“And only the universe?”
“No. I think she’s looking for a family, a place to belong. She’s an orphan in many, many ways, so it’s not surprising that she might idealize a way of life or a person”—she paused to give that last word added weight then continued—“that or who will be the parent she hungers for. And like all parents, when the pedestal crumbles…”
“It’s a long way down.” Then the coordinator said something quite extraordinary, something that caught Emi completely by surprise. “Then, does it not behoove us to care for such a lost child as much as I cherish you? There have been many jewels, many black pearls lost to the ages, like the mural above the throne—beautiful, but lacking. I am determined that this should stop, and very soon. After all, a crown—and a home, large or small—is only as valuable as its jewels, new and old.” The coordinator held Emi’s gaze. “Don’t you agree, daughter of mine own heart?”
A lump of emotion balled in Emi’s throat, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. “Yes, Father,” she whispered, finally. The coordinator’s face blurred as her eyes pooled with sudden tears. “I do.”
11
Salt Plains, on the outskirts of Armitage, Ancha
Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere
13 January 3135
Usually, Chu-sa Andre Crawford was a pretty nice guy, with sparkling emerald green eyes and a curling mane of hair as deeply red as his Black Knight, “Phantom.” At the moment, though, Crawford was in the kind of crappy mood when you really, really didn’t want to cross him. So maybe it was a good thing that he was in his Black Knight because, in a cockpit, no one can hear you swear. Or see you sweat.
Crawford was doing plenty of both. He was miserable and angry and broiling. The outside temp was a blistering forty-five C. His cooling vest was performing at only thirty percent efficiency because he’d rerouted power to keep his circuits from frying and his ’Mech from freezing—kind of a perverse little oxymoron. He felt oily and dirty; even his couch was damp. He’d been chugging electrolyte replacement fluids by the liter every hour, something he hated doing because the potassium made the lemony concoction taste like liquid aluminum. And now, sha-zaam! He had to pee something fierce only he couldn’t because, well, honestly, he was kind of busy, what with trying to track down the enemy before the enemy found him.
So where are they? Crawford squinted at his infrared. Big waste of effort: As hot as a BattleMech got, the salt plains were hotter. His sensor was a monotonous red blob. Sighing, Crawford squinted out his ferroglass canopy and saw two things, one that he expected and another he didn’t like. The first was the plains: a featureless pan of bone white salt, the remains of an ancient sea. Unfortunately, the pan wasn’t flat. If it had been, finding their enemy would’ve been a piece of cake because there’d have been nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. As the briny seawater had evaporated, the residue hadn’t dried flat but rippled into uneven belts of calcium and sodium salts mounded into rock-hard hummocks. The plains themselves were ringed on three sides by rust-colored cliffs and studded with rock behemoths that seemed to bob on the white hardpan like icebergs. The flats ended in a bluff that, in turn, became a shifting, orange, sand-choked desert. There was no vegetation, and no water hereabouts. Above, the sky was a hard, steel blue, unmarred by anything save a lone bird that was so far away it looked like a black bead.
But it’s what he didn’t see that made him swear again. His eyes flicked up and right to the only thing on his HUD that was of any use out here: seismic distortion tracking and his Beagle. He looked, did a double take, and then swore like a sailor. “Chinn, where the hell are you?”
A click in his helmet, and a voice, hairy with static: “A klick west of your position, minus thirty-five, eight o’clock.”
“Ex-ACT-ly! And where are you supposed to be?”
Chinn’s annoyance was palpable even through the channel fuzz. “Your left flank, and that’s precisely where I am.”
“But not over a klick distant. What are you going to do if I take fire? Come roaring to the rescue? By the time you haul ass, I’ve taken major hits.”
“Look,” Chinn began, and stopped. Crawford had a mental image of the petite woman, sweat dripping from her exposed arms and legs, biting her lip, something Chinn did when she was angry. He heard her sigh. “Okay, you’re right. I guess I was hanging back because, honestly, I think they’ve given us the slip. I don’t know about you, but I’m roasting in here. Let’s pack it in.”
Unbelievable. Crawford’s jaw went slack. Sure, there had been talk. How Chinn wasn’t really herself anymore. How Chinn wouldn’t pursue and close on Republic forces but hung back. Oh, sure, she went with the speed of heat when they tangled with anyone else. Since Katana had transferred Chinn to Proserpina—wagging tongues about that one, too—Crawford hadn’t had much opportunity to test the diminutive woman’s mettle until today. They’d been at this for two days, and he did not like what he’d seen so far. And if Katana won’t listen to reason, then I’ll just have to sit on her until she does.
“Listen, Chinn, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but this is serious business. Let’s be very clear about this. I am in charge of this mission, and only I will decide when it’s time to turn back. Right now, heat or no heat, we’re not leaving until we hunt these people…”
The blare of an alarm cut off his tirade, and Crawford jerked his attention back to his sensors. “Oh, Jesus!”
“Incoming!” Chinn shouted. “Crawford, you’ve got incoming! And I’m getting movement just beyond…!”
But Crawford stopped listening because he saw it—no, them, too. First there was the swarm of six snub-nosed missiles cutting a seam in the sky, and then, in the next instant, a Republic Balac Strike VTOL rocketing up from its hiding place just beyond the bluff and arcing away in a scream of rotor wash. Then, there was movement on his left, and he swung the torso of his Black Knight around to see this new threat: a slate-gray Panther darting from the cover of a towering rust-red monolith protruding from the dead salt sea like a thick, severed thumb. There was a blinding blue flash as an azure bolt of PPC fire spurted from the Panther’s right arm.
“On my way!” Chinn shouted. “Hang on, Andre, I’m coming!”
She was too far away to be much help. She knew that. Crawford knew that. If the Panther didn’t kill him, the missiles would, PDQ; and if they didn’t, then the VTOL would swing around for another attack run, let loose with both racks this time and finish the job. Kind of whittled down the options right there.
Training and instincts took over. Quick as thought, Crawford spun right and hunkered into a crouch as the plasma bolt cut a bright gash in the superheated air just above his cockpit. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Whirling left, Crawford put on a burst of speed, the massive legs of his ’Mech pistoning, shattering rock and salt. He drove his Black Knight dead on for the Panther and anyone watching would’ve thought he was insane. Except now the missiles were right on his tail, and he was headed straight for the Panther. And you don’t have any choice now, big boy, you got to fire. Thumbing the kill button on his right joystick, Crawford dodged right, twisted, then blasted six laser bursts at the incoming missiles. At the same moment, a hail of eight missiles bulleted past his cockpit, followed by a series of muted explosions Crawford didn’t see but heard, and he knew: the Panther had fired and destroyed the incoming spread—not to help Crawford but to save his own butt.