Blaine Lee Pardoe - BattleTech - MechWarrior - Dark Age 14 - Target of Opportunity

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Mechwarrior - Dark Ages 14
Target of Opportunity (2005)
14 - Target ofOpportunity(2005)
Synopsis
Knight ErrantAlexi Holt must protect the planet Wyatt for the Republic. But her biggest challenge is saving
Tucker Harwell-a genius possessing unmatched HPG skills-from the invaders who want to kidnap him
for his knowledge.
A reactivated HPG makes Wyatt a target for both the Oriente Protectorate and Clan Spirit Cat. But
unsavory characters will seek to control the biggest prize of all-the man who can fix an HPG-Tucker
Harwell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales
is entirely coincidental.
Target ofOpportunity
AROC Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2005 byWizKids, Inc.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or
distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to
criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street,New York,New York10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN:0-7865-5697-8
AROC BOOK®
ROCBooks first published by The ROC Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street,New York,New York10014.
ROCand the “ROC” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: April, 2005
To my alma mater,CentralMichiganUniversity,
and to my family. Peace of Focht be with you all. . . .
Prologue
ComStar Research and Development Division
Stuttgart,Terra
PrefectureX, The Republic
26 January 3135
Tucker Harwell took a deep breath, tried to force a smile to his face, and stepped into the office. Be
calm, he told himself. This is a great opportunity. Don’t talk too fast. Don’t act too eager. He was
concentrating so hard on what to say and how to say it that he stood like a tall, gawking statue in the
doorway. His skinny build belied his appetite, and his medium-length black hair appeared to have been
styled with a blender, the combined result of a cowlick on the crown of his head and a lack of interest in
the way his hair looked.
The man behind the burnished cherrywood desk, Precentor Malcolm Buhl, looked up and waved him
forward. “Mr. Harwell, come in.” Buhl was an older man, balding, slightly overweight. Tucker
stammered a reply, saying no complete word, then closed the door behind him. The precentor rose and
shook Harwell’s sweaty hand.
“Have a seat,” Precentor Buhl invited, gesturing to one of the black leather chairs facing the desk. Tucker
dropped into the deep seat, nervously squirming to find a comfortable spot. As he shifted, the leather
groaned; now he was nervous and embarrassed. Tucker pushed up on the bridge of his eyeglasses
several times, trying to get them positioned just right. A fingerprint smudged his right lens; he regretted not
taking the time to clean them before coming to the meeting. He avoided wearing his glasses when he
could, but the correction his eyes needed couldn’t be made with surgery, so he wore glasses sometimes.
He wore them for this meeting because he wanted to see straight. For a moment he considered cleaning
the lens right there, but restrained himself. He didn’t want to blow this interview.
“Tucker,” Precentor Buhl said soothingly, “you seem nervous. Relax.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, then wished he hadn’t said the words out loud.Too formal, Tuck. You don’t
sound relaxed. He took another deep breath and looked around the office. It was much nicer than the
other middle manager offices he had seen during his career at ComStar. This one had very expensive
furniture-a big contrast to the sea of cubicles or the controlled-environment labs where he worked.
Behind the precentor, a large window framed a spectacular view of the ages-old pines ofGermany
’sBlack Forest , which grew right up to the edges of the ComStar research and development facility. The
forest was slowly recovering after being devastated by fire during the Jihad.
“I’ve been looking over your file. Very impressive, I must say. You just completed the new program at
the DeBurke Institute, correct?” Precentor Buhl looked up from the file on his desk and deliberately
closed the cover on the material so that Tucker couldn’t see it.
“Yes, sir. Just this afternoon-of course, you already know that. Graduated at the top of my class,” he
replied. The room felt warm; Tucker knew it was his nerves making him hot, but knowing that didn’t help
cool him down. And despite the pep talk he’d given himself, he knew he was still talking too fast.
“In fact,” the precentor recited calmly, staring at the younger man, “you graduated high school three years
early, got your bachelor’s degree in two years, your master’s in one, your doctorate in three more. If I go
by your record, you’re something of a prodigy, aren’t you, my boy?”
Tucker swallowed, but his throat remained bone dry. “I don’t think so, sir. I’m just focused on my
work-that’s all.”
Buhl cast him a wry sideways glance. “The DeBurke Institute is our newest training program, teaching
our most advanced research in hyperpulse technology,” he replied. “Your instructors all concur. There’s
nothing more that ComStar can teach you about interstellar communications systems.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Precentor Buhl paused for a moment, as if considering his next words. “Tucker, do you know what I do
here at ComStar?”
