FOREWORD

Without a revolutionary theory, there cannot be a revolutionary movement.

~Vladimir Lenin

I’ve been asked while sitting on a panel at conventions, in many letters and emails, and just hanging around talking with friends, “Where did Catlayst Game Labs truly get its start?”

Everyone wants to believe it was some grand strategy, born from the think-tank that surrounded FASA. An internal movement, or revolution, which refused to die even as the doors were being closed on one of our industry’s greatest fiction legacies. (Which does lead to the amusing image of a band of misfit writers, all wearing berets, sitting around a French café plotting our next great undertaking.)

Sorry. As much as I love telling a good story that involves twists and turns, complications and overcoming enormous obstacles (and berets), that just isn’t the case. Not really.

It began with an idea.

A theory.

An abstract thought, based on the analysis of a set of related facts.

Fact: I had just finished writing Endgame, the “last” of the BattleTech novels, supposedly bringing to a close seventeen years of fiction narrative.

Fact: FASA was closing its doors, and there was no more BattleTech fiction on the horizon.

Fact: We still had stories we wanted to tell.

And I couldn’t help thinking about how I had wrapped up Endgame, setting the hook for a new, large plotline for BattleTech’s long-standing main hero. (Sorry, no spoilers. You’ll have to read the book.)

So there I am. It’s 2002 (or thereabouts) and I remember I was making a long drive to somewhere, talking out loud about all of this as a way to stay awake. I’m spinning off random thoughts concerning the growing trend of e-publishing and the already-built market of BattleTech readers, and the financial realities that might—just might—allow someone to take on such a project so that I could tell one last story.

Which was when my wife turned to me and asked, “So... why don’t you do it?”

Mon dieu!

And there it was. The idea that solidified a revolutionary theory, and began a movement. The moment that made possible everything that followed. That shove out the door (and over a cliff).

Everyone can blame my wife.

BattleCorps.com launched in 2003 and barnstormed into 2004. Behind the scenes, we raced around trying to learn everything we needed to about running a small business. Fortunately, I had help from a talented group of people just as committed as I, and between the lot of us we managed to keep things going, and growing, over the next several years. We kept on several veterans, but we also recruited an entire host of new writers. Jason Schmetzer. Phaedra Weldon. Kevin Killiany. And, of course, Steve Mohan, who came on strong and refused to let any of us slow him down. They gave us new units to cheer for in the Taurian Defense Force and a Federated Suns air cavalry squad. Introduced us to such unlikely heroes as a patriotic thief. And took us through the final moments of a desperate battle over Mars.

These are the stories you will read in this anthology.

First Strike is dedicated to these new literary commanders. Without their willingness to dedicate their talent to a large and complicated universe, to brave withering fire and charge the lines with a take-no-prisoners attitude, this revolutionary movement could never have survived.

It is my great privilege, in fact, to showcase three of Steve Mohan’s early BattleTech works. Stories that earned him so much fan support and eventually landed him his first published novel for BattleTech, A Bonfire of Worlds, which is publishing in 2010. We’ve also included a never-before-published follow-up to his fan favorite piece, Of War and Peace and Cherry Trees. I hope you enjoy it as much as I.

Bravo, Steve. Or perhaps I should say bien fait! (Your beret is in the mail.)

The heavy hanging chains shall fall

The walls shall crumble at the word

And freedom greet you with the light

And brothers give you back the sword

~Aleksandr Pushkin

BROKEN BLADE

By Steven Mohan, Jr.

Melrose Valley, near the Defiance Industries Vehicles Facility

Outside Maria’s Elegy, Hesperus II

Lyran Commonwealth

28 December 2787

First Leutnant Danver McEdwards of the Thirtieth Lyran Guards pushed his battered Sentinel into a panicked lope as the world came apart around him. Heavy beams of ruby light smashed down into the hardscrabble earth and splashed outward in prismatic scattering; the lasers vaporizing dirt, rock, and ’Mech armor with equal efficiency. Someone had called in naval gunfire support.

And someone had done it wrong.

The laser fire rained down in the middle of the battlefield, indiscriminately toppling Combine and Lyran ’Mechs alike. It didn’t matter whose WarShip was up there, Kurita or Steiner.

Whoever it was, it was the enemy.

McEdwards glanced at his rear monitor in time to see a DCMS Dragon chasing after him. Suddenly the great machine was nothing more than a black silhouette against a wall of crimson fire.

And then it was gone.

McEdwards ran.

Ironically, the disastrous attack had probably saved his life. Before someone had opened up with orbital fire the Thirtieth Guards had been facing the Kuritan regiment in a long front that stretched across the south end of the valley. The DCMS had nearly managed to punch through the defenders’ line at a weak point, and McEdwards’s unit — First Company, Second Battalion — rushed forward to blunt the point of the Combine attack. Instead, the Kuritans had sliced right through First Co as well.

The fire from on high had broken up an emerging Combine victory and provided the perfect opportunity to slip away.

McEdwards watched a Panther stumble and fall, as the earth suddenly opened up beneath it. The ’Mech tumbled into the new crater, light the color of blood tracing across its exceptionally humanoid form. The Panther struggled half-way over the crater’s edge and then fell back, swallowed by hell’s fury.

There wasn’t any question of staying.

So focused was McEdwards on the danger behind him that he didn’t notice the danger in front until it was too late. A Thug stepped out from behind a dun-colored bluff and a flight of Bical-6 SRM’s rippled across the ovoid shape of his Sentinel’s body.

McEdwards staggered backwards, stumbling as his weakened left leg almost gave out.

The enemy machine stalked forward, pressing its attack. Before McEdwards could answer, violet PPC fire washed over the dilapidated armor shielding his cockpit. The temperature spiked, burning his lungs, and almost, almost, stealing away his consciousness.

This was the end.

Six years of nothing on Hesperus II and now this: blackjacked by a Thug.

The Thug took another step forward. It was painted for city fighting: sharp-edged camouflage pattern of concrete grays and asphalt blacks. The only visible color on the DCMS machine was the emblem on its left shoulder, a blue circle with a stripped tail down the arm, marking the ’Mech as a member of the 18th Algedi Regulars.

The Thug was a monster, eighty tons of muscular fighting machine protected by the latest Ferro-Fibrous armor and armed with a particle projector cannon mounted on each thick arm. Its massive head was centered on its torso, far below its powerful shoulders, giving it a brutal, primitive look. This machine was a schoolyard bully, designed to pound weaker ’Mechs.

Like his Sentinel.

The Thug raised its arms and McEdwards swallowed hard.

And then the sky opened up and a curtain of crimson light divided him from the DCMS ’Mech.

His mind unhinged by terror, McEdwards fled.

Tai-i Aiko Makita jerked her Thug to a stop just as soon as she heard the burst of coded chatter over the Lyran freq. “Picket,” she shouted over the ’Mech channel. She carefully scanned the battered and scarred rocks of Hesperus II, searching for the source of the radio signal.

Nothing.

During the confusion of the naval bombardment, she and six of her ’Mechs had slipped through the Lyran line, a fact unknown to the LCAF. Right now that secret was Makita’s principal tactical advantage, one she would lose if she allowed the picket to transmit.

“Found him,” shouted Chu-i Brian Smith. “Heavy Tank.” Smith stepped his Kintaro to one side, so he had a clear shot behind a jagged escarpment. Twin ruby beams sizzled through the hot, dry air, followed by a SRM. “Narc pod away.”

Makita immediately heard a ringing tone and loosed a flight of her own SRM’s. The missiles’ white contrails ran straight for the friendly Kintaro, then turned, arcing around the escarpment and following the Narc beacon right in.

Makita pounded her way over to Smith’s position, aimed her PPC’s at the terminus of his lasers, and poured megajoules of killing energy into the tank.

The transmission suddenly cut out.

“Cease fire,” Makita called out. She stalked forward.

What she found was the thoroughly mangled remains of a AC/2 Carrier caught in a half-turn.

The Carrier had never stood a chance. Makita’s force completely outgunned it. The tank’s commander had done the only thing he could, turned to run, but thanks to Smith’s quick reflexes that hadn’t worked either.

“Got him,” said Smith jubilantly.

“Hai,” said Makita angrily, “but not before he revealed our position. Come. Daylight’s shadows grow no shorter.”

She was answered by a chorus of hai’s.

Makita started running, and the rest of her improvised force followed.

Standard tactics after a break out was to turn and attack, shattering the enemy’s line and sending him fleeing. But the standing orders for Operation Broken Blade were different. Any unit that punched through was ordered to proceed immediately against the nearest DefHes facility.

To wreak havoc on the very heart of the Steiner war machine.

So Makita set off at a dead run.

It still surprised her to be piloting a Thug, or that her force consisted of previously almost exclusive Terran Hegemony ’Mechs…or that the Lyrans fielded their own number of such designs. But how many soldiers were wooed away from the Star League before Kerensky’s Exodus with most of the Star League Defense Force? And how many of them found their rides ‘reassigned’ to other soldiers. Serves them right…can’t trust such turncoats.

She brought her attention back to the here and now as her massive Thug bounded across the broken, rocky landscape at a stately 65 kph, barely two-thirds of the speed of the Lyran Sentinel that had escaped her grasp in the horror and confusion of the naval attack.

Many of the ’Mechs in company with her were faster, but she kept them in a tight formation. They were going to encounter the automated defenses soon. Better to husband her meager forces than to go off on a headlong chase that might very well lead to ambush and disaster.

They were no more than a knife’s edge from disaster anyway.

It hadn’t started that way. Broken Blade was a daring operation designed to smash the Lyran war machine with a single devastating blow. Defiance Industries’ massive ’Mech and Vehicles Facilities on Hesperus II were the key to the Commonwealth’s military power. Destroy Defiance and the Commonwealth would not long stand. And with the Cameron’s dead and their Star League Defense Force gone there was nothing to keep the Draconis Combine from taking its rightful place at the head of the Inner Sphere.

To accomplish this the DCMS had assembled an awesome force: a squadron of WarShips escorting DropShips embarked with four ’Mech regiments led by the Fifth Sword of Light. The ’Mech’s would slice through the Lyran defenders dirtside, while the WarShips pounded the factories from above. It was a beautiful concept.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t quite worked out as planned.

Lyran resistance at the jump point had been much heavier than expected. The Kuritan WarShips had managed to slog through the Lyran naval forces and get close enough to Hesperus II to destroy a few orbiting factories, but that was it. They couldn’t get into position to engage in a heavy bombardment of the real prize, the Defiance facilities.

Things had gone little better for the ’Mech assault. Three regiments led by the Gold Dragons had moved against the ’Mech facility only to discover that the Lyran defenders fielded an astounding number of powerful assault ’Mech’s, all built on this very world. The main thrust of the ’Mech assault staggered under a punishing counter-attack led by a brace of Lyran Zeuses and Atlases.

Both the naval forces and the Jade Dragons had found themselves engaged in a bloody stalemate.

Only the 18th Algedi Regulars were actually advancing.

Makita’s reverie was interrupted by a flash of emerald light and the armor on her right knee flashed from green to yellow on her wireframe schematic. What the— Wait. There. The rock. She targeted a massive boulder with both arm-mounted PPC’s and simultaneously released a double flight of SRM’s.

The actinic flash of violet lightning carved deep furrows in the rock’s surface, followed a second later by multiple missile impacts.

The boulder erupted into an incandescent orange fireball that rose twenty meters into the air, showering her force with a hard gravel rain.

“Good God,” Ohno swore over the ’Mech channel, “what did you use on that thing?”

“That wasn’t me,” said Makita. “Secondary explosions. We’re into the automatic defenses. Watch yourself.”

“Hai,” said Ohno with feeling.

As if his word were some kind of signal the valley floor came alive with the emerald and crimson crossfire of multiple lasers hidden among the rocks, missiles arcing in from magazines sunk into the hills, spent shell casings bouncing everywhere — a thousand kinds of death left by the Lyrans to welcome them to Hesperus II.

McEdwards’s company commander, Hauptmann Grün, had left standing orders for all badly damaged ’Mechs to fall back to the DefHes Vehicles Facility. The goal was to get wounded ’Mechs patched up and back in the fight. And those machines that couldn’t be fixed were to remain in place, using their weapons as a last ditch line of defense. The facility was to be protected at all costs.

As McEdwards limped his badly damaged Sentinel over a rise he saw that it was too late for that.

The Combine had already hit the Vehicles Facility, probably from orbit. The factory was housed in a massive structure built of reinforced concrete. It was so big that it looked squat even though its ceiling reached thirty meters into the sky. (The building had originally been used to build assault ’Mech’s before security concerns forced the ’Mech Division into a facility hollowed out of a mountain.)

The building was so big that it was rumored to have its own weather patterns. Once, when the AC went down, storm clouds had formed inside the building and the Day Shift had been treated to a gentle spring rain.

The massive building still stood, but something had brought down part of the building’s south wall, leaving a pile of gray rubble in its place. McEdwards shuddered. Another sign of the end.

The war was only twelve months old, but it was already clear it was going to be a bloody, nasty business. That should’ve been obvious even before the war began, back in ‘85 when the Free Worlds League had violated the Ares Conventions and nuked an entire continent.

After that the atrocities had stacked up, each one worse than the last. Bandits attacking Bone-Norman. The Combine taking Gram and Trolloc Prime and then smashing the Bolson Shipyards at New Kyoto. And, worst of all, the DCMS slaughtering civilians by the thousands on Skondia just to draw out LCAF forces.

Wanton, unspeakable destruction. Honorable combat transformed into murder. A thousand years of civilization traded away for a fleeting advantage in battle. That’s what McEdwards saw when he looked at the damage done to the Vehicles Facility.

Naked, brutal barbarism stalked the Inner Sphere.

Today it had found Hesperus II.

He sighed, a long wavering sound that left him feeling weak and sad, and then he hobbled down toward the factory.

It looked more like a field hospital than a state-of-the-art defense facility.

The lawn in front of the factory was covered with bodies on stretchers and more still in black, nylon bags. Medics moved from stretcher to stretcher, treating those not yet beyond help. Healthy soldiers and factory workers mingled near the building’s ship dock where scores of Hunter tanks sat on the ground or on massive trailers, waiting to be shipped to LCAF units.

McEdwards was startled to see there were almost no ’Mechs. Badly hurt machines were supposed to fall back and he’d seen plenty of his mates absorb grievous blows. And yet, all he saw was an Archer flat on its back, a badly-damaged Zeus nearly stripped of armor and missing its left arm, and another Sentinel, clearly hurt, but perhaps with a little fight left in it. Had the rest fallen?

Two damaged medium ’Mechs to defend the factory.

McEdwards hoped Hauptmann Grün had a helluva plan.

Without thinking he reached over and touched the haft of the short sword mounted on the ’Mech’s bulkhead. The sword had been in his family for generations beyond count, a treasured symbol of the McEdwards’ tradition of keeping the peace. The sword was a symbol of honor, of bravery.

Of civilization.

The haft felt strange to the touch. McEdwards glanced over. And realized that the polished silver blade had shattered, breaking in two. Probably during the attack by the Thug.

Something lodged in his throat.

And at that precise moment the scorched strands of myomer holding his left leg together finally gave out. One instant McEdwards felt the ’Mech going over and the next his vision grayed and his jaws clacked shut.

It happened that fast.

For a moment he just lay there, unable to summon the will to move, just staring through the starred ferroglass of his canopy at the rocky landscape now tilted up at a crazy angle.

McEdwards blinked hard a couple times and shook himself out of his stupor. He undid his safety restraint and managed to force open the Sentinel’s access hatch. He pried himself out of the charred and broken remnants of his cockpit and worked his way painfully over the left shoulder joint to the AC/5 Ultra Autocannon and then to the ground.

The long barrel of the cannon was smashed against the hardscrabble deck. The fall had happened fast, but apparently not so fast that McEdwards hadn’t managed to get an arm out to brace himself.

As McEdwards surveyed his ’Mech he realized that was about all the good news there was. Aside from the fact that his left leg was a mess, a long black scar sliced through the Sentinel’s ovoid torso. It would take only a few good hits for an enemy to punch through to his gyroscope.

It would only take one to punch through the fractured armor of his cockpit.

A young MechWarrior approached and saluted, a leutnant judging by the insignia clipped to his cooling vest, though absent the rank McEdwards would’ve guessed him to be a cadet. McEdwards fumbled for a name. Gavin something.

McEdwards returned the youngster’s salute. “What happened here?” He jerked his head at the hole in the building.

“Kuritans took out the orbiting factories. There’s debris strung out half-way across South Whitman. Some of it came down here.”

McEdwards chewed on that for a moment. The fact that the Combine navy hadn’t gotten close enough to finish the job meant that the laser fire he’d just danced through had to have come from an LCAF WarShip. Exactly how much of First Co had been taken out by friendly fire?

“Can you take me to Hauptmann Grün, Leutnant, uh . . .”

“Hill,” said the boy. “Leutnant Gavin Hill, as you please, sir.”

“That’s fine. Take me to Grün, would you?”

“Sir.” The boy licked his lips and turned to point.

McEdwards’s gaze followed the boy’s finger to one of the black nylon bags lying on the green, green grass.

“The Hauptmann is dead.” He jerked his head toward the silent Zeus. “That was his,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You are the senior officer.”

A warrant in Steiner blue ran up and saluted. “Sir, we have a report from one of our pickets. Enemy ’Mechs moving this way.”

McEdwards huddled around a comms set with young Hill, the warrant, and a fortyish woman in a yellow hard hat: Tricia Coleman, the factory’s Day Shift Shop foreman. My command staff, McEdwards thought sourly.

A thin patina of dust coated everything, a mix of metal and rock particles blasted into the air by errant fire. The dust coated his mouth, dried his mouth.He placed the handset to his lips and said, “Second Battalion, actual, this is First Leutnant McEdwards.”

Hauptmann-Kommandant Krieg’s deep voice emerged from the speaker. “I’m busy here,” he growled. His statement was punctuated by the high-pitched whine of lasers followed by an autocannon’s staccato rattle.

“Yessir,” said McEdwards. “I’ll make this fast. We have a force of enemy ’Mechs moving towards the factory.” He released the send button and met the warrant’s gaze. “Did you get a count?”

The warrant shook his head. “Our guy’s report was cutoff mid-way, but at least a lance. Maybe more.”

At least a lance, McEdwards thought. Maybe more. Against two medium ’Mechs. He glanced back at his damaged ride. Scratch that. One medium ’Mech.

“You’re just going to have to hold, Leutnant.”

McEdwards brushed sweat his forehead with the back of his hand. Damn, it was hot!”Sir, we have only one medium bravo mike against a lance plus of—”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Krieg gruffly. “We’re barely holding the line as it is. If we pull back they’re going to punch through. Better to take our chances with your medium ’Mech and the automated defenses.”

McEdwards cycled through all the possible things he could say and finally settled on, “Yessir.”

“Godspeed, Leutnant. Krieg out.”

The channel went dead.

“Surely, ah . . .” The warrant swallowed hard. His face had lost all color. “Surely we’re going to withdraw.”

McEdwards glanced at the warrant. The man was a comms specialist, not a warrior. He looked at Hill and Ms. Coleman. Both were silent, their faces tightened into grim expressions.

“You can’t expect us to stand and fight,” said the warrant. “Not against a lance. It’s suicide.”

No. They could retreat. And what would they give up? A thousand years of civilization, McEdwards thought, traded for a fleeting advantage in battle.

McEdwards glanced at Hill. “Is your Sentinel working?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. I would be happy to surrender it to you, if—”

“No, you keep it,” said McEdwards, glancing back at his own machine, “I’m not quite done with mine yet.”

McEdwards drew a deep breath. The sweet smell of spent munitions mixed with the acrid taste of smoke. The perfume of war. He glanced at Coleman. She was a pretty woman, but there was strength in that face, too. “Will your people help, Foreman?”

“Just tell us what to do,” said Coleman in a cool, level voice.

“Sir,” said the warrant his face twisted with dismay, “You can’t seriously think—”

McEdwards cut him off with a raised hand. “Do you have an ETA on the enemy ’Mechs?”

The warrant pursed his lips, but said, “Maybe twenty minutes.”

“More if they’re slowed down by the automated defenses,” said Hill.

McEdwards glanced at the hole in the building and then he looked back at them. “OK, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

Makita sprinted through a sea of laser fire, driven by nothing more than the need to escape. She heard the angry rattle of autocannon fire and saw Carter’s Mercury fall out of the corner of her eye.

She’d abandoned her Ares-5 fire control system, giving herself over to instinct, firing on the run, her only aim to disrupt the endless rain of death that fell all around her.

She saw a flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye. Her heat sinks were still cooling from a double PPC blast, but she wheeled and let lose with a flight of SRMs.

The nearby turret shuddered, but didn’t stop its turn. Her attack had bent the laser’s barrel, though. The turret stopped suddenly, the dark end of its barrel pointed straight at her cockpit. Makita saw a flash of emerald light and then the gun erupted into molten orange flame as its own misdirected energy tore it apart.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Smith firing his pair of Magna medium lasers.

She covered twenty klicks like that, sprinting past the automated defenses where she could and engaging where she had to, until the laser fire suddenly stopped.

“Hey, I’m suddenly clear of fire control radar,” said Smith.

“Must be close,” muttered Makita. She glanced at her rear monitor and a cold chill suddenly wriggled down her spine. “Where are the rest?”

“I saw McDill’s Crab go down,” said Smith. “And Ohno.”

“And Carter,” said Makita remembering his Mercury crashing to earth. “Jigoku. We can’t be the only survivors.”

Smith said nothing.

“Well, then we shall have to be enough,” said Makita firmly. She strode toward a small rise. She looked up over the hill.

And saw it.

The Defiance Industries Vehicles Facility.

Guarded by a massive Zeus. The same class of ’Mech tearing apart the Fifth Sword of Light.

She blinked.

Perhaps “guarded” was too strong a word. The Zeus was missing its left arm and her sensors told her it was dead, no heat signature at all.

A wounded Sentinel lay on the rocky ground, propped up on its damaged autocannon. She noticed the long ugly scar that stretched across the ’Mech’s ovoid body and the blackened armor near the cockpit. Makita realized this was the Sentinel she’d nearly killed before the naval laser fire had knocked her aside.

“What do you think?” Smith asked.

Makita’s eyes marked many things: the pile of rubble that had once been the building’s south wall, the collection of black bags spread across the perfectly manicured lawn, the clutter of paper and gauze and scraps of bloody cloth, the light tanks secured to flatbed trailers with steel tie downs . . .

All of it, every single sign, pointed to a hurried retreat. Makita could close her eyes and almost see them scrambling to evac the wounded, but leaving behind their damaged ’Mechs, their light tanks.

Their dead.

It all made sense. Perfect sense.

Somehow she knew it was a trap. She felt it like an itch deep down in her belly.

Makita licked her lips and centered a reticle made of crimson light over the Zeus’s chest. The reticle turned golden, a sweet tone sounded, and suddenly a flight of SRM’s was away.

Count one and impact.

The massive Zeus shuddered but did not fall, the rippling blasts of the missiles’ warheads echoing off the mountains that ringed the valley.

And suddenly Makita was up and over the rise, charging toward the assault ’Mech, her powerful eighty ton stride shaking the ground.

“Tai-i, what’re you—”

“Cover me,” Makita snarled.

It took ten seconds to cross to where the Zeus stood, plenty of time for a hidden enemy to open up on her.

But none did.

She reached the Zeus and hit, arms extended, fingers splayed to spread out the impact, careful not to damage either of her arm-mounted PPC’s.

The Zeus took the momentum of her charge and toppled backwards. The Zeus’s fall fractured the rocky ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. The sound of the great ’Mech hitting the earth was like the sound of the end of the world. It echoed against the building and then settled into silence.

Nothing else happened.

She signaled for Smith to join her and he lumbered up over the rise, stopping at a distance that allowed them to cover each other, though against what was unclear.

She was still certain there was a trap here, but she had no idea what it might be.

But if she moved against the factory she could do a lot of damage. And she might just pull an Atlas or two toward her position, giving the Eighth Sword of Light a better chance to punch through and hit the ’Mech facility.

She keyed in the command channel and said, “This is Tai-i Makita, proceeding against the Vehicles Facility.” Then she stepped through the breached south wall and into the factory.

The facility was spooky.

It was illuminated by immense lamps placed in the high roof, the light tinged yellow by the accumulation of time and welding dust. A parade of half-completed tanks sat frozen on a massive conveyor line that looked like the silent fossil of some great Sauropod, long dead. Nothing stirred, not a single worker remained. More evidence of a panicked retreat by the Lyran forces guarding the Vehicles Facility.

Except.

