TEXT: BattleCorps
  DJINN OF DESPAIR
  Kevin Killiany
  Chapter Six
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Jungle 
  Northeast of Chevalier Planetary Evaluation Base 
  Despair, Ender’s Cluster 
  Lyran Alliance 
  29 October 3057
  Sardella watched the softwoods bend back as his Highlander-732 
  pushed through the copse of trees. The expected cracks and splin-
  ters didn’t come—the resilient conifers simply flexed far enough 
  to let him pass. Having shoved through a dozen such stands of 
  trees he knew the tree wouldn’t snap back to its original shape im-
  mediately, but he had no doubt it would be serenely upright again 
  in a matter of hours. 
  Jarhaal called them rubber trees. The science wonks probably 
  had a less interesting and less accurate name for them. 
  His Highlander—along with Jarhaal’s and Twindle’s—had to press 
  their way through the trees, even though it forced them to move 
  slowly. Stepping off the loamy ridges or islands or whatever the 
  proper name was for the narrow tracks of ground dense enough 
  to support the rubber trees meant sinking the heavy BattleMechs 
  hip-deep in bog. 
  The bog didn’t hurt the machines, of course, but it had taken 
  Twindle thirty minutes to regain solid footing that was a single 
  step behind her. And the struggle of turning her BattleMech had 
  sucked the ninety-ton machine down to its armpits.
  Jarhaal had suggested she fire her jump jets, but she’d wise-
  ly ignored him. Touching off fusion jets buried in quasi-solid 
  bog would have either breached a chamber with back pressure 
  or flash-dried the peat to entombing cement. Neither result 
  would have completely disabled the BattleMech, but either 
  would have set Twindle up for a lot more ridicule than simply 
  sinking. And landing her brand new ’Mech in the shop on its 
  first tour....
  Sardella’s lance was composed entirely of new Highlander-732s—
  he himself had upgraded from his venerable 733 just over a month 
  ago. Soon all of Third Bat Baker Company would be one hundred 
  percent factory fresh, thanks to the newly-minted contract with 
  StarCorp. He wasn’t sure which rumors concerning the deal were 
  true, but he did know command reorganization was already under 
  way. In a few months the Eighth Regulars would have a fourth bat-
  
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  talion—comprised entirely of Highlander 732s and Emperor 6-As 
  fresh from the StarCorp assembly line on Son Hoa.
  Sardella’s cockpit rocked, throwing him against his safety harness. 
  The clayey loam had shifted beneath the ninety-ton machine—its 
  right foot had slipped a sudden pair of meters. Not enough to 
  upset the gyro system, but enough to remind him the command 
  couch was no place to be daydreaming about the future.
  Ahead and to the right the icon of the Florida TTM’s Hatchetman 
  told him roughly where their scout had gotten to. The local atmo-
  sphere tended to fuzz the Identify Friend/Foe transponder’s range 
  and bearing numbers. 
  Normally a militia Hatchetman would not be used as a scout. Of 
  course, this was not normally. The lighter machine could traipse 
  across ground that would swallow their assault ’Mechs.
  He would have preferred doing without the Florida’s help at all. 
  Leftenant Britto had been the very picture of the socially connect-
  ed, upright...
  Sardella shook his head. 
  The young prig had been properly respectful of Sardella’s rank, 
  but managed to make it clear he felt he was extending a special 
  courtesy in doing so. The Nagelring had been swarming with 
  Britto’s ilk—pampered scions who’d treated him as though the full 
  scholarship his scores had earned him somehow made him less 
  worthy to pilot a BattleMech than those born to the class.
  Sardella deliberately unclenched his jaw. The arrogant up-
  start—no doubt well on his way to a politically astute career with 
  the Eleventh—was safely behind them, supporting Franks as the 
  Highlander pilot protected Chevalier Base. 
  He smiled at the memory of the Florida MechWarrior’s face as 
  he accepted to the information his rank in the Lyran Alliance had 
  dropped from the FedCom “first leftenant” to simply “leutnant.” 
  No doubt some adjustment would be made once the militia lance 
  rejoined its command, but Sardella had enjoyed making the field 
  adjustment.
  The Florida Hatchetman pilot seemed to be a cut above his lance 
  leader professionally, but was just as annoying in his own way. So 
  far just a voice on the radio, the man’s foppish attitude seemed 
  to be amused and bored by turns. Sardella couldn’t decide if he 
  imitating holovid stereotypes because he didn’t know any better 
  