Tucker nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. You’re in charge of special projects for Primus Mori. Everyone in the
class talks about trying to get in to meet you. Anything that is on the cutting edge for research and
development, you’re in charge of.”
Buhl gave him a thin smile. “An overstatement. In a corporate environment like ComStar, people’s
importance is often exaggerated, my boy. I do, however, handle a number of unique projects. When
someone like you comes along, I make a point of finding the right niche for them in the organization.”
There was a smoothness to this explanation that Tucker guessed meant the precentor was concealing the
true nature of his role in the organization. He had no problem with that.
“They say that the best assignments are the ones you arrange,” he offered anxiously.
“Another exaggeration, I assure you. Though I have had my share of work cut out for me the last few
years. All of us have,” he said with a sigh. The reference was not lost on Tucker, or anyone else
associated with ComStar. Three years ago the organization had suffered one of its worse setbacks.
ComStar was the only Inner Sphere source for interstellar communication, and it had found its entire
network under siege by unknown forces.
Hyperpulse generators, or HPGs, formed a vast communications network that linked the worlds of The
Republic and the rest of the Inner Sphere. At least that was how it was until1 August 3132 , when the
network was taken out. An invasive virus had penetrated the programming of a significant number of
HPGs, and when the generators were activated the virus had the effect of altering the frequency on which
they broadcast-something that shouldn’t have been possible. The result was thousands of fried HPG
cores. The more modern HPGs were not impacted by the virus, but they were physically attacked by
terrorist actions. The assault was so subtle and so widespread that it took the Inner Sphere-and
ComStar-by surprise. When the dust had settled on what became known within ComStar as Gray
Monday, more than 80 percent of the interstellar communications network was down. The primary
operations screens for ComStar turned gray with static on that day, and most stayed that way.
What followed was chaos.
Worlds were cut off from one another. Almost immediately, petty warlords and would-be rulers rose up
all across the Inner Sphere and began trying to carve up Devlin Stone’s once-pastoral empire-and one
another. Even the old Houses of the Inner Sphere once again took up arms and began to poke at the
edges of The Republic. Raids and incursions suddenly were commonplace. The demilitarized Inner
Sphere beat its plowshares back into swords.
And everyone blamed ComStar.
ComStar ran the HPG network. ComStar, independent of The Republic, was in charge of maintaining
interstellar communications. Most thought that the network would be down for a few days, then a few
weeks, but the problems were far deeper than anyone in ComStar suspected. In the early days, rumors
had circulated about a few HPGs on far-flung worlds that had been reinitialized and activated, but those
stories were mostly lies or wishful thinking. In those dark months that followed Gray Monday, the public
stopped looking at ComStar with hope. Many blamed the technicians and leaders of the massive
corporate entity for the disruption. Some even went so far as to declare that ComStar had sabotaged its
network deliberately, though that made no sense.
The public had a valid reason for doubting ComStar. That reason had a name. It was the Jihad.
“Where were you on Gray Monday, Tucker?”
For members of ComStar, the event was as significant as the fall of the Star League was to the ruling
Houses of the Inner Sphere. Gray Monday had forged together the individuals of ComStar as only a
crisis could. The question was a bond of honor between the members of the organization.
“I was at the university, delivering a lecture. I remember one of the graduate assistants bursting into the
room and telling the class that the entire system was down. I thought it was a joke, kept my class until the
end of the session. I remember giving the grad assistant hell for interrupting my lecture. I was reassigned
in five hours. They had me helping smooth out message-flow rates down at headquarters inSydney . I
was there for three months, and don’t think I saw the light of day all that time.”
“Tucker, I will be frank with you. ComStar has been hemorrhaging profits and talented people for some
time. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Sir, I am loyal to ComStar.”
“I know that. But I want to make sure we keep you happy, keep you challenged. I don’t want you to
end up like some of those fanatics I hear about-praying to their hardware to ensure that it works.
ComStar needs to move to the future, not get caught in its past.”
Praying to the hardware?That was a relic from ComStar’s days as a technoreligious order. He hadn’t
heard any rumors of that behavior reemerging, but apparently it was. “Sir, I’m not like that, not at all.”
Buhl straightened in his chair. “Of course you’re not, Tucker. So let me see what I can do to keep you
challenged. I have an opening that I’m considering you for. Your record shows that your knowledge and
understanding of the system makes you more than qualified for this position, but I have one reservation,
and I want to be honest with you about it. This is fieldwork. Not some university lab or R & D project.