The high-pitched jump tone that warned of enemy fire control radar filled her cockpit and she saw multiple hot spots on her thermal sensors. Makita didn’t really believe she and Smith were being stalked by a battalion of ’Mechs. All the heat signatures were motionless and the only footsteps that broke the silence were those of her Thug and Smith’s Kintaro. No doubt someone had engaged the AGART system of the partially assembled tanks and turned on every fusion reactor they could find.

Still, that didn’t sound like people lost to panic, did it?

And between the WarShip attack and the hard flight through the sea of laser fire their armor wasn’t in the best of shape.

“Be careful,” she said. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

“Hai,” said Smith, and the tension in his voice told her he felt it, too.

She glanced down at the facility schematic, provided courtesy of the ISF, and raised one massive arm to point at a three-way junction of aisles. “Looks like we turn right here.”

“Hai.”

They stalked past an incredible collection of industrial equipment: yellow bridge cranes mounted on rails in the ceiling, jib cranes set on thick steel columns rising from the reinforced ferrocrete floor, weld robots, precision machining centers, and a whole collection of machinery she couldn’t ID.

They came to another junction and turned left this time, moving fast, staying on plan.

The schematic was sketchy and incomplete and there was always the chance that it was wrong altogether, but it was best they had. It showed the Reactor Testing Room at the north end of the building.

Their objective.

Each fusion power plant had to be tested before installation and since this was a factory, efficiency mattered. There would have to be a bulk tank of deuterium somewhere close to the RTR.

It wouldn’t be hard to turn the pressure vessel into a bomb. Place a fusion reactor close to the vessel and set it to overload. The nuclear reaction Makita was planning to set off wouldn’t be self-sustaining — once released the plasma would cool far too fast for that — but the initial explosion would be big enough to knock down the building’s north wall and irradiate the whole factory.

Even better, the spray of golden plasma would start a fire, feeding on everything in its path. When she was done House Steiner would have to knock down and bury the charred and blackened skeleton of their Vehicles Facility.

Just the kind of destruction she’d been charged with overseeing. A grim smile touched Makita’s lips.

Just as a nearby jib crane swung around and smashed her Thug in the right shoulder. The blow caught her in mid-step and for a moment she teetered on the edge of falling.

Then the steel arm smashed into her again.

And this time it knocked her down.

Makita managed to get her left arm out in front of her, absorbing most of the impact, but crushing the barrel of her PPC.

She saw a trace of motion behind her and glanced down in time to see Smith’s Kintaro turn and—

“Don’t,” she shouted.

—melt the jib crane down into glowing slag with his two medium lasers.

“Cease fire,” she shouted.

Smith dropped his right arm and turned his great machine to face her. “I-I don’t understand. We were attacked.”

Makita reached down and pushed herself up with her right hand. “The jib must be radio controlled. We weren’t attacked by the crane, Chu-i. We were attacked by the person holding the remote.”

“But—”

“Someone’s here,” she hissed. “Every shot you take telegraphs our position. And there’s no need. It’s a jib crane. All we have to do is walk away.”

The giant Kintaro bowed from the waist, looking like a repentant samurai. “Hai. Of course you are right, Tai-i. Forgive me.”

“We shall speak no more of it,” said Makita. “If this is the best our enemy can do, we are indeed fortunate. He will try to distract us, Chu-i, but we shall not allow it. Our objective is the RTR. We shall obtain it.”

“Hai,” Smith barked.

“Come.”

The two ’Mechs started forward again, their heavy footfalls echoing through great caverns of machinery. Twisted shadows cast by industrial robots marked the aisles, belts paralleled their path and then veered suddenly away, the abrupt hum of a compressor kicking on pierced the silence.

Somewhere, somewhere, amidst all this junk was a soldier or maybe a factory hardhat with an overdeveloped sense of duty. Makita’s eyes did a little dance right to left, rear monitor to thermal sensor, looking for the enemy.

Finding nothing.

She stumbled, feeling something holding her right leg back. She jerked the leg forward and then pivoted around on her left leg. A welding torch thrust at her like a sword, its tip glowing incandescent blue. The torch was wielded by a massive robotic arm mounted to the deck.

Makita raised her right arm and centered her PPC. Manmade lightning crackled and popped, vaporizing the business end of the weld robot’s torch arm.

Makita glanced down. The robot had been aiming for her knee. The welder hadn’t done much damage to the delicate joint itself, but it had cut long black furrows in her armor.

“With respect, Tai-i,” said Smith, “I thought we weren’t supposed to—”

“It is perfectly plain that our enemy knows every move we make,” she snarled.

Her eyes flickered across and down, her gaze brushing past her thermal sensor and to—

Jerking back.

One of the reactors was moving. The deck shook with the heavy footfalls of an approaching ’Mech.

Her head snapped up.

A Sentinel stepped past a ferrocrete wall and opened up with its powerful AC/5, the autocannon chipping away the armor around Smith’s cockpit.

Smith roared and raised his right arm.

The Lyran ’Mech ducked clear an instant before the lethal red beams hit.

Smith pounded after him.

“Iie,” Makita shouted, but Smith’s blood was up, and he plunged after the smaller ’Mech. Darted around the wall.

Makita hobbled after him, favoring her right knee while she tried to push her slow Thug to catch up.

She made it to the wall in time to see the Sentinel taking a wide turn around another corner, Smith’s Magna lasers slicing through the other ’Mech’s already damaged rear armor.

Alarm bells rang in Makita’s mind.

Smith moved to cut off the smaller Sentinel, angling for a tighter turn around the corner.

“Wait,” Makita shouted.

But it was already too late. Smith’s Kintaro leaned forward in pursuit. It took a step and its massive foot slid out from beneath it. For a moment the giant samurai looked like a comedian doing a pratfall, arms out sliding across the floor as it fought for the balance. And then it disappeared into some kind of sunken bay.

Makita could see lines where its feet had dragged through the grease someone had smeared on the floor.

Trap.

She stepped forward, careful to follow the Sentinel’s path. The great Kintaro lay on its right side amidst more mysterious equipment. The ’Mech’s fall had managed to crack open a giant pressure vessel and a foul black sludge was leaking out.

“Report your status, Chu-i,” Makita barked.

“I, uh, I— Sorry, Tai-i,” answered Smith. “I think . . . I might be able to get up.”

Makita realized there was lettering on the side of the leaking pressure vessel: WASTE TREATMENT. Safe in her Thug’s cockpit she couldn’t smell the sour stink of hydrogen sulfide, but it would be there. Along with the odorless presence of methane.

“Get up,” she shouted, “get up, NOW.”

Just then the Sentinel appeared and fired its small laser at the leaking tank.

The bay exploded into a molten orange tower of fire, the flames tinged blue by burning methane. A wave of heat pushed Makita back. She glimpsed the Sentinel racing toward an external freight door. She actually took a step forward, intent on following and destroying the Lyran ’Mech, until she realized that’s just what they wanted her to do.

Makita clenched her jaw and brought her Thug to a halt. For a moment she watched the Kintaro writhe, listened to Smith’s screams as the fire roasted him alive in his cockpit. She shuddered. It was a horrible way for a MechWarrior to die: trapped and helples, skin charred to a crisp, lungs burning from the inside—

Unable to do anything to save him, she turned away and resumed her mission.

Makita stalked forward, careful to avoid the reach of cranes and industrial robots. Twice mechanical arm had reached out for her and both times she had slagged them with her remaining PPC.

She wasn’t worried about the Sentinel. If it appeared, she’d stand her ground and go toe-to-toe with the forty-ton ’Mech, but she wouldn’t be drawn away from her objective. Not any more.

Perhaps the Lyran commander understood that, because she hadn’t seen any sign of the Sentinel since the ambush at the Waste Treatment Plant. So much the better

She came to yet another intersection and stopped. She glanced down at the schematic and saw that she had at last reached the main north-south aisle. The long ferrocrete avenue hugged the facility’s eastern wall. It was a supply avenue, linking up with freight doors at 100-meter intervals, so that parts and material could be brought into factory and moved efficiently to point-of-use.

All it meant to Makita was that she had a clear shot to the north end of the factory and the deuterium bulk tank.

She took a step forward.

Her life was saved by a faulty timer.

She heard a pop and jerked back as a section of racking to her right started to fall. A moment later the rest of the spoilsport charges went off like a string of firecrackers rapidly popping off, followed closely by a rain of broken and twisted steel.

Makita quickly stepped her Thug back, narrowly avoiding the deluge of racking and cranes and turret assemblies. As the crashing echo died away, Makita found herself facing a barrier of wreckage. If she hadn’t moved when the first charge had gone off, she would’ve been buried in a steel grave.

She stood staring at the pile of broken equipment. Her advance along the main north-south aisle was effectively cut off. She might be able to cut her way through with her remaining PPC, though it would take some time and she was wary about walking through all that crap with her damaged knee.

Besides that’s what they’d expect her to do. No telling what awaited her on the other side of this barrier.

She glanced down at her rear monitor and her eyes fixed on one of the roll-up freight doors.

Perhaps there was a better way.

Makita turned and strode back to the door. She raised her Thug’s right arm and slagged the door with her PPC. Then she punched through the shards of the broken door and stepped outside.

Enough. Enough of that damned factory. She would proceed northward outside, avoiding all the clever Lyran ambushes and booby traps. Then she would enter the building from the north, find the deuterium tank, blow it, and be done.

She glanced at her rear monitor. She was already a couple hundred meters north of the factory’s ship dock, so she didn’t have to far to—

She saw a flash of orange light.

Makita pushed her ’Mech into a sprint, running to her right, away from the factory where she was boxed in. A flight of missiles rippled against her right side.

The tanks. It was the tanks on the shipping dock, letting loose with their FarFire LRM’s. She could see the launch flashes from the tanks’ low-slung box launchers.

Makita charged forward, running a zig-zag course in an effort to disrupt the missiles’ solutions, all the while blasting the Hunters with her PPC.

A tank erupted into an orange fireball and she targeted the next even as her Thug shuddered from a missile blow. The tanks weren’t moving, making them easy targets. If she could just take out enough before her armor gave out.

She sprinted towards a low outcropping of rock. She could use it as an improvised revetment. And it was close enough she could bring her own SRM’s to bear. She could open up on the Hunters with her own missile barrage and sharpshoot them with her PPC.

Missiles fell all around her, shaking the earth and gouging out craters in the rocky ground. For a split-second her weakened knee joint locked up, and she stumbled. She nearly went over, knowing it would mean her life if she did, and then somehow she regained her balance and made the outcropping.

She crouched down behind the rock formation listening to the heavy whump, whump, whump of missiles hitting brittle sandstone. She didn’t have much time before her barrier shattered.

She stepped past the outcropping just long enough to release a double flight of SRM’s then stepped back. It took only a three-count before she heard a satisfying ripple of explosions.

She sighted in on a tank’s missile box and set up a shot with her PPC, exposing only her right arm to counterfire. Lightning crackled and the box exploded into a towering fountain of fire.

That turned out to be enough for her friends in the tanks. When she stepped out from behind the outcropping to fire another salvo of missiles, she saw men and women fleeing.

Men and women in yellow hard harts.

Makita howled with range and charged after them, firing all the way. The first PPC blast dropped the fleeing factory workers, cooking them where they stood. Her successive blasts were aimed at the Hunters’ missile boxes and they transformed the ship dock into a garden of fire of death.

When she reached the tanks, none had survived. All the ship dock was burning.

Makita saw the fallen Sentinel she had confronted during the naval battle and realized with a start that she was nearly back where she began.

Enough of these foolish cat-and-mouse games, it was time to—

The Sentinel stepped out from behind the southeast corner of the building, took aim with its autocannon, and fired. Makita staggered backwards as the Ultra flensed armor from her right knee.

She raised her right arm and blackened the ferrocrete of the building’s wall, but not before the Sentinel had ducked back behind the corner.

Enough.

Makita charged forward. She would make this foolish Sentinel pay and pay dearly and then she would finish the job she’d come to do.

Makita reached the building’s corner. The Sentinel was racing toward the safety of the next corner, but in this case the massive size of the building had worked against him.

Makita lined up a shot with her lone surviving PPC and poured angry fire into the Sentinel’s rear.

She must’ve hit the gyroscope, because the medium BattleMech suddenly fell, sprawling on the hardscrabble earth, face first.

She stood over the crippled ’Mech waiting for the pilot to emerge. After a minute the hatch cracked open and the Kisama pulled himself out. He knealt on the wide flange of the left shoulder, hands clasped behind his head.

“No, my friend,” she snarled, “you will not get off quite that easily.”

She bent down and batted him with her right arm. All her fury and frustration powered that blow and his body skittered across the earth and was still.

“NO!”

She glanced at her radio. The voice had come from an open frequency.

An alarm warbled, signaling that she had been targeted. Where was the danger.

That was when she glanced down at her rear monitor. It was the fallen Sentinel, the one she thought she’d dealth with before. Somehow it was still working. It poured laser fire into her right knee. She wheeled around intending to slag the downed ’Mech, but the turn was too quick, especially after the careful surgery the Sentinel had just performed with his small laser.

Makita’s abused right knee finally gave out and her Thug went down hard on its right side.

An infantry squad dressed in desert cammo fatigues pulled her from her Thug. She cradled her right arm in her left. She could see where the bone’s broken edge had pushed up against her smooth, brown skin. Compound fracture. Agony pulsed in her damaged arm, but her mind made it a distant agony, like it was happening to someone else.

The Lyran squad leader pressed his needler into the small of her back and marched her toward the factory. None of them spoke.

And the squad leader’s grip on his weapon never wavered.

Makita had no doubt what would happen if she flinched, if she stumbled, if she made any move at all.

She briefly considered making a break for it. Better to be cut down from behind than what was going to come next. After a moment of reflection she was shamed to discover she didn’t have the courage to end her life.

So she kept walking, at a steady, careful pace.

They led her into the factory and deposited her in an empty office. After a few minutes a grim-faced doctor appeared. He cut her cooling vest free and gently probed her broken arm. Her breath caught as tendrils of molten pain laced through her arm.

She vomited, all over herself and a little on the doctor.

He didn’t react at all. He merely took firm hold of her arm and jerked.

Suddenly the world flashed nova white followed immediately by absolute darkness.

The first thing Makita noticed when she came to was that her arm had been bandaged and where there was agony before, now there was only a pleasant warmth.

The second thing she noticed was the Lyran officer standing before her, legs splayed, arms clasped behind his back.

He was young, his head completely shaved, and not bad looking. He had a thrown on a Steiner blue uniform shirt, but he still wore MechWarrior shorts. He must’ve just come from the battlefield. A smear of grease marked the line of his jaw and the sour tang of sweat hung heavily in the air.

And something else, something strange.

He wore a sword at his hip, what looked to be a broad, short blade. It was hard to tell for certain because the tip of the sword had been snapped off.

“Konnichiwa,” she said steadily followed by a polite little bow of her head. She would show no fear.

It was the only power she had left.

The young MechWarrior nodded. “I am First Leutnant Danver McEdwards of the 30th Lyran Guards. What is your name Tai-i?”

“Makita. Aiko Makita.”

He nodded. “Very good, then. You should know, my comms team just copied down a message from our force commander. The DCMS ’Mechs are withdrawing to their DropShips.” He paused and a grim smile touched his lips. “And the Vehicles Facility still stands.”

Makita blanched. Withdrawing. Meaning there was no hope for escape or rescue. She imagined the things they would do to her. They would use her.

Break her.

She swallowed in a dry mouth.

“What is to become of me?” she said in a calm voice she hoped did not betray her desperate interest in the subject.

“You murdered fourteen factory workers,” said McEdwards savagely, “and a boy who was trying to surrender.”

Makita remembered the young Sentinel pilot down on his knees, his hands clasped behind his head. She licked dry lips. No doubt the Lyrans were going to make her pay for that.

Then she remembered Smith burning alive.

“That’s no better than what you did to Chu-i Smith,” she said darkly.

McEdwards’s raised his eyebrows. “The Kintaro pilot?”

She jerked her head down in an unsteady nod.

His mouth tightened into a grim line. He favored her with a curt nod.

Makita frowned, unsure of what he meant by the gesture.

A pair of soldiers entered the room, their weapons drawn. Makita suppressed a shudder.

So it was about to begin.

“Get up,” said McEdwards.

Makita tried to rise, but she suddenly felt she couldn’t make her body obey. Her legs and arms were leaden weights, heavy with terror.

McEdwards frowned. “You will be given a clean uniform.” His eyes flickered down to her tee-shirt. It was soaked with sweat, leaving little to the imagination. “The arm will be hard. I’ll send a female medic to help you. And we’ll get you something to eat. After that you and Chu-i Smith will be returned to your unit.”

Makita blinked, unsure she had heard right. “W-what?”

“After you stalked away from the Waste Treatment Plant, we activated the fire suppression system. We recovered Smith from his Kintaro. He is badly hurt, but he is alive.”

Makita shook her head, hearing the words, but not really understanding them.

“You are a prisoner of war,” said McEdwards stiffly. “You shall be treated with every right and privilege accorded to you by your status under the Ares Conventions.”

One of the guards hauled her to her feet.

This had to be a trick, Makita thought. Give the prisoner hope. It would make the torture that much more devastating later on.

The two soldiers led her away. She was quite surprised when they really did give her a clean uniform and something to eat.

First Leutnant Danver McEdwards strolled out of the Vehicles Facility, his hands clasped behind his back. He came upon a field medic wrestling a body into a black nylon bag. He held his hand up and the woman stopped what she was doing.

“I’ve got it,” he said softly.

An uncertain look crossed her face. Then she nodded and stepped away.

He knelt and studied the body.

It was Gavin Hill, the young officer who had piloted his Sentinel, so bravely.

“I am so sorry,” McEdwards whispered, “I thought I was taking the dangerous role.”

Hill’s body was broken and bruised by the Thug’s blow, bones shattered, face swelling into an unrecognizable purple-red mass. Leutnant Gavin Hill would have a closed casket at his funeral, no doubt about it.

It wasn’t too late to make Makita pay for what she’d done to him. McEdwards didn’t have to return her to the 18th Algedi Regulars. She could be made to pay and pay and pay. He let loose a deep sigh, zipped up the body bag, and stood.

A thousand years of civilization traded away for a fleeting advantage in battle. No, he wouldn’t hold her. He’d honor his promise to make her part of the prisoner exchange. He couldn’t stop all the atrocities, but he could run his own little corner of the war with honor and decency.

He pulled the claymore from his hip and held the shattered, blackened blade up to the light. It would never be quite the same again, but maybe, just maybe, he could fashion the blade anew.

GRAVITY POISONING

By Loren L. Coleman

This story takes place during the Steiner-Davion civil war, as Prince Victor’s forces make their approach against New Avalon. Katrina’s loyalists are in retreat across most of the stellar map, and very soon the personal forces of each would-be ruler will clash in the largest battle of the entire war. But first, an aerospace fighter pilot struggles with surviving his own choices.

New Avalon System, Federated Suns

15 November 3066

Gravity lurched in a sickening twist as the Excalibur-class DropShip Blue Corona powered through a tight turn. Subaltern Eric Domingo breathed sharp and shallow. Warning klaxons rang inside the launch tube. Lights dimmed to emergency, washing his F-92 Stingray in a bath of bloody red. Navigation blinkers on the leading edge of the aerospace fighter’s forward-sweeping Canard wings flashed amber on the left, crimson on the right.

Eric counted the flashes. Tightened his grip on the joystick. He felt the blast panel lever up behind him, shaking the launch tube as it slammed into place. Eric pinched his throat mic and locked it open.

“Afterburners,” he said, goosing his throttles wide open. The launch tube filled with a bright, torch-light burn as his drive flare splashed against the thick ferrosteel blast plate and shattered into yellow-orange flames.

The Blue Corona had barely completed its roll when the order came. “Ready-five, Ready-six, launch.”

He braced for it, which he knew did no good whatsoever. Then his spine slammed deep into the cushioned crash seat as the DropShip’s catapult system grabbed his Stingray and yanked the sixty ton fightercraft down the short launch tube in one quick, violent thrust. He noticed a second drive flare emerging parallel to his as his wingman was also ejected into space.

Darkness, pierced by distant stars. His cockpit’s polarized glass glowed with a gray haze and he glanced up. The local sun blazed regally at his twelve o’clock, just peaking over a planetary horizon—New Avalon, wearing a fiery crown. He “fell” up towards its atmosphere, still pushing the momentum left by the Blue Corona. Once oriented, Eric pulled his “Slantback” craft over and around, turning away from the capital world of the Federated Suns. Shoving his throttle full forward, he quickly ate up that momentum and then raced back to the fight he had hoped so desperately to avoid.

Prince Victor Steiner-Davion had come to New Avalon.

And Katrina’s loyalists were in retreat.

No one in the Twenty-second Avalon Hussars, Eric’s unit, had doubted that Victor would come. Not even Marshal Donna Iona, as staunch a loyalist as one could hope to find, dismissed it. The Hussars saw too much heavy fighting, lost too many good men and women while battling their way across the Federated Suns to come to Katrina’s defense, to believe that Victor’s camp would suddenly lose heart. When Tikonov fell during the sixth wave, the Hussars had been mopping up remnants of the Seventh FedCom RCT on Talon. Victor’s video address arrived and was quickly broadcast by subversive news channels all over the planet. In it, the rogue prince once more laid out his reasons for the civil war. Why he continued to fight.

Why it was worth the cost, no matter how painful, “to tear away the veils and expose tyranny where it has dressed itself in self-righteous garments. We began this journey knowing the costs would run high. We continue it now,” he promised. “Whatever can be done must be done, and will be done, to see this through.

“And to Katherine,” he’d said directly into the camera, “my sister. Murderess. Usurper. Tyrant.” He nodded. Once. A curt promise. “Your end is near.”

The following riots in most major cities on Talon had kept the Hussars busy for weeks.

Everyone heard Victor’s conviction. They talked about it openly in the mess halls and at strategic planning sessions. But though he did not talk about it, Eric Domingo worried that he heard the faint stirrings of something else in the prince’s words.

Truth.

But truth wasn’t going to armor him against the hostile lasers and missiles of Victor’s aerospace corps. Eric’s wingman pulled his own Stingray alongside, feathering his engine to keep just off Eric’s wing. The two of them joined a host of loosely-spread two-fighter elements, scissoring back and forth through vacuum.

Eric’s heads up display was a jumble of icons and information tags. Gold for forces loyal to the Archon Princess. Red for Prince Victor and his allies. Fightercraft of both persuasions swarmed in a large tangle ahead, creating a wall that divided the retreating loyalist DropShips from the recently-ended WarShip battle. Through the middle of that knot plowed an Avalon-class cruiser, the FCS Melissa Davion. Prince Victor’s flagship. The prince led his invasion fleet forward, pushing the massive dogfight ahead of him. Toward New Avalon’s atmosphere.

“Lucifers,” Subaltern Patyr Orullian warned. “Breaking away from the pack at eleven o’clock high.”

“Keep them off us,” their flight commander back aboard the Blue Corona ordered. The DropShip was one among several dozen running for the safety of New Avalon, their massive drive flares cutting across the blackness of space.

Hundreds of potential targets clouded his HUD. He was supposed to find…there! Two red comets with stubby tails, angling down at him. 16K Lucifer II’s according to the data tag. Too far away for their standard lasers, the fighters spread out in front of them an umbrella of long-ranged missiles. A warbling tone rang through Eric’s cockpit as missile-lock grabbed his Stingray.

Pitching down sharply, saving his countermeasures, Eric then rolled back up into a steep line of attack that slid him and his wingman under the missile barrage. From long range, he probed out with the extended-range PPC built into the nose of his craft. An ionized stream of particles flashed out in a burst of ball-lightning, reaching for the lead Lucifer.

Patyr relied on wing-mounted lasers instead, slashing angry red knives at the exposed underbelly of his target.

“First blood,” Patyr called out as his lasers splashed armor away from the undercarriage. Eric’s particle cannon missed.

The allied craft adjusted their attitude, pitching down to slash at the rising Stingrays. Head to head, the sixty-five ton Lucifers owned a slight advantage with their assault-class missile systems and a better array of close-in weaponry. Eric’s edge was in range, so he tied his lasers and particle cannon together for a second distance shot, then toggled for a full spread as the fightercraft flashed toward each other like bullet trains on the same track.

His lasers cored into the lead Lucifer’s starboard wing, right behind those of Patyr who had rightly judged that combining firepower might help bring down one of the fighters quickly. Patyr’s PPC scattered arcs of energy along the underbody. Eric smashed his ball of manmade lightning right into the Lucifer’s nosecone. The erupting energy tore long rents down the Lucifer’s smooth lines.

