TEXT: BattleCorps
  DJINN OF DESPAIR
  Kevin Killiany
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Excerpt: 
  “Albermarle Courier/Transport Declares Bankruptcy”
   
   
   Acrux Business Beat
  Albermarle Courier/Transport, which specialized in rapid delivery of 
  small shipments and individual packages, shocked industry observers 
  by declaring bankruptcy yesterday. The small, highly focused ACT was 
  seen as a stable up-and-comer by market analysts who were predicting 
  the privately-held company would go public within the year. It now ap-
  pears that ACT profits were in fact subsidized by an outside source—a 
  silent partner who evidently withdrew support abruptly.
  Once auditors appointed by the bankruptcy courts have completed 
  their inventory, all Albermarle assets—including their fleet of bright yel-
  low shuttlecraft with the familiar “ACT now!” logo—will be available at 
  public auction.
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Third Battalion Headquarters 
  Florida Timbuktu Theater Militia 
  Florida, Timbuktu Theater 
  Lyran Alliance 
  12 November 3057
  Lex stood as far from the ’Mech bay as she could, leaning her 
  back against the hangar wall to get the full effect. Her Nightsky 
  was resplendent in Florida TTM colors— freshly painted and pol-
  ished to a luster that exceeded original manufacture specs. (She 
  knew—she had memorized all available information on the manu-
  facture and maintenance of her BattleMech.)
  She had never seen anything so beautiful.
  “A bit gaudy, don’t you think?”
  Lex came off the wall, head snapping toward the voice.
  “At ease, Leutnant,” said Hauptmann Showalter, raising a placat-
  ing hand.
  “Sorry, sir,” Lex said, easing out of her combat stance
  “Entirely my fault,” her company commander answered. “I know 
  better than to tease a MechWarrior in love.”
  Lex wasn’t sure how to answer that. She remained silent, glad her 
  complexion concealed the hot flush she felt suffusing her face.
  Showalter pursed his lips as he regarded her for a moment, then 
  nodded toward the Nightsky.
  “Beautiful machine.”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “We lost two MechWarriors on Despair,” Showalter said after a 
  moment. “One to serve with mercenaries and one resigning for 
  medical reasons—but no one died. And the two most valuable 
  ’Mechs we sent came back to us—a Nightsky and an Axeman—pi-
  loted by two of the finest young ’Mech jockeys I know.”
  “Yes, sir,” Lex repeated. “Thank you, sir.”
  “According to Hauptmann Sardella’s report, a lot of that is thanks 
  to you.”
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  “Hauptmann Sardella is very kind, sir.”
  Showalter indicated her BattleMech.
  “The Florida may be the gold standard in low tech, but the Eighth 
  isn’t exactly state of the art,” he said. “The trouble and expense 
  they put into fixing your Nightsky says more about respect than it 
  does kindness.”
  Lex opened her mouth, but Showalter forestalled her with an 
  upraised hand.
  “From what I saw on the battle ROM, you may have picked up a 
  few tricks on this milk run mission,” he said. “If you don’t mind 
  getting your first born dirty, suit up.
  “Let’s see if you can beat your CO on the live fire course.”
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Terrance:
  Thought you’d like to know MindMASC is off the streets. Or will be 
  whenever whatever raw supplies are out there are used up. 
  And no, we didn’t just wait for your retirement to be official to close 
  down MindMASC. Turns out Isodore did the right thing bringing in the 
  military. The Eighth Lyran backtracked it to its source.
  Best news is, no one is going to manufacture it—ever. I know you’ve 
  heard this stuff comes from monkeys—or something like that. That is 
  going to be the official word everywhere, including reports to law en-
  forcement agencies. 
  The big secret is the only source of MindMASC is a thirty-ton bird with 
  a ninety-kilo adrenal gland. Seems if you want the good stuff, you have 
  to keep the bird hungry and scared until its nerves are shot. No word on 
  how you do that. Then you kill it for its gland. No word on what they do 
  with the twenty-nine point nine tons of leftover chicken, either.
  The point being, these thirty-ton birds grow in only one place and the 
  Mad Hatters have not only bottled it up, they’re making damn sure no 
  one ever finds it again.
  From what we now know of their organization and resources, we esti-
  mate a year—maybe two—and MindMASC will be gone forever.
  Miriam sends her love. Best to Cecilia and the grandkids.
  Freideric Salinger
  Director, Bureau of Controlled Substances
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
   