This is serious hands-on work on an HPG on another planet. You’d have a chance to put some of that
theory you’ve learned to the test.”
Tucker adjusted his glasses again. His hands broke out in a new sheen of sweat.
“Is this operational work, sir?” He didn’t want a job sitting at a workstation watching communications
traffic.
Precentor Buhl allowed himself a low chuckle. “No, Tucker. This assignment is not piloting a cubicle.
Have you heard of the planet Wyatt?”
Tucker shook his head.
“I’m not surprised. Strangely enough, the virus that took down the network had a subroutine that deleted
Wyatt from most online atlases and star charts. Wyatt is in Prefecture VIII. Like most of the Inner
Sphere, its HPG was rendered inoperative on Gray Monday. The core of their transmitter was burned
out, so we sent a replacement. When it was installed, the HPG could transmit again, but it began to send
the same message over and over, millions of times, overloading the receiving network for a few
seconds-then the core fried.”
Tucker’s eyes widened. “Just like what happened on Gray Monday.”
“We tried to shut it down, but we were too late. We could find no reason that the core should have
failed-no reason at all.”
Tucker’s face tightened as he thought. Assuming that the HPG crash was intentional, then the new core
should have solved Wyatt’s problem. The message cascade was an anomaly. Immediately, curiosity
overwhelmed his intention to maintain a reserved attitude in the interview.
“I’d start by going over the transmission log, including all subbinary feeds.”
Precentor Buhl leaned back in his seat and steepled his hands in front of him. “I can have that arranged.
May I assume that you are interested in the position, even though I haven’t told you about the job?”
Tucker nodded once and let a small, excited grin light his face. His mind was saying, “Are you kidding?”
but out loud he said only, “Sounds like a real interesting opportunity.”
“It is,” Buhl replied. “It surely is. Welcome to the project.”
Tucker rose, shaking his new boss’s hand. “Then the position’s mine?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t wait to tell my father,” Tucker replied.
“The replacement HPG core for Wyatt has already been loaded aboard the DropShipDivine Breeze . It
departs in two days. I’ve taken the liberty of sending the background data covering the HPG issues on
Wyatt to a secured directory in the ship’s computer, encoded to your access. In the meantime, I suggest
you pack and get your personal affairs in order-see your family and friends.” He slid a small noteputer
across the desktop. The younger man glanced at it. The tiny screen displayed his transfer orders and the
itinerary for theDivine Breeze -all filled out and processed.
Tucker was stunned for a full thirty seconds. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he struggled to
find words. “How did you know I’d want the position, sir?”
The precentor smiled. “You don’t reach my level in a complex organization like ComStar without
knowing something about people, Mr. Harwell.” He gestured to the door. “Good luck.”
The precentor sat quietly at his desk for a full two minutes, waiting for the knock at the door. When it
came, Malcolm Buhl said only, “Enter,” and a lithe, stunning woman in her early forties, dressed in a
tight-fitting black suit and tie, walked into the office and took a seat across from her manager. She held a
noteputer.Am I her manager or her keeper? Buhl wondered.
“I assume,” she began, leaning back in the chair and brushing lint off of her lapel, “that you were able to
secure Harwell for the task?”
“Of course,” Buhl replied. “I trust that you’re not surprised?”
“By you, never,” Precentor Svetlana Kerr replied, looking straight at Buhl. “Does he know what he’s up
against?”
The older man shook his balding head. “No. Some of it is in the briefing, and I’ll also speak with him
while he’s in transit to the JumpShip. I intend to downplay the political issues at first, because I want his
focus to be on fixing that HPG.”
Kerr’s face seemed to sour. “Blasted Republic. At least with Exarch Redburn in power we knew what
we were dealing with.”
Buhl waved his hand in the space between them dismissively. “This isn’t just about the Exarch. The
Paladin that he assigned to this, Kelson Sorenson, likes to champion causes others would give up as
lost-not that our situation falls into that category, of course. He considers himself a man of the people, so
I suppose the theory is that he tries harder. I’ve met with him twice and so has the primus. He’s bound
and determined to get the HPG network back up, and up now.” His eyes widened slightly with his
words, as if he were mimicking the expression of the Paladin.
“Has anyone explained to them that willing it to happen isn’t the same as making it happen? If we could
get the system up, we would. ComStar’s a corporation; we make our money transmitting data. It’s in our
own best interest to get the network back up as soon as possible. But whoever sabotaged it did a damn
good job.”
“Almost as if it were an inside job, eh?” Buhl said coyly.
“You’d better watch your words,” Svetlana replied coldly.