Globules of molten composite splattered back over the cockpit’s ferroglass.

More by instinct than plan, Eric dampened his engines and channeled extra plasma through his forward attitude jets. Yanking back on the joystick, he pulled the nose up in a zero-gravity reverse pitch just as the Lucifer’s weapons hammered into him. Missiles cratered the armor beneath his portside wing and stabilizers, shaking the Stingray with short, sharp jabs. A fury of large and small laserfire sliced deep into the nose and underbody, burning away armor but unable to penetrate with such a widespread damage pattern.

And then Eric was standing vertically in relation to the Lucifer, flashing beneath it, still reaching to flip the Slantback fightercraft onto its back as he triggered his full weapons spread.

Lasers ripped open the Lucifer’s underbody, and ionized energy poured into the rents as his PPC hammered in the deathblow. White-hot lightning carved into the fusion reactor, shattering containment. Golden fire erupted along seams and burst out of popped rivets. It filled the cockpit with an unearthly light, and then was quickly extinguished as the vacuum of space doused the reaction.

A blackened, dead husk rode momentum forward in the lead Lucifer’s place. Its wingmate banked away, running for the safety of the allied fleet.

“Burned armor and some aileron damage,” Patyr reported as Eric pulled his Stingray through the reverse pitch. The Lucifers had divided their fire, and their effectiveness.

Pushing his throttle half open, trimming his craft, Eric swallowed dryly and did a quick three-point check. Gauges: good. Armor: burned but adequate. HUD: “Roll out!” he yelled.

Patyr peeled away left, Eric right. Between them a crippled Stutka tumbled past, end over end, bleeding sparks from its savaged underbody.

Separated on divergent paths, both Stingrays dove into the body of the advancing dogfight. Lasers flashed by with sharp, violent edges. Particle cannon jettisoned one ionized ball of energy after another. Missiles launched in haste were just as likely to throw a deadly screen over one of your own fighters, as Eric learned when a loyalist Chippewa dumped a flight of LRMs into his path.

He smashed through the wall of warheads and shrapnel, juking left and right to spread the damage evenly over his front profile. On the far side he attempted to slide back around onto his wingman’s trail, but a sheaf of short-ranged missiles stuttered into his tail as a V20 Corsair latched onto his six.

Rolling through the firefight, trying to shake the allied pilot, Eric felt a cold weight settle into his gut. This was it. His dues for staying with the Hussars after Talon, even when he was no longer sure he believed in the cause for which they fought. How close had he come to making a decision against Katrina? Not forty-eight hours ago he had stood in formation with his mates of the Thirty-second Tactical Air Wing, assembled in a large aerodrome hangar while Commander Saule Rosenburg pepped the team.

Against a backdrop of last-minute welds and aerospace fighters being ranked in row after row of flight-ready birds, she relayed news of other loyalist victories on Dalkeith and Hesperus II and Acamar.

“No word from Tharkad, yet,” the White Witch said, “but the Royal Guard aren’t about to let the Lyran capital fall, and the Twenty-second Hussars will help keep New Avalon under its rightful rule as well. We’re here for the Archon Princess. We’re here to hold Victor Steiner-Davion off…this…world.”

Applause thundered through the hangar, echoing back from the open rafters. Eric clapped along with the rest, but glanced around cautiously wondering if he was the only one not caught up in the fervor. He saw two others also taking a surreptitious look around, but he couldn’t know how many were searching for kindred souls, and how many were taking names. Word had it that Marshal of the Armies Jackson Davion now sat under house arrest in the palace compound. And there were rumors, credible ones, of officers and enlisted personnel disappearing from the ranks.

Eric applauded harder.

He had also thanked his stars when he drew position as one of the Blue Corona’s back-up ready pilots, ready to drop out at a key tactical point or—fates defend the Archon Princess!—to cover a retreat. Eric had silently wished for Victor to give up, pull back from the New Avalon system, even though he knew the prince would never do it.

Now he’d pay for that cowardly thought with his life. Eric tasted a metallic dryness at the back of his throat. Dead man flying. That was him.

“Coming down in your six,” Patyr said, spiraling his Stingray through the Corsair’s devastated remains. “Where away?”

A flush of relief tingled on his skin, though it did not penetrate far enough to remove the lead weight from his guts. Eric wrenched his stick over, yawed for a tighter turn, and quickly powered forward to bleed away momentum while searching to point his nosecone at the nearby planet. His flightsuit pressured up around his legs, restricting blood flow.

“New Avalon,” Eric said. The two Slantback pilots raced forward under full thrust, edging out onto the dogfight’s leading front. New Avalon was a dark body floating out in space with a blue-green crescent thickening up on the equator as the sun fully rose above the horizon. The retreating DropShips had already made their deceleration turns, and were falling into atmosphere.

“We’ve given the Corona enough of a head start.” And staying far out in front of the advancing WarShip might actually prolong both their lives another day. They could slingshot around the horizon, and work on their decel maneuvers once out from under the big guns.

A plan which nearly survived to planetary orbit.

In space-born combat, speed was everything. Too little, and you were laser-bait. Too much poured on for too long, and maneuvers stretched out on such grand, arcing paths that you’d get one fly-by and then be out of the fight for several long minutes. But if your only goal was to harass a retreat started far in advance of your position, a pilot simply juiced his engines and poured a long acceleration burn into the velocity bank.

Which was how four Corsairs raced up from behind the FCS Melissa Davion, speared through the still-roiling dogfight, and slammed onto the tail of the two Stingray fightercraft before they could react. “Lock. I’m locked,” Patyr had time to yell.

Four pair of large lasers chewed into the aft section of his Slantback, slagging armor and exhaust ports, probing deep into the propulsion system with angry, red knives. A ball of red-gold fire engulfed the back of Patyr’s Stingray, chewing its way forward as the fusion reaction ate up anything that even remotely resembled fuel. The burning was no less terrifying to Eric for its silence. A shockwave. A roar of flames. Anything that might have warned him of how lucky he’d been. Except for the flip of a coin, that could have been his fate.

Still could be. Two of the Corsairs pulled into a high orbit of New Avalon while two others yawed around to face their burners toward the planet, decelerating to match speeds with Eric’s fighter. Their lasers sliced through the empty heavens, crisscrossing in front of his nose, his cockpit, missing on the high-speed deflection shot.

Eric clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw muscles pained him. He nosed his Stingray up, pulling his crosshairs over one of the Corsairs. His PPC blast caught it in the forward fuselage. His lasers sliced deep into the starboard wing, boiling armor into a gray mist.

The Corsairs drifted too far forward, out of Eric’s weapon range. His hand hovered over his throttle. No. They continued to decelerate, trusting their two-on-one tactics. Eric should have been turning for an atmospheric insertion burn as well. New Avalon grew very large in the window. He waited, crosshairs burning a steady red imprint, then flashing between red and gold as he acquired partial lock. He gave it three heartbeats.

It wasn’t supposed to be Patyr! His wingman had saved his life even after Eric had all but given it up. The Hussars had been running for home. Had it truly been necessary?

Yes. In a civil war, every life cost both sides deeply. But a life spared hurt double on the day after, or the next, when there is one more laser or missile system pointed back at your side.

Eric squeezed into his shot just as the targeting reticle burned a deep golden tone. His nose-mounted particle cannon tagged the Corsair again, this time blasting a large jagged scar down the nosecone, while the lasers on each wing worked the main fuselage without mercy. Something slipped through the Corsair’s armor. Its drive flare sputtered, then died. It raced ahead of its partner, which continued to decelerate.

In the clutches of New Avalon’s gravity, the wounded Corsair sped toward its inevitable, fiery death. There was nothing the allied pilot could do except fall into the planet’s embrace.

Pilots called it “gravity poisoning.”

Eric stood on his port thrusters, spinning his Stingray on its horizontal axis to start a belated decel burn. He hit his afterburners, poured it on, and nine gravities of weight pinned him into his seat. His shoulder blades and neck ached with high-G stress. The air bladders in his flight suit maxed out to keep all the blood from flowing south, but still his vision tunneled down to a blur of instrumentation lights and stars.

The allied pilot, with maneuvering velocity, bracketed him with lasers and then missiles. The Stingray bucked and shook, but its armor held up.

Then it slammed ass-first into the upper atmosphere, and it felt as if a giant hand had swatted the backside of Eric’s brain.

A board short-circuited inside an instrumentation panel, shooting white-hot sparks into his lap. Several burned through the legs of his flight suit, stinging him like angry wasps. The ozone stench of carbon and melted insulation filled the cockpit, doused a moment later by acrid flame retardant sprayed by his automated systems. Several status indicators went dark as Eric lost navigation lights, his IFF transponder, and landing gear.

Wrenching over, standing on his thrusters, Eric pulled his craft around to get the belly pointed downward before the thickening atmosphere tore his fighter apart. He was still coming in hot. A reddish-orange nimbus glowed at the edge of his wings, up along the fuselage, danced at the fore of his cockpit hatch. He wrestled with both hands on the stick, fighting the turbulence of transition between space and atmosphere. Reverse thrusters helped him bleed off more momentum.

His airspeed dropped, and the shaking lessened.

Eric switched over to atmospheric flight, using tail, elevators and ailerons now instead of thrusters and attitude jets.

Far, far below, New Avalon’s northern continent rolled over into morning. Eric took an eyeball reckoning, and turned onto a new glide path which he knew would eventually bring him in over ocean and then Rostock’s Drilands. He’d have to crank open his landing gear manually, or at worst suffer through the humiliation of a bellyflop touchdown, but such efforts paled after a shaky reentry. Eric began to breathe a bit easier.

And then a hammer fell out of the sky, slamming hard into the fuselage just behind Eric’s cockpit.

The remaining Corsair, dropping down from above Eric, latched onto his tail with the tenacity of a Lyran-trained pit bull. Lasers struck out again, splashing armor into a fiery rain that trailed back from his wounded Stingray. A six-pack of short-ranged missiles corkscrewed in on twisted contrails of gray smoke. Eric dumped over, rolling out of their immediate path and then pointed his nose at the pastel-blue beneath him and dived.

Bloody-minded Davionist!

It wasn’t enough that Katrina’s loyalists were in retreat or that the four-Corsair team had claimed another life just short of atmosphere. It didn’t matter that Eric regretted launching from the Corona, and even setting foot on New Avalon when something deep inside him had argued against any further involvement with the civil war. This pilot wanted another kill. He was willing to chase Eric down into atmosphere to get it.

Eric didn’t plan on making it so easy, though. Not after Patyr paid blood price for coming to his rescue.

Fighting against new tremors as turbulence and another brace of lasers shook the Slantback fighter, Eric gave himself a slow count of three and then dug into the thin atmosphere with his elevators. Metal spoilers flared, grabbing for purchase, and the Stingray wrestled its nose up. He twisted over, banking away from the Corsair’s path.

The other pilot glided out into a nearly parallel course, drawing away for distance and then snapping back to cut at the Stingray on an oblique angle. His shots went wide off the mark, but Eric did not give his counterpart the chance to correct. He dived, snapped over to the left this time, leveled off, and then dived again. Working his way down through the atmosphere, shedding kilometers and buying time.

Again and again the Corsair re-latched, far more maneuverable than an old Slantback. It was the PPC built into Eric’s nosecone. The heavy weapon pulled the nose down toward the ground, forcing Eric to fight gravity as much as he fought against the other pilot. The forward-swept Canard wings helped even out the balance somewhat, putting more weight toward the rear of the craft, but did not completely do the job. Aerospace pilots called dogfights in the lower atmosphere of any planet “fighting in the soup.” Being pulled down into the soup was another form of gravity poisoning, especially for a heavy fighter being ridden by a lighter, more maneuverable craft like the Corsair.

Like Eric felt, mired in the politics of civil war, being chased down by a growing feeling of uncertainty. A lead weight sitting heavy in his gut, poisoning his thoughts, dulling his reflexes.

No matter what he tried, there did not seem to be a way out. Not from the dogfight, not from the situation he’d cornered himself into by throwing support behind Katrina’s claim to the throne of the Federated Suns. The one was currently more pressing than the other just now, but both weighed on him heavily.

Eric snap-rolled right, then pulled back into an Immelman. The Corsair scissored away and latched again before Eric turned out of his inverted roll. Lasers probed at his exposed underside, scarring new damage into the fighter’s armor.

He dodged out again, and again. The thicker air slowed him down, but allowed for tighter turns. For the Corsair as well, which darted past him on one run, then another.

“Got something to prove,” Eric said, nodding. “Got to keep pushing, or—fates help us—we might all start thinking.”

Below, the coast of Rostock flashed by a welcoming wave of amber beaches and rugged, green coastline. Eric held a few seconds lead on the Corsair at ten kilometers, then seven, then four. Always lower, always fighting for ever-extended maneuver in hopes of shaking this persistent devil.

A missile slammed into the seam where his hatch sealed to the fuselage, and ferroglass shrapnel erupted into the cockpit. Several shards ticked and scratched off his helmet. He felt a sting and then a flush of warmth to the side of his neck, his shoulder, and knew he’d been hurt. A bitter wind whistled sharply through the cockpit, stinging his eyes. His mask provided enough breathable airflow to prevent blacking out.

Then he dropped below three kilometers, and thin air was no longer a problem.

Just the Corsair.

Laserfire probed and splashed away armor from his wings, runneling molten composite into the damaged gaps of his starboard aileron. Airflow cooled the composite, and jammed the control vanes against lifting. An amber indication light flashed its warning on the control panel. Eric tested his ability to roll out to the left. The wing vibrated violently, and the entire craft turned sluggish.

Snapping back to the left, Eric pitched into a series of barrel rolls, avoiding the Corsair’s weapons for another few seconds. Sweat beaded and ran from his brow, stinging at the corners of each eye and staining his lips with a salty taste. Trapped. Caught in the grip of his choices, like desperate hands clutching at his ankles, trying to pull him under. He didn’t want to die, not out over the Drilands during Prince Victor’s return. The Corsair pilot was giving him little to say in the matter, though. No doubts on that score. If Eric wanted a second chance, he might have to buy it with the allied pilot’s life.

Eric had altitude and time for only another trick or two. He had to make the call soon, or it would be too late. Still worried about the choice, he pushed his stick forward and hammered his nose down toward the Drilands.

A hundred meters disappeared with each heartbeat, and the painted desert rushed up fast, fast. The Corsair followed.

Slowly, painfully, the Slantback’s nose tucked itself past vertical, began pushing up to complete an inverted loop. Eric’s vision narrowed as blood rushed to his head, causing his sense of timing to waver, slip. By instinct more than decision, he rolled out right and pulled into a tight bank that looked like the start of a reverse Immelman, but actually pulled him around in a tight, spiraling turn. The Corsair slashed by off his right shoulder, and Eric dug into his elevators hard enough that the Stingray felt as if it might fly apart at any second. But it yanked him around in a tighter corner, and when he leveled off only a thousand meters over New Avalon’s Drilands, he had the Corsair by its six. Perfectly framed. His thumb on the main triggers.

Maybe the allied pilot had the right of it. Maybe Prince Victor’s cause was the more just.

Maybe Eric should have paid the price for Patyr, and not the other way around.

But in a civil war, momentum was all you had to go on if you wanted to survive. And Eric’s choices, right or wrong, had brought him here. As certain as gravity’s pull, he knew that he had no choice now but to live, and learn.

Pulling into a full salvo of weapons, Eric dug into the Corsair’s starboard wing with the coruscating lightning of his nose-mounted PPC. A long, jagged rent scarred the armor from turn to tip. Lasers sliced in after, finding the weakened joint where wing met fuselage. The other pilot tried to pull up, jumping above the line of fire, adding more stress to the damaged wing, which tore free like shredded paper-machè.

The Corsair dumped over into a death-spiral, trailing smoke and burning hard into the desert below. A fireball roiled up on a pillar of soot-stained flames.

Eric’s Stingray flashed overhead, churning the smoke into a dispersed haze. He searched the skies to either side of him…hoping. The lead weight in his stomach grew heavier, until he saw a sky-blue parafoil cross against the red rock of the Drilands. The Corsair pilot had bailed out safely.

Eric pulled around in a slow arc, scanning the desert floor. No signs of life, or roads to promise any nearby habitation. A dry lake bed stained the painted dunes three kilometers to the north, stretching out in an oblong expanse of dark clay. Coming at it from northeast to southwest he could land there. He would. And if he could prevent the downed pilot from taking a shot at him with whatever sidearm might be stored under his ejection seat, the two could talk, and might be able to work their way out of the desert together.

He’d leave the Stingray on the ground.

One final offering to gravity.

EVERY TWELVE SECONDS…

By Jeff Kautz

New Barstow, Xanthe III

Duchy of Andurien

Late May, 3037

Brevet-Major Danny Spriggs dragged the razor upward along his jawline, the dull blade scraping against the coarse stubble. He had run out of shaving cream weeks ago, but he felt that, as an officer in the Defenders of Andurien, he should present as professional a picture as possible. An example to the troops. That’s what the Colonel would have done.

Inspecting his face in the cracked mirror, he rinsed the razor in the rusty water that had pooled in the dirty sink bowl for the past several days. Clean water was another of the luxuries that had run out for Danny and his men long ago. Along with food, medical supplies, ammunition and time.

As if to add ironic emphasis to the already dire situation, the shrill of the enemy loudspeaker sounded again, creeping up and down the front line as it had, unrelentingly, for the past four weeks.

“Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…Every twelve seconds another son of Andurien dies in New Barstow. Tick-tock, tick-tock…When will it be your time, comrade? Tick-tock, tick-tock”

The message repeated, once, twice drifting across the canal on a spring breeze. The same breeze that fanned the fires and dropped swirling clouds of ash that covered the streets of New Barstow like ugly grey snow. The same breeze that carried with it the sickly stench of death.

After so many weeks, the message was beginning to have the desired effect on morale. A man could dig a hole and take cover from enemy fire, or close his eyes to give himself a temporary respite from the horrors of the battlefield, but from the loudspeaker there was no escape. It was impossible to block out, impossible to ignore. Many of the men had taken to stuffing their ears with cotton, a futile measure at best but one that seemed to provide them at least some small relief. Danny thought this dangerous and had tried early on to discourage the practice. A soldier who could not hear was a soldier who could not react to battlefield situations or pass along orders. After a while, though, the unrelenting psychological bombardment had forced him to let up. Some of the troops seemed in danger of cracking, and he no longer had the heart to enforce such discipline in the face of utter hopelessness.

Danny wiped a dingy cloth across his face, patting away the last of the icy water and stared for long moments at the picture he presented in the mirror. The face that stared back at him was no longer his own. Gone was the dashing young Lieutenant, fresh from officer candidate school, full of fervent idealism and ready to carry the torch for Andurien independence. The image in the mirror was now that of a man who appeared much older than his twenty- six years. Dark circles had formed under hollow eyes that had seen too much and deep lines scored like laser burns furrowing his cheeks and brow. His cracked and weathered skin seemed as brittle as parchment paper, and the hair that had not been rubbed away by his helmet straps was beginning to gray. The face reminded Danny not so much of himself but of the Colonel, his father, seven years ago on the last day the two had spent together. Seven years that seemed so far away now, as if it were part of another life, a wispy, fleeting dream devoid of detail that Danny could no longer reform in his mind. So much had happened since then.

I’m glad the you didn’t live to see this, Colonel. The Colonel. John Marshall Spriggs, the consummate career military man would never have let discipline break down so far. He would have… It didn’t matter. The Colonel was not here. Cancer had taken him before he had a chance to realize his dream of Andurien independence, leaving only Danny to carry on in his place, and Danny felt like a poor substitute.

It had all seemed so right in the beginning. Their cause, the Colonel’s cause had been righteous and their enemy was weak and war-weary. The Capellan Confederation would surely collapse under the weight of an assault by the Anduriens and their Canopian allies. Early on, when the allies took several planets, liberating their citizens, it had seemed a glorious victory was inevitable. However, no one had properly estimated the resolve of House Liao. Weak and tired of war they surely were, but they were also a nation of wounded pride, having lost so much so recently to Hanse Davion’s minions. They struck with unstoppable vengeance and drove the allies back across the border. Their attacks were often near suicidal in their recklessness as their warriors sought their hopeless battle.

That was two years ago.

Now, Danny and his men - what was left of them - faced their own hopeless battle. But just a few short months ago, everything had been different. Victory and final freedom for Andurien was within their grasp, despite the Capellan setbacks. Duncan Marik was dead and his forces routed. But, like the Capellans before them, the Free Worlds troops rallied and delivered a series of startling blows to the Anduriens.

Now it was they who were on the run. The Fifth Marik Militia was pushing into New Barstow and Danny’s battalion was one of a handful of units left behind to buy time for the bulk of the allied troops to escape.

To trade their lives for time.

…Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

Danny rubbed his sleeve on the dirty window of his makeshift headquarters and peered out over a city in ruins. Smoke and ash obscured the sun. The skeletal remains of buildings jutted forth from massive piles of rubble. The burned-out hulks of vehicles smoldered and popped. The once beautiful canal that fronted their positions was so choked with mud and debris that water no longer flowed. The devastation was total and complete. Still, Danny could not suppress a smile at the sight of a group of his men thrashing their legs and arms to form “ash angels” by the waters edge, laughing in the face of almost certain death.

How he admired them, their courage, their conviction. Even in the most desperate of times, they retained a sense of camaraderie. Most of the men and women in Danny’s battalion were not professional soldiers. In their past lives, they had been factory workers, salesmen, police officers, members of the unsanctioned Andurien Reserves that put aside their blue collar civilian lives to train together on weekends. They were, for the most part, people accustomed to hardship.

Danny suspected that was the reason most of them had transitioned so well into their current roles as tankers, artillery gunners and infantrymen. Whatever the reason, he was as proud of every one of them as any father could be of his children.

The smile that crossed Danny’s face whenever he thought of his troops was familiar. Danny had seen it soften the Colonel’s normally stoic features on many occasions, for the final time on the day when they had last spoken. The day Danny’s unit was called up to participate in the invasion of the Capellan Confederation.

Are you still proud of me, Colonel? Is this what you wanted?

…Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

Gathering his helmet and sidearm, Danny left the headquarters. He presumed it to have been a boarding house at a time before the war, when it still had a second floor. He walked toward the canal side where his men gathered around their parked vehicles.

The canal bisected the city of New Barstow along a north-south axis. The Free Worlds troops under Colonel Garibaldi had attacked in mid-April, pushing the Defenders of Andurien back further with each new assault. The current defensive line, established on the eastern bank of the canal, was meant to be the final barrier. Command had ordered the bridges blown but there were no explosives left and ammunition was too precious to spare on what would have been a futile gesture in any case. Marik troops had actually reached the eastern side ahead of the Anduriens at several points and established strongly held bridgeheads. The canal itself was only a few hundred meters across at its widest point; hardly enough of an obstacle to deter jump capable BattleMechs.

So the Defenders of Andurien had been forced to abandon the city altogether or else become completely surrounded. Danny’s battalion was one of the unlucky few units picked to stay behind, delaying the enemy for as long as their equipment and their resolve held out.

…Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock…

Danny found his crew lounging beside their Von Luckner tank, which Private Tim Nichols had named “Lucy B” in honor of his girlfriend. Like the rest of the crew, Nichols was young, not yet even old enough to order a beer on most of the worlds where he had been asked to shed blood. He was the first to snap to attention, hopping down from the tank’s front fender where he had been eating chow. The rest of the crew quickly followed suit.

“At ease, guys.”

Danny had worked with this same crew since the beginning of the crusade and had developed a relaxed rapport with them. In truth, they were tight, like a family. Even Danny’s quick rise in rank after Major Mitchell’s death had not come between them. Danny welcomed the closeness most times, but other times the thought of losing these men, a possibility that seemed ever more likely as the end drew nearer, brought him to the brink of physical incapacitation.

The Colonel had always cautioned him against getting too close to those who served under him.

You’ll care too much. A time will come when you must give them an order that may result in their deaths, and you won’t be able to do it. You won’t have the stomach for it.

The Colonel had been right about so many things.

A rumble descended from the clouds. Instinctively, all heads turned upward as if their eyes could detect the source of the sound.

“Sounds like rain,” joked the loader, Thegn Sanchez, knowing full well that the sound was not that of distant thunder.

Hundreds of meters behind their defensive line the first rounds of the artillery barrage crashed into the city, pulverizing whatever lay in their path. Two more rounds came screaming in, landing closer this time. Their impacts shook the ground and their ripping shrieks drowned out all other sound, except for the loudspeaker, which droned on above the cacophony.

