“Of course,” Wolf said. His brow furrowed slightly for a brief moment. “Didn't they tell you? Your Coordinator wants to be a soldier again.”

Minobu thought he had misunderstood Wolf's word. Perhaps the mercenary had confused the ranks within the Combine. He could not mean Lord Kurita.

“Takashi Kurita himself is coming to visit,” Wolf said.

Suddenly, the Sworders' preoccupation with security became clear. In their pettiness, they had kept the information from him. Now that Minobu knew that the Coordinator of the Draconis Combine was coming to Quentin, he could only wonder way.

6

Baton Spaceport, Quentin IV

Draconis March, Federated Suns

14 June 3023

 

The road from Batan to the spaceport ran parallel to the landing field for a kilometer. The car traveling that road was a sober gray. From its right fender flew a flag showing the colors of the Federated Suns; from its left, the colors of the city of Batan. Looking out the car window, Baron Augustus Davis, administrative chief of that city, could see the invader marshalling his forces.

In the sky, a DropShip was on final approach vector to join others already perched on the landing field. Beyond the fence, its ragged gaps filled with strands of barbed wire, he could see vehicle parks, prefabricated barracks and, worst of all, row upon row of BattleMechs. Sensor towers stood guard in place of patrolling troopers.

The groundcar slowed as it approached the barricade that had been erected across where the road turned into the spaceport. Davis frowned when he saw the two banners on the flagpole at the guardhouse. One was the black wolf's-head of Wolf's Dragoons, which he recognized from holo reports of battles throughout the Inner Sphere. He knew the Dragoons were mercenaries, soldiers for hire, loyal only to the almighty C-bill. He had heard that those who served under the wolf's-head were better than most of that breed, but it hardly mattered, given the masters they now served. Above the wolf banner flapped their new master's flag, the hated Dragon of House Kurita.

The Dragon had brought war to the Quentin system for centuries, and with it, much suffering to both inhabited planets. The total annual output of the mines of Quentin III was less than a single month's quota in the days of the Star League. Quentin IV had fallen on even harder times. Its research facilities were gone, and the few industries struggled to stay alive. Now the Dragon was back, and Quentin IV would suffer again.

Davis's thoughts halted at the same time the car did. The driver opened his window, letting in a blast of hot, dry air, and he handed the guard a safe-conduct pass. The pass had been delivered to City Hall that morning, along with an invitation—or more accurately, an order—to attend the garrison commander.

Behind the opaque faceplate of his helmet, the trooper silently studied the papers for a while. Voice distorted from passing through the helmet's filters, he announced that they checked out. Turning from the car, the guard signaled his fellow soldiers to open the barrier. When the road was clear, he waved the groundcar through.

The car moved into the port, now an enemy camp where DropShips were disembarking men, equipment, and supplies. ‘Mechanics and laborers wearing Dragoon uniforms were at work everywhere. Scattered among them were workers wearing heatsuits of local manufacture. Davis strained to recognize the turncoats whenever one was close enough, but his or her humidifier mask always defeated him.

Once, the car had to pull over to clear the way for a column of BattleMechs. The huge machines were mostly painted in brown, dull red, and gray to blend into the colors of the badlands that dominated the continent's interior. A few sported bright colors or fanciful designs as though the pilot were challenging his enemies to single out the BattleMech for battle. Seen from a distance, the machines had seemed only more impedimenta of war. As the 'Mechs lumbered past his car, Davis shuddered and sat back, his hatred vanishing under a wave of fear. He had known of their size, but the physical presence of the huge legs blurring past the window, each foot large enough to crush the groundcar, was unnerving. He took one of his shaking hands into the other. When that didn't stop the trembling, he held them between his knees. He was still holding them that way when the car began to move again.

When the groundcar reached the main building, he was met by an empty-headed blonde who chattered interminably while leading him through the carnage left by the attack on the port. If this trooper were any indication of the quality of the Kurita invaders, Davis thought that the Davions should have them running for the system's jump point in short order. Before he knew it, his guide was gone and he was looking into a room full of soldiers.

The first to catch his eye was a tall black man in the uniform of a Kurita senior officer. One of the triple-damned Internal Security Force troopers, no doubt. A dog set by the Draconians to watch their warhounds. Batan would be seeing more of his kind if the invaders were around for long.

The others all wore camouflage fatigues. One was, presumably, Wolf. Looking for a Colonel's rank insignia, Davis was dumbstruck to find five. How was he supposed to tell which one was Wolf?The mercs had probably arranged this to embarrass him, to put him off-balance. He'd show them. He examined the prospects carefully and found his man, a perfect picture of the barbarian at his ease, comfortable with the havoc he had caused. Davis approached, and with just the right amount of bored indifference in his voice, he said, “Colonel Wolf, I presume. I am Augustus Davis, Baron of Batan. I understand you wished to discuss something with me.”

The man heaved himself up from the chair. The broad shoulders rose past Davis's eyes, leaving him staring at a chest full of campaign ribbons. “Davis? I don't remember asking for a Davis,” he rumbled. Over the Baron's head, he said, “I'm going to take a nap. Wake me if anybody important shows up.” The big man turned and left the room. Davis glared at his back, silently damning the Colonel's insufferable arrogance in calling him all the way out to the spaceport for a petty insult.

“Baron Davis?”

The noble swung about to find a short, gray-haired Colonel facing him with hand outstretched.

“I'm Jaime Wolf. I'm glad you could find the time to see me today. I'll try to make it brief.”

Davis took the man's hand. The grip was strong. He knew he'd just made a fool of himself by introducing himself to the wrong man. Regaining the initiative would take some doing. Before he could say anything, Wolf spoke again.

“Don't be put off by Colonel Shostokovitch. His sense of humor is often difficult for those around him. Please take a seat and we'll get down to business.”

“I ... well. . . . yes, of course.” The Baron had been thrown off-balance after all, leaving Wolf the initiative. Things were not proceeding as he had rehearsed. The man was not at all what Davis expected. Wolf seemed earnest, open. He had a cultured voice. Clearly, this was no common mercenary commander.

“I wish to apologize for the inconvenience of our presence here. I assure you that we are equally inconvenienced. Our arrival was unplanned. Your orbital defenses were a bit more determined than we expected.” Wolf shrugged, a half-smile on his face. Davis was distracted by the shifting play of colors on the holomap where the disposition of Dragoon forces was displayed. This Wolf was not infallible, Davis gloated to himself. The merc no doubt thought the Baron would be too discomfited to notice the map, which might work to the advantage of the Davion forces.

“We have had to divert the bulk of our force here to assure safe landings,” Wolf continued, seeming not to notice the Baron's interest in the holomap. “Batan is not our target, and I have no wish to bring the war here, Your Excellency. However, do not misunderstand me. Since we are here, I intend to hold the port as long as we are on planet. Its facilities are too convenient.