“If I do, I’ll deal,” Bishop said.
She turned her ’Mech and started it loping away. As she ran, behind her, the Countess’s Hatchetman swung its massive, depleted-uranium ax at a wall, breaking it into a hundred pieces and showering the rubble down onto the invading infantry below.
Then the Hatchetman jumped, and Captain Bishop couldn’t see it any more.
40
Fort Barrett
Oilfields Coast
Kearney
Northwind
February 3134; dry season
“Will, Jock, Lexa,” Master Sergeant Murray said. “Sit down, then.”
Will and his two friends had not been back at Fort Barrett more than half an hour before they found themselves summoned to Murray’s office—a cubby off the squad bay. Even inside that enclosed and windowless space, they could hear and feel the air around them vibrating at a steady low rumble as aircraft after aircraft took off from the base’s landing field, bearing troops to New Lanark and the relief of Tara.
Will glanced over at Jock and Lexa. His conscience was fairly clear—there hadn’t been much chance for trouble, going south along the coast and back, and he hoped that theirs were too. His stripes were still too fresh to rip them off now. But an invitation to sit was a good sign.
“What’s up?” Jock began, but Murray had his back turned and was pulling a bottle of whiskey from a desk drawer, along with four battered china teacups.
“I know the three of you are friends,” Murray said, pouring liberal doses of amber fluid into each of the cups. “Fought together, came up through the ranks together.”
“Aye,” Jock said, “that’s true,” and Will and Lexa nodded.
The three of them accepted the filled teacups, and Will sipped at his carefully. It was good liquor—strong and peaty, and meant for thoughtful drinking. If a man wanted merely to get drunk, he spent his money on cheaper stuff.
“And I hear that you’re familiar with the Rockspires,” Murray said, looking directly at Will.
“There’s some that say I am,” Will agreed.
“The captain has something special, and I can’t think of anyone who’d be better,” Murray said. “You can always say no, of course, but if you’re the soldiers that I think you are—then you’ll be platoon sergeants, and that’s an honor for ones so young as you.”
Will was getting a bad feeling. A smiling, friendly sergeant, serving drinks and offering an opportunity for advancement… he kept silent and waited for the hook at the end of the fishing line.
“Well, then,” Murray went on, “knowing the Rockspires as you do, and knowing that the Countess has her castle there, I’m sure you’ll be honored as well to be the ones to hold it until she comes to set it up for a new headquarters.”
“Things are that bad, back in Tara?” Lexa asked.
Murray nodded. “So I think.”
Will hesitated a moment, to hear if Jock or Lexa had anything more to say, but when he looked over in their direction, he saw that they were watching him already, as if waiting for him to speak. He realized that he’d been elected group spokesman without being informed of the vote.
“If that’s how it is,” he said, “then we’re in. For Northwind. And the Countess.”
Murray gave a satisfied nod. “You’ll have a company, and the captain himself will be with you. Your aircraft leaves in half an hour. And leave your kit behind, all but what you can carry in a fight. You won’t need it.”
“Good thing I never wasted my paycheck on a pair of those open-toed pumps,” said Lexa. “Who knew that I’d be in the army for the rest of my life?”
She slugged back the whiskey and set the empty teacup down on Murray’s desk. A second later, Will and Jock did the same. As they left the office, Will noticed that Murray hadn’t touched his own drink.
41
Jack Farrell’s Mercenary Encampment
The Plains Outside Tara
Northwind
February 3134; local winter
Captain Bishop knew the way to One-Eyed Jack Farrell’s headquarters, off to the west of the city. The Pack Hunter was fast and it was not long before she found herself approaching a roadblock on the city’s west side, with a Scimitar MKII locked onto her and tracking.
“I’d like to talk with Captain Farrell,” she said over the ’Mech’s external speakers.
“He’s up the road a ways,” the trooper at the roadblock replied. “You want to leave your ’Mech here?”
“I don’t think so.”
The troops had a whispered conversation. One of them picked up a field phone and called away on it. After a while he got a response.
“Boss says to come on through,” he said. “Up the road, Jack’ll see you.”
Bishop took the Pack Hunter up the road until she found Jack Farrell sitting at a table by the roadside, his massive Jupiter ’Mech towering empty beside him.
“Come on down,” Farrell said. He had a deck of cards in front of him, and was dealing himself a hand of solitaire. Except for his clothing—winter-cammo field gear and a marksman’s fingerless gloves—he looked much as he had when she first met him, playing poker aboard the DropShip Pegasus.
Bishop hesitated a moment. Then she gave in and retrieved her winter greatcoat from the cockpit locker. Shrugging the coat on over her shoulders, she popped open the ’Mech’s hatch and climbed down.
“Take a load off,” Jack said, gesturing to the seat in front of him. He scooped up the cards, shuffling them idly without looking at them. “What can I do for you?”
Bishop remained standing. “I’m looking for a bit of information,” she said. “Has anyone seen Paladin Crow?”
“Yep.” Jack shuffled the cards, cut them, then shuffled again.
“Well, we’re waiting,” Bishop snapped. “There’s an attack going on right now. You’re supposed to be doing an envelopment past the right flank.”
“Beg to differ,” Jack said. “We talked with Crow, all right, and we’ve got a contract.”
Bishop began to feel a sinking sensation in her stomach. “What exactly does the contract say?”
“Well, parts of it are private.”
“I believe it’s our business as well… but never mind. Mostly I’m concerned about the fact that you’re ignoring orders from the Paladin. You’re supposed to be leading an attack, not sitting under a tree playing with yourself.”
Jack chuckled. “But we are fulfilling our contract. Our orders are to sit here, although trees aren’t specifically mentioned.”
The uneasy sensation in Bishop’s stomach turned without warning into a sickening drop, as though the ground she stood on had fallen away, leaving only the gaping pit beneath. This was worse than mercenaries acting… well, like mercenaries. This was—“The Paladin ordered that?”
“Yep.”
She kept her face unmoved and her voice down in its normal register, even though the effort it took was hard enough to hurt. “I’d like to talk with him.”
“Can’t do that, either,” Jack informed her. “He went through the lines up to the DropPort this morning. DropShip took off half an hour, forty-five minutes later. He’s gone. Leaving us to honor our contract.”
“I can check on that, you know,” Captain Bishop said.
“I know.”
“And what, specifically, is your relationship to the Highlanders supposed to be?”
“Specifically,” Jack said, “we’re supposed to make sure you don’t retreat out of the city to the west. We’re to hold you while the Wolves hammer you. Nothing personal, I promise.”