…When will it be your time, comrade?...Tick-tock, tick-tock…

Along the canal bank, men scrambled into action. Armor crews swarmed over their vehicles, infantry squads mounted APCs or moved out on foot to occupy prepared positions in the rubble. The crew of the Lucy B reacted with efficiency born of repetition. They moved with a sense of urgent calm, without a trace of panic, yet Danny could read the tense anticipation in their expressions. Along the canal bank, Danny witnessed the crews of his remaining tanks, two Manticores and another Von Luckner mounting their rides.

Danny slid down the turret hatch into the commander’s cupola and eased into the seat, fastening his five-point harness. He dogged the hatch shut and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the padded periscope enclosure. His hands caressed a pair of joysticks, which he would use to traverse the cupola, affording himself a three hundred sixty degree view of his surroundings. If need be, he could also use the sticks to control the tank’s weapons systems.

The crewmen sounded off in turn as they assumed their duty positions and performed systems checks. A blast of heat roiled through the interior of the vehicle as the Lucy B’s rare and valuable fusion power plant roared to life and the tank lurched forward at a slow crawl.

Opening the battalion comm channel, Danny began to receive reports from his forward-most elements concerning the enemy troop movements. They were pushing into the city from the west with ’Mechs supported by tanks and infantry. Danny had only what was left of his armor and infantry to throw into their path. Any Andurien ’Mech that was still capable of operating under its own power had been pulled out days ago. The huge machines were considered too valuable to risk in a rear guard action. Unlike men. There were always more men.

Danny ordered the other vehicle of his lance, the Von Luckner belonging to Master Banner Gary, to lead out across the nearest canal bridge and directed Nichols to follow at a safe distance. The Manticores, under Lieutenant Leetch, would cross the canal and support the infantry along the right flank.

Artillery blasts were striking all along the canal bank, the enemy gunners having found the range. The Defenders answered, their own guns lashing out like dragons spitting long tongues of flame as they began counter battery operations. But even over the crashing of the guns, the radio chatter, the roar of the engine, Danny still could not shake the din of the loudspeaker, with its ticking clock and haunting voice, as if its rhythms were imbedded in his brain.

…Tick-tock, tick-tock…

“Enemy armor, eleven o’clock!”

The excited voice belonged to Master Banner Gary, his tank’s turret already turning to meet the threat. Danny saw it as well and called out the location to Sergeant Moritz, the Lucy B’s chief gunnery officer.

Two Galleon tanks, urban camouflage colors slapped over their purple parade ground paint scheme, crawled over a pile of rubble, their treads struggling for purchase on the broken terrain. Galleons were light tanks, possessing neither the armor nor the firepower to stand toe to toe against the heavy Von Luckners. What they did have was an excellent communications array that they could use to direct artillery strikes or call in reinforcements. They would have to be dealt with swiftly.

Gary’s first shot caught the lead Galleon as it crested a debris pile, the 130 millimeter projectile ripping open the light tank’s thinly armored belly like it was made of tissue paper.

The Galleon belched smoke and slid down the near side of the slope, fire licking from its crew hatches.

Surveying the scene through his periscope, Danny felt himself hoping that the enemy crew would be able to exit the wreck, but there was no time. The Galleon disappeared in a consuming fireball that shredded the light vehicle, flipping it into the air and depositing it on its roof. It was a death Danny would not have wished on friend or foe.

Witnessing the destruction of their comrades, the crew of the second Galleon attempted to back down the rubble slope and flee. Moritz’s shot flew high but still managed to shear away the medium laser turret, robbing the vehicle of its only significant firepower.

Gary’s crew lit up the enemy tank with a full SRM volley which punched several large holes through the weak side armor and tore away one of its tracks.

The Galleon skewed around and stopped, its hatches flying open. The machine’s two-man crew, having no desire to end up like their fellows, abandoned the tank and disappeared into the rubble. Danny loosed a few volleys from Lucy B’s machinegun to discourage them from attempting to return.

Ahead, Master Banner Gary’s tank traded SRM fire with a squad of infantry that had holed up in the ruins to his front. Moritz directed Nichols to rotate the Lucy B slightly in order to engage another squad that was attempting to move down the right flank using the shattered buildings as cover.

Moritz pounded the enemy troops with SRM fire, pinning them.

They answered with a furious burst of small arms fire. Rounds pinged off the Lucy B’s hull like deadly hail, chipping away at the tank while searching for weak spots in the Star Slab armor. Another SRM volley crashed among the enemy squad and their fire slackened. Two long blasts from the hull-mounted flamer ended their resistance with grave finality.

Through his periscope, Danny watched, horrified as a lone enemy trooper staggered from the conflagration engulfed in flames and trailing oily black smoke. A short burst of machinegun fire put an end to the man’s agony.

…Tick-tock, tick-tock…

“…last of it boss!”

Moritz’s voice in his ear snapped Danny back to reality. They were out of missiles and down to their last few rounds for the main gun. Master Banner Gary reported a similar situation.

Danny’s own wire-frame schematic showed some armor degradation along the front glacis and down the Lucy B’s starboard side.

Sanchez was reporting minor engine damage.

Reports from his subcommanders spoke of a bleak situation. Free Worlds troops were attacking at all points along the front, and their forward units had begun to strike out from their bridgeheads in an attempt to surround the defenders. Danny scrambled to assess the situation and deploy his depleted units into the best positions to repel the attacks, all the while knowing it was an impossible task. They were simply too few, too weakened from the weeks of sustained fighting. Not enough. Nothing they could do would be enough.

…Tick-tock, tick-tock…

“Movement ahead,” Master Banner Gary’s voice carried an air of near panic. “It’s big!”

Near the end of the street, the gutted shell of a six-story office building shattered and crumbled in a cascading shower of concrete and steel. A wave of dust rolled over the Lucy B, exploiting the cracks in her seals and seeping into the fissures between her armor plates, obscuring vision and fouling sensors. The chalky, white substance caked Danny’s nose and throat. He coughed and spat, all the while wishing he had donned the now useless breather mask that hung unfastened below his chin.

From within the cloud, an enemy Rifleman emerged like an apparition, its barrel-arms spitting gouts of flame as hot shell casings rained down into the rubble. The giant machine tracked its fire down and across the turret of Gary’s Von Luckner, shattering armor plate. Behind the Rifleman, another immense, humanoid shape loomed out of the dust and smoke. A Vindicator.

“Sanchez, load AP!” Danny’s hands tightened on the joysticks. “Hit that Rifleman!”

…Tick-tock…

The Rifleman poured more fire into Gary’s tank, risking his heat to add a large laser to the fusillade. Armor cracked and buckled.

Blue lightning leapt forward from the Vindicator’s particle cannon to crash into the tank’s side, leaving a jagged scar of molten plating and several damaged road wheels in its wake.

“Back up Gary! Get out of there!”

Danny would never know if Gary heard the order. A brace of missiles corkscrewed in, churning up the ground around Gary’s tank and temporarily obscuring it from view. When the smoke cleared, Danny could see that Gary’s radio antenna had been sheared away. Gary stood his ground, defiantly loosing another volley in the direction of the Rifleman.

His shot went wide.

…Every twelve seconds…

The Lucy B rocked backward as Moritz engaged the Rifleman, blasting the sixty-ton machine high in the torso.

The ’Mech staggered backward under the massive blow but it was too little, too late. Ruby spears from the Rifleman’s torsos burned into Gary’s tank, exploiting the holes already punched in the turret and front plate. The tank’s remaining autocannon rounds cooked off inside the vehicle. The resulting explosion flipped the seventy-five ton tank into the air and ripped the turret free. An unrecognizable, burning scar was all that remained where the tank had been.

One vehicle.

Four men.

Friends.

…Tick-tock…

A wave of heat blasted through the Lucy B as Moritz hammered the Rifleman with another round, this one shredding armor and myomer beneath the machine’s left knee joint. The ’Mech spun slowly and crashed to the ground, only to be replaced by the Vindicator, whose PPC beam washed over the Lucy B, sending charred and melted plating spinning off in all directions. A missile strike hammered into the rear deck.

Klaxons screamed in Danny’s headset. A flashing red indicator on his HUD warned of a fire in the engine compartment. The Lucy B’s automatic fire control systems took over, flooding the engine compartment with flame retardant foam. The superheated foam created a dense, white chemical mist that overwhelmed the already sweltering interior. Danny gasped and wheezed as the noxious chemical invaded his lungs. They could not take much more of this type of pounding.

The Rifleman was already regaining his feet, arms swinging into line with the Lucy B.

“Nichols, get us in close.”

Danny knew their only chance was to get as close to the enemy as possible. The ’Mechs they faced were configured for combat at long range; their weapons would be less effective at the point blank ranges where the Von Luckner excelled. Danny repeated his order but the Lucy B did not move. The Vindicator’s PPC glowed with blue light as it prepared another charge.

…Tick-tock…

Assuming his comm had been knocked out, Danny used the toe of his boot to tap Nichols on the back of his helmet. The man’s body slumped forward in his seat to rest against the driver’s console.

No!

“Sanchez, take over for Nichols! All ahead full…”

The Lucy B rocked again under another assault. Autocannon rounds tore into the turret and front plate, their echoes reverberating through the crew compartment.

The Rifleman had returned to the fight.

Still, the Lucy B remained motionless.

…Tick-tock…Every twelve seconds…

Danny undid the quick release on his five-point harness and slipped down into the stifling interior of the tank. Smoke and burnt propellant stung his eyes and seared his nostrils as he searched the cramped confines for any sign of life. Sanchez’ body was sprawled on the floor, wedged between the loaders seat and the tank’s massive gearbox. Danny felt for a pulse but found none.

…another son of Andurien dies in New Barstow...

Danny heard a shallow cough. Moritz was still alive but in bad shape, his body covered with a mixture of dust, cordite, chemical foam and blood.

The tank shook again. The few remaining interior lights winked out as another PPC strike fused the electronics.

The Lucy B was doomed. The revolution was doomed. The mission would not succeed. The dream was dead. Just like Gary and Nichols and Sanchez and all the others that Danny had failed to protect. Only he and Moritz were left and no matter what, Danny would not fail him. It was all that mattered now. Maybe it was all that had ever mattered.

Just as his father had predicted.

Damn you Colonel! You were always so right. Why did you always have to be so right?

…When will it be your time, comrade?...

He wrestled the wounded sergeant from the gunner’s seat and, hauling him down from the turret, half carried, half dragged him toward the front of the tank. If they could only make it to the front escape hatch…

…Tick-tock, tick-tock…

The Lucy B bucked and trembled, quaking under a new series of impacts.

Danny reached forward through the smoke. Groped for the emergency hatch release.

A massive tremor shook the tank and a blast of heat knocked him to the floor and punched the air from his lungs.

His fingers slipped from the hatch handle.

No more time. No more time.

Are you still proud of me father?

…Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick…

ON THE SQUARE

By Jason Schmetzer

Sawyer, Charleston

Taurian Concordat

12 August 3067

The building on which David Talbot and his infantry maniple were hiding shook with each crash of the artillery firing. He ground his teeth and hunched closer to the brick-lined lip of the rooftop, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the searing taint of propellant burning his nose. Those were things he’d learned to deal with during training. David lifted his head just high enough to see over the lip, watching for the fall of the shots.

The plain was covered with enemy troops. Infantry swarmed closer to the city, pressing forward against the fire of the rest of the battalion. A quartet of bulky Scorpion tanks nosed forward, long-barreled cannon searching back and forth, spitting fire. In the distance, the rising sun outlined a single pirate BattleMech standing on a hillock. It cast a dagger-shaped shadow forward, toward Sawyer. A flash of laser light illuminated the gold insignia on its chest, dice in a jeweled goblet. Tortuga.

David saw the artillery stonk land. One round exploded amidst a squad of pirate infantry laboring to set up a mortar. The explosion tossed the pirates meters into the air before it dropped them, shredded and lifeless, to the soft loam of Charleston. Concussion shook the building again, letting David feel a fraction of the force unleashed, even though it was almost a kilometer away.

“That’s what you get,” Recruit Niko Koumalides shouted. The dark-skinned youth from Sawyer pumped his TK assault rifle in the air. “Get the hell off my planet, you bastards.”

“Damp it, Niko,” David said. “Stay down.”

Niko looked at him and sneered. “What’s it to you, Talbot? They got what they deserved, coming here.” The dark camouflage paint on Niko’s face didn’t reflect light, but the sheen of sweat on his upper lip did. He was posturing, burning off his nervous energy. It was his first time in combat. It was David’s, too.

David pointed to the filled-ring corporal’s insignia on his collar, then to the empty-ring tag on Niko’s. “This is all the reason I need, Recruit. Shut up and get down before someone sees you.”

The Pirates of Tortuga—the Tortuga Fusiliers, to the Inner Sphere—came to Charleston at least once a year. It had been unlucky timing for them this year, as the whole militia was mustered for the Founder’s Day festivities.

David snorted at the idea even as the thought crossed his mind. The whole militia—the whole battalion’s worth of troops on this ball. The withdrawal of the regular Defense Force when the Calderon Protectorate loons went off left the planet to its own devices. And to its own protection, such as it was.

“Talbot!” The field radio by David’s knee shouted at him, loud even in the noise-filled aftermath of the artillery, broadcasting Force Sergeant Homer’s voice. He snatched it up and shoved the earpiece under the surplus Lyran clamshell helmet.

“Why aren’t you shooting?” Homer demanded. David heard the heavy stutter of the platoon’s heavy machine gun in the background of the transmission. The weapon [to what does this “it” refer???] was emplaced at the edge of the buildings, where it would bear across the plain on the highway paralleling the buildings. If Homer was near it, he was close enough to see the rooftop David’s maniple was occupying.

“I’ve been asking that all night,” Niko said.

David chanced another look over the lip of the roof. “They’re still a good six hundred meters away, Sergeant.” He didn’t need to tell his platoon commander that the TK’s effective range was just under five hundred meters, Niko’s pride notwithstanding.

“Tell me what you see, son,” Homer said.

“Infantry, a hell of a lot, battalion strength at least. A short maniple of armor, and a single ’Mech out on the plain.” David closed his eyes as another artillery barrage screamed overhead. He hated that sound. “They’re not slowing down, either.”

“The ’Mech’s coming closer,” Doyle, another recruit in David’s maniple, said. The hulking machine was striding toward the city, its legs eating the distance in multi-meter steps. Even outlined against the sky, David couldn’t make out the model.

“’Mech advancing, Sergeant,” he reported.

“That does it.” The next part of Homer’s message was obscured by a roaring explosion as one of the artillery shells landed directly on one of the Tortugan Scorpions. When the cheering died down, he asked Homer to repeat.

“I said, get your maniple back here, Corporal. We’ll make a stand on the Square.” The stutter of the heavy gun died off as Homer finished speaking; David heard faint echoes of the final few rounds firing from between the building.

It was time to go.

“Grab your gear,” David said after clipping the radio to his web harness. “We’re going back to the Square.” He felt like he was in a box with the lid closing over him. He wanted to run, to hide, to pull the lid closed until the trouble was past. He hated the pirates for making him feel like that, like less than a man.

“But we haven’t fired a round!” Niko said.

David shifted his pack onto his shoulders, glancing over the lip as he did so. The first ranks of the pirate infantry were just crossing Dana Avenue. Dana Avenue was one of the maniple’s pre-scouted positions. Four hundred meters from there to the rooftop. The small defile on the city-side gave the raiders cover from the defensive fire along the outer positions.

Four hundred meters. Of his land. Outrage ignited in his gut, burning at the cold weight of fear.

“One magazine,” David said, raising himself to one knee and presenting the TK’s barrel to the enemy. “Then we boogie, got it?” He looked down the line, making sure they’d heard him.

The ratcheting sound of slides being drawn answered him. Niko settled into the position directly to David’s left, his fingers caressing the molded rifle’s grips. His lips were moving, but the sound was carried away. David tightened his own grip and leaned in closer, trying to hear. He smiled when he made out the prayer, a soldier’s prayer that he recognized, even though he heard only the last part.

“—cker in the valley.”

Amen, David thought. “Fire.”

The TK fired caseless ammunition, giving the rifle a dazzling rate of fire. The twenty rounds in the magazine fired in the span of two or so seconds, and David’s was the last rifle of the maniple to empty. His thumb moved on its own, ejecting the spent magazine while his left hand reached down to replace it with a fresh one from his bandolier. Niko’s rifle was already back on-target by the time David completed the motion.

“Move out,” David said. While the rest of the maniple scurried for the recessed stairs, David tried to see if they’d managed to hit anything. His anger, ravenous, twisted his face into a fierce, hungry snarl.

Four of the advancing pirate infantry were down and thrashing in the defilade. The rest were busy trying to dig deeper into the shallow ditch, seeking cover. David smiled a wolf’s grin. That would teach them to attack his city.

He almost didn’t see the ’Mech rush forward and raise its arm. He caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he looked there was only the white-hot flash of a laser.

The pulse struck the wall a meter or so beneath David’s position. Only the fact that he was already leaning away saved David’s life as the laser flash-boiled the moisture in the wall. The compacted steam exploded, shattering the ferrocrete and tossing David like a doll to land a meter or so from the stairs. He lay there, stunned, praying that the white blaze in his eyes would fade. His nose burned with the sharp sting of ozone and the coppery scent of blood. He was hit, he was sure of it. The fear in his stomach doubled. The rest of his body was tingling, numb. He was going to die.

“Corp!”

Hands grabbed his harness and dragged him down the stairs. His pack punched painfully into his side at each step, and whoever was dragging him didn’t stop at the bottom. David rubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands, blinking through hot tears. Gradually, his vision cleared and shapes began to take focus. Someone grabbed his ankles and he was carried the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. He could make out faces by the time they got down. They were blurry, even when he knuckled the tears out of his eyes, but he’d worry about that tomorrow. If there was a tomorrow.

There were only three men with him, not four. “Where’s Doyle?” he asked.

“On the roof,” Niko said. He poked his TK out the door, sliding from one side of the doorway to the other, trying to see both ways. The whipcord muscle of his arms stood out where his sleeves were rolled, revealing the tension there. For his first firefight, he’s doing well, David thought. They all are.

“Why isn’t he down here?” David asked.

“’Cause a piece of the wall that knocked you over took his helmet off,” Niko said. “With his head in it.” He shook his head and spat. The spittle landed on the floor next to David. He stared at it, willing his eyes to focus. The spittle was gray. He couldn’t tell whether it was from dust or just the floor color.

David shook his head and stood. “He’s dead?” His faltering vision swam as he straightened, and sensation rushed back into his limbs in the form of searing pain. He fell back down.

Halverson, a farmer’s son from Faraday, laughed. “Unless you think he can just carry his head around, Corp, yeah, he’s dead.” The recruit’s massive shoulders shook, but his eyes didn’t leave the doorway.

“So are we if we don’t get moving,” Niko said. “There’s pirates in the street, Corp.”

Wiping his eyes one last time, David braced himself and stood, then moved to the door. His helmet was gone, he realized. The sling had kept his rifle across his chest, but the helmet was gone. He’d had two pieces of surplus Lyran gear an hour ago; one was left.

“How many?”

“I saw about a dozen,” Niko said. He pointed with his rifle barrel. “Moving south toward Bravo Platoon’s positions.” He didn’t take his eyes off of the sight picture over his rifle as he spoke. Niko’s intensity had sometimes bothered David in training, but now he was thankful for it.

“We’re only a half a klick from the Square,” David said, beckoning to the west. “Let’s get moving.” Strength in numbers—the rest of the platoon was there. If Homer had made that call, then the rest of the company was probably there, too. Maybe the whole battalion. Maybe the whole TDF is there, a dark part of David’s mind sneered. First, though, they had to make it to the Square.

Cities on Charleston were by necessity small and vertical; they rested on the few bedrock extrusions to be found on the soft plains that covered most of the southern continent. That explained the sharp delineations between city and plain, and also meant that the pirates had been forced to set their DropShips down a few kilometers away on the hardened ferrocrete of the spaceport. The areas between the buildings were narrow but clean. Sawyer was a pedestrian town, for the most part. The majority of the population lived in the skyscrapers.

Niko and Halverson ducked through the door, rifles leading, leaving David and the final member of the maniple, Recruit Bouzerant. Bouzerant carried a short-barreled riot gun instead of a rifle, so David left him to cover the rear. The riot gun wouldn’t be much use at a range of more than a dozen or so meters .

The city was deserted. The crackle of weapons fire shimmied down every street and alley. David had been to Sawyer only twice before, once on vacation and once on the previous year’s Founder’s Day. It was very different from his home, Adelaide, on the coast near the Straits. There had been people filling the streets, though, on both previous occasions. There were none now.

“The shelters must be full,” David murmured as he ran. He stayed a half dozen meters behind Halverson, who was twice that from Niko. No ambush would get the whole maniple, at least. Sergeant Homer would have been satisfied. David jerked, missed a step, and stumbled. Homer. The radio. He unclipped the battered handset as he ran.

“Charlie Six,” he said, “Charlie Three-six.” Static flared from the earpiece. He repeated the call. A voice scratched its way through the static.

“Talbot, get back here!” Sergeant Homer’s voice. “I don’t need one of my maniples getting cut off.” David winced, slowing to a stop behind Niko and Halverson, who were crouched at an intersection.

“Too late,” Niko said. He looked back at David. There was no uncertainty in his eyes or his voice. “Turn it off, Corp. We’re close.”

David raised the radio but Halverson reached back and pushed it down. He held a finger to his lips, and mouthed, “They’re right around the corner.”

David nodded to show he understood. He twisted the volume knob on top of the radio until it clicked off, then set it on the sidewalk beside him. He brought his TK up from where the sling held it against his chest and pulled the butt snug against his shoulder. “How many?”

Niko held up his right hand with four fingers raised. He looked back at David and shrugged. “At least,” he mouthed.

Nodding shortly, David’s mind raced for a moment. He looked up at the street sign—two blocks from the Square—and made up his mind. He beckoned to Niko with his rifle. Take them. Niko nodded. Taking up the slack in his sling, he nodded to Halverson.

As one the two men leaned around the corner of the building, Niko on one knee, his rifle a meter off the ground, with Halverson standing above him. A ripping cloth sound from the firing TKs cut the air, and then both men leaned back, spent magazines dropping from the rifle. David scooted forward, rifle at the ready.

Three pirates were down and not moving, their torsos shredded by the lead slivers the TK fired. The fourth man was flopping around, slipping in the morass of blood covering the sidewalk. His weapon, a TK like David’s own, was lying a meter away. The pirate was more concerned with staunching the blood flowing from his right thigh.

“Let’s go,” David said, and stepped around the corner. He scurried toward the Tortugans in a crouch, the barrel of his rifle never leaving the surviving pirate’s chest. The man looked up when the maniple approached. He looked at David.

“Please,” he said, and dipped his head toward his leg. “Help me.” David frowned. The sound of the firing was still echoing between the buildings. There’d be more pirates coming. They had to keep moving. David opened his mouth to deny the pirate’s request.

A crashing blast cut off David’s reply. The fire took the pirate in the face, flopping him backward in a misty spray of blood. David looked back at his men.

Bouzerant raised his riot gun. A wisp of smoke rose from the barrel, swirling away into the wind between the buildings. David’s nose caught only a trace of the scent of burnt powder.

“There’ll be more coming,” Niko said. Bouzerant pumped his action, chambering another shell.

David stared at him. He looked back at the body on the ground. It shuddered, and a fresh stain appeared on the pirate’s pants. David’s nostrils flared, filled with the bittersweet fragrance of urine. He thought of Doyle. Disgust sent shivers through him. David glanced from the body to his maniple, then back at the body. He leaned forward, letting the sling take his rifle, hands on his knees.

He vomited.

Niko and Halverson said nothing as they moved past him, scavenging ammunition from the dead pirates. Halverson picked up one of the rifles and slung it over his shoulder. Bouzerant watched the street as if nothing had happened. Maybe nothing had, David thought.

“We need to make the Square,” David said after he straightened up. “The platoon needs us.” Wiping his mouth, David turned away from the mess and started deeper into the city. A part of his mind wondered if he’d be able to leave the memories behind as well.

The Square was the seat of government on Charleston. Like most such buildings, it was also a fortified building, heavily reinforced and capable of mounting its own defense. Since the withdrawal of the TDF, an intense effort had been made to turn it into a fortress in the heart of Sawyer. Several turrets had been constructed, each mounting the few weapons found on Charleston or since imported at great expense from the factories on Sterope. The buildings around it had been demolished in order to give it some small amount of kill zone.

David turned a corner and saw the Square, and stopped in his tracks. The rest of his maniple piled into him, all of them staring.

Pirate infantry and armor were hiding in the shadows of the buildings outside the kill zone, those with weapons capable of reaching the walls firing. Those not firing were cowering behind the tanks or whatever cover they could find, and it was not enough. It took David a few seconds to understand why.