“I’m as tired of the empty accusations as you. It’s almost hard to believe that a few generations ago,
ComStar all but controlled the Inner Sphere from behind the scenes.”
“Don’t tell me you’re pining for the old days?” she asked sarcastically. “You have to reread your history.
We may have controlled thousands of worlds and dictated policies, but we also prayed every time we
threw a switch or pressed a button. Dressing like monks-”
“Yes, there was a price to pay for the power we controlled,” Buhl cut in. “But back then we were
respected. My grandfather used to tell me that being part of ComStar was a high honor. In the last few
years, we’ve been treated like outcasts. People think we downed our own network. They think we
sabotaged The Republic.”
Svetlana shifted. “With good reason, in some respects. Remember, the Word of Blake was ComStar at
one time. Now when most people outside of the organization look at us, they remember the horror of the
Jihad.”
The mere mention of the Jihad seemed to layer silence over the office. It was the Word of Blake, the
religious zealots of the old ComStar, who had savaged the Inner Sphere, plunged it into chaos, war,
death, and suffering.
“I know my history,” Buhl said testily. “I’m sixth-generation ComStar. Tucker Harwell, he’s seventh gen.
That was one of the reasons I chose him. His family has seen the light and dark of ComStar. Eventually,
he’ll come over to our way of thinking.” Buhl nodded decisively.
“Are you sure?” Precentor Kerr asked.
Buhl grinned, perhaps for the first time that day. “I’m positive. I set up the DeBurke Institute to overcome
this network issue. We’ve spent the last three years trying to repair technology that we’ve barely
improved on in centuries, rumors of some kind of super HPG aside. Most of the HPG network hardware
is more than two hundred years old. Tucker Harwell knows more about HPG and interstellar
communications theory than anyone working in the organization in the last century. He represents the
future.”
“Still,” Kerr returned, laying her noteputer on the desktop, “the odds are against him. That HPG on
Wyatt already burned out one billion-C-bill core. And Paladin Sorenson, he’s sending a Knight Errant to
baby-sit us when we install the new one. That’s a lot of pressure on an untested kid.”
“I agree, but, Svetlana, you are making me feel bad. I had hoped that you’d have more faith in me. I’ve
already sent some insurance to Wyatt to make sure matters are well in hand: you know that, since that
asset reports to you. And that ‘kid,’ as you refer to him, he’s tougher than he looks. Yes, he’s a prodigy
of sorts. But when he was ten, he was hit by a hovercar. They put him in one of our sponsored hospitals.
The best medical minds we had said he’d never walk again. It took him two years, but he not only
overcame his injuries-he graduated ahead of his peers.”
Kerr frowned. “I didn’t see that in his record.”
“And you won’t. You see, Svetlana, I don’t always put all of my cards on the table. You don’t rise far in
this organization without knowing how to hold back some information.”
“I’ve read the reports. The indigs on Wyatt aren’t too pleased with our lack of progress. He’s not going
to get a warm reception. Not to mention what happens if he’s successful. You turn on an HPG and that
planet becomes a target for anyone who wants to carve out a base of power.”
Malcolm Buhl leaned back in his chair and turned to look out at the stark blue sky. “It’s all about people,
my friend. Weak-minded pundits think that ComStar’s strength is our technology, our network, but they
are wrong. They see us as a corporation that is too large and cumbersome to act. Wrong again. It is our
people who make us a force to be reckoned with. There are times I thinkwe’ve forgotten that. Those
times are going to change.”
Precentor Buhl’s face seemed to harden, as if he were angry. “I am going tomake them change.”
Book One - Penance
“There are several defining moments that helped shape the ComStar we all know today. Most people
focus on the Word of Blake and the Jihad as the events that define ComStar, but there were much
earlier, pivotal events that forged the contemporary organization. Understanding these events helps
readers to understand the impact of ComStar on the lives of everyone in the Inner Sphere.
“The first of these events was the formation of ComStar by Jerome Blake. By declaring the interstellar
communications network neutral in 2787, at the beginning of the Succession Wars, and seizing control of
Terra in 2788, Jerome Blake saved the cradle of mankind from three centuries of devastation.
“The next critical moment was when Conrad Toyama ascended to lead ComStar after Blake’s death,
and transformed the communications empire into a quasireligious cult. His pretext was simple: preserve
knowledge and technology using the same methods employed by the monks during the Dark Ages of
Terra. ComStar personnel intoned prayers as they worked, and treated their HPG generators as mystical
shrines.Toyama could have no way of knowing the repercussions that would result from the seeds he had
sown.