  From: 
  “Recluse Multi-billionaire Takes Own Life”
   
   
  Alarion Intelligencer and Free Press (Text Edition)
  Venture capitalist Ernst Ridder, founder and sole owner of CosCot 
  Interstellar—an investment and development company which has been 
  instrumental in many high-tech and pharmaceutical start-ups—commit-
  ted suicide Sunday night. 
  News of his death was not released by authorities until late yesterday. 
  In conjunction with the announcement, local tax and revenue agen-
  cies stated that all current holdings of CosCot are being frozen pending 
  a complete investigation of alleged irregularities. Also included in the 
  prepared press release was the allegation that Ernst Ridder’s real name 
  was Emil Chevalier. Chevalier was an independent, or “wildcat” specu-
  lator specializing in planetary resource development who disappeared 
  while exploring an undisclosed world nearly four decades ago.
  Speculation runs rife....
  
  BattleCorps
  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  Headquarters, Eleventh Arcturan Guards 
  Timbuktu, Timbuktu Theater 
  Lyran Alliance 
  22 November 3057
  Leutnant-General Maria Esteban nodded her assistant toward 
  her usual chair.
  The commander of the Eleventh Arcturan Guards kept a private 
  office only because her duties required she sometimes work alone. 
  Though she described herself as long in the tooth, Esteban pre-
  ferred to be in the center of action—whether the situation room or 
  the cockpit of her Emperor. 
  Half the size one would expect for her rank, Esteban’s office was 
  dominated by a holomap of the Inner Sphere covering the wall 
  facing her desk. McDonald saw the map had been updated—the 
  latest conflict reports were reflected in pulsing red halos surround-
  ing a fresh crop of worlds.
  “What did you think of those battle ROMs, Linda?” Esteban asked 
  as the Colonel sat.
  “The Eighth and the Florida on Despair?” McDonald ran a hand 
  through her brush-cut red hair. “Typical Mad Hatter—shoot every-
  thing and sort it out later.
  “That one militia jockey is a madwoman with an axe,” she added. 
  “Have we seen her name before?”
  Esteban shook her head. 
  “Though she’ll be applying for transfer with the year, I’ll wager,” 
  she said. “I’ve requested her records from Buena and Florida and 
  sent an inquiry to Viborg.”
  “Viborg?”
  “Those ROM dupes were part of a sealed packet Nelson sent me,” 
  Esteban said, turning her flat screen so the other woman could 
  see it. “So was this recording of a debriefing.
  “That’s Hauptmann Sardella, company CO, with his back to us at 
  the desk. That’s First Leutnant Fatima Twindle moving her chair 
  over to the door. The whelp on the settee is Leutnant Willard Britto, 
  leader of the Florida lance.”
  
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  “I’ve seen Britto’s ap. Ran a check,” McDonald said. “Psyche is 
  brittle, but his performance numbers are top notch.”
  Her superior said nothing, watching the screen.
  “This is the clip you attached to your report before your ROM 
  fried,” Sardella was saying. 
  The ROM image, running without sound, replaced the office 
  scene. A Nightsky, was evidently crushed beneath the weight of a 
  Crockett, head down slope on a muddy hillside. The hatchet of an 
  Axeman appeared and tapped the fallen ’Mech’s hull just above 
  the cockpit. Then the camera angle swept up, showing only an 
  expanse of bogs.
  “Here’s how the incident looked to the Nightsky’s ROM,” Sardella’s 
  voice said.
  The bogscape was replaced with a close image of the stand-
  ing Crockett with its burned and smoking cockpit center screen. 
  The seemed to shudder and shift left. The angle of view widened 
  slightly, showing more of the assault ’Mech’s upper torso.
  “Getting the axe free and easing back,” Sardella explained. “The 
  fall is right—”
  Red and orange highlights flickered at the upper edge of the 
  frame.
  “Atreus reported the Crockett took cannon fire from behind at 
  this point,” said another voice doubtfully. Twindle, McDonald sup-
  posed.
  “Those flashes could be reflected lightning,” Britto said. 
  McDonald glanced at her commander, but Esteban continued to 
  watch the screen.
  The Crockett gave way to a blur of motion then an unmoving 
  view of churning clouds shot through with occasional flashes of 
  heat lightning.
  “Here you come,” said Sardella as the high crest of the Axeman 
  showed at the edge of the screen. 
  The heavy ’Mech looked gigantic from ground level, the long 
  shaft of its axe foreshortened as it reached down to tap the fallen 
  Nightsky. The image vibrated in resonance to the prodding. The 
  Axeman straightened, the wide perspective giving it a pyramid 
  