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  or just thought he could impress the Eighth by pretending to be 
  an old hand.
  Given the evident efficiency and speed with which the militia 
  jockey zigzagged across their projected course, Sardella was in-
  clined to think he was trying to be impressive. The good scouting 
  skills almost made up for the pretentious attitude—but it didn’t 
  disguise the fact he was a junior jockey in the least competent 
  theater militia fielded by the Lyran Alliance.
  Maybe he thought being tapped for a mission with the Eighth 
  was his chance to get out of the major leagues.
  Sardella grinned at the thought.
  His ad hoc lance was proceeding by most direct route to the 
  fallen Crockett the noble young Britto had found. From there they 
  would reconnoiter along the pirate’s back trail. Or, failing that—like-
  ly given Despair’s enthusiastic flora and resilient soil—determine 
  the search pattern most likely to prove fruitful.
  To his left a dense stand of almost-cypress towered, teasing with 
  their implication of solid earth. The tall hardwoods—surrounded 
  by the “knees” of their root system sticking up out of the alkali 
  soup Despair called water—needed to be standing in at least six 
  meters of mush softer than oatmeal to grow.
  Sardella glanced at his scanner screens. Nothing. Or rather, a 
  lot of somethings that signified nothing. Whips of metal-heavy 
  mist that read like floating sheets of copper, thermal sheers that 
  bounced back funhouse reflections of his own image, and acres 
  of bog and swamp that his StarLight LX-1 targeting computer in-
  sisted was as solid as DropShip armor.
  Of course, when he focused the sensors directly at the ground 
  ahead, they parsed the blends of solids and liquids. Why it didn’t 
  remember what it had seen when he resumed sweeping the hori-
  zon was beyond him. Evidently it was just one of those differences 
  between a computer and a brain. 
  Reaching the end of the meandering string of rubber trees, he 
  aimed his targeting sensors down. Sweeping the stretch of marsh 
  between him and the next stand he found a bridge of solid ground 
  that arced to his right. It would take them a half kilometer out of 
  their way but it was the only trustworthy trail he could find.
  Not for the first time, he considered returning to the Pith and 
  hopping directly to the solid earth of the foothills. But—as the pilot 
  
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  had explained—the only way to travel that short distance was to 
  exit the blinding atmosphere and circle the world. A simple up/
  down hop didn’t give the nav computer sufficient time to recali-
  brate and calculate the landing before it was blinded again.
  Also, the hop would have carried them past any indication of 
  pirate movements on the surface. Intel that may well have proved 
  vital. If there had been any. So far, all they’d found was bog.
  And giant dinosaur birds. 
  Sardella had to admit those beasts were impressive. The small 
  herd they’d encountered—a family pod, their Florida scout called 
  it—had included beasts that towered above the Highlanders. 
  Though his instruments said their mass had been about equal to 
  the BattleMech’s, their size had stunned him. Or perhaps it wasn’t 
  just that they were big, but the fact that they were big and alive.
  A flurry of movement hear the ground caught his eye. Thermal 
  imaging confirmed warm-blooded life forms as a pack of six-
  legged birds boiled out of the dense ferns of the fen. In apparent 
  frenzy the beasts attacked his Highlander, snapping blindly at its 
  lower legs and ankle actuators.
  The creatures massed three to five tons each. If Sardella had 
  been on the ground—even in a battle suit—he’d have been de-
  voured in seconds. As it was, he was merely annoyed. Trying to 
  kick or stomp the creatures on the slippery soil would only make 
  it difficult to keep his ’Mech upright and on course. And he knew 
  from the training video that the creatures were too stupid to un-
  derstand the threat of his weapons even if he blasted a few. 
  Not that he was going to risk advertising their position to any 
  observers the pirates may have posted with weapons fire.
  Without a club to swing at the scavengers, there was nothing 
  for it but to slog through the pack until the creatures either lost 
  interest or fell beneath the Highlander’s plodding tread through 
  dumb luck.
  A Berserker would be nice.
  He wondered how the bird-men natives coped with the beasts. 
  Bannik Severin, the expert on Despair’s big secret—Despair’s for-
  mer big secret—was on some expedition far enough from their field 
  of operations to not matter. But from what Sardella had seen on the 
  vid Dr. Tindale had shown them, a bird man would have been little 
  more than a mouthful for the scavengers yapping at his ankles. 
  
