Lubyanka
Prison
Umma
City
Larsha
Capellan
Confederation
September
10, 3026
He lay in the
small, hard cot and listened to the sounds of gunfire. Pirates again, he
presumed. He heard the whine of lasers, the electric hum of particle cannon,
the staccato blasts of a missile barrage. He lay in the darkness, waiting for
the stray laser or missile blast that would end his silent vigil. Listening to
the sounds grow closer, unsure which side he should hope to win.
Sometimes, there
were no good choices.
September
14, 3026
He lay in the small
cot in Lubyanka Prison. Every world in the Capellan Confederation had a prison
for dissidents, traitors, rebels and spies, and on every world it was called
Lubyanka Prison. It was meant to strike fear, naming it after the infamous
prison of the ancient KGB, but to him it only served as a reminder that this
was all a shadow-play on the cave walls, a pale imitation of the ur-Lubyanka of
old Russia.
He became aware of
Major Aydogan, his commanding officer before his arrest, standing in the room,
looking down on him with something close to disappointment. He sat upright,
levered his legs off the cot.
“Captain
Dyubichev,” the Major began, stopped. “Dmitri. Why? Just tell me that. Why?”
“Why what?” asked Dyubichev.
“Three men dead.
Three Maskirovka men. Why?”
Dyubichev
remembered the plainclothes men breaking open the door, how close the
vibroblade had come to slicing open his throat. The Capellan Confederation’s
intelligence service did many things well, but making fine distinctions between
dissidents and those who happened to be standing too close to dissidents was
not one of them. “I thought defending Capellan citizens was our job?”
“Your job is to
follow orders. Your job is to kill whoever I order you to kill. Your job off
the battlefield is to mind your own goddamn business. You realize everyone in
the unit is under suspicion now? The political officer’s breathing down my
neck, wants to know every time I so much as step out to piss,” Aydogan threw up
his hands in frustration. “If that wasn’t enough now we have this so-called
‘Angel of Mercy’ and her pirates to worry about. Do you know how hard you’ve
made my job? Everyone’s job? Blake’s hairy left nut, Dmitri, if you wanted to
die there are quicker ways to do it.”
Dyubichev nodded.
Sometimes, death was the easy choice.
September
17, 3026
He lay in the
small, hard cot, hands folded over his chest, and watched the small square of
light inch its way across the bare cement block wall. The small, barred window
was set too high in the wall for him to see out, but he could watch the
movement of the sunlight that filtered down into his small cell. There was
little else to do, other than mentally relive the mistakes of the last six
months, so he much preferred the mindless distraction of the light and its
slow, steady progress.
He heard the key
turn in the stark, solid steel door to the cell. He stood with a sigh, and
waited motionless in the middle of the room.
The door swung open
to admit a guard, Rorynex submachinegun slung across his chest, and an officer
whose jacket lapels bore the yellow stripes and single silver triangle of a
captain. A Hawking autopistol rode at his hip.
“So this is the
traitor,” the captain looked him the way one would a particularly persistent
spaghetti stain. “Quite a list of charges. Espionage, treason, murder. Three
security forces members dead. You’re lucky most of your unit is off chasing
pirates, or you’d have been shot by now. Anything to say for yourself?”
Dyubichev gave a
weary shrug. ‘Security forces’ was a fancy way to describe non-uniformed
paramilitary thugs murdering your own citizens, he thought, but he doubted the
sentiment would get much sympathy.
“Nothing? Well,
that’ll soon change,” the captain growled through gritted teeth. “You’re wanted
in the capital. Seems there are a couple of people very eager to talk to you,
and believe me, an hour with them and you’ll be begging to spill every little
secret you know.”
Since no
introductions seemed forthcoming, Dyubichev mentally dubbed the man Captain
Hawking. He was standing just beyond arm’s reach. Dyubichev was sure he could
grab the Hawking’s gun, maybe shoot both him and the guard before they could
react.
And then what? Die
in a hail of bullets when ten more guards arrived, no doubt. Death was the easy
choice. He hated easy choices.
“And when they’re
done with you, they’ll come for your family next,” Hawking continued with
growing heat. “Your father. Your mother. Your cousins. Your friends. Your
neighbors. Everyone you’ve ever known is going to disappear right out of
existence.”
Captain Hawking
snorted derisively when Dyubichev failed to react, reached into his breast
pocket and produced a pair of restraints. The guard in the doorway shifted his
submachinegun and brought it slightly up, eyes tense. Dyubichev held his arms out
wordlessly, calmly allowed Hawking to tie his wrists together. The captain
shoved him in the back, towards the doorway.
Two more armed
guards were waiting in the hallway, and fell into step behind him as the
captain led the way through security gates and out into the glaring sun.