“The third critical moment occurred when ComStar’s Explorer Corps discovered the remains of
Kerensky’s Exodus fleet in the guise of the Clans, and with that discovery triggered the Clan invasion of
the Inner Sphere. ComStar accepted the Clan’s goals at face value and essentially sold out mankind,
providing the Clans with intelligence and logistical support to accomplish their goals-until they learned that
the true objective of the Clans was to seize Terra, along with ComStar’s base of operations.
“Then, in the spring of 3052, history arrived at a point that literally altered the destiny of mankind.
“The might of the Clans was challenged by Precentor Martial Anastasius Focht leading the Com Guards,
ComStar’s military arm. The result was the battle of Tukayyid. On that planet, beginning on1 May 3052 ,
the Clans and the Com Guards faced off in a horrific series of battles, with the fate of the Inner Sphere on
the line. The Com Guards fought the Clans to defeat, which ended their drive to Terra for fifteen years.
But Primus Myndo Waterly launched a backup plan: a complete shutdown of the HPG network, known
as an interdiction, across the Inner Sphere. She hoped that with the battle raging on Tukayyid distracting
all the leaders of the Great Houses, ComStar would be able to rise up and seize control of the Inner
Sphere.
“Her interdiction, named Operation Scorpion, was doomed from the start. Forewarned, the House
governments preemptively seized HPGs on the worlds in their realms, and ComStar began to crumble
from within. Within a month the Primus was dead, ComStar had shed its religious trappings and one
faction split away from the larger organization: the Word of Blake rejected the reforms of Sharilar Mori
and chose to cleave to the technoreligious tenets of ComStar.
“The spring of 3052 would change forever the face of the Inner Sphere.”
-Forward by Historian Harold McCoy
from his bestselling book,
The Spring of 3052:
Three Months that Changed the Universe,
Commonwealth Press, February 3133.
1
Adriana Spaceport
Wyatt
The Republic, Prefecture VIII
30 March 3135
The DropShipCambrai vented excess steam from the environmental system with a deep hissing sound,
blasting a manmade fog across the tarmac. The condensed moisture didn’t last long in the first light of
morning, but it did signal the end of the landing procedures. Alexi Holt stood on the gangway and looked
back to watch the massive port-side doors of theLeopard -class DropShip crack open.
TheCambrai had come all the way from Terra attached to its star-hopping JumpShip,Star Eagle,
carrying a precious cargo. DropShips ferried materials to and from worlds, while JumpShips carried the
DropShips from star to star. First of the cargo was the hardware it carried, including Holt’s BattleMech,
which filled one of its massive bays. Second, the military hardware and expendables she had brought with
her. Finally, the information that its captain would provide upon his own departure from the ship.
With the sabotage and collapse of the HPG network, DropShip and JumpShip captains doubled as
couriers of information and the equivalent of stellar pony express riders. Some captains transmitted their
data and information as soon as they entered a system. Others, like theCambrai ’s captain, waited until
they arrived on the planet. Local government officials and businesses often treated DropShip captains like
visiting royalty because they anxiously awaited the information and news from The Republic that they
carried. Naturally, some captains milked this treatment for all it was worth.
Alexi reached the bottom of the gangway and stepped foot on Wyatt, drawing in a deep breath of air. It
was a slightly thinner atmosphere than she was used to, and the air was cold and wet with the morning
dew. She inhaled a mixture of smells: the oxidized air near the DropShip’s fusion engines, fumes from
conventional fuels, the faint aroma of strange plants and pollen. It was sweet, an almost pinelike aroma.
She had been on dozens of worlds, and they each had their own smell. Wyatt was no different.
A young officer stepped forward and saluted, and she returned the honor. His uniform was gray and
green, and from his rank and estimated age, she could see he was a junior lieutenant-very junior. “Lady
Holt, I bring you greetings to Wyatt from Legate Singh. I am Lieutenant Johannson, First Company,
Wyatt Militia.”
She glanced past the young officer, then looked straight into his eyes. “While I am entitled to be called
‘Lady,’ I prefer to be called Knight Holt,” she stated flatly, but not unkindly. There were many titles for
Knights; some of those coined in the past few years were less than complimentary. In general, she
scorned the formality. “Where is the legate?”
“He asked me to inform you that he is on maneuvers. While he wishes he could be here to greet you
personally, he indicated that he would join you as soon as he returns.”
Alexi had read the profile of Legate Edward Singh, and found his resume wanting. Yes, he had a good
education and he showed administrative talents, but that information told her nothing about the man.