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  With only spears and stone axes to defend themselves....
  He shuddered.
  There was a lot to be said for applied technology.
  Evidently tiring of trying to bring his BattleMech down, the pack 
  of jackals turned on Jarhaal’s machine. Unlike Sardella, he risked a 
  stumble side-kicking a knot of the creatures. Two or three stayed be-
  hind to devour the few he’d wounded, but the rest continued to break 
  their teeth—if they have teeth—against the armor of his lower legs.
  For reasons that no doubt made sense to the scavengers, 
  Twindle’s Highlander strode through the gauntlet unmolested.
  The jackal dinosaur birds seemed to have been guarding the 
  edge of the swamp. The ground rose slightly ahead of them and 
  read solid even when sensor arrays were focused straight down. 
  There were still pockets of bog—some the size of lakes—but the 
  changing vegetation made the muddy pits easy to spot.
  Sardella doubled his speed.
  Passing a thick stand of hardwoods, he caught sight of the bright 
  blue Florida Hatchetman standing on the crest of a low ridge to 
  his left. A glance at his screens confirmed that his sensors didn’t 
  see the BattleMech, even though it was at the extreme edge of his 
  weapons’ range.
  “Either of you have him on sensors?” he asked.
  “Clear as day,” Twindle answered. “Why?”
  “I’ve got nothing,” Jarhaal added. “Wait. Heavy metal. But more 
  on the ground than standing.”
  “Negative on the ground metal,” Twindle said. “They weren’t kid-
  ding about this atmosphere.”
  Sardella grunted. A changing wind had evidently swept away 
  the veil and he now had clear numbers on the upright Hatchetman. 
  But the ground clutter read like nearly four times its mass.
  Which would make sense with an assault and a medium ’Mech 
  at his feet.
  Without a word he headed for the nearest point of the ridge, 
  choosing to follow its curve around the suspiciously flat ground 
  between them and the Florida ’Mech.
  
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  “Looks like we have some new players on the field,” said Aldicott 
  as Sardella drew near. His voice sounded less bored than usual. 
  “Or maybe the pirates have dissention within the ranks.”
  “How do you mean?”
  The Hatchetman’s left arm extended, pointing toward the bog 
  below the slope.
  Sardella saw what looked like the lower half of a large ’Mech’s 
  torso sitting on the ground. Evidently the upper torso had been 
  removed at the rotator ring, though he could think of no reason for 
  someone do a field strip like that in the middle of the wilderness. 
  Then he realized the curves and angles jutting just above the 
  thick ferns were hip assemblies. The torso wasn’t sitting on the 
  ground, the bog had sucked the legs down.
  “I read that as the bottom half of a Flashman,” Aldicott said. 
  “Unless Leftenant Britto took out a Flashman and forgot to men-
  tion it, there’s at least one unknown BattleMech in play.
  “From what I can pick up,” he added, walking his own BattleMech 
  out onto the soft ground, “the rest of it is here, there, and there. 
  Already sunk.”
  “Like you’re going to be if you don’t get back on solid ground,” 
  Twindle pointed out. 
  “Little chance of that at only forty-five tons,” the Florida militia-
  man answered. “You’d be fine, too, if you kept your behemoth 
  moving.”
  Sardella bit back a reprimand at Aldicott’s patronizing tone. He’d 
  let the idiot realize how much his attempt to impress the Regulars 
  with his expertise had backfired through the Florida’s CO after the 
  mission was over.
  “There’s hardpan under the bog,” the militia jockey was saying. 
  “This Flashman half is standing on it. The broken bits that were 
  blown away are near enough to the surface for my sensors to read 
  when I stand right on top of them. 
  “If I can determine what weapons mix took this chap out so thor-
  oughly, we’ll have some idea what we’re up against.” 
  “Obviously an assault of some sort,” Sardella said. “An alpha 
  strike from an Awesome at close range would blow the top off a 
  Flashman.
  
