TEXT: BattleCorps
  DJINN OF DESPAIR
  Kevin Killiany
  Chapter Three
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Jungle, northeast of Chevalier Planetary Evalua-
  tion Base 
  Despair, Ender’s Cluster 
  Lyran Alliance 
  28 October 3057
  Lex brought her Nightsky down to a walk as she neared the pe-
  rimeter of the mysterious compound. Without Caradine’s ragged 
  and uneven breathing behind her, she would have devoted an 
  hour to recon before approaching this close. As it was, she knew 
  she had to figure out what she could as she closed.
  Sensors probing through the murk of Despair’s atmosphere indi-
  cated, confirmed, and reconfirmed the base had no fortifications, 
  no armor, no obvious weapons emplacements. However, even 
  without the back trail telling her the Crockett and Flashman had 
  originated from this valley, the fact that the base existed at all sig-
  naled danger enough.
  Two outlying domes were clearly abandoned. Caved panels left 
  the interior open to Despair’s corrosive atmosphere and the ubiq-
  uitous ferns grew up around and through the support frames. 
  But the bulk of the outpost was intact—including the main dome 
  and attached ’Mech hangar. Significantly, there was no evidence 
  of DropShip landings, nor beaten paths indicating in which direc-
  tion the field might lie. This could not be the center of the pirate’s 
  operations.
  Supporting that theory was the near lack of energy readings. 
  The fusion generator, adjacent to the ’Mech hangar, was active 
  and most of the circuits read live on Lex’s screens—but only a 
  small area of the main dome was actively drawing power.
  The Nightsky’s TharHes Ares array found no hardened metal, no 
  energy weapons, and no targeting systems. That did not rule out man-
  ually aimed missile or ballistic weapons—and certainly not mines—but 
  the lack of armor indicated the base was essentially defenseless.
  As soon as she was sure of the range, Lex targeted the com-
  munications array at the top of the lone radio tower with her large 
  pulse laser. An isolated base with radio wouldn’t be isolated for 
  long. She had no doubt the base had already called for any help it 
  could. But keeping any relief in the dark as to what they were up 
  against might slow them down. 
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Of course, it would also insure they brought everything they had 
  with them when they came.
  Lex’s diagnostic computer warned the large pulse laser’s condi-
  tion could not be confirmed by internal sensors. A flashing amber 
  idiot light advised a thorough inspection by certified technicians 
  before firing. But the safety interlocks had not frozen the fire se-
  quence. 
  She fired.
  The beam seemed to diffuse in the soupy air. The strobing pulse 
  obliterated the unarmored comm array, but the core of coherent 
  energy was surrounded by an unaccustomed cone of ghostly lu-
  minescence—as though the laser had become a giant flashlight. 
  The Nightsky’s right arm flared white on its own thermal register 
  as energy escaped through gaps in the laser housing.
  The amber light now flashed an angry red, but she still had fire 
  control. Apparently the Nightsky didn’t know what to make of 
  the laser’s unusual performance. Of course. Neither the target-
  ing computer nor the diagnostic systems were set up to calculate 
  how much of the laser’s energy had been on target and how much 
  wasted. Or how many more shots she had before it blew itself to 
  pieces. By the numbers, the large pulse laser should be a dead 
  weight on the end of its right arm.
  She would never be able to prove that thought caused her tar-
  geting sensors to ping heavy metal at that precise second, but she 
  would always believe it. Despair’s ion-charged air and intervening 
  layers of metal fogged the readings beyond the computer’s ability 
  to lock on, much less identify, but there was definitely something 
  massive and armored concealed within the ’Mech hangar.
  That the only apparent enemy ’Mech had chosen her destination 
  as its hiding place didn’t surprise her. It not only fit the string of 
  luck she’d been running, it made perfect sense strategically. 
  As much strategic sense as parking a ’Mech right where she’d 
  expect it to be to distract her from other dangers. Lex flared wide, 
  keeping her options open—scanning and rescanning in all direc-
  tions as she made her way toward the hangar’s gaping doors.
  Her screens continued to remain blank. And thermal readings of 
  the hanger indicated the ’Mech inside was powered down. A sta-
  tus that should mean she’d have five minutes warning before the 
  machine became dangerous. Though she knew a MechWarrior 
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  willing to override safety protocols and risk the control interfaces 
  could get a cold machine mobile in seconds. 
  Especially if only to fire a cannon or spread of missiles.
  The armor and munitions readings seemed to spread as she 
  approached the hangar. Intellectually she knew she was seeing 
  stacked armor plate and crated munitions come into focus as sen-
  sor resolution improved, but the effect was of heavy metal boiling 
  up through the fog. 
  Nothing moved. 
  Heat readings were confined to the main dome.
