“Your ’Mech, then.” The captain’sPack Hunter had a top speed of 119 kph, almost twice as fast as Tara C’sHatchetman . It could theoretically get her to the Lord Governor’s palace in just over fifteen minutes.
“No time to rekey the neurohelmet to interface with your brain patterns, Countess.”
As one the two women turned to stare up at the light BattleMech, standing with its cockpit ajar to let the breezes cool it and dry its pilot’s sweat from the form-fitting command couch.
“Good thing you’re small,” Tara Bishop said, “and that we’re really good friends.”
25
Lord Governor’s Palace
New London
Skye
1 August 3134
AKlaxon blared from the Lord Governor’s Palace as a BattleMech descended from the light afternoon overcast to settle on the lawn right outside the porticoed white-marble entrance, light as a thirty-ton feather. A ready squad of Ducal Guards in full combat gear turned out to menace thePack Hunter valiantly with their laser rifles.
“Hey!” their sergeant shouted. “You can’t park that here!”
With a clunk of released catches and a hiss of air pressure equalizing, the domed cockpit cracked open. The apprehensive security troopies stared in apprehension—which turned to bafflement as not one but two figures emerged and rapidly descended to the painstakingly tended sod into which the ’Mech’s feet sank inexorably.
Jaws dropped, female no less than male, when two scantily attired and remarkably attractive young women, bodies glistening with sweat, marched straight up to the squad.
“I am Tara Campbell,” the short one in the lead said haughtily, “Countess of Northwind and Prefect for Prefecture III”
“By God,” the sergeant in charge said, forgetting himself, “you are.”
The taller woman behind the haughty Countess, who carried a Rorynex submachine gun on a long sling around her neck and a captain’s bars blazoned on her cooling vest, glared at the Guards. It was obvious she considered the security detachment hopelessly outnumbered.
The sergeant opened his mouth. He shut it. He felt irrationally as ifhe were standing bare-assed on the lawn with a whole traffic jam worth of gawkers all around and the sky abuzz with civvy VTOLs, and these confounded women were wearing Gnome battle armor.
He finally forced sound out: “The gun,” he said, waving at the SMG. “You can’t take a gun into the Palace. Security. Regulations.” His accent, not surprisingly, wasSteinerdeutsch .
The two Taras exchanged glances. Tara B unshipped the subgun and tossed it unceremoniously to the sergeant. “I’ll be back for that,” she said.
The women swept on past. The patrol stood as if turned to statues. They made an interesting composition group with the parked BattleMech, pinging as it cooled from its high-speed jaunt into the
heart of the prefectural government.
Helicopters swarmed overhead as the two women mounted the broad steps. They were mostly media: the civilian-cop traffic-control job that had been bird-dogging them the last couple klicks as thePack Hunter jumped blithely into and through the gridlocked central-business district—coming close to but neverquite squashing any land cars—had backed off as the ’Mech descended toward the palace lawn.
“They’regetting an eyeful,” TB commented. “Guess what’s leading tonight’s evening news?”
Tara produced an un-Countess-like grunt of annoyance. Then she rocked as an orange and white chopper with afenestron antitorque shroud encircling its tail rotor descended so low its skids almost brushed the grass. The ferocious side blast threatened to slam her off her feet. Tara Bishop grabbed her biceps to steady her.
On the chopper’s flank was painted the unmistakable winged-helmet logo of Herrmanns AG and the legendHerrmanns HoloNews .
The VTOL came down so near the security detachment that several of them had to duck and dart to evade the lethal flickering scythe-sweep of the main blade. The sergeant shook his fist and bellowed curses, red-faced and unheard for the aircraft’s uproar.
Then his face paled with the adrenaline-dump ofreal anger. He cocked his head forward and spoke for the benefit of the microphone curving before his lips. His squaddies all turned toward the intruding news-helo and, standing or kneeling, aimed their lasers at the cockpit with what seemed unseemly eagerness.
The VTOL shot straight up as if yanked into the sky on a string.
Tara Campbell laughed aloud, then sobered. “Great,” she said. “This is all we need.”
Her aide shrugged. “They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity... ”
An armed guard stood at the door, glorious in the full green-and-white plumage of the Palace Guard—a different outfit from the Duke’s own squaddies on the lawn, building security in bald truth. She tried to bar Countess Tara from entering, holding her Imperator machine pistol crosswise before her.
Tara Bishop politely helped the Guardswoman back to her feet, picked up the gun off the floor, dropped the magazine with a clatter to the polished Skye marble, and handed the empty weapon back to its owner before following her boss through the heavy door of dark-stained local hardwood.
Duke Gregory looked up, salt and pepper brows ferociously abristle, as Countess Tara Campbell swept like a north wind through the door. His brows kept rising.
Prefect Della Brown jumped erect from her seat at the table across from him. “What is the meaning of this —oh, my God!”
“Prefect,” Tara said, nodding crisply. “Legate Eckard. Your Grace.”
“The disrespect—” Della Brown sputtered.
Tara cut her off with a gaze cool as liquid helium—and piercing as a laser beam. “Indeed,” she said in a
precisely metered tone. “However, given the emergency that confronts us all and the necessity of working together in the best interests of this planet and The Republic, I am willing to overlook the disrespect shown me by convening a meeting of this gravity without notifying me.”
The Duke’s brows had stopped short of displacing his scalp. He covered his momentary imbalance by bluster: “This is purely an internal matter—a matter of Skye politics. Nothing which is the rightful concern of The Republic.”
“Prefect Brown is a Republican official,” Tara said, “as is Legate Eckard. If they belong here, I belong here.” She heard Tara Bishop slip in behind her and quietly shut the door, felt the reassuring warmth of her on her back.
“Please excuse the informal attire of myself and my aide, Duke Gregory,” Tara C added crisply. “We were conducting vital field exercises with the Republic Skye Militia. Had we been given proper notice of this meeting we would have had time to change to something more appropriate.”
“You’ve pushed it too far this time, Campbell,” Prefect Brown began.
“Enough,” Duke Gregory growled. He had clearly adjusted to the newcomers’ state. A MechWarrior himself, he knew they didn’t dress that way to be provocative. “The confounded woman is here, and I am in no mood to bandy words over sartorial details. However, I must insist that this is purely a local matter, and—”
The door opened behind Tara B. Chief Minister Augustus Solvaig entered wearing his umber and russet robes of state. He stopped dead and opened his mouth, his face going crimson.
Duke Gregory held up a big, scarred hand. “Peace, my friend. We’ve had the debate already.”
The minister nodded with an emphasis that frankly surprised Tara Campbell. It set his jowls jiggling.
“I have made all necessary preparations, my lord,” he said. “You have but to give the word, and a company of Ducal Guards will secure the Palace of Counsel and dissolve the Deputies.”
“What?”Tara Campbell demanded.
“The Chamber of Deputies debates whether to send an offer of surrender to the invaders.” To her surprise it was Legate Stanford Eckard who answered. “To Galaxy Commander Aleksandr Hazen, to be precise.”
Tara drew in a deep breath. The scene seemed suddenly sharp, the colors bright, sounds piercing and painful