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  “If we wanted to flip this Crockett over, it’s a good bet we’d find 
  PPC scars all over its front as well.”
  “Perhaps.” The militia jockey stretched the word out. “I take it you 
  don’t credit Leftenant Britto’s assessment of Leftenant Caradine’s 
  performance.”
  “A Hatchetman might hinder an assault ’Mech,” Sardella said, 
  making his annoyance with the regional weekend warrior’s pre-
  sumption clear. “Maybe even do some damage.
  “But even if seasoned MechWarriors had been piloting them, if 
  Caradine’s Hatchetman and the Nightsky really came up against 
  this Crockett and another assault the way Britto says he thinks 
  they did—” Sardella shook his head, not even bothering to explain 
  how many ways that scenario was wrong. “Your Leftenant Atreus 
  showed the only brains of the bunch when she ran like hell.”
  “Stereotypical attitude,” Aldicott sounded almost sleepy. “I re-
  member it well.”
  Sardella felt his jaw slacken at the condescending tone. But be-
  fore he could blister the yokel’s hide, Jarhaal interrupted.
  “Looks like they salvaged the Nightsky.”
  Sardella joined him on the other side of the fallen Crockett. The 
  ground had been torn up, but the ferocious growth rate of the lo-
  cal ferns made it impossible to determine more. Except...
  “Any sort of tractor would have torn up a lot more ground,” he 
  said. “Gouged furrows pulling it out and a trail hauling it away.”
  Sardella replayed the loop of battle ROM footage Britto had pro-
  vided on a secondary screen. The medium ’Mech looked pretty 
  smashed by the Crockett. But now that he had some experience 
  with Despair’s deceptive soil he realized the machine could have 
  been pressed into the earth rather than crushed. 
  “Another ’Mech dragged it clear,” he said, pointing to deep fur-
  rows where something had evidently dug in its heels. “Then they 
  got a jockey inside and walked the thing out of here.”
  “Not an Awesome, then,” Aldicott said mildly. “No hands.”
  Sardella shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the militia-
  man’s interjection. The pompous Florida ’Mech jockey seemed 
  incapable of staying silent—or in his place. No wonder he’d been 
  sent to serve out his time on the back side of nowhere.
  
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  “Whoever our unknown enemy—our second unknown enemy—
  is,” Sardella said to his own MechWarriors. “It looks like they’ve 
  been allowed to salvage a state of the art BattleMech in perfect 
  working order.”
  For a moment he was annoyed at Britto for letting the pirates 
  get the Nightsky, but recognized the feeling as foolish. While his 
  Axeman was more formidable than a Hatchetman or Nightsky, 
  there was little the Florida leutnant could have done against what-
  ever took out the Crockett and the Flashman. If he’d tried to guard 
  the fallen ’Mech until civilians from Chevalier Base arrived to sal-
  vage it, he would only have succeeded in getting himself killed.
  Something in the still looping image from the Axeman’s battle 
  ROM caught his eye. He froze the image, then moved his Highlander 
  closer to the felled Crockett to eyeball the damage directly.
  “Somebody got this guy in the back with an auto cannon,” he 
  said. “High. Across the back of the Hollies and sensor array.”
  “Stupid shot.”
  “May have been all he had time for,” Sardella said. 
  Looking around he tried to get a feel for how the battle had 
  played out, but the landscape yielded few clues. From the pattern 
  of charred earth and day-old growth, a lot of laser fire had been 
  directed at something standing in front of the slope beneath his 
  feet. But he could see no evidence a heavy or assault ’Mech had 
  stood on the soft bog at the base of the hill. It was almost as if the 
  Flashman had been aiming at the hillside itself.
  And what assault ’Mech had enough PPCs to blast a Flashman’s 
  torso to scrap, an autocannon to spray the Crockett and hands 
  to grab a Nightsky? More than one BattleMech had taken out the 
  Crockett and the Flashman. 
  Much as he hated to admit it, the Florida militiaman was probably 
  right about there being some sort of civil war within the pirate ranks.
  Sardella’s radio beeped. Looking down he saw Aldicott had 
  squirted him a compressed data file. No doubt his assay of the 
  Flashman wreckage. He shunted it to a reader without expanding 
  and returned his attention to the rolling landscape leading away 
  from the swamps.
  The ground didn’t hold tracks. But logic dictated that was the 
  only course BattleMechs wanting to avoid the swamps would go.
  
