He yanked at the floor panel, which held for a moment and then sprang open, almost clobbering him. The six receive modules, lined up and unmarked. All he had to do, supposedly, was to pull them and replace them with the six transmit modules. And the system should automatically feed the data from the sensors out to Regiment.
Though there was no way to know, once he pulled the receive modules.
He pulled one module after another, tossing them behind him onto the tiny patch of floor that neither the command chairs nor his own feet occupied.
Now he could hear the roaring crunches of brush as the ’Mech crashed through them, the distant crack as a tree resisted for a moment before giving way to the metal beast.
Why doesn’t it just fire?
He pulled the front panel of one of the boxes on his cart open. Wrong one. He fumbled with the catch on the other box and almost pulled it off its hinges once he got the latch to release. The six transmit modules were lined up, one next to the other. He pulled the first and guided it into the first complete slot.
The crashing in the trees got louder, and now Defoe thought he could feel the impact tremors as dozens of tons of metal stomped down, step by step.
One module after another, he shoved them into place, until the telltales next to the handles were lit on all six.
According to the theory, the Pegasus was now sending its latest data over to Regiment, forwarded then to the incoming fighters.
In theory.
In practice, though, that red light was still blinking. Defoe scrambled to his feet, the discarded modules tangling his ankles, and reached for the arm console of Hutchins’ command chair.
The ’Mech seemed to fill the entire viewing opening. Too close, a panicked voice said in his head. With half the ferroglass gone, the missile explosions will fill the cabin with blast.
The right arm of the ’Mech started to rise, covers snapping off small missiles in a launching pod.
Defoe slapped at the red flashing button praying the targeting system still worked, and the world filled again with sound and light and violent vibrations and the taste of blood and darkness and quiet.
• • •
When Defoe awoke, it was in hospital. The pale green walls and overly perfumed air (undercut with old decay and new antiseptic) were giveaways. Along with the bandaged arm hanging from a rack on his left side, its purple fingers sticking out of the end of the cast. Defoe wriggled them, to make sure they were his.
The fingers wriggled and his arm suddenly felt like it was on fire. They seemed to be his.
A young man’s face hovered over him for a few moments, then a cool hand stuck a thermometer patch on his cheek and the face disappeared.
An eternity later, a different face appeared, the patch was peeled away, and another face replaced that one.
This last face hovered above a uniform tunic, with colonel’s tabs on its collar. Chairman Fitzroy Candly. Defoe had seen him once before, at a full muster of the Alliance Borderers. Colonel of the whole damn Regiment.
His voice was low and gravely, as if he needed to choke down something in his throat. “You did well, Protector. We smashed them flat. The Third Air Wing took out the lot, before they had a chance to damage the plant. We think it might have been a raid for engines. But, thanks to you, none of them got away, though we missed their DropShip.
“We couldn’t find any markings on the scrap we recovered. Do you recall any markings on the one that hit you boys?”
Defoe made one attempt to shake his head and quickly gave that up as a bad idea. He tried to speak, to say, “No” but he couldn’t get out more than a croak. A very inarticulate croak. He’d barely seen the one that had seemed right on top of him. He sure as hell was not looking for markings.
The colonel snapped a very quick smile. “No matter. You will be debriefed when you are better able to talk. In the meantime, you rest. Get well and we’ll get you back in the Line.”
Defoe tried to croak again. “Hutchins?” This sounded a little better than the last attempt. Still Candly only looked at him and Defoe tried to repeat himself. “Hutchins?”
The colonel grimaced and shook his head. “No. You were it. And you were pretty torn up yourself.”
Defoe said. “I tried to run.” When the colonel’s face screwed up with confusion, he tried again, slower. “Run. Tried to.”
The colonel leaned back and nodded. “You probably should have. I might have, in your place. When I was younger. But you didn’t and we hurt these people badly. Twelve dead ’Mechs that we’ll part out.” He tapped Defoe’s cast lightly. “Get well, soldier.”
And his face disappeared.
Someone stuck a straw in his face and Defoe sucked feebly at it for a few seconds before giving it up. At the edge of exhaustion, he concentrated on breathing.
Had the colonel said “back in the Line?” And “protector?”
Defoe felt an itch on the back of his left hand, the one hanging in the cast in front of him. The itch grew worse.
ART OF THE DEAL
by Loren L. Coleman
Only after General Motors contacted Ceres Metals on [Vicore Industries’] behalf was the Capellan company willing to listen to Giovanni’s proposal.
Excerpted from Vicore Industries’ “Phoenix Report,” 1 August 3067
Warlock, Capellan Confederation
7 April 3065
Overseer pro-tem Nikolai Kwiatkowski shivered as he charged between buildings, slipping along the icy, unprotected walk. Frigid gusts whistled through frost-rimed metal framing, the support structure meant for enclosing ferroglass which was still waiting on delivery three years later. A strong blast of wind blew back his parka’s fur-lined hood and ran cold hands down the back of his neck. Dry snow, as gritty as sand, stung at his eyes.
Ducking forward, the large man weathered Warlock’s arctic grip until he finally bulldozed
