CnC Chpt 2

==Cat and Crescent - Chapter 2 -==
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===Visiting Friend===
Barony of Blackfoot
Girondas, Taurian Concordat
Sunday, August 22nd, 3024 
The mare maintained a brisk trot. Her hooves sounded muffled as she moved through a patch of emerald ferns. Remihel held the reins loose. Azra pick her own way through the hills, following a thin trail barely visible on the ground.
 
Altogether, the barons of Blackfoot administered over a hundred thousand square kilometers. The rolling terrain stretched as far as the eye could see, from Blackfoot and Snowy River all the way down to Guthega District in the heavily-forested low country. Most of it was thinly-populated. The inhabitants lived in small mining, lumber, or agricultural towns like Craigie, Sam's Bridge, or Brumby Dairy.
 
Remihel rode alone, though he carried a lightweight 4.5mm carbine in a saddle holster. Girondas boasted no native mammals. But the hill people reported cryptids - most often, walking apes and giant tigers. 'Guthega Gus' - a monstrous four-meter ape - allegedly lived in deep caverns under Ordinance Lake.
 
But biologists verified other dangerous species. Wekarates and smaller chickcharnies - large flightless birds that hunted in small packs - ranged across Girondas. While the small chickcharnies avoided humans, wekarates often stalked children and small dogs. Settlers dubbed them wolf ostriches, and hunted them without mercy.
 
At the crest of the hill, Remihel reined his pony in and looked down into the next valley. "Not much longer to the Reno place, Azra," he said to the horse. "I bet Sarah will give you an apple."
 
The mare stood there, flicked an ear, and swished her tail. "Yeah, I suppose we should keep moving," Remihel muttered. He clicked his tongue twice, and the pony clattered its way down the hill.
Halfway down the slope, a small house and a much larger barn spread out in a clearing. Both structures looked new. The house was one of the prefabricated structures manufactured in the barony. Two units, shipped complete from the factory in Guthega, bolted together to make a modest house. A porch made of locally-cut timber wrapped around one side. In the barn, visible through the double-wide and double-tall doors, Remihel spotted the blue coveralls of the man he'd come to visit. He stood on a small lift, shoulder-deep in a access hatch of an old thirty-ton Crosscut forestry mech.
 
Once he was close enough, Remihel reined in the mare and raised his voice to a full bellow. "Wes Reno!"
 
The big man on the lift dropped a tool, which fell with a series of clangs before it finally reached the ground. "Jerome Flacking Blake!" Wes shouted back. "Don't you ever get tired of doing that to me, Baron?"
 
"Nah," Remihel laughed, dismounting and taking the horse's reins in hand. He walked the rest of the way, and nodded up at the big Crosscut. "Issues with the old girl?"
 
"Nope. Tune-up on the engine," Wes said. He wiped greasy hands off on an old rag, lowered his maintenance lift, and swung down all the way to the ground. "What can I do for you, Baron?"
 
If ever Remihel found himself in a bar brawl, he wanted Wes Reno on his side. Wes inherited the genetics from both of his football-playing grandfathers. His regular exercise routine of lifting - and two full years in the Jump Infantry - left him in peak physical shape. His close-cut hair and clean-shaven square jaw made him look like an action hero. An idiot might mistake him for a dumb brute - but not more than once. Only his voice didn't quite fit expectations - a tenor range, not the deep rumble that best matched his appearance.
 
"You offered me a cold one next time I came out," Remihel said. "Well, here I am to collect."
 
"Ha." Wes finished cleaning his hands, and nodded toward the house. "Well, tie up that horse of yours."
 
They headed to the house, and Wes paused at the entrance. "Uh, give me a second," he muttered, cracking open the door. "Hey babe!" he yelled through the gap. "If you aren't decent, I'll give you thirty seconds before I let the baron in!"
 
Remihel heard a feminine yowl of alarm and dismay from inside, though the words themselves didn't quite carry. Wes stood there looking embarrassed. "Um. So... was a good wedding party last night."
 
"Yes," Remihel said, allowing the slight change of topic. "Everything went pretty well. Glad you could attend."
 
"Well, Sarah and I wouldn't miss it, of course," Wes said. "Was quite a privilege for us to get an invitation. Your parents looked happy."
 
"True," Remihel said.
 
"Somebody told me you gave a bottle of cholobara to Evelyn and Liam."
 
"Yup," Remihel said. "Whenever you and Sarah decide to get married, I'll have one for you guys, too."
 
"Yeah... uh, well then. Maybe someday," Wes opened the door. "We're coming in, babe."
 
Sarah Cao scurried around the front room, snatching dirty laundry from the couch. Once she'd gathered an armful, she hurled it through one of the bedroom doors. "Remi," she hissed, throwing him a dirty look, "what are you doing here?"
 