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  “Any ID on the paint scheme?” he asked Twindle. Her gift for or-
  ganizing data had made her his defacto intelligence officer years 
  ago.
  “Looks like we’re up against the Adders,” she answered.
  “Accountants?”
  “Adders are venomous serpents on Terra,” Twindle said as though 
  Sardella had asked a reasonable question. “And up until about thir-
  ty-five years ago they were a marginal mercenary company. Did 
  some work on both sides of the law. Nothing major—at least nothing 
  major we could document. The golden kitties may have more—the 
  Adders spent most of their time in the Eleventh’s territory.”
  “What do we know now?” Sardella asked. “Assets and tactics.”
  “The Adders had a full company and liked to operate as two 
  ComStar-style demi-companies. No tech support—or anything 
  else—to speak of,” Twindle’s distracted tone told Sardella she 
  was reading a screen. “Conflicting reports on composition which 
  could reflect personnel changes or battlefield gains and losses or 
  just bad reporting. Best guess: two or three light scouts with the 
  rest probably heavies and assaults. 
  “Their specialty was brute force.”
  “You keep saying was.”
  “They dropped off everyone’s radar thirty, thirty-five years ago,” 
  Twindle answered. “File says it was assumed they’d broken up or 
  been folded into some larger outfit.”
  “Seems we’ve found their hideaway,” Aldicott broke in.
  Sardella was surprised to find the Hatchetman standing at his 
  elbow. 
  The medium ’Mech had its back to him, facing toward distant 
  foothills barely visible through the shifting mists.
  “The question is, why are they here?”
  “Garrison duty?” Jarhaal suggested. “Say they got folded into 
  some big boys, got stuck with the job of guarding their home base 
  while the main force does business.”
  “Nobody would make Despair home unless they had to,” Twindle 
  said with feeling. “But it’s a great stash for goods you can’t move.”
  
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  Sardella considered. 
  It made a certain amount of sense. Particularly given the poor 
  condition of the Crockett’s paint and finish. Guarding a storage 
  dump—probably stranded here and dependent on their “employ-
  ers” for food, water, even breathable air. Knowing failure to protect 
  the cache would result in slow starvation—or even slaughter. 
  “Next door to hell,” Aldicott said, his thoughts evidently shadow-
  ing Sardella’s.
  For once he agreed with the militiaman.
  “But thirty-five years?” Twindle asked. “These jockeys can’t pos-
  sibly be the originals.”
  “Maybe just the ’Mechs stayed,” Jarhaal said. “Rotating personnel 
  is a hell of a lot easier than rotating a company of BattleMechs.”
  Sardella nodded. He certainly liked that scenario better than the 
  one he’d been imagining.
  They’d come in looking for a drug manufacturing ring and found 
  a pirate stronghold instead. It wasn’t the objective they’d been as-
  signed, but as targets of opportunity went, it was one of the best.
  By the letter of his orders, Sardella should leave the pirates 
  where he’d found them and go after the drug distribution center. 
  Not really a risk, since he doubted these goons had the resources 
  to get anywhere while Three Bat Two smoked out the druggies.
   But why take the chance? There was enough flex in the objec-
  tive to clean out this viper den before moving on. Besides, that’s 
  what the Eighth did. 
  “The way I see it, Aldicott’s on the right track,” he said. He’d prob-
  ably pay for that admission with extra attitude from the militiaman, 
  but it wasn’t in him to not acknowledge good thinking. “There’s 
  some sort of power struggle going on with the pirates.
  “Right now we got no idea how many are on which side and who’s 
  beating who—or even if these Adders are the only ones involved,” 
  he let the possibility of a larger force of unidentified hostiles sink 
  in. “Either way, they’re shooting at each other, and they obviously 
  don’t care if bystanders get caught in the crossfire.
  “Which means Chevalier Base is likely to become a shooting gal-
  lery real quick.”
  
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  He paused, inviting comment. No one offered a dissenting opin-
  ion.
  “It’s a good bet there’s a pirate stronghold within a day’s march 
  of here,” he said. “I want the Pith in geo-sync right over our heads. 
  They’re going to use the ship’s sensors to scan and rescan until 
  they can punch through this muck and get a reading.”
  Which means hiking two hours back until we’re close enough to 
  Chevalier to get a radio signal through.
  “One more thing,” he knew he was about to point the obvious, 
  but it was better to be sure everyone was on the same page than to 
  risk a fatal screw-up later. “The hostiles have captured a Nightsky 
  that may or may not be in shape to be a threat. More to the point, 
  it’s mounting a friendly IFF transponder.
  “If you see a Nightsky, I don’t care what it’s transmitting, take it 
  out.”
  
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