The brigadier had raised the artillery platforms.

The artillery had been moved to the Square when the first indications of the pirates were noticed. Ordinarily the cannons would fire with a high enough arc to clear the surrounding buildings, but the ready-made revetments had been built on hydraulic platforms. If the need arose, each artillery piece could be raised above the low wall and bore-sighted as a direct-fire cannon. As David and his men watched, the need arose.

The stubby barrel of a Sniper artillery piece rose above the wall and fired. The blast was at least fifteen meters long, throwing a shell across the zone into a huddled group of pirates. The explosion tossed shattered bodies and light armor debris a dozen meters into the air. When the afterimages of the muzzle flare faded, the cannon was gone, lowered behind the wall to be reloaded.

“We’re not getting in there,” David whispered.

Halverson punched at his shoulder. “We can’t stay out here, Corp. We need to get inside.”

David turned and snarled at him. “You think they’ll open the gate for us, Cecil?”

Halverson stiffened. “I meant inside this building here, Talbot. Don’t call me Cecil.” He jerked his head toward the building they here crouched next to. “The skyway is still up. We can get over there and help the battalion from out here.”

A spark of an idea flashed in David’s head. “You’re right. Back into the building, then west toward Hadley. We can rain a little hurt down on them.”

The first door was locked, but it surrendered to the butt plate of Niko’s rifle after only two knocks. The maniple ran down the slick-floored hallway, the rubber soles of their boots squeaking on the polished stone. There were no lights, not even the emergency lamps. The power must have been shut off. No doubt the Square was using every watt.

The skyways connecting most of the buildings were built fifteen meters above the street and fully enclosed to protect the occupants from the torrential rains that sometimes blanketed Sawyer. As they crossed one, a massive shadow swept past beneath them.

“The ’Mech,” David whispered. He halted the maniple inside the next building. “Get inside, away from the windows.”

“I can’t shoot through the walls,” Niko said.

“That ’Mech just became the world’s largest target for those cannons. You want to be near a sheet of glass when they start shooting at it?” The walls shook again, punctuating David’s words. An explosion tore through the building, accompanied by the waterfall sound of breaking glass. David flashed the trio a quick grin and fished the radio from his harness.

“Charlie Six,” he said, “be advised, the ’Mech is headed your way.” There was no response.

“We need to find a firing position,” Niko said. David saw his fingers rubbing at the receiver of his TK. The knuckles were white, where they weren’t broken open and bleeding.

David slung the radio and sat down on a bench in the corridor. His mind was racing, trying to remember half-forgotten lectures about ’Mech tactics in an urban environment. There hadn’t been ’Mechs on Charleston for months. No ’Mechs equaled no training. The brigadier liked to focus on what he had, not on what he didn’t. There probably weren’t two squads of actual anti-’Mech troops on the planet.

“He’ll keep to the buildings,” he murmured. “Use them for cover until he can get at the cannons.”

“What are you talking about?” Halverson asked. “You’re not thinking we’re going to kill that ’Mech?”

“It’s the biggest target out there,” David said, distractedly. His brain was turning something over, peeling the layers of fog in his mind like an onion.

“You’re nuts,” Bouzerant blurted. “We don’t have any missiles.” He looked at the other members of the maniple. “Tell him, guys.”

“He’s right, Corp,” Niko said. “We haven’t got anything that will get through the armor, not even the cockpit armor.”

A door snapped closed around the plan forming in David’s mind. “You’re right.” He left the half-formed ideas where they were and changed his train of thought. “But we can surely kill the infantry,” he said. “Come on.”

David led them to the next skyway, the one that crossed Hadley. The glass in the skyway had been blasted out, and a scattering of corpses in pirate garb littered the glass-coated floor. All of them were shredded by broken glass. Shards of it covered the floor, mixing with the dead men’s blood to form a slippery morass of razor-sharp debris. David crouched down and waddled a few steps out onto the skyway, looking back toward the Square. He was able to hide behind the meter-high ferrocrete wall that functioned as the skyway’s railing.

The pirates had begun a push toward the walls with the ’Mech backing them. The slender machine stood well back, using the lasers built into its bulky forearms to probe at the walls. Wherever the beams touched, the ferrocrete flashed into a white, steam-tinged explosion. David’s eyes began to water as he remembered his own experience with that laser. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes and then leaned forward to see over the edge.

Beneath them a platoon’s worth of Tortugan infantry huddled behind the wrecked hulk of a Scorpion light tank. Several of the pirates were administering first aid to wounded comrades. None of them were looking at the buildings around them. Anyone paying attention was watching the show on the Square.

“Grenades,” David whispered, pointing downward. “Two each, then sweep.” He let the sling take the TK and pulled two fragmentation grenades from his webbing. The other troops did the same, although Halverson held three, two in his right hand. David caught each of their eyes, then nodded. “Drop.”

There was a shout when one of the grenades struck a pirate in the helmet, but by then the heavy clank of the others hitting the ferrocrete raised a general scream. Then the grenades went off. The explosions rattled the skyway, shaking loose more shards of glass. David’s foot slipped as he tried to straighten, forcing him to one knee. He felt glass cut into his knee even as he shifted his weight forward, bringing his rifle up and over the lip of the railing. He squeezed off the whole magazine without looking, then dropped back to reload. Halverson and Niko did the same; Bouzerant was standing, pounding out aimed shots from his riot gun as fast as he could pump the action. When he exhausted the eight-round magazine he too dropped down and began transferring shells from his bandolier to the shotgun’s receiver.

“I think that got their attention,” Halverson said. He casually tossed his fourth and final grenade over the edge. The explosion of the single grenade was less intense than the previous rounds. No fire answered in return.

David grinned at him and climbed to his feet, still crouching behind the railing. Taking a deep breath, he stood and leaned over the railing, TK pointed almost straight down. He triggered a short burst and then paused, watching.

Only the wounded were moving, and none of them toward a weapon. David shook his head, trying to clear his nose of the burnt stench of cooked flesh and the harsher chemical taint of the grenades. His stomach quivered, but he held it down. There was nothing alive in the street below that posed a threat.

“Look at that,” Bouzerant said, pointing.

The Tortugan ’Mech was flying through the air, propelled by silvery flames shooting from two massive jets on its back. Something clicked in David’s mind, and he saw the flashcard with this ’Mech’s outline on it. “It’s a Phoenix Hawk,” he said.

The ’Mech landed with a ground-shaking thud barely five hundred meters away from the skyway on which they hid. David tracked the big machine with his rifle, knowing full well there weren’t enough bullets in the world for his weapon to chew through the ’Mech’s tough armor. It was something to do with his hands, while his mind locked onto the ’Mech.

Since their inception centuries ago, BattleMechs had been the symbol of warfare. Romantic attachments were formed between people and ’Mechs, until the common man saw the machine as an unstoppable avatar of warfare. Conventional wisdom held that the only thing capable of stopping a ’Mech was another ’Mech. Taurian military tradition upheld that maxim, for the most part. David had certainly subscribed to it since his first day of basic training, when the brigadier’s ’Mech had paraded for them.

“It’s amazing,” David whispered.

“It’s kicking our ass,” Niko spat. “We need our own ’Mechs for this.”

“Maybe not,” Halverson said, squinting at something.

The Phoenix Hawk disappeared beneath a horrendous explosion. David jerked back in shock. A flicker of motion caught his eye, and he turned his head in time to see the snout of the Sniper cannon fall beneath the wall. David looked back at where the ’Mech had been, watching for the smoke to clear.

“Sometimes you just need a bigger gun,” Halverson said triumphantly.

The Phoenix Hawk was sprawled on the ferrocrete a dozen meters from where it had been standing. Its left torso was blackened and bent. Sparks leapt from exposed myomers, and smoke bellowed from the cavity that had been the left shoulder. David saw the arm itself lying across the ferrocrete. Hope surged through him, the first glimmer of a belief that he might survive the day.

The ’Mech moved.

“You’re kidding me,” Niko said.

Halverson spat over the side of the skyway. “I hope they’re watching in there. They need to hit it again.”

David kept his silence. The Phoenix Hawk gathered itself and stood shakily. The ’Mech swayed, unbalanced by the loss of its arm. It raised its other arm and flashed a pulse of light into the wall, tearing a great section free. He ground his teeth as the ’Mech took a step forward. It was unstoppable.

A shoulder-fired missile spiraled out of the Square and took the ’Mech in the face. It toppled again, flattening against the ground just like the pirate Bouzerant had shot. Even from half a kilometer David heard the cheers of the Square’s defenders. The small force of Tortugan armor that had been following the ’Mech faltered, slowing. David cheered along with his men.

The ’Mech moved.

Silence erupted across the zone. The crackle of weapons fire died out as everyone watched the fallen ’Mech. David heard the whine of its actuators as it rolled to its side and pushed itself up on its right arm. There was a pop as it levered itself to its feet, and a streamer of smoke began to pour from its left hip. It stood there as if it were a man and not a machine, gathering itself. No one breathed.

The Phoenix Hawk turned away from the Square and hobbled toward David’s position. The cheers filled the manmade caverns between the buildings again, David’s included. They lasted until a group of Tortugan infantry appeared on the opposite end of the skyway and opened fire.

The first shot took Halverson in the thigh, the bullet going clean through his leg to strike a divot from the wall behind him. The big man cried out and fell, dropping his rifle. He clamped both of his hands around his leg, but David saw blood spurt through his fingers.

“Back!” he shouted. He ran toward Halverson, grabbing the right shoulder strap of the wounded man’s webbing as he passed. He dragged the man across the glass-strewn floor, inflicting new cuts on Halverson’s legs and buttocks. David twisted to point his TK one-handed, burning off the clip to try and cover his movement. It worked. They made it around a section of collapsed ferrocrete, a meter or so out on the skyway.

“There’s a lot of them,” Niko said, leaning out to fire short, aimed bursts. Return fire snapped around him, kicking up tufts of dust and occasionally sparking off of metal.

“They have to come across the skyway to get us,” David said, digging in his pack for his medkit. The bleeding wasn’t the gush he’d expect from a cut artery, but it was still a lot of blood. “Keep up the fire, and we can hold.”

“Hold for what?” Bouzerant asked. He was pulling the magazines from Halverson’s webbing and handing them to Niko. His eyes were wide, and bloodshot. The morning’s stress was getting to him. David frowned. It was getting to all of them. He paused his ministrations long enough to reach for the radio, but a bullet had smashed it.

“Think of something,” Niko said, quickly replacing another magazine. “They’re getting ready to rush us.”

“Help him,” David told Bouzerant, jerking his chin at Niko. He unclipped his rifle and handed it to him. “Keep up the fire.”

Halverson was hyperventilating. The white bandage on his leg was already soaking through with blood. David looked at it. Maybe he was wrong about the artery. He pulled another bandage from the kit and wrapped it around the other one. He had to pull the leg higher to get under it. The motion made Halverson scream. David grimaced and pulled it tighter, eliciting another scream. When he released his leg Halverson lapsed into panting, his eyes darting all around.

“Hold on, Cecil,” David said. Behind him, Niko and Bouzerant were keeping up a constant stream of fire. Niko was firing aimed bursts; Bouzerant was just holding the trigger down. “Stop wasting your ammo,” David called.

“Look,” Halverson said. “The ’Mech.”

David turned away from the firefight. The Phoenix Hawk was limping up Hadley, barely a hundred meters away. It would pass beneath them. He turned back to Halverson and tried to smile. “It won’t bother us.”

“No. Look at the cockpit.”

David looked. Between the artillery and the missile, the armored canopy over the ’Mech’s face had been shot away. With the sun coming from behind him like it was, David could see the MechWarrior controlling it. He had a hand raised to ward off the sunlight. The morning light showed David more of the machine’s damage, half-repaired armor hanging loosely and exposed myomer bundles. There were several rust-encrusted rents on the ’Mech’s legs. It was as battered as it looked, barely hanging together. The Charleston troops hadn’t added that much, but it had been enough.

“We can stop it,” Halverson gasped out.

The half-formed plan in David’s mind snapped into focus. He reached behind him and touched Bouzerant. “Give me my rifle,” he said. The weapon came flying at him, too fast for him to catch. He dropped it. The ’Mech limped closer. Fifty meters.

“Here they come!” Niko shouted. He grunted as he threw a grenade. He must have fumbled the throw. David saw the grenade explode harmlessly on the street below.

Or not so harmlessly. The Phoenix Hawk’s remaining arm rose, unmasking the maw of the laser it carried like a giant pistol. David picked up his rifle and aimed, keeping the ’Mech’s pilot between the sights. Tortured metal screamed in the alleyway as the laser rose, shrieking out damage to the ’Mech’s shoulder.

“Get down!” A grenade clattered into the small alcove formed by the debris. David was aware of it, but ignored it. The ’Mech stumped closer; the arm continued to rise.

Bouzerant leapt past David to flop down on top of the grenade. He had time for a desperate curse before it went off, picking his body up and flinging it off the skyway. David rocked with the force of the explosion, bringing the rifle to bear again. He heard screams, human screams from the pirates Niko was cutting down and the screech of stressed metal from the ’Mech’s shoulder.

He fired.

He saw the MechWarrior jerk back against his seat, saw the red mist splash on his chest as the caseless rounds tore into him. Then David saw white again, as the laser fired. He felt a buffeting explosion, and then falling. There was a sharp pain in his side, and a sharper one in his arm, and then the white faded to darkness.

He woke up on a stretcher in the street. It must have been hours later, maybe days. The shadows were longer, and going the other way. He realized he could see, and blinked a few times. It felt as though there were grains of dust beneath his eyelids, and he tried to wipe at them, but his arms were restrained.

“Easy, David,” someone said. David looked around, trying to focus on the shapes around him.

“Sergeant Homer?”

The NCO nodded, stepping closer to the stretcher and dropping to one knee. He laid a bandaged hand on David’s shoulder. “Take it easy, son. You’re safe.”

The street was filled with sounds, talking and the sound of motors. David heard a siren in the distance, but no gunfire. He looked at Homer. “Are they gone?”

“Last time I checked they were still headed for their DropShips. It’ll be a while before they get back.”

A great sense of relief washed through David. He felt as though he were ten kilos lighter. The world swam for a moment, and he realized he was drugged. “How long have I been out?”

“It took us a few hours to dig you out, boyo.” The sergeant looked away for a moment, looked all around, then back at David. After a moment, David recognized the hulk of the Phoenix Hawk lying in the street behind Homer.

“We got it,” he murmured. Niko would be pleased, he thought. Niko! “My men, sergeant! Where are my men?”

Homer stiffened. “Koumalides is on a stretcher behind you. The others…” He paused. “The others didn’t make it.”

David tried to crane his neck to see Niko, but couldn’t. He tried to raise himself up on his right elbow, to twist around, but fell back as a dagger of pain shot up his arm. He gasped. He felt sweat on his forehead and upper lip.

“Don’t move, Corporal,” Homer barked. He placed both his hands on David’s shoulders. “You were injured. You need to be still.”

“My arm,” David said. “It hurts.”

“Your arm was amputated when the skyway collapsed, David.” Homer’s voice was rock hard. David had heard that tone before, when Homer’d given the platoon bad news.

“But I can still feel it.”

Homer squeezed his eyes closed. “It’s not there, David. Just lay still.” A medic walked past and leaned over when Homer touched his leg. A short conversation took place, too quiet for David to understand. Then the medic knelt, and David felt a prick in his left arm.

“You need to rest, Corporal,” the medic said. “This will help you sleep.”

“My arm,” David moaned. “My maniple.” The drugged feeling increased. He couldn’t focus on anything. His eyes closed against his will.

“This is the one,” he heard Homer say. “He brought down the ’Mech with a rifle.” There was pride in the older man’s voice. David didn’t know if he was imagining it.

“He should pull through,” the medic said. “You know, in the old days, that would mean that the ’Mech was his.” The medic laughed. “What do you think will happen to it?”

“The pirates, Tortugans or someone else, will be back,” Homer said. “We’ve got one ’Mech. When he heals up, we can get more.”

David knew he was imagining things now. He’d never once heard the tone Homer was using, not since the day he’d met the NCO on his first day of basic training. Homer didn’t have a fatherly bone in his body.

The darkness crept at the edges of his mind, snipping off his consciousness bit by bit. Before he succumbed completely, he remembered Bouzerant’s words. You’re nuts, he’d said. David thought he might agree with him. But I killed a ’Mech.

The darkness closed in around him.

OLD LEGENDS NEVER DIE

By Louisa M. Swann

Lost Tavern

On the edge of Silas’s Outpost

Novo Tressida

Magistracy of Canopus

The Periphery

5 April 3064

The man wore his years like a burlesque dancer wears her boa-with panache. The set of his broad shoulders and the upward tilt of his chin let me know power lurked beneath the plain leather vest and recycled military trousers, despite the white mane and shaggy white eyebrows. An equally white flavor-savor mustache topped off the ensemble.

One look from those piercing cat eyes would set most men back in their seats without so much as a word.

But I wasn’t a man and I wasn’t intimidated.

I polished an invisible speck from the goblet in my hand. “So, Captain. What brings a merc like you to a lonely bar like this?”

The man reeked of trouble—a concoction of Adventure cologne and early morning sweat with a little desert dust thrown in for good measure.

“Your mother,” Fortran Merrick said. He eased a leg over the nearest stool and blew out an explosive breath, his face turning a nice radish red. “The woman has me planting desert begonias.”

I polished another speck and grimaced. I’d been experiencing similar torture for going on two months now. “That’s my mom—Rachel “Show-No-Mercy” Bell, mistress of creative torture.”

For years I’d tried to figure out why I loved the woman—Mom and I got along about as well as grease and water. Maybe it was her sparkling green eyes, full of life and ready to dabble in deadly mischief. Maybe it was the simple fact she gave up her pirating and cradled my developing body in her own for nine agonizing months before turning me loose on the universe.

Or maybe I was still just trying to win her approval.

Whatever the reason, when Mom called, I came running.

That’s why I’d agreed to take a break from my lucrative smuggling business. Work the tavern while she took a little R & R after snapping her right arm in three places. Bouncing disagreeable customers tended to have a down side, though Mom didn’t really want to admit it.

But the woman was healed now. Time she got back to work tending her own bar.

“Next thing you know,” Merrick said as he stretched his back with a long, self-pitying groan, “she’s gonna have me decorating the outside of this place.”

The Lost Tavern was almost as eccentric as its owner. Set into the base of a ten-kilometer plateau, draped with snakeweed and barberry vines, the building’s metal sides bore the years a little less well than Fortran Merrick did. And Rachel Bell was trying to mold both.

I actually felt a bit sorry for the man. “She has a knack for smacking someone over the head and making them like it, you know that.”

“I’m learning.” He glanced at the road-weary customer nursing a drink at the far end of the bar. “Busy, huh?”

“Swamped.” How the hell a man like Merrick ended up in the middle of miles of desert and high plateaus, both spotted with devil’s fork cactus, deadly dune brush thorns, and various not-so-friendly local creatures was a story I really wanted to hear and probably never would.

It also was the reason I couldn’t quite bring myself to trust the man-or believe my mother was actually thinking of making their relationship permanent.

The problem wasn’t Mom remarrying; after all, my father died close to ten years ago. No. What I couldn’t figure out was why Rachel Bell—a woman who made a high speed chase through an asteroid field seem like walk in the park—would settle for a man who’d get down on his knees and plant begonias?

Silas Bell would have walked into the fiery brimstone of Hell before he’d done such a thing. But then my father had been a manic, blood-sucking pirate whose sole purpose in life was to enjoy himself at the expense of others.

Nobody told Silas Bell what to do, not even my mother.

The door slammed open and searing desert wind blasted through, leaving behind a tumble of dried stinkweed, dirt, and three very undistinguished patrons.

“You boys can have a seat anywhere you like.” I set the goblet I’d been polishing into oblivion carefully among the other glasses beneath the bar counter. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Merrick ran a calloused palm over his face. “I’ll have my usual.”

I kept my eyes on the newcomers as they wandered into the main room. I didn’t really have a bartender’s patience, but I’d promised Mom I’d try.

“You gotta perty place here,” the taller of the three said. I scanned the heavy weaponry hanging at his side. The other two were just as well armed.

“I’ll tell my mother how much you appreciate the ambiance.”

The inside of the Lost Tavern had just as much character as the outside: bulkhead-style walls hung with decorative tapestries handwoven by the local Omniss, gentle multi-hued clothes draped over tables bolted to a plated floor. Hand-carved Omniss chairs waited patiently at each, the guileless forms managing to blend wood and metal with a grace only my mother could achieve.

She was not going to be happy if these offworlders decided to play rough.

A quick search of the refrigeration unit turned up Merrick’s beverage of choice. I pulled off the cap, slid the chilled bottle of Centurian Bubble-Up into Merrick’s waiting hand. Not a real manly drink, but my mother’s rules on drinking were rather unbreakable.

The big guy at the far end of the bar didn’t know any of that. His derisive snort made Merrick and I both turn his way.

“Easy does it,” I said under my breath. The look on Merrick’s face was about as readable as a dune rat’s sneer.

Pulling a towel from the sink, I worked my way down the bar, meticulously wiping every speck of dirt from the intriguing inlay of aeroship parts and ironwood found only in the deserts on Milligan’s World. The design was my mother’s, the handiwork that of an eighty-year old Omniss woodworker.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” I asked, taking a final swipe where the man’s hand had just been resting. Only one more day, I reminded myself. After this shift I’d be back in space where I belonged and my mother would deal with these idiots. Her arm had a limited range of motion, but she was once again capable of dishing out a tongue-lashing that could send grown men into hiding.

I studied the offworlder while I waited for his order. The big man’s face had the same timeless aura as Merrick’s, but there the resemblance ended. Dark skin that looked like it had been tanned and cured in the desert sun. Hair and eyes to match. By the amount of alcohol he’d already consumed, it was more than likely he’d preserved every cell in his body. Dump this guy in the ground and he’d probably still be staring at you when all the other corpses had gone their natural way.

Without saying a word he reached down, dug something from his boot, and laid it on the counter.

Merrick’s shoulders stiffened.

I’d been chewed up and spit out by worse things than a wise-ass merc, though. Without missing a beat, I took the still wiggling sand roach between forefinger and thumb and squeezed until it stopped squirming.

“I tolerate a lot of things in here.” I tossed the roach into a trash receptacle tucked beneath the counter, spread both hands on the bar, and drilled the man with a hard gaze. “The one thing I don’t tolerate is troublemakers. You want trouble, you take your boys and go on down the road.”

That caught the offworlder by surprise. “How’d you know they were with me?”

“It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? You all smell like you’ve been making love to a Draconian skunk.”

The room exploded in a riot of guffaws and deep belly chuckles. Everyone laughed except the man I locked gazes with. His eyes were sharp, in spite of his sour alcoholic breath. I returned his look, stare for stare, until he finally slapped the counter and grinned. “You got my number, don’t you, sweetheart. Name’s Connie Clark, and I guess there is a little something else you can do for me.”

Sweetheart. I’d decked men twice my size for taking such liberties. But I kept my face expressionless while Merrick sipped his Bubble-Up. Might as well find out what the idiots were after. Information was, after all, one of the benefits of working in a bar. You never knew what kind of tidbits you’d pick up. Tidbits a girl could capitalize on—in a business kinda way, of course.

“The Nova Hunter,” Clark said, carefully watching my face. “Tell me about her.”

I groaned and went back to polishing glasses as a chuckle crept out of Merrick’s beard. Treasure hunters. Worse than a band of out-of-work thugs. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s not what I hear. I hear you know the real story behind the Nova, not the story every treasure hunter and scavenger knows. Sort of an insider’s point of view,” Clark said. “Why don’t you give me another shot of that cleaner you call whiskey?”

Cleaner. Right. I’d heard rotgut called a lot of things in my time—from the ubiquitous liquor to alcohol to moonshine and whiskey—but I’d never heard it described as “cleaner.” Some of the stuff I’d consumed during my travels would probably qualify, come to think of it.

“I think you’ve had enough.” Chairs scraped as the group in the main room stood up. Maybe it was time to stop polishing glasses and start cleaning up the floor—with smart-mouthed customers.

Merrick rose to his feet.

I held out my right hand and he settled back on the edge of his stool with a frown. My left hand eased around the cool butt of the shotgun mounted just under the left of the counter. “I hope you didn’t pay for that information. Everyone and their brother knows my father shipped out on the Nova Hunter. Doesn’t mean he had anything to do with her disappearance.”

A situation that had plagued our lives ever since, especially since my father had up and disappeared into the unexplored area of space nicknamed the Pirate’s Belt not long afterward.

