And no honor is required. Once a target’s been designated, I don’t care who you maim or rape or kill.”
“What’s the catch?” asked Comfort.
“There’s only one rule,” said Castor. “You attack who I say.”
“My God,” Malfont breathed, “you do have a mad vendetta against the Clans.”
“I’m not stupid, Malfont, and I’m not suicidal either. We’re not going to take down Strana Mechty tomorrow. But the Clans have one critical weakness, one I plan to exploit.
“And what’s that?” said Sawyer.
“Honor,” Malfont whispered.
“Very good, Tracy,” said Castor. “Which is why I’ve gone about building a force that doesn’t suffer from that defect. A force that can adopt a fighting style as nasty and ugly as its emblem.”
“Castor,” shouted Kittrick, “you can’t do this. They murdered two hundred people.”
Castor screwed his eyes shut, clutched the scrap of pink fabric, remembering why he was doing this.
Acknowledging the cost.
“If you oppose us, Kittrick,” he rasped, “it will be sixteen to one. Don’t make me kill you.”
There was a moment of silence and then Kittrick stalked his JagerMech towards the units blocking the mouth of the valley. The Jenner and the Stormcrow moved aside to allow him to pass.
“Castor,” snapped Kittrick, “You’re as bad as they are.”
No, thought Mark Castor-Davion to himself, I’m worse.
Because I had a choice.