It had all happened in less than ten seconds, and Crawford was already moving again, pushing his Black Knight to close the distance to the Panther. His enemies had the element of surprise, but Crawford was bigger, stronger and, even without Chinn, he had more firepower per square millimeter than the Panther could combat. But with the Panther and Balac Strike together, his odds suddenly went from pretty good to only so-so. Maybe, if he got even closer to the Panther, the VTOL threat would be neutralized, its pilot stymied because his missiles would damage his own man. Besides, Crawford was hoping the missile blasts would distract the Panther’s pilot, and even though that ’Mech was lighter and faster, his enemy would expect him to be moving away now, not for him at breakneck speed.
If Crawford had another five seconds, he might have made it. But he didn’t have the time, and he saw disaster coming right before it arrived. The Panther whipped its right arm up so quickly it was almost a blur—or maybe it was a trick of the mind, Crawford’s perceptions dulled by fatigue and heat and the sudden grim realization of certain death, time dilating to showcase every moment. The Panther’s PPC crackled to life once more. Crawford felt a huge jolt that shuddered into the well of his seat, and his diagnostic interpretation computer flashed the information: a hit on Phantom’s left leg, just at the critical juncture between the upper and lower actuators.
“Chinn!” Crawford bawled as he canted right, taking weight off his ’Mech’s left leg and bringing his right medium laser to bear. But his adversary saw it coming, and Crawford’s shot went wide. “Dammit, Chinn, where are you? I need help here!”
Time spun out, the next instant seeming long as an age. The Panther ducked and weaved, loosing another PPC bolt that struck Crawford in the chest, right in Phantom’s heart and taking out the left torso laser. The Black Knight rocked and swayed, and then Crawford felt another shudder rippling through myomer bundles and titanium bone, and he had a brief vision of the VTOL barreling down for a kill.
But it wasn’t. Jackhammering into the hardpan, Chinn’s Thor jumped in, landing to Crawford’s left and snap-firing all its lasers at once. The Panther sprang away on a roar of jump jets and simultaneously loosed a spread of missiles: both racks, right down Crawford’s throat.
As the missiles closed, Crawford had time for one thought: Oh, crap.
The missiles thudded against his ferroglass canopy, one right after the other, with a sound that reminded Crawford of when he was a kid and thought it was totally cool to drop water balloons from second-story windows. Bright flowers of yellow paint bloomed before his eyes, and his systems told him the rest.
A voice in his helmet, not Chinn: “And you’re dead.”
“Yeah, thanks for the information, Measho.” Disgusted, Crawford flopped back in his command couch and felt the fatigue spread over him like a hot, wet blanket.
Chinn’s voice came then. “I’m sorry, Andre.” A pause. “It was my fault.”
“Yes, actually, it was,” said Crawford. He pivoted his Black Knight so he could see her around the yellow blotches slowly oozing over his canopy. “I told you not to go so wide.”
“It was a mistake. And then I thought I had a lock, but I didn’t. I overshot.”
“And so I got splattered. Paint, dud weapons, or the real thing, the end result’s the same, Chinn. I’m dead.” He felt a bloom of fury bunch in his chest and radiate in hot fingers until his head felt so full he was certain he’d have a stroke, right then and there. “Chinn, you never ever leave such a large gap along your lancemate’s flank; you know that. Otherwise, what will happen is precisely what did. Your performance rating is getting worse all the time. It sucks, Chinn.”
There was a moment’s silence when Chinn didn’t respond and neither of their Republic “enemies“—Sho-sa Wahab Fusilli, who’d brought his Balac Strike around and was now hovering above the salt pan stirring up clouds of white grit, and Tai-i Abeda Measho in Katana’s “Kat”—said a word for or against. What could they say?
Finally, the silence was broken, but not by Chinn. “All right, stow it.”
Still steaming, Crawford turned. The huge bulk of an olive green BattleMaster reared up from an arc of flat-cut boulders a half klick to the right. He waited until the ’Mech was nearly nose to nose before he said, “I’m sorry, Tai-sho. I lost my temper.”
“Understandable when you’ve just been killed.” Katana’s voice was without irony or sarcasm. “But that’s it, people. War’s over. Now everyone go home and hit the showers. Cool off.”
Sage advice. Crawford brought his ’Mech around and began picking his way back to base. In more ways than one.
12
Katana’s Journal
14 January 3135
We met after breakfast—Crawford, Fusilli, and Measho, but not Toni because I wouldn’t do that to her—and Andre let me have it. “Tai-sho, you must consider the possibility.”
No one else said a word. Measho suddenly found something of intense interest in his lap. Fusilli, O5P to the core, took everything in, those baby blues of his not missing a trick and giving nothing away. And, as always, the Old Master stood sentry at the shoji. I said, “Do you see Chinn here? Isn’t it obvious that I’ve already considered it?” Then I gave Andre one of my best hard stares. Most people flinch away.
Andre isn’t most people. “Obviously,” he said, scrubbing at his green eyes with the heels of both hands. He still looked limp as a wet noodle. Roasting in a ’Mech will do that to you. Crawford sighed and then, blinking, looked up. “But, Tai-sho, a lance must function as one heart, one mind. Chinn’s heart and mind are divided. It’s become more apparent as we’ve gone along and most especially when we tangle with Republic troops. She doesn’t want to hurt them, plain and simple. If she can cut them a little slack so they withdraw from the field, that’s fine with her. I won’t argue the fact that it’s humane. There’s no honor in chasing down an enemy who cannot defend himself. But honor is one thing. Aiding the enemy is another. Whatever else she is, Chinn’s a creature of The Republic, and she’s blue all the way through.”
Fusilli cut in then. “You have to admit Chinn does have an excellent record. Without her, we’d have lost against the Swordsworn six months ago. As I recall, she saved your butt, Crawford, when that Sphinx was doing its damnedest to melt it off.”
Crawford opened his mouth to reply, but then Measho broke in. “But we can’t expect the past to simply disappear. The past exerts a strong influence on the present.”
Crawford and Fusilli subsided, with good reason. Measho talks so rarely that anything he’s got to say is usually novel—and good. He’s my thinker, as fine a pilot and loyal as any man whose veins run with Combine blood. I gave him the nod.
Measho said, “I understand how the past taints someone; it’s like going around with a brand on your forehead. But the worst thing you can do is not acknowledge that the past makes you who you are. You all know that my father worked with the yakuza on Buckminster. When that came out, he lost his money, prestige and, most importantly, his self-respect. It simply destroyed him. I nearly allowed it to destroy me, thinking that his shame became mine. Maybe I worked harder because of it, I don’t know.” His soft brown eyes locked first on Fusilli’s and then Crawford’s. “But not a day goes by that I don’t think about it. And the only reason I’m here, instead of slinking around somewhere else, is because our tai-sho saw past that. Tai-sho Tormark gave me a chance. So I’m sure she sees past Chinn’s faults to her warrior’s heart. We should trust her judgment.”