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  Djinn of Despair • Page 
  shape. For a moment it stood, evidently surveying the scene, then 
  turned and stepped beyond the recorder’s field.
  “I remember bending over her for much longer,” Britto said qui-
  etly. “She was the first MechWarrior under my command I’d seen 
  die.”
  “Though she wasn’t dead,” Sardella said. 
  “I had no way of knowing that,” Britto said, his voice tight with 
  emotion. “But I should have known to expect her luck.”
  “The woman has extraordinary luck,” Sardella agreed. “But I 
  need to know what really happened.”
  “Sir?”
  “Twenty-four seconds, Britto,” Sardella’s voice had a flat and 
  dangerous tone. “Twenty-four seconds between the flash of can-
  non fire and you stepping up to stand over what you thought was 
  her body. You didn’t find her, you saw the whole thing.”
  There was a long moment of silence. McDonald wished the image 
  on the screen was of the office and not the steadily churning clouds.
  Someone sighed. 
  When Britto spoke again, his voice was filled with such cold rage 
  McDonald almost didn’t recognize it.
  “Not extraordinary luck,” he said. “That bitch has obscene luck. 
  Do you know how she came by that Nightsky? She panicked. She 
  ran from the enemy—so blind with terror she collided with the 
  very ’Mech she was running from.
  “Abject cowardice—desertion in the face of the enemy—and a 
  bureaucrat who never wore a uniform and a pack of unwashed 
  miners present her with a Nightsky. Hail her as the hero who 
  brought down a Grasshopper with a MiningMech.”
  “Wait,” Sardella interrupted. “You’re talking about Viborg?”
  “You’ve heard of it?” Britto sounded surprised. “The Marques 
  realized the story was a lie. He squelched it.”
  “I had difficulty believing that story myself,” Sardella admitted. 
  “You’d have believed it less if you’d seen her at Florida,” Britto 
  said. “Lackluster would be the kindest description. Yet somehow 
  
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  she was favored, allowed to slide, assigned to missions for which 
  she was unprepared.”
  “Such as your command on Despair.”
  “Precisely,” Britto nodded once, sharply. “And here she ran true 
  to form. Panic attacks, wandering off patrol, sexual liaisons with 
  base personnel.”
  There was a pause. The image of clouds shifted. The BattleMech 
  was apparently trying to free itself.
  “What happened out there, Britto?” Sardella asked quietly.
  Another pause, long enough for McDonald to wonder if he was 
  going to answer. 
  “I followed the trail of the damaged Crockett,” Britto said in for-
  mal report mode, no hint of his former emotion. “Though I didn’t 
  know it was a Crockett until I saw it.
  “Atreus was apparently under cover in the bogs ahead, invisible. 
  The Crockett would have passed by without seeing her. But she 
  snapped under the strain of having the enemy so close. She broke 
  cover and jumped.”
  His control slipped. 
  “A simple jump over, and she choked,” he spat. “Panicked mid-
  flight. She cut her jets—tried to stop—and fell to earth right in 
  front of the Crockett. She was so terrified all she could do was flail 
  wildly. Of all her weapons, the only one she managed to fire was 
  the small laser. And her fricking luck lined the Crockett’s cockpit 
  up with that popgun.”
  There was a sigh, almost a sob. McDonald wished she could see 
  the scene in the office.
  “I couldn’t let it happen again,” Britto said after long seconds. His 
  voice was weary. “I couldn’t let her stupidity, her blind luck—her 
  cowardice—make her a hero again. That woman is a disgrace to 
  everything our uniform—any uniform—stands for. I had to put an 
  end to the obscenity.”
  “By shooting the hulk of the Crockett so it would fall on her?” 
  Sardella asked.
  “By making sure her cowardly incompetence had consequences,” 
  Britto corrected as though stating the obvious.
  