Military academy training did not ensure leadership skills or competency on the field of battle, and she
had her doubts. In her experience as a Knight, she had found that several of the legates who had risen to
command planet militias were in over their heads. Hopefully, Singh wasn’t one of them. He was in the
field; that was a good sign. Training troops was important.
Hopefully not too important on this planet, but she knew combat here was a good possibility. She had
come to Wyatt with a two-part mission from her Paladin. The first was to “work with ComStar to
expedite restoration of the hyperpulse generator.” Which meant, bluntly, kick them in the butt. That had
been clarified for her by Paladin Sorenson. In three years, ComStar had barely scratched the surface of
restoring the HPG network. Sorenson had sent her to light the proverbial fire under the ass of ComStar.
The Republic of the Sphere had been peaceful and thriving until the HPG network had been sabotaged.
The new Exarch had tasked Paladin Sorenson with fixing the network. The logic was inescapable: since
the crash of the network had led to war; restoring it should restore the stability that existed before. At
least, that was the formal line that the Knights took, to support the public opinion. Most, like Knight
Errant Alexi Holt, understood that the genie was out of the bottle. Now that the old factions and rivalries
had surfaced and production was starting again on weapons of war, it was going to take more than just
restoration of interstellar communications to end the conflicts and turmoil.
It was that realization that comprised the second element of her mission. If the HPG could be made
operational on Wyatt, the world would become one of the few that had contact with other planets other
than by JumpShips and their DropShip shuttles. Wyatt, which had disappeared from most star charts,
would suddenly become a world of tempting value. Her secondary protocol for coming to Wyatt was to
defend the planet should anyone decide to seize it and its HPG.
Alexi was sent to Wyatt to replace another Knight, Arthur Faust. He had kept the peace on Wyatt for
years, and had, in a particular waste of a valuable asset, died in a house fire. She was new to this world,
and wanted to walk with a diplomatic light step until she knew the people and their capabilities. She gave
the far-too-young lieutenant a solid lock of her gaze. “I have brought a cargo hold full of hardware and
munitions with me, Lieutenant. I need that gear secured, transported and stored in a safe facility.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “I am here to make the necessary arrangements.”
“You’ll need some vehicle drivers,” she replied. “I’ve brought some large gifts, compliments of Paladin
Sorenson.”
“Very good,” the man said, taking out a noteputer and stabbing at it furiously with the stylus. “I have
arranged quarters for you,” he said. “Our standard arrangements for someone of your standing are to
berth you in the Royale Hotel in the city. Per the information we received from Paladin Sorenson when he
sent word of your coming, I have arranged for a room in the BOQ.”
She nodded and favored the lieutenant with a small smile. Good. Alexi had spent enough time in her
missions as a Knight Errant in cushy hotels or posh resorts. She had been a Knight for a year before the
crash of the HPG network, and had been a guest of state on various assignments. Alexi had not become
a Knight for the luxury some felt compelled to provide her. The field of battle was what she liked. State
dinners had little appeal for her; she preferred field kit meal packs on an open campfire. To hell with
formality and a plush hotel. The BOQ, Bachelor Officers Quarters, would be just fine. Sorenson knew
her well.
“Very well,” she replied, glancing around the almost-empty tarmac, watching a few workers moving a
coolant replacement line to her DropShip. “My BattleMech is aboard as well. I will take care of it
personally. I’ll need a map to the barracks or a guide.” The streets sometimes were not rated to hold the
weight of a 50- to 100-ton BattleMech.
“I will guide you myself,” he replied enthusiastically. She understood the excitement in his voice. Before
the Jihad and Devlin Stone’s Reformation, BattleMechs had been relatively common. Now they were far
more rare. In times of peace, a company of vehicles and a handful of ’Mechs were often more than
enough to defend an entire world against pirates or other predators. Any world likely to face an invasion
from a House or Clan needed a much larger force. Most locals were excited by the prospect of seeing
just one ’Mech up close.
She surveyed the tarmac again. More workers appeared, all wearing the dull gray coveralls common at a
spaceport. There was no sign of security; in fact, she realized the lieutenant had not asked for her
identification. The bay of the DropShip carried enough military hardware to outfit a good-sized militia
unit, and she was chagrined that she had let down her own guard. If someone unscrupulous was here,
they might be able to seize the entire cargo.
Best to be sure. “Before we begin, Lieutenant, I have to validate a few things.”
“Sir?”
“Starting with your identification, and proof that you have authority to be here,” Knight Holt grinned at
the sudden look of fear that washed over the younger officer’s face.
