TEXT: BattleCorps
  BLACK MIST 
  RISING
  Chapter Eight
  Randall N. Bills
  
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  Black Mist Rising • Page 
  Star of Cameroon 
  Nadir Jump Point 
  Tharkad, Donegal Province 
  Lyran Alliance 
  10 November, 3067
  “Who do you think poisoned him?” Hohiro asked.
  Neil hardly heard the comment in the small briefing berth on 
  board the JumpShip Star of Cameroon. Instead, his attention fo-
  cused on the small piece of plastic paper adhered by static charge 
  to the desk in the microgravity. Mind still churning its message 
  over, equal part bemused speculation and alarm.
  “Commander?”
  The slightly more strident voice pulled his eyes from the missive 
  to Hohiro’s. “Mmm.”
  “Am I boring you?” he asked, voice even and eyes questing.
  Neil shook himself to dislodge the thoughts chasing each other 
  round his gray matter like polecats in heat. Hohiro delivers a PPC in 
  a porcelain tea cup…without even changing his tone. Considering 
  how much he’d come to respect the other man in the months of 
  their voyage from the world of Orestes to the Tharkad system they 
  had entered twenty minutes ago, his gaff was an insult that left 
  unmarked cheeks stinging. Within the confines of the chair that 
  held him firmly in place, he bowed deeply. 
  “Sumimasen, Hohiro-san. I did not mean to give offense.”
  The other man nodded slightly, with a casual wave. “Iie. The mis-
  sive obviously has been bothering you. Shall I leave?”
  Neil shook his head, knowing the time for Hohiro to be leaving 
  would come all too soon. He wasn’t about to precipitate it before-
  hand. Course, his comment could be an obtuse way of asking if 
  I want to discuss it. So Kuritan. “No. Sorry. You were wondering 
  who could’ve poisoned the First Lord?” He knew his voice sound-
  ed rushed, but he didn’t care. Not going to send the Commanding 
  General of the Star League Defense Force packing because I’m 
  distracted!
  The other man held his silence through several heart-pounding 
  moments before softly nodding ascent. “Hai.”
  
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  “Can’t say. Of all the First Lords, Månsdotter has done the least—” 
  he paused awkwardly, a momentary lump in his throat at his usual 
  anger (done the least and forced us to do nothing!), “—done the 
  least to create enemies.”
  A mirror to his own frustration moved in Hohiro’s eyes, though 
  he was much too polished, much too…Kurita, to allow any more 
  emotions—regardless of how much they might reflect Neil’s 
  own—to show. And even that was gone almost before Neil could 
  recognize it.
  “What I find most interesting,” Hohiro continued, “is that the First 
  Lord has gone to such great lengths to hide the act.” 
  “Yeah, those microgravity plastic surgeries have got to be hard, 
  and painful.” Neil’s smile slowly died at the reproving look on 
  Hohiro’s face. Neil’s right-hand fingers paced slowly across the 
  cool metal desk until they slid onto the plasticized memo, causing 
  him to jump slightly, as though burned; he just managed to keep 
  the red from his ears. 
  “Perhaps he doesn’t wish to strain the Star League too much?” 
  Neil jumped in, hoping to cover his embarrassment, yet knowing 
  it useless. “We’ve both read the reports of left-wing publishers in 
  several Houses accusing the Star League of being a sham. That it 
  was a political tool to destroy the Smoke Jaguars, and has been 
  abused ever since. Perhaps knowing the First Lord has been poi-
  soned will show a weakness in his armor that he is not willing to 
  give the pundits. The vultures would be on it like blood limpets to 
  a fresh kill.” Neil tried hard to ignore his own beliefs along those 
  lines.
  Hohiro nodded slowly. “Hai. That is one possibility.”
  “Course,” Neil continued, “could also be he’s hoping to flush 
  someone out at the Star League conference. If he shows up look-
  ing and acting as though nothing happened, maybe whoever was 
  involved will be shocked into a wrong move?”
  “That implies, of course, that whoever did the poisoning will be 
  on Tharkad.”
  Neil slowly nodded, well aware of what he’d implied. The Star 
  League had felt hollow for years, but despite it all, he desper-
  ately wanted it to succeed. Yet for someone attending to have 
  poisoned the First Lord…if you attended, you were a interstellar 
  player, usually with noble blood and all that implied. If that were 
  