I grinned at Merrick. “Next thing you know he’ll be claiming I know how to find the Paymon’s Staff!”

Merrick’s lips thinned in amusement, but he didn’t pick up on the cue. The old fart just sipped his Bubble-Up without saying a word.

“I’d considered that possibility,” Clark said after giving Merrick the once over. “Could be the same man planned both hijackings. Both had to be planned by somebody on the inside.”

“Sounds like a bunch of hooey to me,” Merrick finally said. He downed the rest of his Bubble-Up in one gulp. “The Paymon’s Staff is just an old man’s pipe dream. But I was on the Nova. They did a head count after the hijacking, dead bodies and all. No one turned up missing. If there’d been someone on the inside, they would have disappeared with the ship.”

“Besides, you can’t just stick a DropShip in your pocket and walk away,” I said, wondering at Merrick’s reticence. Hell, he loved talking about the Nova Hunter, especially the story of how my father threw himself in front of the captain and saved the man’s life during the hijacking.

What Merrick didn’t know—what no one knew except a handful of men and most of them were dead—was that Silas Bell had tried to stop the hijacking and had gotten a bullet in the brain to show for it.

Bullet in the brain would’ve killed most normal men, but my father had abandoned all claims to normalcy years ago. He floated around space in an escape pod until rescue crews found him. Then they bagged and tagged his “body” and stuck him in line for burial along with the rest of Nova’s crew.

How my father escaped from that particular constipation was a story he never told. Said it was good to keep folks guessing about the real mysteries of life.

I’d finally stopped guessing when I turned sixteen. By then I figured he’d simply done what he always did: paid someone off. Either that or he’d killed them.

Shortly after the Nova incident, he hooked up with the woman who was to become his first mate and his wife—Rachel Murdock.

Together they proceeded to plunder, rape, and murder in the manner of true pirates while that bullet slowly ate away at his health and sanity. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Said he didn’t want to end up like a rotten turnip just because some idiot couldn’t keep their hand steady. So he lived with the pain and Mom and I lived with a raging lunatic.

Until he finally took matters into his own hands and blew the offending missile away along with half of his head.

“You gonna polish a hole clean through that bar you keep rubbing at it like that.”

I glanced up to find both men staring at me, eyebrows raised.

“Just seeing if you were awake,” I said with a shrug. I started pulling trays from a low wall cupboard. Rush hour was coming up and Mom would be here any minute with the fancy little snacks she liked to prepare. Little finger sandwiches, some kind of liver paste, probably some of those birds indigenous to Milligan’s World—the ones so tiny you didn’t even have to pull out the bones—stuffed with mushrooms and Mom’s “secret” ingredients. Just thinking about it was enough to make my stomach growl.

“Looks like I threw good money after bad information.” Connie Clark slapped some change on the counter and raised his glass. “Here’s to old legends. May they never die.”

Sand crickets sang a dirge to the stars as I stepped outside and locked the Lost Tavern’s massive door. Milligan’s World sat on the edge of nowhere without even a moon to call its own. But the night’s darkness came with a certain amount of freedom. Take away sight and the other senses become more acute.

One of the reasons Mom and I couldn’t see eye to eye was because I refused to follow in my father’s footsteps. “If you’re going to run his business,” Mom said, hands on ample hips, “you do it the way your father did. Otherwise, you might as well let the real men take over.”

Fat chance. Silas Bell and I had one thing in common—I didn’t let anyone tell me what to do either, at least not as far as business went. I took over the Fortress-class DropShip, spent time, guts, and money, and put together the best crew inside or outside the Inner Sphere.

And tonight I was going back to that crew. Nothing left for me to do here except give Mom a hug good-bye.

While it was a straight shot down the road to my mother’s house, I preferred the off-road route. The pistol on my belt thumped gently against my hip as I jogged through cactus and dodged barberry vines. The exercise kept my senses honed and reactions quick. Punishment for failure was swift: stinging cactus spines and steely barberry thorns leave an immediate impression.

A single glow illuminated the desert as I approached the edge of town. I knew the source; I didn’t know the why.

I shivered in spite of the night’s warmth. There could be a good reason why the light still shone in my mother’s house, but none of the reasons that came to mind had a positive image.

Death had been a part of my life almost from the time I could walk. I didn’t fear death. I respected it. And with that respect came an ability to sense the dark predator’s approach. Tonight death hung around my mother’s house like a funeral pall, its whispers weaving in and out of the cricket song without bothering to harmonize.

The crickets stopped singing.

Adrenalin sharpened my perceptions to a painful edge as I pulled my pistol free. A pebble crunched and I dropped into a crouch before I realized I was hearing my own footsteps. The scent of fresh-turned earth and Merrick’s begonias mingled with a metallic odor. An odor I didn’t want to identify.

Keeping my breathing slow, I eased up next to the kitchen window and peeked inside.

Except for shadows cast by the light in the other room, the kitchen appeared empty.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end with that creepy, crawly being-watched sensation. I dropped back into a crouch and spun so my back brushed the wall. The putrid stench of rotting flesh and dirty wet robes assaulted my nose at the same time I spotted two pairs of red eyes off to my right.

Wild jacotes. The nastiest scavengers this side of the Belt.

I snatched a stone from the ground and hurled it at the smelly beasts.

The eyes disappeared.

They’d be back, but hopefully not until I’d found out what was going on inside my mother’s house.

Keeping my movements slow and silent as the night itself, I turned the knob and opened the kitchen door.

The first thing I recognized was the smell. Blood had been spilled here. Lots of blood.

No wonder the jacotes had been so adventurous.

I quelled the urge to run headlong through the house like a child seeking solace. My stomach tightened in a nauseated knot as I forced myself to go slowly until my eyes adjusted to the light. A deep breath brought calm to my body. One more breath and I was no longer the caring daughter, but a trained professional.

The door whispered shut behind me. I left it unlatched, a precaution learned on my first excursion with my father. “In this business you never know when you’ll need to make a fast getaway,” Silas Bell used to say with a wink. “Always make sure you leave a clean escape route. It could save your life one day.”

Moving quieter than a desert mouse, I crept through the kitchen and paused at the archway into the main living area.

My mother had to be the neatest person in the galaxy. I’d never known a person who could collect as much “stuff” as she did and never have a mess in her house. Every square centimeter of the tiny cottage was put to work supporting shelves or paintings or providing backdrop for exotic furniture.

She would never leave a spilled wine glass on the floor.

Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

I inched my way toward the sofa, stopped at the sight of my mother sprawled on her stomach next to a broken statue. She looked smaller somehow.

Frail. A word I would have never connected with Rachel Bell.

Aside from her silver hair being a little on the mussed side, however, I couldn’t see any signs of violence. Not from this angle.

Hope fluttered helpless wings deep inside my breast; at the same time my stomach roiled with nausea. She didn’t look hurt, but instinct told me the woman who’d seemed unbreakable was as shattered as the statue beside her.

“Rachel? Mom?”

Quickly, I knelt among jagged ceramic shards and felt for a pulse I knew wouldn’t be there. A gut punch would’ve been easier to take than realizing my suspicions had been right on the money.

I lifted my mother’s limp shoulder and rolled her toward me.

That’s when I saw the blood I’d smelled a few moments before. A sticky pond, reaching from the gaping wound on her neck deep into the shadows beneath the sofa, painted the floor rust red.

My professional facade splintered.

For what seemed an eternity I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even feel the pistol in my hand.

The sound of labored breathing penetrated my stupor. Hair crawled on the back of my neck. I stepped to the end of the couch, pistol at the ready, and found Merrick crumpled against the paneled wall. His pulse beat strong, but he was out for the proverbial count.

I went through the rest of the house, puzzled to find the place hadn’t even been ransacked. Nothing was missing as far as I could tell. Except for the mess in the living room, the house looked completely normal.

What the hell was going on?

The radio on my hip buzzed just as I popped into the bathroom for a look-see. The sound and sudden appearance of another person almost had me shooting out my mother’s bathroom mirror. Seven years bad luck was definitely not what I needed right now.

I climbed back into my skin and shut off the buzzer with a muffled curse before finishing my sweep of the bathroom.

All clear.

On my way back to Merrick I slid my pistol back into its holster, snatched the radio from my belt. “This is Bell.”

“’Bout time you answered your squawker. Where you been?”

“I’ve been busy, Flapjack. What’s up?” I squatted beside Merrick. Searched his head for wounds.

“Thought you wanted a ride, Captain.”

“Hang on a minute, Buck.” I clipped the radio back on my belt as Merrick moaned. In one smooth motion I hunkered back on my heels, pulled my pistol, watched the man’s eyelids flutter open.

Merrick seemed to have trouble focusing. He stared at the pistol. At me. “What’s going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.” I stood and moved aside, giving him a spectator’s view of the living room. The big man glanced at my mother and his already gray skin went ghastly pale. “Rachel?”

“She’s dead.” The pain hit again, hard and fast, threatening to tear me apart from the inside out. I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached.

Merrick collapsed against the wall, stunned. He rubbed a hand over his face. “She was just sitting here, reviewing the bar records. I was in the bathroom. Thought I heard a noise. Came out here to check and something crashed into the back of my head...”

I swallowed hard against the lump that seemed determined to choke off whatever oxygen managed to survive the violence in this room. The caring daughter didn’t want to stay locked away. She wanted to scream and rage and break down like a young girl whose doll just got stomped on by an older brother playing ’Mech.

But the daughter’s way wouldn’t solve anything right now.

The Omniss would take care of my mother. She’d been friends with Elders and children alike. They’d give her a proper burial, probably more proper than I could ever manage.

What I had to decide was what to do with this guy.

“Clark did this. Him and his thugs. I caught a glimpse of them before I went down.”

My caution meter soared. “Caught a glimpse when he whacked you from behind?”

My mother had trusted Merrick, but then she had him wrapped around her finger like a love-starved python.

And look where that got her.

Technically, Merrick hadn’t killed Rachel Bell, but he hadn’t saved her either.

“I’m going after the bastard.” Merrick struggled to his feet. Blood trickled down his forehead and into his white beard. I stared at the red tracks. The blood was real, that much I could tell. It was the rest of his story I didn’t quite believe.

I reached out a hand as Merrick swayed. “You’re not in condition to go anywhere except the nearest Omniss medcenter.”

“Look. Clark wants the Nova Hunter,” Merrick insisted. “I know more about the Hunter than any man alive. Let’s set up a trap...”

Had to hand it to him. The old man was persistent.

But it wasn’t his persistence that had my attention. It was the blood-red wine trembling in the glass remaining on the end table. I stared at the glass as the wine quivered again in a way only earthquakes or traveling BattleMechs could create.

The only ’Mechs I knew of on this planet were stationed at the garrison and they weren’t likely to be out at this time of night.

“Did Clark say anything about bringing along ’Mechs?”

Merrick shrugged, a gesture I wasn’t sure how to interpret.

I studied the quivering wine, the apprehension in my gut solidifying into certainty. Clark or no Clark, trouble was on the road tonight. ’Mech-size trouble.

Grief clawed deep inside my chest as I pulled Merrick away from my mother’s body. The time for helping her was past. Time to regroup and move on.

“Yo, Buck,” I said into the radio. “Keep an eye out. ’Mechs are dancing tonight and it looks like we’re hosting the party. We’ll meet you at the halfway point.”

“We?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Ten four, Jussy. I’m already on my way.”

Buck Jackson was the only one who could call me Jussy and live. He’d joined the crew over nine years ago, during my “proving” time, then became first officer two years after signing on. I almost considered trusting the guy. Not enough to leave him with the coordinates for our next rendezvous while I wasn’t on board ship or with traveling money. Just almost.

I turned to Merrick. The best way to know what an enemy or prospective enemy was up to was to keep him or her close at hand. “Do you think you can walk or am I going to have to carry you?”

Merrick gave me a lopsided grin. “I’ve taken worse hits than this. Lead on.”

The silence outside spoke louder than the trembling ground. Even the crickets knew trouble was brewing in their territory. I sniffed the air, searching for signs the jacotes were still near, but could only smell Merrick’s sour sweat. The man didn’t do half bad following me through the dark night. I touched the butt of my pistol, wondering again if he was as injured as he appeared to be.

I shook off the suspicions. Too many years spent watching my back. Merrick had never done anything to warrant my distrust— except plant desert begonias. I’d have to keep that in mind.

The scent of crushed sage stung my nose at the same time I heard the peculiar thrum that could come only from a hovertruck. I put a hand on Merrick’s arm. “Hold on.”

“Justin?” Buck’s familiar whisper washed over me like a warm shower.

“Here.” I tugged Merrick toward the road. Buck met us partway, though I wasn’t quite sure how he managed to find us.

“You two sound like a couple of mud buffaloes,” Buck said as he took Merrick’s arm. “Looks like those ’Mechs decided to take a short cut. I saw them head off through the desert on a bee line for our little gal. She’s hanging out ground-side waiting for our arrival. They must’ve picked her up on their sensors. Lars and Peg were suiting up when I left. They’re probably having a good time right about now.”

Good to know the bad guys no longer had the element of surprise on their side, though I didn’t feel so good about being this far from the action.

We piled into the cab. Buck rammed the accelerator to the floor and the hovertruck leaped forward. We flew past the bar, headlights out. Buck swerved to the left, coaxing the transport off the road with a dust-raising hiss.

Dust and diesel fumes filled the cab. Merrick’s head lolled against the back of the seat. His color didn’t look so good, at least what I could see of it from the dashboard lights. He sagged in the seat like a sack of limp oatmeal.

The truck bucked over a low rise, launching us toward the ceiling, and filling the cab with more dust. Merrick moaned.

Buck shot a glance my direction. “So, you have a nice vacation?”

“Mom’s dead.” My voice cracked in spite of my struggle to keep it devoid of emotion. A hard lump lodged in my throat somewhere between a swallow and a choke. The engine’s rumble seemed to grow in volume.

“I’m sorry,” Buck said after a moment. He reached over and put a warm hand on my shoulder. “You want to tell me what happened?”

In short, terse sentences I related everything from the moment of Clark’s arrival at the bar until the discovery of my mother’s murder.

“So, they think they found the Nova Hunter,” Buck said.

It could have been either question or statement; I chose the latter and didn’t answer. After a moment Buck eased the transport to a stop and pointed at a wild display of red laser light playing off the plateau escarpment. Searing beams interspersed with blue flicks of artificial lightning revealed the battle scene ahead with strobe-like intensity.

“Looks like you’ll get your shot at revenge,” Buck said.

The desert below the escarpment had been transformed into a deadly playground. Ahead, the Fortress’s domed light illuminated the desert around her base. Guns blazed as she struck out at the attacking ’Mechs. From this distance it looked like a bunch of Canopian chihuahuas nipping at a Terran bull.

I recognized our two ’Mechs: Peg’s ABS-3R Anubis and Lars’ FS9-C Firestarter. There were five other ’Mechs that weren’t on our team, including one gut-sucking AWS-9Q Awesome.

I’d never been much of a spectator; no reason to start now. Especially when my DropShip was the game prize. There was a whole desert out there to maneuver in. The trick would be to get in close without being blasted to bits. Then it was a simple matter of anticipating the enemy’s movements, finding the right opening, scooting through before a big, bad ’Mech stomped on us, and we were home free.

No sweat.

I eyeballed the distance over the torn clumps of sage and jagged blast pits.

“How far?” I asked Buck.

“About ten klicks.”

There was only one way to do this. I looked at Buck. “Trade places with me.”

Battle sounds faded as our gazes locked. For a moment it seemed Buck would challenge my decision to drive.

“We both know I can handle this thing in my sleep,” Buck said. I gave a quick nod. Buck’s driving wasn’t the issue here. This was about being in control. If we were going to drive down the road of death, I wanted to be at the helm. It was my right as captain of this crew.

A right I would not relinquish.

Buck shoved open the driver’s door and grinned. “Let’s do it then.”

I scooted into the warm spot Buck left behind and picked up the radio mike. “This is Bell. Prepare to drop the loading ramp on my mark.”

“Keep your eyes open,” I said as Buck climbed in the passenger’s side. “This is gonna be one helluva ride.”

As long as the attacking ’Mechs had their attention focused elsewhere the transport stood a chance. We’d come in on their blind side and stay as inconspicuous as possible. Once they got a fix on us though, we were ’Mechball fodder.

The hovertruck shot forward, an arrogant mouse among a horde of marauding cats. My stomach dropped somewhere down around my toes as I tried to keep an eye on the action and keep our hides intact at the same time. I hugged the base of the escarpment, taking advantage of whatever measly cover remained, while Clark’s crew slammed salvo after salvo into our pathetic forces.

Lasers ripped into Peg’s Anubis, sending shrapnel skittering off into the night as her ’Mech’s left arm careened off into the darkness.

The Awesome’s barrels glowed, gearing up for a PPC burst. The transport slipped sideways as I dodged a laser pulse and goosed the accelerator.

“Get the hell out of there, Peg,” I shouted at the window as the Awesome fired its deadly lightning. What was she doing? The Anubis could dance circles around that sluggish Awesome...

Frustration ignited in my chest at the same time the lightning swept across Peg’s armor, found the weak spot on the right side of the Anubis’s torso, and penetrated the lightly shielded engine.

The sky lit up with another explosion. ’Mech parts rained down around us, the shrapnel pinging on the roof with a hollow clang. I peered through the smoke and debris, seeking sight of the Anubis.

The ’Mech was gone.

I chewed my lip and dodged another misguided missile. Including my Vindicator and Buck’s Tarantula, we had enough firepower to join the party, but delaying our departure increased the chance of a takeover.

“’Mechs who run and hide away, get revenge another day,” I muttered. Another one of my father’s illustrious sayings. One that left a bad taste in my mouth. But there were other things in life besides taste.

It only took a blink to see the bad guys had decided to pick on Lars. They seemed to be leaving the DropShip pretty much alone in spite of the fact she was spewing a good amount of firepower their way.

There was a good-size gap opening up to the right of the DropShip. Just enough room for a hovertruck to scoot through.

If the truck was fast.

I gritted my teeth and banked toward the Fortress. “Have Lars follow us in.”

Gravity slammed us back in our seats as I accelerated on a bee line toward the DropShip. What we were doing was pure suicide, but what the hell? We had three things going for us: the element of surprise, my excellent driving skill, and balls the size of a DropShip.

Buck muttered something about sitting ducks as the hovertruck fishtailed. I grinned.

After all, what is life without a little challenge?

But the Awesome must’ve been reading my mind. Sand erupted in front of the transport’s right fender.

“Keep your tongue outta your teeth and hang on.” I dodged a hail of incoming laser fire.

Buck keyed the radio mike. “Hey, Stevadore. It’s time to rock and roll.”

The Fortress’s lights glared on the windshield. We were going to make it.

“Looks like we’ve got company.” Buck pointed to the right. The Awesome was headed toward the DropShip on an intercept course. It wouldn’t do to have an enemy ’Mech leap aboard in front of the transport. I eyeballed the distance between the hovertruck, the DropShip and the oncoming ’Mech.

We still had the advantage. Barely.

Closer, I told myself. Just a little bit closer.

There!

I jerked my head in a nod, somehow managing to keep ahead of the laser tracking our flank.

“Deploy the loading ramp,” Buck said into the radio.

“Ten four.”

I held my breath and swerved to avoid a nasty kick the Awesome aimed our way. The ramp inched its way to the ground as the transport drew closer. For a moment I wondered if maybe I’d made the call too late, but the second before we crashed into the lip of the ramp, it finished its groundward drop.

“Hang on!” With a teeth-jarring lurch the hovertruck bucked onto the ramp and into the cargo bay.

I left Merrick in Buck’s capable hands and raced toward the lift. There was one more thing I could do that would clean my mouth and help us get away at the same time.

A hard blast shook the ship as I stopped beside the gunnery station. A new man—one Buck had brought on board—sat in the near gunner’s chair. I could just order him to take out the Awesome, but watching someone else acquire the target wasn’t the same as doing it myself. “Move.”

The man waited a second too long to relinquish his seat. In less time than it took him to blink, he found himself face to face with the bulkhead. I slid into his seat and took over the control board.

From what little I’d seen of Clark, I figured he’d have to be piloting the Awesome. He was just that kind of guy.

The screen in front of me showed ’Mechs headed for the hills.

Smart guys. Anyone—man or ’Mech—caught in the thruster blast when we took off was dead meat, to put it mildly.

I rapidly scanned the fleeing targets, found the ’Mech I wanted, punched in the coordinates, and activated the targeting lock. “Looks like you found your treasure, Connie-boy.”

In less than a heartbeat, the Fortress unleashed her entire repertoire of weaponry. When the dust cleared, nothing remained but a pile of debris too small to even salvage.

“That’s for Mom!”

I hit the comm button and quickly gave the navigator a set of coordinates. “Get us out of here, Stevie.”

Thrusters roared and the DropShip trembled with the effort of lifting her not-inconsiderable hulk back into space.

I gave the gunner back his seat with instructions to do as much damage as he could before we got out of range, then headed down to find out how Merrick was doing.

Stars exploded like flaming meteorites as something cold and hard slammed into the side of my head when I walked into sick bay. The last thing I remembered on the way into black oblivion was Merrick’s triumphant face.

“I should kill you now.”

The voice echoed inside my head, along with what felt like a battalion of timpani drums pounding out a death march.

The surface beneath me was soft, not hard like a floor. An acidic odor stung my nose, letting me know I was still in sick bay. I sat up and almost fell off the treatment table.

A chuckle assaulted my left ear. I looked over my shoulder into Merrick’s satisfied eyes. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”

I couldn’t seem to think clearly. Couldn’t get a handle on what was happening. I glanced at the medic lying still on the next bed. “What the hell is this all about?”

“Your father,” Merrick said. “And this ship.”

He stood and strutted around in front of me, thumbs hooked in the waist of his pants. He didn’t sound like a retired military man anymore. Didn’t look like one either. He looked like a man just this side of going nova.

The room spun circles and my stomach heaved. I needed to get myself focused or life was going to be short. Very, very short. “I thought you were friends...”

“Friends?” Merrick snorted. “Bell didn’t have any friends. He made that perfectly clear. He confronted me when he found me sabotaging the Nova. Said he was going to tell the captain. But I knew what he was up to. If I didn’t do something, he’d take over the ship himself; leave me behind while he made off with an emperor’s fortune.”

My mind worked hard to try to catch up. “So you shot him.”

“I had to. Don’t you see? But he ruined my plan anyway. The crew I’d hired took off with the Nova and left me behind to take the heat. The charges were dropped—with your father dead, they didn’t have any proof I’d done anything. Then I found out Silas Bell was still alive and I knew I’d been double-crossed.”

I rubbed my head and tried to stall. “So you were working with Clark.”

Merrick grimaced. “Just the means to an end that didn’t seem to be happening fast enough. If I’d had to plant one more begonia, I would’ve strangled your mother without getting the information I needed.”

I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. “You killed her.”

Merrick sucked on his mustache. “Your mother was too smart for her own good. Clark stopped by, left me a message. Unfortunately, she figured it out before I got home and was waiting, wine in hand, when I arrived. Not a normal thing for your mother, you know. She’d probably laced the wine with devil’s weed or some equally nasty stuff. I pretended to take the bait and...”

“...sliced her throat,” I finished. Rage washed red through my vision as I drove my hands hard at Merrick’s throat. He grabbed my left wrist, twisted hard, and stepped to the side. I dropped to the floor, gasping.

“I need a few answers before I finish you off,” Merrick said. His voice stayed casual, but I could see the anticipation in his eyes. “Your mother was extremely cooperative—she just didn’t know it. There are ways other than bullying and torture to gather information. You just have to find the method that suits your intended victim. With your mother, I played to her arrogance. She couldn’t resist dropping little hints here and there. I simply put all the bits and pieces together from what I already knew and here we are.”

He twisted my arm hard. “You will give me the coordinates for hooking up with the JumpShip. Then you will tell me where your father hid all that treasure.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rage still twisted my stomach into knots, but my vision was once again clear. I’d kept the JumpShip coordinates confidential on purpose, to keep my crew from taking off without their captain. Giving Merrick the coordinates would not only give him the upper hand.

It would end my life.

Think, you idiot. Think.

Merrick dropped my arm in disgust. “The time for obtaining information in a pleasurable way is past. The bits and pieces I gather from you, my dear, will be painfully extracted.”

The hell with all this thinking. It was payback time.

Merrick had been quite an actor, but I’d learned from a real pro. I started to stand, moaned and fell to the floor. Merrick bent down and grabbed my arm. I slipped a hand around his neck, used my body weight and all the strength I could muster, and slammed the big man’s head into the edge of the bed.