"I went on a ride," Remihel said. "Thought I'd stop in for a cold one."
 
"Bull!" Sarah scolded. "I know for sure it takes you four hours to ride out here, and you must have left before dawn. And not once did you message to warn us you'd be stopping. I would've at least cleaned off the floor and a place to sit!"
 
"You know I don't care," Remihel said, flopping down on the far side of the couch.
 
"But I care!" Sarah said. "Our flacking baron comes to see us, and there's a pile of Wes's tighty-whities waiting to be folded..." She glared.
 
Many years prior, Remihel obsessed over Sarah Cao. She'd been prettier then, with a bright laugh and pitch-dark hair. Her father came to Blackfoot as a Capellan refugee, and worked as an accountant for the barony's various financial holdings. While her father tutored Remihel about tax laws and investment strategies, Sarah stood outside on the lowest rail of the fence and flirted with the horses. Remihel managed to get two dates out of her, but at the time she was only interested in chasing ponies and bad boys.
 
Over the intervening years, Sarah changed. She'd gained weight, a half-dozen ugly tattoos, and a scar running from throat to navel where one of her bad boys carved on her with a box cutter. She'd picked Wes as her "last chance man" and, so far as Remihel could see, Wes hadn't let her down. She'd lost a few kilos over the spring and summer, enough that Remihel thought of her as stocky rather than overweight.
 
"So what did you really come out here for, Baron?" Wes asked, emerging from the kitchen with a trio of chilled soda cans, all bearing the Dark and Stormy label.
 
"Well," Remihel said, leaning back in his seat and popping the cap. He looked up at Wes and tried to keep the grin off his face. "Want to know if you'd like a Battlemech."
 
"Uh..." Wes looked confused for a few moments. "What's the catch?"
 
Remihel took a sip from his can. "I'm headed off Girondas for eight to twelve months - perhaps longer - to run a small mercenary company," he said. "I'd like somebody trustworthy to tag along."
 
Wes paused. "You... remember I'm not a trained mechwarrior, right?" he said.
 
"Yep." Remihel shrugged. "But you manage that Crosscut fine. And you spent enough time with the TDF's jump-boys that you can handle everything I can throw your way."
"What kind of mech?" Wes asked, throwing a very cautious glance in Sarah's direction. "You... you are talking about a real one, right?"
 
"I don't have all the details yet," Remihel said. "But yes, a real one. Though... I can't promise you'll keep it afterward."
 
"Remi," Sarah interrupted. "What kind of stupid thing are you up to? Look, I don't know anything about the mercenary business. But even I know that a mercenary company is nothing but a machine that turns a large fortune into a small fortune."
 
"Which means I need a good finance lady," Remihel added. He avoided Sarah's direct question, and decoyed her away with other bait. "How about it? Want to go?"
 
"Go... offworld?" Sarah asked, her eyes growing wide. "Um, yes...! Where are you going?"
 
"And when?" Wes added.
 
"Leaving before the end of the week," Remihel said. "Our first stop is Herotitus."
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===The Coming Storm===
By the time Remihel turned for home, clouds and a drizzling rain choked out the late afternoon sun. Thunder sounded in the far distance. Though it promised a fierce storm, nothing more threatening manifested.
 
As he rode, Remihel considered the task ahead. Mercenary commander, he reflected. A bit different than commanding a lance or a company. More paperwork... less bureaucracy. During his four years in the TDF, he'd matured from the company goof to the company XO, courtesy of a patient senior officer who chose to invest the time in him. I know I can do that job, he told himself.
 
A distant rumble sounded through the clouds, though Remihel saw no lightning. Azra twitched and shivered, and Remihel reached up to rub her neck. "It's all right, girl," he told her. "We're home soon. You can dry off in the barn and hide from it."
 
He chose not to dwell on the fact that it was probably the last time he'd take Azra on a ride. She was an old horse. In eight to twelve months when he returned - if I return, and if it's only twelve months - she wouldn't be up for a long trail ride. She plodded even now, though she knew full well they were heading back to the barn.
 
When I return, Remihel told himself, I can start trying Pála or Ylfa as trek horses. The two fillies would be old enough for riding by then. Wish I had a riding partner.
 
He cleared a few collected raindrops off his brow and flicked the water away. That's the curse of this job. Even my wallflower step-sister can find herself a husband more easily than I can find… whatever I'm hunting for.
 
At least he still had a bit of time. His grandfather Theodore - the first Baron Greenbrier of Blackfoot - married at the age of forty-eight. His father William married at forty-one, both to women significantly younger than themselves. From what Remihel knew, they'd both struggled with many of the same things he recognized in himself. He didn't use the word loneliness, but sometimes, when he spent too long at rest, the term felt a bit too close for comfort.
 