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  the truth…that might unravel the Star League faster than anything 
  he could think of. “Which is why,” he found his tongue, “the Star 
  Lord hides his disfigurement. He’s trying accomplish both goals.”
  “Hai,” Hohiro responded, easily able to follow the half-spoken 
  statement.
  Both men turned towards the hatch as it abruptly swung inward. 
  A man in his mid-forties stepped through—magslips adhering to 
  the decking without a wobble of uneasy footwork—nodding eas-
  ily towards Neil and Hohiro. The iron gray shooting through the 
  jet-black crew-cut gave his rugged features a distinguished look; 
  a look further accentuated by piercing green eyes. Though Neil 
  had only met the man once before, the absolutely immaculate 
  Northwind Highlanders fatigues, pressed as well as any dress uni-
  form—a crease down the front pant leg you could only get with a 
  too-hot iron and overzealous pressure—were a spot on memory.
  Hohiro sized the man up, then glanced at Neil after a brief skip 
  across the missive still adhered to the desk between them, a ques-
  tioning look pulling at his lips before his facade slid back into its 
  usual Kuritan semblance. Without a further word, he extricated 
  himself from his own latching seat on the other side of the desk, 
  nodded briefly towards both men and departed.
  The silence left by the Commanding General went unfilled as both 
  men stared at one another. With thoughts of the consequences of 
  the poisoning of the First Lord still rampant, Neil’s mind refused 
  to slip tracks for long seconds before he finally managed to find 
  his voice.
  “Lieutenant-Colonel Jaffray.”
  “Colonel Neil Campbell.” 
  Neil casually waved towards the seat so recently occupied by 
  Hohiro; Jaffray moved with easy alacrity to ensconce himself se-
  curely.
  “I must admit, Jaffray, your request to board our vessel caught 
  me completely by surprise. Last I heard you were on Ueda.”
   “Call me Loren. And last I heard you were on Orestes, but here 
  we are. And I’ve got to thank you for accepting my request. The 
  Lyran Port Authority, despite credentials, was ready to board the 
  Star of David. Seems they’re a bit antsy for some reason, and hav-
  ing an unscheduled JumpShip arrive got their back up.” The other 
  man smiled easily.
  
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  “Well, it is a Star League conference, and everyone wants to bring 
  along a pet WarShip. Allowing enemies into your capital system—
  much less toting WarShips—would make anyone nervous.
  “Enemies? But this is the Star League. Aren’t we all friends?” The 
  humor in Jaffray’s tone practically slicked the walls.
  “Why are you here, Jaffray?”
  “Please, call me Loren.”
  Not likely. “Why are you here?”
  The other man sighed expansively, as though hurt to the quick, 
  and finally responded. “Did you receive the recall order?”
  Neil’s mind chewed on that unexpected question several mo-
  ments. “Of course I did.”
  “For the first time in centuries all the Highlander regiments are 
  called home to help elect new Clan Elders, and you don’t re-
  spond?” 
  “I will always be a Highlander, as are all those of the Black Watch. 
  But we are not of the Northwind regiments any longer. Our ties 
  bind us to the Star League. To the First Lord. The other regimental 
  commanders know this.”
  “Yet you received the recall order?”
  “Courtesy only. The matter of the death of the Clan Elders is im-
  portant for any Highlander, regardless of how far from Northwind 
  fate may take us.”
  Jaffray waved his hand, as though dismissing his argument. 
  “Did you know that Vicore Industries sent a representative to 
  Northwind in late ’66?”
  Once more Neil took long moments to respond at the whiplash 
  train of thought coming from Jaffray. “No, I was not aware.”
  The other man nodded, eyes burrowing. “Would seem they came 
  bearing gifts. Extensive plans and a generous licensing agreement 
  for Cosara Weaponries to begin producing the LGB-12C Longbow. 
  As I hear it, since the Black Watch is the same tonnage as the 
  Longbow, converting the line to begin producing the Longbow 
  in limited numbers…perhaps even a whole new production line…
  well, snap,” he said, snapping his fingers dramatically. “Seems 
  like a good deal for all involved. More cash for Vicore, a new mar-
  
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  ket for Cosara, an extremely solid design for the regiments to pick 
  up for a steal, new jobs for the Clan Elders to crow about. What’s 
  not to like?”
  Neil absorbed the information, leaning heavily back into the 
  chair, the metal edge a hard set of fingers to knead a tired back. 
  “That all sounds reasonable.”
  “Does it? Some of the Clan Elders weren’t enamored of the idea. 
  Seems Jason McDermitt spoke against the deal, citing the ru-
  mored connections of Vicore to the Blakists. And then what do 
  you know, he happens to die in the Tara Suborbital Port incident. 
  What an astonishing coincidence.”
  “I didn’t realize the accident had become an incident. You must 
  have heard a news briefing from Northwind I’m not aware of?”
  The other man again waved a hand to minimize Neil’s words. 
  “You’ve got to see the connection here.”
   “How many other Clan Elders were speaking against the deal?”
  Now it was Jaffray’s turn to be taken a back momentarily. 
  “What?”
  “You said ‘Clan Elders.’ Plural. How many others?”
  Jaffray’s eyes narrowed.
  “There were no others, were there?”
  “I’ve good information that says other Clan Elders were suspi-
  cious.”
  “But nothing that means anything on the surface.”
  The other man slowly nodded, lips stretched taut. 
  “And Jason was the only vocal opponent. And since four Elders 
  died within weeks, don’t you think that’s going a little overboard? 
  I can see killing off two in the suborbital incident to cover their 
  tracks. But Paul in the climbing accident? And Patrick in the gale? 
  Isn’t that overkill?”
  “That’s how I’d do it.”
  The cool tone struck home, reminding Neil of Jaffray’s roots with 
  shocking clarity. “I’m sure you would have,” Neil responded, tone 
  equally frosted. “But raise your hand if you think even your vaunt-
  