The room went red, then white as rage obliterated all else but the need to kill the man in front of me. I bent my arm and jabbed downward into the space between neck and head directly below his left ear with a satisfying crack.

Merrick’s feet slid out from under him and the big man hit the floor. No time to think, to worry about projectile shots puncturing the bulkhead. If I didn’t take care of this creep, he’d take care of me. In less than a heartbeat I pulled my pistol from his belt, chambered a round, and squeezed the trigger.

One of the reasons I dealt on the shady side of the mercantile trade as opposed to filling my father’s pirate boots was the killing. I hated it. But I felt no remorse as I stared at Merrick’s limp body.

Maybe I was more my father’s daughter than I wanted to admit.

The echo hadn’t fully receded before I was on my way to the bridge. I had no idea how long I’d been out or who else Merrick had compromised.

The floor rumbled, feeding me information as I ran. The ship was changing direction. I grabbed a wall rung, the maneuver threatening to buckle my knees. I waited a moment, willing strength back into my legs, then cautiously approached the bridge.

There was no time to find another weapon, but the pistol was all I really needed. Buck was the only one on board this ship who came close to beating me in a shootout. Not only did I always hit my target; my shots were always dead center.

Well, almost always. But in situations like this, almost doesn’t count.

Pistol in hand, I positioned myself to one side as the bridge door hissed open.

No shout of alarm, no shots fired.

I glanced around the edge of the doorway and peered in.

Buck’s lanky frame filled the captain’s chair like he belonged there.

I clenched my jaw, tightened the grip on my pistol. You’re too damn suspicious, a voice whispered in my mind. I forced myself to relax just slightly, but relaxed wasn’t natural. Not for me. Not for the situation.

Pasting a grin on my face, I lowered the pistol as if to return it to its holster and stepped onto the bridge.

“Thanks for filling in,” I said with a nod. “I’ll take over now.”

The silence grew so thick you could slice it with a butter knife. Hell, even the instruments seemed muted.

Then Buck smiled. “I don’t think so, Jussy.”

I stood still. Blake’s blood, how I hated being right. Might as well play the game to its bitter end. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Buck’s gun was in his hand. And it was pointed at me. A shootout on board a DropShip—not my idea of fun. But I knew I wouldn’t miss, and evidently Buck figured the same thing. Either that or he figured I wouldn’t have the balls to pull the trigger. “It’s over now, Jussy. Put the gun down.”

One of the ironies of life is how well children repeat the histories of their parents. I’d just killed the man who betrayed my father. Now I was facing a betrayal of my own. Not really that unusual considering the venue.

Eyes failed to meet mine as I glanced around the room at my “loyal” crew. Smugglers were a cut above pirates in my mind. But I never let myself forget that, pirate or smuggler, both types were motivated by the same driving force: greed. The men watching me would let this scene play out, then declare their loyalty to whoever came out on top.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Buck.” The rage I’d felt during the confrontation with Merrick had cooled to an icy calm. I had one chance and I took it.

Both pistols flashed almost simultaneously. The explosive sound careened off the bulkhead walls, pounding my eardrums. Pain seared through my left shoulder, but I didn’t fall.

Neither did Buck.

“I said, that’s my seat.” The stench of burnt sulfur stung my nose and an overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep for a couple of years washed over me. I lifted my chin. Stood my ground.

Buck gave a lopsided grin as he stared down at the blood oozing through his vest.

“I guess you’d better take it then.” His body convulsed once. Then he was still.

I reached the captain’s chair before anyone could think to stop me. Buck’s body hit the floor with a loud thud. I held the pistol at the ready, gazed into the eyes of the crew—my crew.

“Anyone else feel a need to try out this chair?”

No one offered up a challenge. I gave a nod and issued instructions to the pilot to take us to the rendezvous point. A JumpShip was waiting to take our DropShip to her next meeting with destiny.

Wordlessly two crewmen carried Buck from the bridge. Such a price to pay, I thought.

There was no treasure on board this DropShip. Buck knew that. But it probably wasn’t the treasure he was concerned about. He wanted the ship.

What he didn’t realize—what none of them realized—was that this DropShip wasn’t the Nova Hunter. If my father had known the Nova’s location, he’d taken the secret with him to his grave, along with the secret of the Paymon’s Staff, another old legend hardly worth the telling.

For some folks, that is.

Old legends never die, I thought. They just fade into oblivion.

THE PRICE OF CONVICTION

By Randall N. Bills

Shonick Dale

Near Tamar City, Tamar

Clan Wolf Occupation Zone

2 September, 3063

Twin cerulean beams of writhing energy converged on the hapless target. Blasted through the final constraints of aligned crystal steel armor across the titan’s already weakened center-line. Like a succubus delving under a sailor’s clothing for succulent flesh, the energy slipped needy filaments through multiple hair-line fissures, ravaging delicate internal components.

The seventy-ton war machine toppled backwards gracelessly. Nathan knew the thunder of its impact could not be heard for kilometers…but still wondered if they might not somehow detect it in Tamar City.

It was that important, quiaff? He loathed the timidity of his own question.

Nathan Wolf sighed, arched back and then neck, left and right, feeling the easing of taut muscles and the pleasurable crack of several vertebrae; tried on a smile for a battle well fought and found it…ill-fitting. Tried to distract himself. Did not think it would be so easy to dispatch the Summoner; by all accounts, MechWarrior Johansen is a superb pilot.

Apparently not this time. Nathan began to move his own mammoth machine out of the Circle of Equals.His attempt to distract himself failing.

I am a Star colonel.

Instead of the elation he should have felt, however, melancholy set in. He never would have imagined he would not feel pride and elation in equal measure at joining a new Galaxy.

He tried another tactic, pushing away dark thoughts by concentrating on his new ride: that always worked. Though he knew full well why they assigned him the prototype OmniMech, it still could not dislodge his pride in the machine.

At one hundred tons, it was the largest ’Mech that could be produced. Though it moved slower then he was accustomed to, the slow speed was more then made up for in firepower; over half of the ’Mechs total weight was devoted to pod space for weaponry. To top it off, it was protected by nineteen tons of standard armor.

Though Primary and Alpha configurations were impressive, he quickly fell in love with the Beta, which mounted twin extended range particle projector cannons along side twin extended range large lasers, with a plethora of medium pulse lasers and extended range medium lasers as secondary weapons. Despite the fact that it was still in trial runs, the Tomahawk had once again proved that in the right hands, it could take on any opponent and emerge the victor.

Still, despite his ultimate success, he catalogued the numerous system errors that still crept in, despite the best efforts of the Scientist Caste to eliminate the gremlins. He knew one day the Tomahawk would be massed produced and stalk dozens of worlds in blood and fury and achieve great victories for Clan Wolf…but that day was still some ways off. For now, just a few prototypes….

Too bad I cannot pilot it into the Hall. A true smile did find a good fit at the abrupt thought. Political words would avail them nothing against kilojoules of energy. He shook the fancy from his mind, smile sliding off as well.

Time to prepare for another type of battle…even if it is a battle already lost.

Clan Wolf Genetic Repository (Inner Sphere), Clan Hall

Tamar City, Tamar

Clan Wolf Occupation Zone

3 September, 3063

Nathan trudged across the square, toward Clan Wolf’s primary genetic repository in the Inner Sphere and the accompanying Clan Hall.Carrying the world on his shoulders. Only on Tamar for two months, that simply was not enough time to acclimatize a person to the world’s brutal 1.9 gravities. Two years would not be enough time! It was bad enough piloting a ’Mech under such conditions, strapped into a comman chair, but the simple act of walking was even worse.

Nathan only hoped to be gone before he acquired the Tamar blush. Why anyone would want to settle such a nasty place, with high gravities and almost no ozone layer—which allowed the system’s G6V-type star to roast your skin red—was beyond him. In the Clan homeworlds they had no choice, forced to settle primal and wasteland worlds because there were so few to choose from. But here, in the Inner Sphere, with thousands of worlds to colonize…

He did not think he would ever understand Inner Sphere ways, regardless of his political leanings or how long he dwelt among them.

The shadow of the repository fell across him and Nathan looked up at the grandeur of the building, only recently finished. The huge gothic edifice was not exactly like the Clan’s Katyusha City facility on Strana Mechty but was close enough to that magnificent structure for easy comparison. Slightly wider at the base, a heavier foundation to better support the tall, over-arching cathedral in this higher gravity, there was no doubt what Clan Wolf thought about themselves and their Inner Sphere holdings.Sometimes even he wondered at his Clan’s arrogance.

Passing into the building proper, his boot heels echoed like the reports of small arms fire; a fitting accompaniment to his current attitude of marching to war. Moving down the long main hallway, he angled left through a side entrance away from the repository itself and passed a lone Keeper; he formally nodded his head to honor a keeper of his Clan’s bloodlines. He then moved onto another, perpendicular hallway that took him through the only entrance to his Clan’s Inner Sphere Hall. This part of the building, he knew, had originally been the home of the Tamar Pact legislature, but with its inclusion in the new repository complex the façade had been altered almost beyond recognition.

Nathan turned right into the hallway that ran around the outside of the large, central Hall with its tiered benches and floor that could fit every Bloodnamed warrior in Clan Wolf. Finally, he stopped before the office door of his new Galaxy commander, Stevic Hawker. He clenched fists as though gripping the controls of his Tomahawk and rapped twice.

“Come in,” a voice said through the door.

Nathan immediately opened the door and presented himself to the superior warrior. “Star Colonel Nathan Wolf,” he said, standing ramrod straight.

For a long minute, silence greeted his announcement but he refused to move his eyes from the back wall. Slowly Galaxy Commander Stevic Hawker levered himself from out of his chair and into his field of vision. A large man—he appeared to stand about 2.1 meters—he had blond hair shorn down to within a centimeter of his scalp, a sharp nose and high cheek bones that fit his Bloodname, and eyes so dark they appeared black. Nathan wondered if he had originally been a part of an Elemental sibko.

“Star Colonel Nathan,” Hawker replied, deep voice more then fitting for his size. “I am glad to have you in my new Galaxy.”

“I am glad to be here Galaxy commander.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” Nathan responded, suddenly put off balance. How could his new commander know of a displeasure voiced to no one?

“Glad to be in our new Galaxy?”

“Galaxy commander, I am pleased to serve my Clan where ever my Khan feels I am most needed. Not to mention, it is not often that new Galaxies are formed; it is an honor for any warrior to be included in the formation of one.”

“You are right on both accounts Star Colonel, but you still did not answer my question.”

Once more Nathan was thrown off balance. In his first meeting with his new Galaxy comman der, should he tell him he was not pleased to be included? Should he lie? The idea was repugnant. The silence began to stretch and he almost fidgeted from his lack of response.

“Commander,” he began, “I’m not sure—

“Your language is deteriorating,” Hawker cut in. He decisively slashed a hand through the air as though cutting off the conversation physically. “Your hesitation and language speak volumes and I will not force a…untruth…it is unworthy of a warrior, quiaff?”

“Aff my commander, it is.”

“However, regardless of your personal feelings, as you said, you will serve the Clan and that service requires you to support our new Galaxy. Fully.”

“I had no intention of doing otherwise, commander.”

“I thought not. However, do you know that our Omega Galaxy will be shipping out to the Periphery by the end of the week? Yours was the final Trial; the rest of the posts in the Galaxy have been filled and our assets have already been assigned.”

“The Periphery, commander?” Nathan said. Why would they send us out there?

“Have you heard rumors about Clan Steel Viper finding remnants of the Not-Named Clan in the Inner Sphere?”

The reference to the Clan that dared defy the Founder and were destroyed for their depravity sent a shiver down his spine. “Aff I heard those rumors and like any right minded warrior, I dismissed them. They were annihilated.”

Commander Hawker looked at him squarely, as though attempting to probe his sentence for Nathan’s true belief. “As you say, Star colonel. Nevertheless, there has been heavy raiding of late in the Periphery and our Khan has assigned us to put a stop to these attacks and to annihilate any Not-Named Clan remnants we might find.”

“What!” Nathan said, mind reeling. This has to be some joke! The thought that a remnant of the destroyed Clan had survived was exceptionally unlikely in his opinion. However, to think that such as they would be mounting attacks from with in the Periphery area of Clan Wolf’s Occupation Zone was beyond ludicrous. If they had managed to survive, they would either be on the far side of the galaxy from the Clans or they would have hidden themselves where no one would think to look.

“I believe I made myself clear.”

“But this simply makes no sense commander. That rumor is over a decade old, even if we could believe it.”

“But our Khan apparently does, Star colonel and as such, he is assigning an entire Galaxy, as is appropriate for such an action.” Though his voice never ventured off an even keel, the look in his dark eyes made Nathan swallow the words he was about to speak, and think.

Why would Khan Ward concoct such a story? After all, it simply could not be true. Then why?

With a suddenness that almost brought spots to his eyes and bile to the back of his throat he knew. He knew and the thought sickened him. The very reason why he had not wanted to be included in Omega Galaxy, a Galaxy he heard was filled almost entirely of warriors with Warden leanings—those who felt that Nicholas Kerensky had formed the Clans to safe guard the Inner Sphere against any outside threat. He himself believed in the Warden philosophy, but such leanings in a Crusader Clan were not popular, when Crusader warriors felt the Clans’ destiny was to return to the Inner Sphere and re-establish the Star League for the betterment of the entire Inner Sphere—even if that required the end of a particle projector cannon to see it done. That was doubly so when Warden leanings had led to a schism with in Clan Wolf not five years past, with a holistic slice of his Clan voluntarily exiling themselves to the Inner Sphere to protect it from the Clans themselves.

His distaste about joining Omega Galaxy was now confirmed. This was not a glorious assignment to finish off the last remnants of the traitor Clan. This was a death sentence, where his Khan hoped the Warden warriors of Omega Galaxy would die through attrition against raiders. Pirates. Bandits. He tongued moisture back into his mouth, sure of the bile this time.

For a moment, as he refocused on the here and now and met the eyes of his Galaxy commander, they both shared the distaste of their Khans’ apparent subterfuge. Yet Nathan nodded slowly, the return nod from his commander only cementing his feelings.

They were both Clansmen. We serve Clan Wolf. I serve Clan Wolf.

As he saluted Galaxy Commander Hawker and left to begin his own final preparations, he attempted to alleviate his dismal feelings: at least I will get off this rock.

Grimm City, Oberon VI

Clan Wolf Occupation Zone

17 December, 3063

“There is simply nothing here, colonel,” Star Captain Jutka said. His second-in-command tried not to let frustration boil into his voice, but Nathan knew how difficult it was.

Looking out through the computer generated forward screen of his Tomahawk, Nathan could only agree. The yellow-white light of the Oberon system’s F5III-class star cast a harsh glare onto the twisted mass of ruins that had once been a small city of some ten thousand people. The final battle of three clashes between the First Oberon Guards and the Eleventh Wolf Guards of Delta Galaxy in September of 3049 had left the trumped-up pirate kingdom destroyed and shown the Clans how depraved their Inner Sphere foe would be, as the Oberon Guards tried to use the city as a defense against Clan Wolf. The survivors had fled to the hills, where they had either eventually fled off-planet or had begun to reestablish normalcy.

“Aff Jutka. Once again it appears our reliable information was not so reliable,” Nathan responded. He could not help the resigned chuckle that slipped out. “I do not believe a single person has trod this ground for over a decade.”

“How many more worlds do we have to make planet fall on before we give up this wild cash? First The Edge, then Gustrell and now Oberon IV.”

“I do not know, Star captain, but regardless of what we believe, there have been raids and they must be coming from this region of space. As such, we will be out here until the job is done. “

“If the Second Wolf Assault Cluster had done their job, we would not be in this position.”

“Star captain!” Anger washed away his dry humor. “I will not have you vilify a Wolf Cluster because of their debacle on Icar. Do not forget that though they may be pirates, the stupidity of the Falcons has allowed them to field many of our own OmniMechs against us. More, regardless of what we may think of pirates, they have survived for centuries on the edges of humanity. Not to mention, they have survived and thrived after our Clan supposedly wiped out all pirate activity in this area almost two decades ago. They may be animals, but they are dangerous animals. Is that understood?”

“Aff, Star colonel,” came the only slightly chastened reply. It was an indication of how frustrated his warriors were when they took out their feelings on fellow Wolves. Were they all turning into Ice Hellions? He opened up a new commline.

“Galaxy Commander Hawker, this is Star Colonel Nathan. We have found no signs of pirate activity anywhere in this sector.” He paused for a moment, almost dreading the response.

“Understood, Star colonel. Report back to the DropShip. Time to move on.”

DropShip Savage Wolf

Pirate Jump Point, Butte Hold

Clan Wolf Occupation Zone

27 December, 3063

The Union-C-class DropShip rang as though it were a giant bell, struck by the hammer of the gods. Shook violently. Blood gushed into Nathan’s mouth as he accidently bit into his cheek. With nowhere to spit, he swallowed the coppery-tinged, warm liquid and tongued the wound with annoyance.

The Savage Wolf will not stand up to more of this.

“Savashri,” he cursed. He could stand the silence no longer and opened a commline to the bridge.

“Star Commodore Josef. What is our current situation?” Nathan said. He knew it unwise to bother the captain of a DropShip when under attack—not to mention Star commodore Josef was the commander of Omega Galaxies’ entire naval contingent—but enough was enough. Sitting in the dark of his cramped ’Mech cockpit and feeling the DropShip that carried him being shaken to bits in the depths of space, with him a hapless bovine along for the ride, made him furious; like all MechWarriors, there was nothing more enraging then what was occurring—a death they had no control over.

After almost sixty seconds without a reply, he was beginning to wonder if Star Commodore Josef had even heard his request when a terse replied echoed through his neurohelmet. “As before Star Colonel Nathan, as soon as we jumped in system, we spotted another JumpShip at this pirate point, some twenty thousand kilometers off our starboard side. They immediately dispatched their aerospace fighters, which began an in-run on us, while instrumentation reported the hostile vessel had begun to furl its solar sail. We obviously deployed our DropShips and fighters.”

Nathan ignored the sarcasm.

Another explosion rang against the DropShip and warning klaxons cut off any further discussion for the moment. Almost five minutes passed in increasing claustrophobia, as secondary explosions, along with almost continual muted weapons fire reached Nathan’s ears. Right as he was about to demand a Sitrep, a voice filled his ears once more.

“We cannot sustain this type of damage much longer Star colonel.” There was a pause, and Nathan suddenly knew their situation was dire in deed; Josef was not one to mince words. “We have seen over a Star of hostile aerospace fighters and…” he paused once more, which almost made the hair on Nathan’s neck stand on end, “they have already eliminated our aerospace assets. They are fielding a Kirghiz. They are…very good.”

Nathan was shocked into silence, his mind fractured down multiple pathways of thought.

He knew:

…knew they had a pitifully small aerospace fighter contingent for an entire Galaxy; only three Points (six fighters) had been assigned to Omega. Never the less, to lose all of them in one swoop was a blow.

…knew the stravag Falcons lost numerous assets to pirates, but never imagined such a prize as the hundred-ton Clan OmniFighter, which helped to explain the Wolf losses.

… had known Star Commodore Josef for years and for him to name Inner Sphere pilots ‘very good.’ meant they were superb indeed.

…knew they would all die for nothing, their blood wasted to the Clan.

Nathan violently shook himself from such weakness and chaos, banging his head back against the command couch, the bulk of the neurohelmet protecting him from the worst effects. An ugly, ironic smile twisted lips, as his words, spoken in harshness to his second-in-command, suddenly came back to haunt him. We are underestimating these pirates.

Another idea blossomed and try as he might, sitting in what was rapidly becoming a coffin, he could not shake it. Perhaps these were remnants of the Not-Named Clan. After all, how could pirates have become so embolden as to attack Clan units directly? Even with the known debacles of the Falcons in loosing Clan equipment to pirates, how could they have such large assets? As these thoughts tumbled through his mind, he became aware that silence had reigned for the last several minutes.

“Star commodore, what has occurred?”

Another pregnant pause stretched, giving his mind additional hectors of fertile soil to continue its conspiratorial thoughts before the commline came alive again. “They are retreating Star Colonel. Their vessel is prepared to jump out of system. It would appear their attack was to keep us off guard and away from their vessel before they could exit the system.”

“Savashri,” he cursed again. He knew it useless, but it galled to think the pirates could have inflicted such damage and yet were getting away. For a moment he railed against his Khan for wasting men in such a fashion. For assigning them too few aerospace fighters. For giving them an ancient Star Lord-class JumpShip that did not mount a Lithium-Fusion battery, which would have enabled them to immediately jump after the escaping pirates.

Several deep breaths later, he pulled his un-Clan like thoughts into line again and a weary resignation filled him; he pulled clenched fists from useless joysticks, and slipped a hand under the lip of the neurohelmet to scratch at the strap irritating his chin.

How much longer could his warriors continue? They were Clansmen, bred across generations to fight a standing foe in honorable combat. Even though the Inner Sphere taught them not all foes would be honorable, this enemy was worse by far. It could never be found and when it was, it attacked savagely, with the speed and swiftness of lightning, before vanishing, leaving only the after images of their havoc burned into the retina.

He pounded fists against the console once, twice. The pain a welcome feeling dislodging the hated frustration.

How much longer?

Sigurd Independent Light Assault Group HQ

Sigurd City, Sigurd

Clan Wolf Occupation Zone

22 January, 3064

The cold wind lashed out like an animal, tearing at his parka and finding every loose seam to work into; almost set his teeth chattering. However, it could not remove his disdain as Nathan walked with his Galaxy commander through the thickly falling snow towards the building in front of them. Its small size and dilapidated appearance made him want to laugh.

Sigurd Independent Light Assault Group HQ indeed. He snorted dismissively. More like a solahma clubhouse. Ice Hellion solahma. At least among the Clans such old warriors knew when their usefulness had ended and joined a solahma unit one last time to die for their Clan. Here, on this hellish frozen ball, these old men gathered around their fires and dared call themselves warriors. Yet one call from our incoming DropShips was enough to instantly quell them. They do not even come out into their own cold to greet us. His disgust only built.

Looking around at the rest of the run down city—more like an overgrown village—he could spot no facilities that could house a ’Mech, nor had their sensors been able to detect any. They are not even make-believe MechWarriors. He could contain himself no longer and spoke.

“Galaxy commander, why have we come here in person? This filth may or may not know something of what we need, though I doubt it, but why must we soil ourselves with their presence? Could we not have simply demanded an answer from our DropShip, informing them of the consequences of their silence?”

Stevic did not miss a stride as they closed on the building, but slowly turned his head to look at him. Despite the snow quickly becoming a curtain between them, his commander’s face—especially the eyes—beamed, almost preternaturally. A wry smile slid across his face, causing shadows to warp it in the perpetual twilight of this region’s winter season. When he spoke, his self-mocking tone fit the strange countenance.

“Unlike you Star colonel, I can no longer simply wish for the clean kill of the battle field. Instead, The Watch has sunk its teeth into me and I find that to accomplish what my Khan has commanded, I now must sometimes do those things I find repulsive. To look at a person’s face, to peer into their eyes, is to be able to perceive if they lie when a question is asked.”

As he turned back to negotiate the ice encrusted steps toward the building’s door, his words shook Nathan. He had not known that part of a Galaxy commander’s duties involved dealing with the Clan’s intelligence arm. Then again, why should he know that? The Watch only formed after we returned to the Inner Sphere, to combat the dishonorable and reprehensible ways in which the spheroids fought…should not be that surprising.

Passing through the door they immediately entered a large hall—the entire building seemed to be a warehouse with only a single main room, dispensing with the usual foyer, or any other outer rooms—where upwards of two-dozen men and women gathered at several large tables that clustered around an actual open flame. Though they all sported some type of military apparel, it was all it deplorable condition, with none of it matching. While most of the occupants were indeed old—the stench of old sweat, old soot, old fears…just old, gagged—Nathan was surprised to find one or two young faces.

However, as they entered, those faces quickly turned aside, their eyes furtive and scared.

They have been beaten, and often. It changed his opinion of them not at all.

The loud sound of metal scrapping on the bared concrete floor (not even ferrocrete) raised most eyes to where he and Stevic stood, where eyes widened in further fear and once again, quickly skipped away like oil on water; Nathan did not need to turn to feel the two and half meter tall presence of a Clan elemental power suit. Not that he expected any of this rabble to pose a threat, but the desperate could be the most dangerous.

“I am Galaxy Commander Stevic Hawker. Who is in command, here?” His voice echoed with power and authority and a man was already rising and moving forward before the echoes had died. Though the man was obviously frightened, the alacrity with which he moved forward told much. At least some in here have had formal military training…and have not sloughed it off in this snake den.