Dyubichev was blinded by the sudden brightness, stumbled and then went sprawling
into the dusty courtyard as one of the guards shoved him again. He was kicked
and prodded to his feet with more force than strictly necessary.
A wheeled armored
personnel carrier in the mottled green and brown of the Larshan militia sat rumbling
in the building courtyard. Dyubichev was unceremoniously hauled into the rear
passenger compartment by two of the guards, while Hawking clambered into the
commander’s cupola.
It was a short
drive to the spaceport. The rear doors of the APC swung open, revealing the
nearby control tower, three DropShips on the weather-stained ferrocrete and
rows of liquid hydrogen fuel storage tanks beyond, watched over by a single Commando in the green and bronze of the
Fifth Confederation Reserve Cavalry. Subcommander Kahalani’s ‘Mech, Dyubichev
remembered, one of his unit—one of his old unit. Good kid, green, a little
headstrong. Probably wind up dead the first battle he got into.
Nearby, a
slate-grey Karnov transport sat waiting, its rotors tilted skyward. The guards
prodded him towards the aircraft.
Inside the aircraft
was a large cargo bay, echoingly empty now, with a row of seven seats built
into either side of the fuselage, directly behind the four-man cockpit.
Dyubichev was buckled into one of the seats, a guard on either side, two more
opposite. Dyubichev didn’t mind the dour company. He was just glad the seat
offered a view, if he craned his neck, out the forward windscreen.
He could hear the
pilot and copilot go through their preflight check, hear the growing throb of
the rotors as they spluttered to life and slowly began to build up speed.
The flight engineer
was saying something that caught Dyubichev’s attention. “—weird power surge in
one of the DropShips. Looks almost like a—”
Kahalani must have
detected something too. Dyubichev could see Kahalani’s ‘Mech striding quickly
across the ferrocrete landing pad towards the furthest DropShip. Kahalani was
shouting something at the DropShip over the external speakers, but Dyubichev couldn’t
make it out over the noise of the Karnov’s engines, only that he sounded angry,
maybe, frightened.
A large hatch in
the side of the DropShip blew open, and out stepped a humanoid figure, twelve
meters high, painted entirely black save for a white skull emblazoned on its
chest. A BattleMech. From the big shoulder baffles and large antenna, Dyubichev
recognized it as a Charger. Heavy, more
than three times the size of Kahalani’s Commando,
and fast, but not well armed.
Captain Hawking was
screaming at the pilot “Get us out of here! Get us out of here!” and the tone
of the engines surged higher.
The Charger turned to face the Commando, then broke in a run straight
toward the smaller ‘Mech.
Kahalani seemed
shocked, standing still for a moment. Belatedly, he brought the Commando’s arms up, firing a volley of
missiles at the Charger and following
up with a green stab of laser fire. Two answering beams fired back, and
Dyubichev realized this must be an up-gunned CGR-1L variant.
Then the Charger was on the Commando. It grabbed the Commando’s
left arm with its own right, crushing the laser mounted there and holding the
smaller ‘Mech in place. Kahalani struggled in the Charger’s grip for a moment, then spread the Commando’s free arm wide, a gesture of surrender.
Dyubichev’s view
lurched suddenly as the Karnov lifted off the ground, giving him a glimpse of a
platoon of APCs speeding across the landing pads towards the two ‘Mechs. The
pilot brought the nose around again, just in time to see the Charger deliberately raise its left arm,
ending in a bulbous hemisphere housing a Magna Mk III laser, until it was
almost touching the Commando’s head.
And then firing, the laser’s red beam boring a neat, round hole straight
through the ferroglass viewscreen and out the back of the ‘Mech’s head.
The Charger threw aside the limp Commando like an unwanted toy.
Hidden gunports on
the DropShip opened up and began blasting away at the charging APCs. One
erupted into a fireball that lifted the entire vehicle off the ground. Another
careened out of control, belching black smoke, until it rammed into the landing
struts of one of the other DropShips.
A stray laser blast
struck the spaceport’s long row of fuelling tanks. Kilotons of supercooled
liquid hydrogen ignited in an instant, erupting in a volcanic roar. A fiery
column blew hundreds of meters into the air.
The Karnov was
blown about by the shockwave, throwing Dyubichev against the chair restraints. Something
sheared through the rear of the aircraft and suddenly the wind was howling and
the aircraft was spinning, smoke and debris flying about the compartment,
blinding Dyubichev, choking him. He doubled, retching, and something whistled
narrowly over his head and the guard beside him was screaming, something wet
pouring down Dyubichev’s side. The massive hole in the rear of the aircraft
showed blue, brown, blue, brown as it pirouetted drunkenly in the sky.