  The ’Mech entrance to the hangar was a tunnel hung with a series 
  of vapor-trapping curtains. Lex couldn’t imagine the set-up kept 
  the air inside the hangar completely free of Despair’s corrosive at-
  mosphere, but it evidently worked. And, her sensors assured her, 
  the tunnel was free of booby traps.
  As she eased through the final series of baffles into the hangar 
  proper, the tower of armor resolved itself into a light BattleMech 
  backed into a repair bay in the rear corner of the hangar. All of the 
  umbilicals had been detached and dust and litter around the work 
  area indicated repair operations had ceased months, if not years, 
  ago.
  It irked Lex that she could not immediately identify the machine, 
  beyond the fact that it was old. Of course her computer knew what 
  it was, but momentary pride kept her from looking at the readout 
  screen.
  Complicating her ID was the blasted stump where the ’Mech’s 
  right arm should have joined the shoulder. The torso armor showed 
  no sign of damage beyond light scorching—no doubt residue of 
  the arm’s destruction. An internal explosion limited to the arm?
  Sensors indicated that in its mangled state it massed just over 
  twenty tons, though she would have guessed twenty-five. The ex-
  tra volume implied empty spaces in the frame, though that design 
  choice made no sense to Lex. Looking closer, she saw open ac-
  cess hatches in the ’Mech’s right leg—the machine’s extremities 
  were practically hollow.
  The cockpit that rose above the torso and was as large as her 
  Nightsky’s and clearly designed to rotate. Not far, of course—prob-
  ably no more than twenty or thirty degrees in either direction. A 
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  cockpit that turned the pilot’s line of orientation too far beyond the 
  centerline of the BattleMech could disrupt the reciprocal flow of 
  data between the neurohelmet and the gyro system. 
  A lot of Star League era ’Mechs had mounted rotating heads, 
  and required complex and fragile stability interfaces to keep the 
  machine upright when the pilot was out of alignment. An unavail-
  able interface module had permanently sidelined the Grasshopper 
  she’d been assigned when she first came to the Florida. Most 
  modern ’Mechs—such as her Nightsky—used the more rugged 
  fixed-cockpit design to prevent this problem. 
  Two disproportionately tall cooling fins rising to either side of 
  the cockpit made the entire assembly look as though a conven-
  tional fighter had been parked atop the ’Mech’s shoulders with its 
  wings folded up for storage.
  The reason for the unconventional cooling system—and the inde-
  pendent rotation of the cockpit—was obvious. The broad muzzle 
  of a medium laser thrust forward from the lower edge of the fer-
  roglass canopy. 
  The penny dropped.
  “You are a Thorn,” she told the dismembered and disassembled 
  BattleMech. 
  A glance at the text screen confirmed her identification. The 
  missing right arm had been a five-tube missile launcher which—
  when sub-spec post Star League components were used—was 
  notorious for ammo problems.
  Caradine’s breath caught. Then resumed. It wasn’t much, but it 
  was enough to squelch Lex’s moment of satisfaction. Her lance-
  mate was dying and she was wasting precious seconds playing 
  guessing games.
  Lex checked her screens. Sensors sweeping and resweeping 
  the base around her confirmed no active weapons systems. Of 
  course. Threat alarms would have been hooting if they’d spotted 
  a live bogie.
  Apparently some catastrophic failure of the LRM’s ammo feed 
  had disabled the Thorn. And—judging from the dust and debris—
  the pirates lacked the tech to replace it.
  Though it was not completely disabled. With no power run-
  ning through the smaller ’Mech’s systems, it was difficult for her 
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Nightsky’s sensors to get more than general readings, but—ex-
  cept for the destroyed missile launcher and the leg armor neatly 
  stacked to one side of the bay—everything seemed to be in place 
  and in working order.
  There were five other ’Mech bays in the hangar—and all five 
  showed signs of recent use. That meant at least three bogies in 
  the field. There could be more, if some of the bays served more 
  than one machine. But with one bay occupied by a ’Mech that 
  hadn’t moved in months—and could have been parked anywhere 
  if they’d needed the space—she doubted there were more than 
  three enemy BattleMechs unaccounted for.
  So it’s an even match-up. 
  Assuming all of the Florida ’Mechs were present when battle 
  was joined. And assuming the three mystery ’Mechs weren’t fully-
  operational assaults.
  And assuming I pull this off without handing them my Nightsky.
  Lex wasted no time backing her Nightsky into the bay clos-
  est to the personnel doors that led to the main dome. The 
  scaffolding was basic, no lifts. Which meant she was going to 
  have to carry Caradine down three metal ladders to reach the 
  ground.
  Default configuration of the first aid kit’s evac rig was to hold an 
  unconscious casualty across the shoulders in a fireman’s carry. 
  But the medicos stocking the BattleMech kits had understood the 
  need to traverse ladders and narrow hatches. It took seconds to 
  adjust the straps to back carry. 