It had taken nearly half an hour to confirm that Lieutenant Johannson was who he said he was and that he
indeed was with the Wyatt Militia. Near panic by the time Knight Holt declared herself satisfied with his
bona fides, the young officer ordered in a platoon of infantry to guard the DropShip and secure the
tarmac. That took another half hour, but in her mind the result was worth the wait. The infantry secured
the DropShip, but the spaceport itself was still wide open. She was already seeing areas where she could
“assist” with the training of the personnel under Legate Singh.
She noticed a man leaning against a pallet of crates on the tarmac, apparently gazing at her DropShip. He
looked like a biker, a drifter. The beard-stubble on his face was at least two days’ growth. He wore
sunglasses, and his black hair looked as if it had gone unwashed for the same number of days he had
avoided a razor. The knee of his left pants leg was worn through.
She tried to ignore him as she prepared to debark her BattleMech, but something about him nagged at
her. The face was familiar. Her mind played over where she could have seen him before. Not on Wyatt,
since this was her first time here. She looked back at him, then stared intently across the fifty meters
separating them as she focused on trying to remember something about the man watching her DropShip.
Then it came to her. The name. The story.What is he doing here, now? It can’t be a coincidence.
Reo Jones. His name hit her like a cold blast of winter wind.
His was one of thousands of profiles that she and her peer Knights had reviewed, sent up the chain of
command through local operatives and police. His story stood out in her mind. She couldn’t quite
remember the details, but the fragments that floated to the top were not pleasant. She knew Reo was to
be watched; he had close ties to known rogue elements; and that he was considered dangerous but not a
direct threat to The Republic.
My day just keeps getting better. . . .
He had been a Knight Errant candidate. On his home world of Mizar, just after the communications
blackout, mercenaries working for one faction or another-she couldn’t remember-attempted to seize the
small armaments factory there. Jones was to defend the pass they would have to use to reach the factory.
He failed. The factory was looted then burned by the retreating mercs.
The resulting explosion sent fire raging through the nearby town, killing hundreds. Reo Jones was found
after the mercenaries left, his ’Mech undamaged. He was convicted of dereliction of duty, and his name
was removed from consideration for Knighthood-a polite way of saying The Republic didn’t want him.
His own parents had died in the attack. He was not like the Black Paladin, the betrayer Ezekiel Crow,
who had sold out Liao and Northwind. Reo wasn’t a traitor; he was a failure. In her eyes, that made him
more pathetic.
More memories surfaced from the briefing she had seen. Alexi knew that he had served in several
low-life mercenary units, and if word was correct, Jacob Bannson, the dangerous business tycoon, had
taken him onto his payroll. Then Reo had basically disappeared . . . until now.
She decided it was best to determine if this was indeed Reo Jones and confront him now with his
presence on Wyatt, rather than wait until he made his move. She walked toward him with a
military-business stride, but he appeared to ignore her until she closed the last few meters. Alexi stopped
in front of him and balled her fists on her hips before she spoke.
“Can I help you?” she demanded.
He turned to face her, removing his sunglasses to reveal deep-set blue eyes. “Why, no, ma’am. It’s just
that it’s not every day a new Knight Errant arrives on Wyatt-especially one bringing a lot of hardware
along with her. I’m just a little curious, that’s all.”
“Why would you care what the Knights Errant are doing, Mr. Jones?” She used his name deliberately.
“Well, Knight Holt,” he drawled, proving he knew her name as well, “you could say that I’m just an
interested local, wondering why The Republic would suddenly start paying attention to this little
backwater world.”
“I’d say that it is none of your business,” she retorted.
Reo Jones smiled confidently, totally relaxed. “Maybe. Maybe not. I like to determine for myself what is
my business.”
She gritted her teeth and stepped closer to him so that her voice wouldn’t carry. “I know all about you,
Mr. Jones. If you’re here playing lackey for Jacob Bannson, then you would do well to turn your
attention elsewhere.”
He shook his head. “There’s a lot of stories about me floating around out there. Don’t believe everything
you hear or read. I thought that Knights Errant were supposed to be smarter than that.” It was a minor
verbal jab, but she knew her face betrayed his hit.
Alexi abruptly changed the subject, hoping to catch him off guard and perhaps learn something that might
be of use.
“How did you end up on Wyatt?”
“I’ve been here for over a year now,” he replied, looking away and studying the DropShip as workers
unloaded the massive crates she had brought with her. “I came to Wyatt for a little peace and quiet. It
seemed like the perfect place to get away from it all. Heck, it doesn’t even show up on the star charts;
what could be more isolated than that?”
