Battletech counterattack.., p.36
BattleTech: Counterattack (BattleCorps Anthology Vol. 5), page 36
Sebastian looked on, curious. Well now, maybe he really is competent enough to be a mole. They don’t just give those out to anyone…
Brent grinned at his friend and tapped one side of the pyramid, placing it on the desk. “Now, we can talk. I have my suspicions—best to be cautious.”
Sebastian nodded, then tapped the desk player. A burst of static erupted from the desk’s speakers, then a babble of voices that faded to leave one transmission.
“General Cipher 4-4-Mark. Gamma sequence. Code words: Jedburgh. Jedburgh. Jedburgh. Upsilon sequence. Code words: Jedburgh. Jedbur—“
Brent stood, staring out at the deepening sky. The sky had turned scarlet, with blood-red clouds streaming from the west. The distant buildings looked to be on fire. Of course, it was only a trick of light.
“That’s it, then. When did this start?”
“When I heard of the battle, I pulled some data from the EASA satellite mirror station. Seems several DropShips made it through the Word’s blockade up there. I then scanned the IPC channels and picked this up on the band I was briefed on.”
“Trap?”
“No. Brent, this is real. We’ve waited nearly ten years for this.”
“Indeed.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You should go. I’ve downloaded the program to your datachip. Send the signal and prepare to activate Plan Kappa.”
“What about Noreen? You know she abhors any changes to your schedule.”
Brent laughed. “I’ll handle her. She’s only a glorified secretary, after all. You go and get things rolling. I suspect it’ll get hot fast.”
“Most likely. Once they land, I’m sure we’ll have our own problems here.”
Rothschild nodded. “Go. I’ve got plans in place. I’ll get things rolling for the facility. Bowie will welcome the Guards as the saviors they are.”
Sebastian quickly turned and left the office, barely missing Brent’s assistant with the door. Unperturbed, she stuck her head into the suite.
“Got those files, sir. Anything else?” She stepped into the room.
Brent stood by the window, staring thoughtfully into the darkening sky. Already Venus was out, a baleful eye over the city. He turned to Noreen. “No, thanks. You can take the rest of the…” His voice trailed away as he took in the needler in her delicate hands.
“Day off? On this glorious day? No, I think rather, it’s time for you to retire.”
“Really now.”
“Yes.” She stepped over to his credenza, palming open the secret drawer and pulling out the pyramid Brent had only recently put away.
“You knew?”
“You never know exactly where these toys come from. You see, that’s actually my recorder.”
He couldn’t hide the shock from his face. “Recorder? You mean, all this…” With a sudden awareness, he realized all the activities he’d done with that device present. All the plans set up. Accounts settled. Meetings conducted…
He could barely whisper. “A mole. All along. Right here.”
“Did you really think the board would give so much freedom to their underlings?”
Brent turned from the window and went to the bar. “Mind if I get you a drink?”
Noreen grinned. “Go ahead. The holdout pistol you keep there isn’t loaded.”
He forced a laugh, his hands dropping to his sides. ”I guess you’re smarter than I thought.” He shook his head sadly, then stepped up to the bar and poured himself another slug of whiskey.
“True. After all, you are a heretic. Such obvious disdain for those of us of the faith is rather simple to manipulate. Shall I help you understand?”
He nodded, meekly. His eyes were on the floor and she saw the sweat break out on his forehead.
“Simpletons like you serve a function. For instance, we know you’ve diverted millions of C-bills of assets to resistance efforts in the Chaos March.”
Brent’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Oh yes. Clever, trying to hide small shipment diversions through misdirected shipping records and quintuple-blind accounts. We almost didn’t catch it. You are to be commended for that. But alas, Blake willed us to find out, and we did. And we used that information to pinpoint activities of those who would oppose Blake’s Light and had them…taken care of.”
“You mean murdered them.” Rothschild slammed back the rest of his whiskey. “So what now? You’re holding all the cards. But we both know that the Word can’t possibly hold back—“
The pistol coughed twice. The first shot punctured the front of Rothschild’s designer suit, mixing expensive Parmi wool with flesh, blood, and bits of organs. The second shot hammered into the large picture window behind him, a myriad of spider webs emanating from a fist-sized hole where the bulk of the flechettes hit. The nighttime view of the distant city was transformed into a tormented landscape of jagged glass and angles.
“All we needed was the code name. We know Focht had several contingencies planned,” she said to her dying victim. His hands went to his stomach, trying to stop the flow of blood. Noreen took three quick steps towards him, grabbing his head and pulling it towards her lips in a crushing kiss.
He coughed, blood wetting his lips. She pulled back, gazed into his horror-filled eyes. “It’s too bad. I could’ve shown you the full delights of Blake’s Will. Alas, you’re just—“ She grabbed him by the throat.
“—a stupid—“
She suddenly kissed him once again, savoring the taste of blood, sweat, and fear.
Then with sudden force, she threw him back into the fractured window behind him. The weakened glass gave way with the barest hesitation.
“—heretic,” she finished, watching her former boss fall from his lofty perch.