  Getting the rig on Caradine’s limp form took longer. Finding the 
  lost oxygen cylinder, she set it in its pouch on the side of the evac 
  harness, but left the unconscious woman on the ’Mech’s oxy sup-
  ply.
  Lex kept one eye on the sensor readings as she worked. Nothing 
  was moving—at least not in her direction. Though she wasn’t sure 
  how accurately the combat computer was parsing the heat signa-
  tures within the dome.
  Unable to put it off any longer, Lex powered down the reactor. 
  There would be enough power in the capacitators to fire the lasers 
  for several seconds—though the amount of available energy de-
  creased exponentially as the systems cooled.
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Lying on her back, Lex thrust her head and shoulders under the 
  control console. Pulling the interface coupling from the useless 
  jump jet controls, she switched the module for the leg actuator 
  controls. Then she shoved the actuator module into the gap in the 
  jump jet board. 
  The two featureless cubes of blue plastic were nearly identical to 
  the untrained eye, but their contacts didn’t correspond. The switch 
  rendered all motive circuits useless. Though anyone who cracked 
  the standard security lock-outs would be able to move the arms 
  and fire the lasers, the ’Mech was immobile. 
  Only someone who had spent as much time crawling through 
  her beloved Nightsky as she had would be able to spot the switch 
  without going through a complete diagnostic. A diagnostic that 
  required hardware she doubted the pirates had.
  Satisfied her BattleMech was as secured against hijacking as 
  she could make it, Lex started to shrug her way into the evac rig 
  holding Caradine.
  She paused mid-motion, her eye on Caradine’s massive slug gun. 
  Easing her comrade back down, she picked up the heavy weapon. 
  Going against an unknown enemy she was going to want every 
  weapon she could carry.
  A quick examination confirmed the finely tooled harness was 
  completely useless to her. 
  The holster was designed to ride high and hold the weapon 
  muzzle-down, with the heel of the butt facing forward. A logical 
  position for Caradine—with the slender build of a dancer, she had 
  no trouble reaching across her chest. But while not buxom, Lex 
  was not a dancer. She needed an inverted holster—one that held 
  the butt down and the muzzle pointing up and back—slung low so 
  she could reach across below her breasts to draw the weapon.
  The rig was obviously custom made to fit Caradine. There was 
  no way to adjust the harness straps or to reverse the holster.
  Lex set her service laser aside and slid the automatic into its 
  boot-top holster. The larger gun fit, barely. But it was not as se-
  cure. If she did anything besides stand still, she’d have to hold the 
  gun in her hand. Actually, considering the TacSit, keeping it in her 
  hand made sense. 
  But climbing down the ladders would require both her hands 
  and the gun would tip out of the holster. The waistband of her 
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  shorts was not substantial enough to support the weight of the 
  gun. Even if it had, the bend and flex of descending the ladder 
  would dig the long barreled weapon into her gut.
  Opening her cooling vest, Lex shoved the weapon down the front 
  of her shirt. The heavy elastic of her athletic bra held it firmly, if 
  uncomfortably, in place. It was not the best arrangement. In many 
  ways it was the worst, with the gun was clearly visible through 
  the light, sweat-wicking material of her tank top while remaining 
  impossible to draw quickly. But the automatic would be secure for 
  the climb down.
  Once she was on the ground, the gun would be in her hand.
  She started to replace the slender service laser, but paused again, 
  this time looking at the heavy automatic’s spare magazines. Each 
  held twenty rounds and two held tightly together fit snugly in the 
  boot holster. Reaching behind, Lex slid the light weight laser into 
  the waistband of her shorts at the small of her back. The elastic 
  was stiff enough for the lighter weapon. Particularly with the cool-
  ing vest holding it in place.
  It would be impossible to draw the laser quickly—doubly so with 
  Caradine slung behind—but as hideouts went it was the best she 
  could do. Particularly if the enemy was distracted by the big slug 
  gun in her hand.
  It was difficult getting Caradine’s forty-nine kilos of dead weight 
  onto her back in the confined space of the cockpit, but at last she 
  had her lancemate secured and breathing fresh oxygen from her 
  own tank.
  “Pay attention, Leftenant,” Lex said to the unconscious form on 
  her back. “You’ll need to remember this for my court marshal.
  “This is the moment I go from being very stupid to being suicid-
  ally stupid.”
  With a decisive slap, she released the locks. Above her the ac-
  cess hatch swung open.
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Ender’s Cluster 
  Timbuktu Theater 
  Lyran Alliance 
  26 October 3057
  “While we agree the distribution nexus seems to be Ender’s 
  Cluster,” Visount Darmon, Governor of Ender’s Cluster and left 
  hand of the Marquis, said. Again. “There is no practical way for 
  the ultimate source of MindMASC to be either on Ender or in the 
  Cluster.”