There was a massive
jolt as the Karnov crashed back down to the ferrocrete, tearing Dyubichev’s
seat from the fuselage and smashing it, back-first against the roof of the
aircraft. The Karnov slewed uncontrollably across the landing pad, sending
Dyubichev and his seat tumbling across the cargo bay floor, to the lip of the
hole in the rear of the aircraft, before crashing into one of the control tower
walls and flinging Dyubichev back into the main compartment.
Dyubichev crawled
out from under his seat. Looked around. One guard had nearly been cut in two by
a large, jagged piece of metal. Another lay moaning in his chair, his leg twisted
at an odd angle. Of the other two there was no sign. Sucked out of the
aircraft, probably. Dyubichev shook his head, trying to clear his eyes,
staggered toward the dead guard and awkwardly retrieved the man’s survival
knife from his belt. Bracing the knife between two chairs, Dyubichev used it to
saw through his restraints, then picked up the man’s Rorynex.
The nose and
cockpit had taken the brunt of the impact with the control tower, folding like
an accordion. The pilot and co-pilot lay crushed and mangled between the
aircraft controls and their chairs. The flight engineer had been decapitated,
his headless corpse slumped almost peacefully at its station.
Captain Hawking lay
wedged between the flight engineer’s station and the co-pilot’s chair. He
looked up in shock as Dyubichev stumbled into the cockpit. “It wasn’t me,” Hawking
said desperately. “It wasn’t my idea. I believed you. Orders. It was just
orders. I had no choice.”
Dyubichev clicked
the safety off. “There are always choices,” he said.
The cockpit was
filled with a brief flash of gunfire.
Dyubichev clambered
painfully down the side of the aircraft, and dropped to the ferrocrete. They’d
come down close to the inert husk of Kahalani’s Commando, its back resting against the control tower, head down on
its chest as though sleeping. He dashed for cover behind the ‘Mech, crouching
behind one of its legs and peering above to assess the situation.
The pirate DropShip
was concentrating its fire on the other two DropShips, Mule-class freighters, slagging landing legs and engines in an
attempt to prevent them from fleeing. The Charger
had taken cover behind one of the hangar buildings about five hundred meters
away, its back to Dyubichev, where it was exchanging fire with a lance of
Scorpion tanks, backed by several platoons of infantry, trying to advance down a
runway built for aerodyne DropShips and conventional aircraft. Dyubichev could
clearly see two white wings painted on the back of the ‘Mech.
It was a massacre. One
tank was already burning brightly, black smoke billowing from its shattered
hull. As Dyubichev watched, the Charger’s
Mk III laser skewered the lead tank, tearing it apart in an explosion that blew
the turret several meters in the air, falling to the ground upside down next to
the flaming wreckage of the hull. A second shot hit another tank’s right-side
tracks, bringing it to a swerving halt. A moment later the tank’s hatches
opened and the crew scampered out, fleeing for the cover of nearby buildings.
Answering fire blew away chunks of ferrocrete from the hangar the Charger took cover behind, but none
seemed to find their target. The Charger
stepped back out from its cover, and a squad of men trying to set up a the
tripod for a portable particle cannon were incinerated in a flash of green
fire.
Dyubichev winced,
shook his head. The poor bastards. Glanced up. Kahalani’s ‘Mech, a mournful, round
black hole where the front glass should be, was looking down on him in mute
disapproval.
“Hush, you,” he
told it.
Of course, the Commando seemed to say, the choice was
up to him. Defend the people who only hours ago were ready to kill him? Or let
them be slaughtered. That would be the easy choice.
“Well. Shit,” he
muttered.
Using footholds on
the Commando’s arm, Dyubichev hauled
himself up onto the shoulder, shuffled crabwise towards the cockpit, clambered
in through the massive hole in the forward viewscreen.
The only vital
thing the laser appeared to have hit was Subcommander Avi Kahalani, whom it had
hit rather squarely. Everything from ribcage to knees had been completely
vaporized, the remaining bits instantly cauterized and flung randomly about the
cockpit. Dyubichev found the neurohelmet under the command couch, along with
Kahalani’s head and left arm.
Dyubichev gingerly unhooked
the neurohelmet from Kahalani’s head, settled it on his own shoulders and felt
a wave of nausea wash over him as the uncalibrated helmet tried to adjust to
its new wearer. He checked the controls. The wireframe schematic showed heavy
damage to the left arm and back, plus an angry red glow where the head should
be. The engine, gyro and heat sinks showed green, the missile launchers, red.
Dyubichev toggled the switches for the launchers again. Red. One more time, switched
them off, then on. Red.
