“Zāo gāo, William.” Evan fought against raising his arm too quickly to shield his vision. “It’s me.”
William Hartsfield clicked off the heavy flash, but did not hook it back to his belt. The weight sat comfortably in his hand and would make a good bludgeon. Evan didn’t worry for his safety. The man was simply nervous, and nervous men needed to feel prepared.
“How does it look?” the security man asked.
“It looks like the militia will be contracting more civilian work,” Evan said shortly, dismissing the arson with a shrug.
The repair depot was actually a matter of convenience for the Liao garrison, servicing any vehicles stationed at the spaceport. But it made for a nice diversion, and fire always hit the planetary news.
“Going to be a good haul,” the guard said.
Evan nodded. Four military hoverbikes commanded the center of the hangar, each parked inside a yellow box painted onto the floor. Beyond the bikes, red-tinted flashes dimly lit the interiors of two VV1 Rangers and circled around the metal cages of battlesuit berths. Feet shuffled over the smooth ferrocrete, and someone kicked a loose bar of metal they had cut from one cage. It clattered noisily over the floor. There had been no way to arrange a hijacking of the larger vehicles, so they’d be sabotaged and left behind.
“Time?” a voice called from inside one Ranger.
Evan checked his watch. “Plus six and time to put up or shut up, Greggor.” The large man was no deft hand at sabotage. He was simply holding the light for an Ijori Dè Guāng member who was. “If they can’t black box those vehicles, burn the ignition now and let’s move.”
Whit Greggor climbed out of the vehicle. “They’re closing up the panels now. Next time someone cranks one of these over, they’ll burn out every last circuit as well as the entire starter system.” He sounded like a kid at Christmas—a big kid, ready to blackjack the fat man and take the bag for himself.
It would have been easier to simply burn the Rangers now, but this way the sabotage might not be discovered for days. That meant another news cycle this week with mention of the Ijori Dè Guāng. People had to know that the resistance continued. They needed constant reminders.
Other cell members exited the two Rangers wearing watch caps and nylon face masks. William already knew Evan and Greggor, and the team Evan had assembled for this night’s work, but many of them did not know each other and Evan kept it that way. What a man does not know, he cannot betray.
So close to the end, William fidgeted from one foot to another. “They’ll be expecting me to check in soon, Kurst. We’ve got to wrap this up.”
Evan traded warm clasps with the security guard, steering him around as Greggor padded up silently behind. “We cannot talk again, William. You know that.” The man would fall under some suspicion no matter how Evan arranged this. William’s pro-Capellan politics were well documented.
“Yeah. I think this would be a good time to go visit relatives on Styk. You know, as part of my crisis therapy.” He smiled weakly. “Not in the face, okay? And, ah, nothing broken, if you can help it.”
Evan braced the man, clapping a gloved hand to each shoulder. “I promised we’d take good care of you,” he said, then released him as Greggor brought a small device up toward the back of his neck.
A flash of blue sparks and a singing zzzap, and it was all over. William Hartsfield collapsed like a gyro-struck BattleMech, his legs and arms twitching with uncontrollable spasms. The scent of ozone and scorched hair burned in the air. Evan forced himself to watch as Greggor knelt down to deliver another charge from the pocket stunner.
“We should kill him,” the large man said, standing. “You know this.”
Two sides warred in Evan’s heart. To maintain perfect security, a loose end like William should be silenced. Mai Wa would not have hesitated, not with the safety of the movement at risk. But in the last year Evan had grown into his own, and he still remembered with perfect clarity the military policeman, laid out on the ground and bleeding from multiple wounds in the chest and neck… the stench of shredded plastic…
…the weight of a needler pistol in his hand.
William Hartsfield was a patriot. Like so many of Evan’s resources, he’d come recommended through the Cult of Liao. He had also applied for academy training and failed to place, very likely because of his parents’ pro-Capellan leanings. The Republic claimed it did not discriminate, but of course it did. Everybody did, toward one side or the other. Evan could still end up the same way: trained as a MechWarrior and then shuffled aside at the last moment in favor of a die-hard citizen. It could be him lying on the ground some day.
“He lives,” Evan commanded.
“You’re risking my life, too.”
“Shall we waste time arguing about it, Greggor?” Evan glanced at the back of his wrist. “Plus eight. A few more minutes, we’ll be debating it with some of Legate Ruskoff’s officers.”
Greggor smiled like an ape baring its fangs and then shuffled off for the row of hoverbikes. Evan’s people had cracked the security on two, their instrument panels glowing in blues and subtle reds. They were at work on two more.
Evan rolled William’s body out of the way, then jogged over to where a final team had laid out pieces of a suit of Purifier battle armor. Its storage berth stood nearby with the cage-built door half disassembled, but the locking mechanism still in place. These were the true objectives tonight: hoverbikes and a battlesuit. They would be added to a growing stockpile of military arms and equipment. Political statements and hindrance raids only went so far. When revolution came, the Ijori Dè Guāng had to be ready to act.
“Ready?” one of the masked operatives asked. Her voice wavered uncertainly. None of Evan’s people had experience with powered armor.
He offered some silent thanks to Mark Lo and David Parks for their unwitting help in training him for this mission. A little simulator time goes a long way. “Let’s get it on,” Evan said, nodding.
Each suit of powered armor was a technical marvel that started with the bodymesh undergarment. Evan Kurst stripped out of his jumpsuit with no thought for the young woman standing nearby, then struggled into the tight-fitting mesh, a combination of cooling vest and padding. Its arms and legs were too long, bunching inside his elbows and knees. No help for that now. He worked his fingers into the gloves. The female operative pulled a thick hood over his head, adjusting the opening around his face.
“Okay?”
He nodded. Nearby, four hoverbikes powered up, turbo fans readied for their mad dash.
Two larger men helped Evan alley-oop into the lower half of the Purifier suit. In theory, a trained infantryman could don the armor solo, laying pieces on the ground and shuffle squirming into the bottom half before pulling down the top carapace. Evan wasn’t a trained infantryman, and even the best solo attempt could result in an improper fit or broken seal. That wouldn’t do tonight. Evan pointed his toes downward, working his feet through the reinforced ankle joint. He now stood in approximately half a ton of immobile ferrosteel and myomer.
The upper carapace came in three pieces. First, the chest shell, with arms held straight up to slip overhead like a metal-reinforced sweater. His right arm ended in a mechanical claw. A laser stubbed out of the left arm.
Next, the helmet, shoved ruthlessly down over his padded head and locked into the deep neck well. Evan refused the mouth bit a veteran might use to operate many of the Purifier’s electronics, and had his technicians switch off the optical sensing array which translated eye movement and blinking into commands as well. When the hangar’s main doors rolled back, Evan would be running, not fighting. He didn’t need a wrong glance to cut his jump jets and send him crashing into the ground.