A thin tweet-tweet sound came from Remihel's wristcomp. After a few moments of thought, he accepted the call. "Evening, Momma."
 
"You still out riding, Remi?" Aviya Greenbrier-O'Farrissy asked. "It's getting late, and the weather..."
 
"I'm ten minutes from home," Remihel answered. "Do you need something?"
 
"Just a quick call," Lady Aviya assured him. "I'm leaving for the Friends of the Library dinner over in Tamworth. If I see Amelia, do you want me to say hello...?"
 
"You taught me it was good manners to say hello when you meet someone," Remihel said, choosing his words. "It's beneficial to follow societal norms in this regard."
 
"Remihel…!" his mother growled, though she couldn't hold off the laughter very long. "Very well, I get the hint. Though I ask, very seriously, if there's anything you need before I leave."
 
"At the moment, no thank you," Remihel said. "Give my general regards to the Friends of the Library."
 
"I'll do that." She paused on the line for a few moments. "Are you sure?"
 
"On second thought, can you pass on that I need a sexy librarian - with glasses and braids - to help me assess Grandpa Greenbrier's dusty attic book storage?"
 
"Well then!" his mother said. "I might know just the person! Talk to you when I get home tonight, Remi. Goodbye!"
 
The line clicked off.
 
"Azra, I'm pretty sure she's not going to say that," Remihel said. "She knows that was sarcasm."
 
The horse ignored him, and continued plodding toward the barn. 
 
"Maybe I ought to make sure," he muttered, after a few more moments of thought. He lifted his wrist in preparation for calling his mother back, then paused. "I suppose it could be worse."
 
He dwelt on that topic a few moments longer, and then laughed, like a madman, at the preposterous idea of inviting the Tamworth children's librarian to follow him to a cesspit of vice and iniquity like Herotitus. His laughter endured until the orange-leafed persimmon trees thinned and gave way to the mowed fields and pastures around the house. 
 
Remihel's grandfather constructed the house shortly after he received his baron's title. He commissioned an impressive five-story structure built with light gray stone and thick logs. He'd stopped short of assigning the place a bombastic name. The locals dubbed it "the big house" or "the baron's cabin." The dance hall made it the social hub of the entire district, and it was a rare weekend that found the place empty of guests.
 
The house belonged to Remihel, though his mother and stepfather still occupied the master suite on the fourth floor. Remihel lived in a smaller suite on the fifth floor. His step-sister Evelyn moved out years prior. Occasionally, Remihel took perverse pleasure telling people that he lived in his parents' attic - a statement that was somewhat misleading while also being technically correct. After all, he always said, technically correct is the best kind of correct…
 
Remihel dismounted short of the barn and opened the gate. It took a half hour to get Azra's saddle and tack put away, then give her a quick brushing and a final treat. One of the barn cats prowled in and jumped up atop the hitching rail, greeting the mare with a raspy meow before bonking its head into Azra's nose. An unlikely friendship, Remihel thought, as he released Azra for the evening. The mare didn't wander far, and the barn cat followed. I guess my barn cats aren't ambitious enough to take over mercenary companies.
 
The drizzle continued outside, and Remihel finished cleaning up the tackle. The survival carbine came out of its saddle holster, and went into the safe after a quick cleaning. Remihel checked on the barn's other denizens. Two of the mares had recently foaled, and they sheltered inside the barn. The wolf ostriches and the smaller chickcharnies couldn't get them.
 
And finally, only once he'd finished checking on all the others, Remihel made his way into the second barn where he stored the mechs.
 
Four stood there, in their oversized stalls, waiting for their call to action. The smallest - and most heavily-used - was an old frankenstein agro-mech, twenty tons of glorified walking tractor. Where, exactly, the thing came from was anyone's guess: it had no manufacturer's plates or serial numbers, only the name "Fat Nora" stenciled on one leg. Fat Nora did nothing fast, not even falling over - which meant it proved a good mech for first-time learners. Remihel took it out for the first time at the age of eight - without permission - and crashed through a fence. He planned to use its clawed grabber-arm to pluck a neighbor's bull from a flooded creek. It ended poorly for the bull.
Evelyn's Phoenix Hawk, Hart-Blue Mint, stood at ease in the next stall. The forty-five ton medium mech came down the O'Farrissy family line. Remihel's stepfather Connor handed it off several years prior, when he himself could no longer use a neurohelmet. The Phoenix Hawk was old and looked the part. Evelyn still took it with her for her mandatory service in the TDF. The military technicians overhauled it to keep the mech in the field. Remihel didn't care for the way it leaned left whenever the pilot looked right - but he rarely piloted the Mint any further than the maintenance bay.
 