  Sardella was beginning to regret his decision to make a cour-
  tesy call on the Marquis--which had gotten him no farther than 
  the Viscount. He had the authority to simply order a pilot to guide 
  his task force into the Cluster. But Rochelle had been driving home 
  the idea that the Eighth would get better cooperation from the ci-
  vilian authorities if they made the effort to be diplomatic. 
  Like anyone got into the Eighth because they were good at di-
  plomacy.
  He suspected Sir Darmon was good at nothing else. The portly lit-
  tle man had a sleek and satisfied look, even when he was frowning 
  thoughtfully as he chose his phrases. His perfectly waved hair was 
  unnaturally neat and he showed no sign Ender’s humidity—evident 
  even in the air conditioned gubernatorial offices—bothered him in 
  the least. His multi-layered suit—was that two vests?—was so ex-
  actly tailored to his pear-shaped physique it fit like a second skin. 
  His office, scaled like an audience chamber and one flourish short 
  of terminally ornate, was obviously Sir Darmon’s natural habitat. 
  The art on the walls represented works by artists even Sardella 
  recognized and were either real or some of the best reproduc-
  tions he’d ever seen. Given that the paintings and frescoes weren’t 
  hung behind ferroglass in a national museum under twenty-four 
  hour guard, he suspected the latter.
  He was glad he hadn’t worn his dress uniform. It would have 
  looked tawdry in these surroundings.
  “There are simply no worlds supporting any sizeable primate 
  population,” the viscount was saying. “Much less the industrial 
  base to harvest any such population in the quantities needed 
  to produce the amounts of the drug the Bureau of Controlled 
  Substances seems to think is in circulation.”
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 10
  “But there are worlds that have not been thoroughly explored,” 
  Sardella pointed out. Again. 
  Diplomacy was not his long suit. Hell, he’d been told polite con-
  versation of any sort was not his long suit. But for the life of him, 
  he could not understand why the Marquis’s left hand man was 
  arguing against the Eighth’s search of the Cluster. It was possible 
  the Ender’s Cluster planetary administration had something to 
  hide, but the viscount’s body language and affect told Sardella Sir 
  Darmon was either a gifted actor or had nothing to hide. 
  It’s true, bureaucrats never get anything done because they like 
  preventing any form of action.
  Aloud he said: “There are worlds within the Cluster which sup-
  port life. Lots of unregulated ships go in and out of the Cluster. 
  Treasure hunters, private or corporate prospecting teams....”
  “None of which would support the sort of operation you expect 
  to find,” Sir Darmon cut him off. “The adrenal gland—any gland—
  of a primate is smaller than a data crystal. Even if a single animal 
  produced a thousand doses, a commercial MindMASC farm 
  large enough to account for the distribution figures the Bureau of 
  Controlled Substances has provided would require slaughtering 
  tens of thousands of the creatures daily. The logistics of disposing 
  of the unused carcasses alone beggar the imagination.”
  Sardella sighed. The noble had a point. He hadn’t seen his fa-
  ther’s cattle ranch in decades, but he still remembered the herds 
  of meat animals covering miles. And the blood stench roiling back 
  from the massive Saturn harvesters when the huge machines 
  made their scheduled visits. 
  He’d heard people wax romantic about the life of a cowboy, but 
  the memory that stuck with him was always of herding those stu-
  pid, trusting beasts into the maw of the waiting processor.
  “I tend to agree,” he said, pulling his head back into Viscount 
  Darmon’s office. “But, like you said, the distribution patterns make 
  the Cluster the best place to look.
  “Even if we find nothing at all, we need to search,” he added. 
  “Eliminating the Cluster would be the first step in finding where 
  the stuff is really coming from.”
  Sir Darmon nodded and reached forward to tap what appeared 
  to be a blank spot on his desk. A holomap of the cluster, with ma-
  jor bodies labeled, appeared in the air between them.
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 11
  “Ender’s Three, Four, and Seven have planets currently occupied 
  by scientific or commercial colonies,” he said. 
  “Isle of Borneo, This Is It, and Despair,” Sardella read the world 
  names aloud.
  “This Is It?”
  “Pardon?”
  “Ender’s Four,” Sir Darmon explained. “Note the question mark. 
  The name of the world is ‘This Is It?’ Usually pronounced in an 
  incredulous tone, I’m told.”
  Sardella grunted.
  “I would think we can safely rule those three systems out,” Sir 
  Darmon added. “If there were giant monkey plantations on any of 
  those worlds, someone would have mentioned them.”
  Sardella nodded agreeably while mentally moving the three 
  worlds to the top of the priority list. 
  He glanced again at the holographic image of the Cluster. A spi-
  ral search pattern made the most sense. And starting with the 
  three worlds the viscount had assured him were pointless... 
  Ender’s Seven. The first rock they turned over would be 
  Despair.
  
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