Noreen stepped away from the view and pulled a small communicator from her skirt pocket. “Commence phase two. Coordinates inbound.” She stepped behind Brent’s desk, tapped in a series of keystrokes. Thanks to the watcher virus she’d installed months ago, she knew exactly where to look and pulled up an encrypted file marked JEDBURGH. Overriding his code with a viral key, she sent the file off, straightened her jacket, and left the office, locking it.
There was a party going on downstairs she had to get to.
Sebastian hurried to the elevator, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He felt nauseated and elated at the same time —finally, free of the Blakists! He stepped into the crowded car, trying desperately to keep from fidgeting.
So much to do, so little time! The code words used with the two sequences meant that both primary landing quadrants were still active—one located near the old Houston aerodrome, now Bowie’s main test flight facility. The other was somewhere else, but that wasn’t his concern.
What mattered was prepping the facility to receive their liberators.
It would be easy. The site had been selected over the last several years for its proximity to both the Houston and Dallas megopolises and its defensibility as a forward base. The base defenses only needed a certain viral code inserted to convert the incoming DropShip IFF codes to friendly and allow them to ground safely.
Sebastian pushed through the crowd in the main lobby, making quick progress toward the communications suite. There was an uplink system there he could insert the code chip …
He slowed as he saw the lone TerraSec guard by the suite’s door step towards him. “Afternoon, Director. You have business here today?”
Sebastian smiled, trying to appear relaxed. “That’s right, Cody. Need the latest hockey scores from Asia. Gotta make sure my fantasy team’s kicking butt.”
The guard smiled. “Sure thing, sir. Of course, you know the drill.”
“Of course.” Sebastian held out his arms and allowed the guard to wave a small pad over his body. He stared absently at the man’s TerraSec badge clipped to his chest pocket.
Cody keyed the palm lock. “Go ahead, sir.” The officer smiled as he waved him through.
Sebastian nodded back, already focused on the task at hand. He made his way to a door labeled UPLINK 1A and entered. Seating himself at the first terminal under the larger wall monitor, he keyed in the commands for a remote vid feed to the company’s facility and then brought up the uplink screen. He put the chip into the correct slot as he tapped into the system. He knew on the roof, the satellite dishes were orienting and establishing the link to the distant airbase.
The monitor beeped as the small room’s door slid open. Sebastian didn’t look up as he quickly tapped in several commands on the uplink keypad.
“That doesn’t look like hockey to me.” Cody’s voice was soft, startling Sebastian.
“Uh, no. Yeah, trying to get this thing to cooperate, you know?” Sebastian’s hand froze when the pistol’s barrel pressed against his head.
“Try using the Rites of Satellus next time. Though I’m sorry to say, Director, there won’t be one.”
Sebastian looked at the monitor. Already, four small plumes of fire had appeared in the night sky above the facility. All he needed to do was push the ENTER button…
His neck twitched slightly just as the pistol discharged.
Pulling the body off the console, Cody wiped the monitor of brain bits and studied both it and the uplink command window. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned his head slightly and spoke into his collar mic. “Gamma neutralized. Condition green.”
He listened for a moment, then smiled. Tapping in a command on the gore-soaked keyboard, he stepped back to take in the whole feed on the monitor.
The four plumes continued plunging downward. Below them, the facility’s air defense turrets came to life, rotating around and upward, the covers on the massive capital missile ripple launchers swinging open. Then, as one, they vomited dark lances on plumes of fire, arrowing up at breakneck speed toward the descending DropShips.
Blake provides everything, thought Cody as he admired the explosions on the screen. Even fireworks for an impromptu holiday…
GODT BYTTE
Kevin Killiany
Botany Bay
Periphery
30 May 2972
Standing two paces behind and to the left of his father, Olaf Jespersen was distracted by the savage wind beyond the curved ferroglass. He could barely make out the clan totem emblazoned on the curved hull of his father’s landingsfartøy through the blowing sand, though the vessel was less than three hundred meters from the observation lounge.
DropShip, Olaf self-corrected. To tuskhandel in Star League one must think in Star League.
Noting the haze of scratches etched into the ferroglass, Olaf surmised the blowing sand was a constant. He fought the reflex to draw his fur-trimmed cloak tighter. The wind-blown sand was outside and he was inside—ostensibly beginning his education in the firmaet by listening to his father broker new deals.
On any world he knew—on the four worlds he knew—a business transaction would have involved drinks and long discussions of individual health and family wellbeing. Here on Botany Bay his father was evidently required to conduct business in what looked to be no more than a semi-private waiting area in the DropPort’s passenger concourse. However his father did not seem to be taking offense, so Olaf schooled his features into a mask of professional courtesy to hide his righteous indignation.
“Indeed, Goodman Giles,” his father was saying, at his ease in the foreigner’s presence. “There is much to be said for exploiting the resources of your own solar system. But until one can afford to build or buy the necessary deep space habitats and factories, that option must remain hypothetical.”
“There’s nothing hypothetical about it, mate,” the planetary factor said. He was a small man, more narrowly built than Olaf’s father—all sharp lines and angles. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with one side of the brim folded up and held to the crown by a shield-shaped pin, which Olaf did not doubt was a symbol of some importance. “It’s our goal and our intent to become completely self-sufficient. Then all we’d need you lot for is trinkets and toys. No offense.”