“So you want me to believe it’s a coincidence that you’re here?” Doubt hung in the air between them.
Reo shook his head. “Sir Knight, I don’t care what you believe.” He began to walk away from her, then
paused, turning back. “I’m just a simple citizen of The Republic, out for a stroll.” He looked at her
consideringly and added, “Say hello to Demi-Precentor Faulk for me.” He gave her a final broad grin,
and walked away.
Alexi watched him go, but made no move to stop him. As a Knight Errant, she had authority to deal with
reasonable risks to the security of The Republic, but he had done nothing that she could claim served as
probable cause. Reo was just an irritating risk.No, he’s not a risk. What’s the word I’m looking for?
Wild card.
She was frustrated by her inability to contain Reo Jones’ actions; she was more frustrated by the fact that
he knew she was going to meet with the demi-precentor. That meant Reo Jones was either connected,
smart, or both. Either way, he deserved close observation.
The ComStar compound on Wyatt looked positively pastoral as Alexi Holt approached. The massive
hyperpulse generator and its large dish antenna were pointed upward at the blue sky; it seemed to be
both aimed at the sky and awaiting messages that simply were not coming. The size of the massive array
forced Alexi to remember that the HPG was essentially a combination of cannon and JumpShip engine. It
opened a hole in hyperspace and shot data through that hole to a receiving HPG. The power required for
such a near instantaneous connection was staggering, and the size of the structure towering over her
conveyed that quite effectively.
She realized that what made the complex seem so peaceful was that this HPG was not throbbing with
power. The constant, faint hum she should be hearing was conspicuously missing. And this particular
installment looked more like a garden than a communications center. The perimeter of the building
consisted of a low stone wall covered with vines. A few security personnel guarded the entrance and
patrolled the grounds. Though she had no doubt they were heavily armed and trained to protect the
facility, with the HPG not working, there was no real threat.
She paused for a moment and considered the open gates leading to the inner courtyard surrounding the
HPG. A century or so ago, this would have been unheard of. In those days, ComStar protected its
precious interstellar technology so obsessively that few people even reached the gate of an HPG. Those
who did penetrate the aggressive security measures would have been greeted by adepts wearing robes
and chanting technological phrases as if they were prayers. But that was a long time ago. The horror of
the Jihad had purged the religious elements from ComStar once and for all. No one called on “the Holy
Blake.” ComStar had returned to its origins as a corporate entity.
Her ID was verified at two checkpoints, then she had to wait in a small reception area for what seemed
like an eternity. Finally, a smartly dressed man came and escorted her to the office of the demi-precentor
in charge of the Wyatt HPG.
Faulk was a sleek-looking man in his thirties wearing a precisely pressed suit. His smile revealed perfect
white teeth, and his manner reminded her more of a marketing executive than someone struggling to get a
complex HPG back on line. His blonde, carefully styled hair stayed in place as he rose and shook her
hand, gesturing to a seat in front of his desk.
“I’m David Faulk, Demi-Precentor of Wyatt. Welcome to Wyatt, Sir Knight,” he said, taking his own
seat.
“Thank you,” Alexi replied, surveying the room. The moderately sized office held no personal touches.
No photographs of family, no awards-no evidence, in fact, that this actually was Faulk’s office.
“I received word of your imminent arrival here a few weeks ago from one of the JumpShips passing
through our system. My superiors sent me a message telling me something about your assignment.” His
words were careful, not revealing too much. But that in itself revealed something about him to Alexi.A
political beast. He’s trying to ferret out of me what I think my orders mean.
“I assume your superiors told you that Exarch Levin has made it a priority for ComStar to get the HPG
network operational as soon as possible. Paladin Kelson Sorenson sent me here because he believes you
have the potential to restore the HPG here on Wyatt sooner than elsewhere.”
He flashed her a quick smirk. “Yes, I’d gathered as much from the media. I trust that Paladin Sorenson
understands the complexity of the task we are facing here.”
She tipped her head to one side and returned the smirk. “I can assure you, Demi-Precentor, that he
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Mechwarrior-DarkAges14TargetofOpportunity(2005)14-TargetofOpportunity(2005)SynopsisKnightErrantAlexiHoltmustprotecttheplanetWyattfortheRepublic.ButherbiggestchallengeissavingTuckerHarwell-ageniuspossessingunmatchedHPGskills-fromtheinvaderswhowanttokidnaphimforhisknowledge.AreactivatedHPGmakesWyattat...

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