In a stall across from Fat Nora stood an antique Toro, though it was too optimistic to say it actually stood on its own. Remihel never remembered a day that the Toro had ever moved, and without a Magna 175 engine and a left leg, it wasn't likely to go anytime soon. Remihel's grandfather dreamed of rebuilding the old Toro to portray Alydar Avenged, the personal mech of Judge Finn McCann, hero of his six best-selling novels. But this real-life Toro came off a battlefield, and the restoration job lingered from a lack of parts. Someday, Remihel promised as he walked past the Toro.
The final mech in the barn, Dark and Stormy herself, loomed under the overhead lights. Though it didn't stand much taller than the Phoenix Hawk, the Marauder bore an aura of intimidation and menace. It hunched, with bird-like digitigrade legs, a long body, and underslung arms with PPCs and lasers. An elevated 140mm autocannon perched atop the fuselage on a turreted mount. Decades before, Remihel's grandfather acquired the mech, fresh from the factory on Taurus, as a status symbol to celebrate his elevation as a baron of the Taurian Concordat, replacing a barely-functional RFL-3N Rifleman.
 
The Marauder wore a mottled camouflage paint scheme with the many hues of Girondas. Light gray, rifleman green, and autumn orange predominated. Only the mech's feet were a single color - all black, like boots. "Stormy," the dark-haired pin-up girl rendered on the mech's flanks, matched the logo plastered on every bottle that came out of the local brewery. But this nose art predated the brewery's use of the symbol. Unlike the stylized logo used for business, Stormy's bedroom eyes blazed emerald green. There were more hints of exactly how she'd become the first baroness. Remihel remembered his grandmother with gray hair and a wickedly sharp business acumen that kept two generations of Greenbrier barons solvent.
 
For a few moments, Remihel studied the heavy mech. Some mechwarriors felt an almost mystical connection to their machines. Remihel never shared that view. Some pilots believed that they were somehow lesser people after the loss of their mechs. Remihel's stepfather, for all his good qualities, agonized over the decision for a year before he handed over Hart-Blue Mint to Evelyn. The journals of Remihel's father and grandfather indicated they felt the same reluctance.
 
A voice echoed through the hanger. "Admiring the steel, Remi?"
 
Remihel turned and looked to the source of the voice. "Of a sort, Saba."
 
His maternal grandfather drifted out of the little electronics workshop in the back. Eighty year old Gil Cohen carried a cane in the crook of his arm, and adjusted his black, broad-brimmed hat. The old rabbi grinned, his smile visible through the gray of his full beard. "I saw your note from this morning. Heading offworld again, I understand?"
 
"That's right, Saba," Remihel said. He usually spoke Hebrew with his grandfather, who'd labored to teach him both Hebrew and Japanese. Saba succeeded with the former and failed at the latter. Gil Cohen preferred that result. He viewed Hebrew as his connection to his family's ancient heritage - traced back twelve hundred years to the Terran region of Morocco.
 
"Well?" Gil asked. "Where are you going this time?"
 
"Over to the Aurigan Reach, Saba," Remihel said. "Herotitus first, Lyreton after that, and a few other places later."
 
"Ah." Gil fell quiet for a few moments. "Herotitus… you can't stay away from that place."
 
"I've only been there once," Remihel pointed out, putting a bit of edge in his voice. "It's mission-related. We won't be there very long before moving on."
 
"Of course," Gil snorted. "But your mother's going to worry, considering the planet's reputation - and what happened last time you were there."
 
Remihel shrugged. "I don't repeat my mistakes twice - at least, I try not to. But I understand her fears."
 
"At least this time you'll be in better company," Gil pointed out.
 
"Eh..." Remihel muttered, and made a disgusted face. "I've got to meet with Volker."
 
Gil looked over, skeptically raised his eyebrow, took his cane in hand, and whacked Remihel's knee with it. "Boy," he said. "You keep bad friends."
 
"I'm not sure I'd call him a friend any more," Remihel admitted. "We diverged so much after leaving school and the military, it's a wonder we have anything to discuss."
 
"And yet, you still meet up with him every so often," Gil said, shaking his head.
 
Remihel shrugged. "I don't look forward to it. There's something I need from him."
 
"I will pray for your meeting, then - for discernment and good judgment." Gil put a hand on Remihel's shoulder, and bowed his head. "Have you taken time to do the same?"
 
"On my ride this morning," Remihel answered.
 
"As I thought," his grandfather said. "Whenever you're getting ready for something, you spend a lot more time on horseback. Anything you need to discuss?"
 
"Nothing I'm allowed to talk about, unfortunately."
 
"Then I will also pray for the things you can't discuss."
 
"Please do," Remihel sighed. "I appreciate it."
 
"Of course." Gil squeezed his shoulder. "I know you'll do well."
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