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  “Because in a fair world that Crockett would have killed her.”
  “I knew you’d understand,” Britto confirmed.
  The flat screen display finally returned to a view of the office. 
  Twindle was sitting in her straight backed chair by the door, her 
  feet flat on the floor. Britto was on the edge of the low couch, lean-
  ing towards Sardella. For his part, the hauptmann seemed to be 
  consulting a noteputer and adjusting the crystal reader. 
  “I’m proud of the Nagelring,” Sardella said. “It has produced 
  some of the finest military minds—and more importantly, the fin-
  est military leaders—in the history of human civilization.”
  Britto straightened, coming as near attention as he could while 
  keeping his perch.
  “But sometimes we screw up royally,” Sardella shook his head. 
  “I fail to see...” Britto began.
  “I know,” Sardella cut him off.
  “I have reviewed every ROM,” Sardella went on. “And I found no ev-
  idence of Leutnant Atreus being anything other than professional.”
  “Perhaps,” Britto said. “The near-death experience with the 
  Crockett triggered an epiphany of sorts—”
  Sardella’s face wasn’t turned to the camera. But whatever his 
  expression it stopped Britto mid-word.
  “Leutnant Atreus does have one very bad habit,” Sardella said at 
  length. “Before each shot she wastes a second dialing the weapon 
  she’s going to use to her main trigger.”
  “I was aware of that,” Britto said. Incredibly, McDonald saw a 
  shadow of his assurance return. “Hauptmann Showalter mentions 
  that particularly in her record.”
  “Then you will not be surprised to see this,” Sardella said.
  He tapped a key and the office was replaced by a stand of thick 
  trees that filled the screen. An inset window across the bottom of 
  the image showed dark, long-fingered hands McDonald assumed 
  belonged to Leutnant Atreus at the controls of a BattleMech.
  McDonald watched Atreus dial up the small laser, then raise 
  the Nightsky’s hatchet to its highest position. Then she kicked 
  
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  the jump jets and the trees dropped away. Center screen was the 
  Crockett, trapped on a slippery slope above a bog. As the assault 
  ’Mech leaned back—too late—to fire its missiles, the image froze.
  The anonymous office reappeared. 
  McDonald counted Britto’s expression of absolute amazement 
  to his credit. It was obvious the idea Atreus deliberately attacked 
  with her small laser had never occurred to him. He’d honestly be-
  lieved he was executing a coward.
  “Panicked flailing?” 
  McDonald wished the camera showed the expression that went 
  with Sardella’s voice. 
  “You are not a murderer only because Atreus is a MechWarrior,” 
  the hauptmann said. “And because she deserves better, I am giv-
  ing you one chance to get off Despair alive.” 
  Esteban reached forward and shut off the playback.
  “What do you think?”
  “That I should forget about processing Britto’s transfer appli-
  cation,” McDonald said. “But I have to admit I don’t understand 
  Sardella’s last words. Despair was a police action, not a declared 
  war. He didn’t have the authority to execute Britto.
  “Linda, he’s a Mad Hatter,” Esteban reminded her. “He was talk-
  ing about a fatal accident.”
  “Ah,” McDonald looked at the blank screen, but it offered no en-
  lightenment. “What happened? And why did Leutnant-General 
  Nelson send you this?”
  Esteban handed a flimsy across her desk.
  “The Lyran Alliance is only weeks old,” she said while McDonald 
  read. “And we’re trying to keep a war between our two most pow-
  erful neighbors from escalating. 
  “Sardella’s analysis is we have to at least look like we’ve got 
  the moral high ground if we’re going to keep war from spreading 
  across the Inner Sphere,” a rare smile crooked the corner of her 
  mouth. “In his words the LAAF does not need the crap a public 
  trial about a rich kid’s right to murder commoners who offend him 
  would generate.”
  
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  “So...?”
  “It’s all there,” Esteban indicated the flimsy. “He resigned his 
  commission and signed the Axeman his family bought him over to 
  Leutnant Caradine. His family also paid to have Atreus’s Nightsky 
  rebuilt.”
  “His family put up with that?”
  “In exchange for secrecy,” Esteban said dryly. “That is a record-
  ing of their son confessing attempted murder to superior officers 
  during an official debriefing. 
  “Nelson sent me a copy in case Britto came my way with a differ-
  ent version of events.”
  “Wonder who else got one,” McDonald said.
  Esteban waved the question away.
  “I have it on good authority that Leutnant Caradine’s application 
  for transfer to the Eleventh is in process,” she said. “Unless you 
  find a snake in the background check, it’s got my approval in ad-
  vance. And that information I requested on Atreus is being routed 
  to your office as well.”
  She indicated the spreading pattern of red-rimmed stars on ho-
  lomap of the Inner Sphere facing her desk.
  “The way the winds are blowing, we just might need a madwom-
  an with an axe.”
  
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