“There is no offense, Goodman,” Olaf could tell from his voice his father was grinning. “There is far more profit in luxury items.”
Olaf adjusted his broad leather gunbelt, trying not to be noticeable. He was careful to keep his hand far from the enhjørning-ivory grip of his grandfather’s pistol, lest his movement be mistaken for a threat. Though its slide and frame were intricately carved, the twelve millimeter was a weapon meant for use, not show. Built heavy to absorb recoil and drop back on target with brisk efficiency, it was easily twice the mass of the seven millimeter Olaf habitually carried.
Any JarnFolk who saw the heavy pistol on his belt would know Olaf had not the years to have earned such a weapon, but they would also know the fact he carried it bespoke his heritage and his family’s confidence in his future. A thousand generations ago their ancestors had carried carved battle axes and intricately adorned war hammers when they traveled from their fjords out into the wide world—a testimony to their station and prowess even the densest barbarian could understand. Today, the traders of the Jarnfolk carried pistols, as engraved and decorated—and as deadly—as any chieftain’s war axe.
“...building materials, of course,” the Botany Bay factor was saying. “Nothing stands up to this weathering long. You can see even the ferroglass only lasts a year or so.”
Olaf looked at the etched window with new eyes. A year? He knew from the text his father had required him to study that the black sand was pulverized volcanic glass, but he had not considered the implications of thousands—billions—of tiny obsidian missiles in constant motion. The ceaseless wind might make Botany Bay a good customer for the wind turbines used to generate power on his native Hofn. Particularly since the destructive sand would guarantee they would be a lucrative market for spare parts.
He smiled slightly at his own joke. Though with all the sand and dust, would not Botany Bay have a continuous need for petroleum products—lubricants and plastics for seals and gaskets? Olaf made a mental note to ask his father when they were alone.
“... but at the core water,” the thin-edged man said. “Water until we have the means to harvest—and decontaminate—the ice asteroids of our own system.”
“The decontamination being the key,” Olaf’s father agreed. “An expensive technology. This is not something we produce ourselves, but I will keep an eye open.”
The discussion devolved into the nuts and bolts of barter as Olaf’s father and his father’s opposite number negotiated their way through exchanging of a half-dozen or so minor items of mutual interest they possessed. Olaf knew this was the meat of his education—that he should be hanging on every word the handlende uttered—but the sand whistling and sighing and rattling against the ferroglass kept drawing his attention.
He imagined he could see the blowing grit scouring its way through the ferroglass. How long would it take such a scourging wind to shred his flesh from his bones?
With an effort he reined in his imagination and struggled to focus on the debate over the true value of six hundred assorted bolts of Alborg’s best wool.
Oberon VI
Oberon Confederation
11 July 2972
Olaf was very aware of Nils, Frieda and Alice moving in close formation—a three-sided box with his father and him at the center—as they exited the groundcar that had carried them to the edge of the DropShip field from the Jespersen landingsfartøy (DropShip, he corrected). His father’s assassin guards did not normally accompany the trader when he called on familiar customers as “civilized” as the Oberons—but a JumpShip that did not acknowledge their Jarnskip’s hail hung at Oberon VI’s zenith jump point and a squat grey DropShip had already been berthed when they made planetfall.
“Hansa,” his father had said. “Upstart shopkeepers who call themselves traders. They do not respect the codes of honor and surround themselves with armed thugs to intimidate the weak willed.”
That the Hansa were on Oberon VI was something new and not expected, Olaf knew. The Jespersen family had stood by the Oberons over a century ago, bringing food at cost to the starving world after the colonists’ early efforts at mining had poisoned the delicate water table and triggered an ecological disaster.
So now Olaf strode across the ferrocrete toward the broad building of pillars and arches beside his father, doing his adolescent best to mirror the same air of inevitable right. The elder Jespersen’s personal guard framed them, providing a context for men who needed no protection. A show of force almost certain to be numerically smaller than whatever the Hansa felt would intimidate the JarnFolk, but more than enough to meet any threat the interlopers might hope to mount.
His grandfather’s pistol rode prominently at Olaf’s belt, its ivory grip angled to his right hand. Not so evident was his left hand, thrust casually into the deep pocket of his formal overcoat and wrapped around the butt of his own snub-nosed seven millimeter—a boy’s gun, but deadly enough if and when.
The Oberons did not trade in passenger concourses, Olaf saw. His father was leading them toward a broad building of pillars and arches—a stone and glass structure evidently intended to suggest a village of great tents.
The air was warm—almost too warm to justify the greatcoat—and Olaf was glad when they passed through the double doors into the air-conditioned interior. Holding the doors open, and spaced evenly along the walls of a great central room clearly designed for gatherings and ceremonies of note, were liveried men evidently meant to indicate a guard of some sort. Olaf noted their ceremonial edge weapons were obviously not intended for actual combat.
Nils caught his eye, then glanced toward the top of the far wall. Three steps later Olaf looked in the indicated direction and spotted the gunport. It was reassuring to see the Oberons did not merely play at security.