“Well. Shit,” he
reaffirmed.
What did that
leave? Speed. The Commando could move
at a hair under 100 kph in a flat-out run. Fast enough to outrun the Charger. Or. He looked through the
shattered viewscreen. Saw the Charger
standing, its back to him, perhaps 200, 250 meters away. Or.
He planted the Commando’s arms in the rubble, and
levered the ‘Mech unsteadily to its
feet. Fought another wave of nausea as the ‘Mech tried to find its balance.
Took a deep breath, exhaled. Kicked the throttle all the way out.
The Commando took one hesitant step. Then
another. Seemed to gather itself beneath him. Another stride, and another.
Coming faster now, gaining speed, myomer muscles pumping like a sprinter,
another stride, another, another, another. Faster, faster, the wind shrieking
through the gaping hole in the head like a banshee, the pirate Charger filling his forward view.
The Charger pilot seemed to sense something,
started to turn. Too late.
The Commando’s shoulder plowed into it just
under the right arm with a thunderous crash, crushing and splintering armor
plates on both ‘Mechs. Dyubichev was thrown brutally forward against the
command couch restraints, only the adaptive padding saving him from serious
injury. The Charger rocked back, tried
to steady itself with its right arm, failed, fell on its side. The Commando spun back from the impact,
toppled over, and crashed through the wall of the hangar. The ‘Mech plowed
backwards several meters before skidding to a halt on its back.
Dyubichev’s neurohelmet rammed into the
back of pilot’s couch with enough force to daze him. He shook his head, tried
to clear his eyes. Red warning lights filled his vision. Gyro damage. Leg
actuator damage.
The Charger
stood slowly. Dyubichev working feverishly to bring the Commando to its feet, and spotted something under his ‘Mech’s
hands. A five-meter long steel beam, broken loose when he’d fallen through the wall.
The Charger advanced through the
gaping hole in the hangar wall, weapons leveled. Dyubichev picked up the beam in
the Commando’s hands, raised it
overhead, charged forward, brought it whistling down on the Charger’s head.
The massive ‘Mech staggered drunkenly under the blow, and fell to one
knee. Dyubichev’s next swing clipped the Charger’s
right shoulder, shattering its high shoulder guard. It swung back feebly,
aimlessly, but Dyubichev managed to stagger the Commando back out of reach. He raised the steel beam and brought it
down on the Charger’s cockpit again.
Ferroglass shattered, the ‘Mech’s round head deformed like a saddle. It wobbled
for a moment, lost its balance and fell forward on its face, blowing up a storm
of dust.
When the dust settled, Dyubichev moved the Commando forward again, keeping the steel beam at the ready. He
stood over the Charger’s inert form
and looked down.
The pilot’s hatch
in the Charger’s head opened, and the
pilot half-staggered, half-fell out.
A young woman, her
head shaved, with an impressively detailed tattoo of angel wings across her
back.
“The Angel of
Mercy, I presume,” Dyubichev asked over the external speakers.
She rose to her
feet, looked up defiantly. “Just kill me and get this over with.”
“That did seem the
most likely outcome of this raid,” replied Dyubichev. “So why make it?”
“Only way to stop
you bastards from hunting us like rats,” she snarled. “What did you think we
would do? Keep running? Give up and die? Not like we had any choice.”
Dyubichev nodded to
himself in the cockpit. He knew all about bad choices. “So you sacrificed
yourself to take the pressure off your men? I can admire that. You did all you
could.”
She reached into
her cooling vest, and pulled out a needler. Dyubichev wasn’t worried. At this
range, its chance of damaging his ‘Mech was slightly less than zero. “Guess how
much I care about your admiration,” she answered, and put the needler to her
temple. “Anyway, there’s one more thing I can do.”
“Wait, now,”
Dyubichev said quickly. “Turns out, you might have another choice.”
The Commando limped from the hangar, towards
the pirate DropShip, steel beam slung over one shoulder like a baseball bat. It
walked slowly across the ferrocrete, under the Ship’s watchful guns.
When the ‘Mech came
within 100 meters of the DropShip, a voice called out on the external speakers.
“We aren’t going to surrender just because you did for the Angel, so you best
stop right there,” it said. “Any last words before we send you to join her?”
Inside the Commando’s cockpit, the Angel of Mercy
reached over Dyubichev’s shoulder and clicked open a channel. “Decided I ain’t
gonna die just yet,” she said, “Now let us on board before the Louies figure
out what’s going on.” She glanced down at Dyubichev. “Last chance to back out.
You sure?”
No, he wasn’t sure.
Not by a mile. But then, living was often the hard choice. And he hated easy
choices.
He smiled and
nodded. “I’m sure.”
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