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  ed Death Commandos have weather controlling capabilities? The 
  Blakists? Patrick was killed in a gale. A storm.”
  The other man blanched, taut lips almost disappearing as green 
  eyes lit with bale fire. “Have you seen the autopsy report?” he 
  ground out between clenched teeth. “Have you verified any of the 
  police report’s findings? I haven’t…but I plan on it. If a gale was 
  coming, and I knew it a few days ahead of schedule…even a few 
  hours…it would make a hit that much easier. To commit. To cover 
  up.”
  Neil had faced death numerous times across many battlefields, 
  yet the sheer presence of Jaffray’s rage gave him pause, stilling 
  his tongue before he tossed out another flippant comment at such 
  ludicrous notions. Careful, Neil. Death Commando. They’re not 
  just a cool name. The heavy pulse beating at his jumpsuit collar 
  was a stark reminder, despite his attempt at humor, that he re-
  membered that fact all too well.
  Neil slowly nodded in an effort to cool Jaffray down. “I apologize. 
  I meant no disrespect. But your very origins breed you to be suspi-
  cious of everything. Of course, that’s not a bad thing. Especially 
  with how often we highlanders have been screwed over the cen-
  turies. But I don’t see the connection. Where is the Word of Blake’s 
  awful goals in all of this?”
  Jaffray lurched forward as though attempting to slide home a ra-
  pier past his defenses. “Because we’re part of the Allied Mercenary 
  Command! The AMC has been sticking it to the Blakists for some 
  time now, and that’s got to stick in their Hegemony-craving 
  craws.”
  Neil slowly shook his head. “But the Highlander connection has 
  been pretty low-key to date. The Fusiliers have clashed with some 
  Blakists on Ingress. Compared with what the Dragoons or others 
  have done hardly rates on the radar. Anyway, why don’t you make 
  the arguments to the Clan Elders? Why here? Now? Me?”
  The other man looked away, and Neil almost felt the lancing jade 
  beam of Jaffray’s eyes slide out of the wound that pinned him back 
  into his chair. A few heartbeats and the other man glanced back 
  up, his emotions safely bottled. “Because of my origins. Because 
  of my…unorthodox ways.”
  Neil tapped the desk as he nodded. “Right,” he pulled the word 
  into several syllables. “And because of your successes.”
  
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  “Exactly. Some of the Clan Elders don’t particularly like me. Not 
  to mention one or two of the regiment commanders who still don’t 
  trust me after all I’ve been through.” 
  The green eyes turned inward, leaving Neil all too aware of the 
  hollowing anger still buried within the other man. Something’s 
  got to be done about that, or he’ll break. Eventually. He’s strong, 
  but…. “And making such an argument,” he continued, “with no 
  real facts beyond circumstantial evidence…”
  “Exactly. I can see their discussion after my presentation. 
  ‘Paranoid Capellan showing his true colors again.’” His lips disap-
  peared in a face of clenched teeth, neck muscles stretched until 
  Neil could discern a heartbeat even across the desk.
  Neil churned it over and came to the only conclusion possible. 
  “But if the commander of the Black Watch presented himself be-
  fore the Clan Elders and supported you…”
  “Exactly. You’re the epitome of what it means to be a Highlander. 
  Your words would force serious consideration that the Vicore deal 
  is too good to be true. That the Word of Blake was involved in the 
  death of the Highlanders. That despite our low-key clashes with 
  the Blakists, they’ve not gone unnoticed…particularly in the face 
  of the regiments returning home.”
  A tone rang through the depths of the ship, announcing that 
  DropShips were cleared to disengage and begun the burn in sys-
  tem towards the distant planet of Tharkad. 
  Neil leaned forward. “Look, Jaffray, you obviously are convinced, 
  or you wouldn’t have chased me across two hundred light years. 
  But you need more evidence. I’m not convinced this is some huge 
  conspiracy. And I’ve my own duties to attend to. But I’m also 
  open-minded. I know our history as well as any, and we’ve been 
  manipulated in the past. There is potential in what you say.”
  The other man looked none-too-pleased, but didn’t respond be-
  yond an accepting nod. Neil unlatched the seat and unfolded from 
  the position, surprised at the aches in his legs from sitting in the 
  cramped metal chair for too long. On the verge of leaving, he sur-
  prised himself by turning back towards Jaffray. “You coming to 
  Tharkad?”
  The other man smiled, the complacent mood slipped back over 
  his previous rage as easily as a glove. “Are you kidding? A Star 
  League Conference? Can’t miss such a historic occasion.”
  
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  Dangerous indeed. Neil opened his mouth to respond, but 
  Jaffray cut him off.
  “Don’t worry,” he said, raising both hands palm up, as though to 
  say he didn’t have any weapons. “I’ll be good and keep out of the 
  way.”
  Neil snorted, well aware of how much a weapon Jaffray could 
  be naked and hog-tied, but nodded nonetheless and moved to the 
  hatch without waiting.
  
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