The man stopped almost two meters from them and bowed low before speaking in a voice filled with tension. “My name is Baldric and I am warleader here. How may I help Clan Wolf?” Nathan stiffened at the tone of voice, but since Stevic did not react at all, he held his tongue.

“Ah, Bladric, it is always nice to notice when Spheroids know our ways,” Stevic began in an almost condescending tone. For a moment Nathan was taken aback and the change in Baldric’s eyes almost put him into a combat stance. However, as the man lowered his head in acknowledgement—he could almost see the strain of remaining civil wearing at his composure—Nathan remembered Stevic’s previous words and realized he was trying to unbalance the man.

“As to how you may serve, it has come to our attention that not all are as accepting as you and your men of Clan Wolf’s dominion in this area. Have you heard of such as these?”

Though Baldric appeared to be straining to remain relaxed, something moved in his eyes before he spoke. “Unfortunately sir, their will always be those who do not understand what they have.”

If Stevic had not spoken of watching a person’s facial expression not moments before, Nathan knew he would have missed it. The man lied. Though his words were not a lie, his evasion was. He knows exactly what we are looking for.

“Yes, you are right,” Stevic said. “Though we are fair, there are those that feel our occupation is…too stern.” He chuckled softly as though speaking of an errant child. “I imagine they would change their tone if they were under the thumb of the Falcons…or had been under the Jaguars before their fall.”

“As you say, Galaxy commander.”

“Regardless, do you have specifics of what I speak of? Surly you have heard rumors. I can tell from viewing you and yours that your loyalty to Clan Wolf is unquestionable. You would not think of causing havoc.”

Once more, something moved in the man’s eyes and almost changed his facial expression. Anger. Nathan was sure of it. Stevic’s words had nothing to do with loyalty. The first savaging of the Oberon pirate kingdom had obviously rid this planet of most of their military hardware, as well as breaking most of the men. As such, even if they wanted to rebel, it would be suicide. Of course that did not mean they could not hide those that did. If you cannot rebel, rebel vicariously through those that can. It made a sick, twisted sort of spheroid sense.

“There are always rumors afoot. Treachery in places. Fighting in others. Clans attacking Clans. Should we believe all of them?” he finished, his voice not quit concealing the smugness.

He knew about the fighting between Clan Wolf and the Ghost Bears and he dared flaunt it! Once more, only the calm of Stevic kept Nathan from pulling that smugness out by the roots.

“Do you know anything of the Not-Name Clan,” Stevic said suddenly. The change in tone and direction of the question took the man by surprise and his blank look appeared to be the first frank expression he had used.

Stevic slowly shook his head, as he gazed around at the rest of the room. “I had hoped that by coming here in person, I could persuade you to provide the information we seek. However, though I do not glory in bloodshed, I have not and will never shirk from it. That you can stand before me and lie to my face, forfeits any largesse I might feel towards you. If you will not answer to sincere words, then I believe you will answer to other means.”

As he spoke, the tableau in the hall changed, as tension leapt to a vibrant level that was almost visible, with several men buffing out their chests as though daring the Clanners to do their worst, while most shrunk down into themselves, once again realizing that the scythe of death was falling. It was made all the more surreal by the casual way in which the words were delivered; once more, an adult chiding his children over their errant ways.

With out another word, Stevic turned and walked back out the door with Nathan in tow. The sound of wood being torn asunder as a Star of Elementals began forcing their way into the building from every side was explosive and cries of anger, but mostly of fear, rang out before the thrum of energy weapon discharges cut them off forever.

Nathan did not stop for a moment to contemplate the grizzly business behind him. Though he believed in the Warden philosophy—that the Clans had been created to protect the Inner Sphere—that protection did not extend to everyone. He was not a traitorous Wolf-in-Exile warrior, who would flee to tie their strings to the Inner Sphere. These people associated with pirates, denigrating themselves and setting themselves outside the law of any society. Further, they had sacrificed their honor and any hope of mercy by lying to their face. He did not even hitch a step as he continued back towards their DropShip; they would have the information they sought soon enough.

Location Unknown

Novo Cressidas, Star’s End

Clan Wolf Occupation Zone

11 April, 3064

“Savashri!” Nathan growled, as the rain of missiles swept past his second-in-command, breaching his Mad Dog’s cockpit; with no atmosphere to speak of, Jutka died painfully to decompression. Though he should have been awash in anger, or tipped into melancholy at the loss of so many Clan warriors, he found a calm that had been growing over the last few months.

Gripping his Tomahawk’s right-hand joystick, he brought the targeting reticule up and attempted to place it on the ’Mech that had launched the volley of missiles. The eighty-ton pirate Salamander—sporting a crest he did not recognize; a skull set on a circular black field, wearing a crown of gold, surrounding by stars—was already turning towards him, raising the blocky missile pod that was its left arm and the ’Mech was suddenly sheathed in smoke as sixty long-range missiles leapt into the air from the arm and right and left torsos.

Still attempting to achieve a weapons lock of his own, Nathan rammed the left-hand throttle full forward and his giant ’Mech lurched into motion. However, with only a maximum speed of fifty-four kilometer per hour, he only moved out of the path of half of the missiles before they spiraled down, their warheads greedy to taste his armor. Nathan gritted teeth as he rocked backwards under the explosions of just over twenty missiles. Copper sprang full-bodied and sharp in his mouth, as the cascading detonations set up disharmonic syncopations, beating at head, chest, arms and legs with the strength of the chemical detonations, hammering out the breath in his lungs and drawing out a headache as though a blade hot and heavy across his brow. As armor cascaded down to the barren soil, his ’Mech began listed hard to the left and the whine of the auto-stabilizing gyro housed in the Tomahawk’s chest set his teeth on edge with its hum, spiking the headache into further glory; using Nathan’s own sense of balance, fed into it by the neurohelmet he wore, the machine managed to stay on its feet as Nathan quickly adjusted the pitch and angle of his step, while practically throwing himself to the right. Even more surprising, despite the sudden sluggish movement, the Tomahawk kept some of its forward velocity, each metal-sheathed boot hammering the soil as though in defiance against the gravity desperate to pull it down.

Warning tones and flashing lights immediately lit up his damage schematic. A sudden spike in the ambient heat made him dizzy and he gasped for air, while his right hand shot forward to punch in the override on his fusion engine’s fail-safe shutdown. If he were not on the verge of death, it would almost be funny to think he was bathed in sweat when less then a meter away it was subzero.

A flick of his eyes drank in the damage; the missiles had managed to breach the Tomahawk’s right torso and the resulting explosive decompression had destroyed several pulse and extended range medium lasers.

More devastating, his engine had sustained over seventy percent damage; one more solid hit and the shielding on his engine would fail completely, rendering the awesome machine completely inert.

“This ends now,” he said, continuing to stride forward at an oblique angle. Moving the targeting reticle firmly onto the Salamander, where it burned the gold of a solid lock. Nathan flicked his index finger. Twin beams of coruscating azure, accompanied by the coherent ruby flash of dual lasers, crossed the distance in the blink of an eye to slam into the enemy machine.

His shot dead on target, all four shafts of energy converged on the center and right torso of the already damaged machine and blasted through the remaining protection to ravage the interior.

Secondary explosions lit the machine from within before it exploded outwards, tearing the entire right side of he Salamander away from the body. An ammunition explosion. Though there was a chance the pilot might have survived—it mounted Cellular Ammunition Storage Equipment, meaning the ammunition explosion would be kept from the MechWarrior—his machine was down and would not be getting up any time soon.

Sucking in a lungful of scorching air—tinged with blood, sweat and heated plastics and metal—Nathan looked around the landscape, attempting to locate another foe and once more marveled at his calm. Omega Galaxy had lost almost twenty warriors in the past ten months of pirate hunting, before ever attempting to land on this rock. Now, a full Cluster of forty-five warriors would be listed as killed in action and he had almost joined them. We will even have to report the loss of a Union-C-class DropShip.

Gazing at the dismal, inhospitable planet, barley visible through the feeble light cast by the system’s red dwarf star, the previous planets they had visited suddenly seemed like paradise. Never again would he complain about the gravity on Tamar.

He shook his head slowly at the memory of planet fall. The asteroid belt, whose mines and turret lasers had cut the Loping Wolf to shreds.the ion storms that constantly swept the planet and almost caused the Savage Wolf to crash. He would also never complain about planet fall again.

Nevertheless, they had arrived and finally caught the pirates at their base of operations. Two full Trinaries worth of ’Mechs, some thirty machines—many of them stolen Clan designs—along with a significant infantry force, fought back like a cornered badger. The size of the contingent surprised them, allowing the pirates a hasty retreat. Though Nathan’s warriors pursued them relentlessly, the defenders knew the terrain intimately, making them pay double for every unit they destroyed; Nathan was sure almost a third of the pirates got away. More, he was also confident this was not the base of operation for the pirates—simply one of many.

Regardless, there could be no denying the smashed remains of almost twenty machines. It may not have been a deathblow, but it was a large wound the pirates would not heal from anytime soon.

“Star Colonel Nathan, we cannot re-establish contact with the binary of pirate ’Mechs that eluded us,” Star Captain Beol said, voice interrupting Nathan’s reverie

“Aff, Star captain. Return immediately. Cease your search-and-destroy and return immediately.”.

He switched to another commline. “Galaxy commander, this is Star Colonel Nathan.”

“Aff, Star colonel. Report,” came the reply.

“We have successfully destroyed some twenty pirate ’Mechs, as well as eliminating a good portion of their infantry assets. The base they were using has been razed to the ground. However, the remaining ’Mechs elude us and with the number of cave openings I have witnessed, it will be very difficult to track them down.” What an understatement.

He paused for a moment, unsure of how to phrase his next statement, breath finally coming into normal volumes and his ’Mech’s heat exchange system making the air slightly this side of steam. “Commander, I do not believe the cost of eliminating these final pirates worth the effort. At this time,” he finished. Of course. Though most in the Galaxy were Wardens and hence did not always subject to the Crusader fanaticism of dying in combat rather then failing or retreating, you still had to be careful.

“I believe you are correct Star colonel, especially as I have been notified by Star Commodore Josef that another ion storm is imminent. For now, we have accomplished the task our Khan set before us. I feel there will be no raids from this area for some time to come, quiaff?”

“Aff commander. More, I believe we have finally put to rest the rumor of remnants of the Not-Named Clan operating out of this area. Not a single hint or clue in all our searching.”

“You believe so?”

Nathan was unsure of whether he could detect a smile in the disembodied voice.

“Then it must be so.”

Stevic’s words and tone of voice did nothing but confuse, until a secondary channel chirped; the private command channel for Galaxy Commander Hawker and his Star colonels. With something close to trepidation, he answered the call. “Galaxy commander?”

“You believe so?”

Nathan reeled back as though struck to have the same question, the same darkly amused tone, thrown into his face once more. He gritted teeth and leaned forward as though to face the storm.

“Aff, commander, I do,” he responded. Voice pitched with conviction and abruptly lacked. “Now Khan Ward will have to recall Omega Galaxy quiaff? It is one thing to assign a Galaxy of Clansmen to hunt for traitor Clan remnants. It is another to assign such a large force to simply hunt pirates and bandits.”

The pause on the line was almost palatable. “Neg, commander. You give our Khan too much credit.”

Nathan opened his mouth to angrily refute such a slight against their Khan, but Stevic beat him to it.

“I do not slight Khan Ward. Only some of his…misguided…actions. While some warriors may be individually pulled away and honored, the Galaxy will remain and languish in the Periphery.”

“But…” Nathan began, unable to believe. “We have accomplished our goal.”

“Aff, but we lost much. Too much. Perhaps we are only worthy for Periphery assignment. Or perhaps we have accomplished a great goal. We have become the premier protectors of the Periphery, hence Khan Ward should keep his ‘elite Periphery protectors’ in the Periphery. Quiaff?”

At the onslaught of Stevic’s words and the full implication of what they meant, Nathan expected anger and fear and further disbelief. Instead, he found the bedrock of his calm again. The words washed past and left bared and even greater stretch of a foundation that lay across his world, his universe, his existence and how he as tied to it.

The light of epiphany shown as hard and brutally honest as the most piercing class-A, white sun hanging high and clear in any sky, as though a terrible eye to burn away any self subterfuge.

He now knew his newfound calm and understanding. Knew that at his core, no one could change him, unless he allowed it. No one could alter his honor. Though he realized he might spend the rest of his life at such a dishonorable post, fighting pirates and bandits on the edge of civilization, it did not matter. He was a Clansman and if that was how he could serve his Clan then so be it! And perhaps—just perhaps—the crusaders Wolves would see and recongize such devotion.

And wonder if their philosophy was not the tainted one.

ANTS

By Jason Hardy

Bune, Halfway

Bolan Provinve

Lyran Alliance

12 May 3064

The Death’s Head Mercenary Corps ceased to exist as a functioning unit when twin PPC blasts caught their flagship ’Mech, a custom-fitted Cataphract, in the head and chest. Gyros destroyed, human consciousness and control lost, the ’Mech fell like—well, like a big metal behemoth with no head.

It crashed backward onto the corps’ Lightning hovercar, which happened to be rushing to aid the ’Mech. The resulting pile of scrap metal contained the final remnants of Mackie Smythe’s investment in his fledgling unit, including Smythe himself.

Pwyll Lankarr knew he should probably do something more than contemplate the wreckage. Bright beams and whining slugs darted over his head, ozone and smoke choked off most of the air wandering into his lungs. He was seated on a nice soft piece of grass, but other than that there was nothing to indicate that he was in a remotely safe location.

But the smoldering, twisted metal had a hypnotic effect on him. Smoke rose slowly from the wreckage, occasionally pulled into rapid spirals in the wake of darting shells that, a distant part of Pwyll’s brain told him, were passing far too close.

This is it, Pwyll thought. This is the end of the plan. Everything had come together so fast—they were in the right place at the right time, Mackie pumped his ComStar friend so hard that they were hired before they had even registered anywhere as a unit. Mackie even got the guy to lend them the hovercar. Mackie’s plan was to get in on a relatively easy battle, make a nice showing, impress Steiner-Davion, snag a few more recruits and, more importantly, a longer, fatter contract, and be well on the road to interstellar domination. The losses of the first day of battle, and that final damn PPC blast hadn’t been factored into the plans, though, and these events proved stronger than anything Smythe had dreamed up. All his money, all his skill, all his anticipated glory, was now reduced to this.

“Pwyll! Good god, you’re alive! We’ve got to get out of here. The front’s coming our way, we’ve got to move!”

The voice didn’t fit in with the rhythm of the shells and artillery shots. It was quieter but more insistent. He wanted it to go away, so he could concentrate on the tremor of explosions rumbling through the ground and traveling all the way to his fingertips. He wanted to be one with the battle, and the voice was interfering.

“Pwyll? Pwyll? Get on your feet! Come on, come on, come on. Are you hurt? I don’t see any wounds, but are you hurt? Pwyll? Can you hear me?”

I can hear you. I just don’t want to.

The voice, though, not only did not leave, but its owner became even more disruptive. Hands dug under his armpits, clasped across his chest, pulling. He was dragged backward a few feet.

“Bloody hell, Pwyll, you’re dead weight! Come on, help me out—what happened, did you get your spine snapped? Move your feet!”

The voice wasn’t going away. While the noise of battle seemed to be around him, outside him, this voice was directly in his skull. He couldn’t shake it. Clearly he needed to take action if he wanted it gone.

“I’m fine here,” he said calmly. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Fine?!? The ’Mech that got Mackie’s coming right bloody for us! Squash you flat if you don’t move! Come on, Pwyll, snap out of it.”

Now that the voice mentioned it, the thudding on the ground did seem to be more regular. Not like occasional artillery fire. Like footsteps.

The hands locked around Pwyll again, gave him another yank. Pwyll’s legs brushed over grass, his booted heels tearing up the damp ground they scraped across.

Then there were more voices. Pwyll thought this just might become more annoying, but they all talked so fast, so panicked, that their speech overlapped and blended and he couldn’t make out any words so it was just another bit of background noise. That made it easier to ignore.

The ground still thudded. The impact on his spine was starting to become uncomfortable. Ahead, a little to his left, smoke was pulling away from him, divided into two streams. Something large was coming through.

The voices, despite their babbling, seemed to have communicated some concept to each other as Pwyll stared at the smoke. They had come up with a plan. Pwyll thought about pointing to the wreckage as a reminder of the danger of making plans, but the smoke ahead of him was parting further, and that absorbed his entire attention.

The smoke organized into two swirling eddies, opening like a curtain for 50 tons of walking metal. The humanoid head of the Enforcer gazed straight ahead while the laser-equipped left arm swept back and forth, looking for targets.

“Move. We gotta move. That’s bad, that’s bad, that’s really bad.”

Staring into the pulsing end of the laser did what the voices around Pwyll couldn’t. Pwyll’s legs reacted like he was a toddler, wobbling from side to side as he tried to urge them forward. The world veered beneath him, spinning to the right, so he leaned to the left to compensate, and he ran while pitched like a tree falling in the wind.

“God in heaven, the man’s not brain dead! Let’s go!”

There were three others with him, moving faster because the earth seemed to be more stable for them. They all still had their helmets, he couldn’t tell who they were for sure. He was pretty sure the one who had been talking to him was Sera. She’d been in the hovercar with him. The other two, he couldn’t identify. But whoever they were, they were likely the only other surviving members of the Death’s Head corps.

The pounding continued behind him, and one step finally made the earth tilt too far. The ground rose up and hit Pwyll solidly in the helmet. He dropped a rifle he didn’t even realize he’d been carrying. He had no idea where it had come from.

Behind him the Enforcer drew closer, picking up its pace, trotting forward. Its left arm had found a target, and red beams burned holes in the sky above him. Pwyll scrambled for his rifle. Foolishness, really—all the weapon would do is explode in his hand when the ’Mech’s laser hit him, maybe giving him a brief moment of burning pain before he was entirely annihilated—but he grabbed it anyway.

A defiant scream rose to his mouth as he rolled on his back and prepared to fire at the ’Mech. He was ready to fire right into the laser. Mainly for symbolic value.

But the Enforcer was moving even faster. Its arms, its head, were both looking ahead. Not down. It was passing.

Propped on one elbow, aiming his rifle with a trembling hand, Pwyll watched it go. He almost pulled the trigger once its back was to him, just for the satisfaction of shooting the giant machine in the posterior. But he held his finger, knowing fate should not be tempted. The smoke swirled again, and it was gone.

How far away from him had it passed? Thirty meters? Had it not seen him in the smoke, or had it just decided he wasn’t worth the bother? He was like an ant on the sidewalk. You might step on it, you might not, but either way it didn’t matter. What was the ant going to do to you?

He sat on the grass, contemplating his new understanding of the order of the universe, when Sera came back to him.

“You’re down again,” she said. His senses had come around enough that he remembered why her voice sounded so much different than the surrounding noise—she was speaking over the comm.

“The world got me,” he said. “It’s become a little wobbly.”

“Yeah. Come on, we’ll find a more stable place.”

Pwyll stood. If the ’Mech hadn’t shot him, hadn’t stepped on him, he supposed that meant his destiny was to live a little longer, and living never meant just sitting around.

They spent the next half hour going the wrong way. They kept trying to move toward the people on their side, in particular to find one of their MASH units, but the tide of battle had other ideas, and no one came to track them down. Darting hovercars, marauding ’Mechs and, worst of all, infantrymen just their own size kept pushing them in directions other than the one in which they wanted to travel.

As he walked, Pwyll noticed something different in his head. Part of him was behaving as he should, scanning the territory in front of him, walking carefully, laying down cover fire when the situation demanded, dropping into prone position if he sensed any enemy fire. Another part of his brain, though, seemed to have divorced itself from the moment-to-moment necessities of survival. It wandered free, under no particular urgency, watching Pwyll from the outside. His battle reflexes did not seem to be negatively affected, so the new divide in his brain didn’t trouble him.

At the moment the detached part of his mind was particularly interested in the fact that the most dangerous weapons in the battlefield seemed to be the least dangerous to him. A gun that could take down a ’Mech at half a kilometer wasn’t going to bother taking aim at a sole soldier like him. It gave him a brief sense of might, almost invulnerability, until he remembered that a stray shot from one of these weapons could eliminate every trace of his physical self—inflicting the indignity of accidental annihilation.

His ruminations were interrupted by voices once again carving into his skull.

“We’re behind the lines.”

“I’m not sure we are.”

“We are.”

“So what if we are?”

“So what if we are? We’re behind enemy lines! You understand that this is not a good place to be?”

Another thing the disembodied part of Pwyll’s mind had been doing was making lists. Actually, making one list over and over. The list was, if Pwyll could choose only four members of the Death’s Head Corps to survive—three beside himself—who would they be? It seemed a grim and rather arrogant list to make, but it passed the time. Pwyll had made about ten lists based on various circumstances, and in none of them had he thought it would be good if Thurl and Vessla survived together. Separately, they each had useful skills—Thurl, for example, had salvaged the rifles the four of them were carrying—but together they tended to run as quickly as they could to the nearest argument.

“Look, we all know how this is going to end,” That was Thurl, talking in even tones. Even when arguing, Thurl spoke like he was observing how nice the weather was. “The militia is a pain in the ass, but they don’t have a chance. The Com boys will clear them out soon enough, probably before the Prince makes landfall, everything will be peaceful, then we can reconnect with the main body of the force. The militia isn’t that big. They can’t be everywhere. I’m sure we can find a place to wait them out. We keep sending messages, they’ll come and find us.”

“Wait them out? Wait them out?” The comm couldn’t handle the volume of Vessla’s voice, breaking into static as she hit her upper reaches. “Has anything the militia done convinced you that they’ll let us just sit around? They know they’re dead, they know they’re going to lose, so they’re going to kill as many of us as they can before they finally fall. And the first people they’re going to kill are four stupid mercs sitting around trying to wait them out.”

“We don’t have to wait forever, just until the Prince’s Men send some . . .”

“Have our supposed allies shown any indication that they want to help us? To take any sort of risk at all for four members of a destroyed mercenary group?”

As they argued, the detached part of Pwyll’s brain performed its first truly useful task. It reviewed the hierarchy of the Death’s Head Corps and came to an encouraging conclusion.

“All right, shut up you two,” Pwyll said. As Thurl and Vessla drew breath to respond, he quickly added “And that’s an order.”

A brief silence reigned as they seemed to do their own mental evaluations. It didn’t take long, since the Corps, at its recent peak, had contained 24 members. Apparently, their mutual silence confirmed that they had both come to the same conclusion—Pwyll was in charge of what remained of the unit.

“We’re behind enemy territory in terrain they know better than us,” Pwyll continued. “We’re banged up. The militia’s going to retreat sooner or later, and when they do they’re going to retreat right over us. We have to be ready for that.”

The other three took another moment to ponder that.

“There’s no reason we have to be waiting here when they fall back,” Thurl ventured. “We’re out of the battle. If we just keep moving away from it, we’ll stay out of the battle. It’ll end, we can regroup then.”

An appealing suggestion, Pwyll thought. Maybe even a wise suggestion. He wished he could give the order to make that happen.

“We’re not leaving the battle,” he said. “We’re going to get back on the right side of the front, and we’re going to help any way we can.”

“Oh. Good,” said Vessla. “I’m sure that’s what they’re waiting for. I’m sure the Com boys are sitting there thinking, ‘What we could really use are four mercs without so much as a decent battle armor suit between them.’”

“I don’t care what they’re thinking,” Pwyll said. “We’re going to get where we’re supposed to be, we’re going to report for duty, and we’re going to go where they ask us to go.”

“When did you become such a Prince’s Man?” Vessla snapped.

“We have a contract. I didn’t see anything that voids it because we’ve had bad luck. We’re going to do our job.”

Mackie had known that you shouldn’t start a new mercenary corps with people who don’t understand duty. That had been his chief criterion when lining up new recruits—too bad he wasn’t around to see it pay off. Sera, Thurl, and Vessla didn’t need any more convincing.

“So. Where to, sir?” Thurl asked.

Ah, the downside of assuming command, right on the heels of the fun part of issuing orders. Okay. Time for a plan.

They were in woods. Most of the forests of Halfway had long been plowed under and used to grow crops more profitable than mere trees, but this stretch had been left as a buffer between Bune and the farmland. Bare trees, scattered here and there with a few puffy evergreens, dotted the muddy ground. No grass grew beneath the trees—farmers on Halfway seemed to save each and every such seed on the planet for themselves.

The trees weren’t dense enough to provide much visual cover—the four mercs wouldn’t be out of anyone’s sight—but it would be tough to wind a shot through the woods. The longer they could stay in these trees, the better.

“Down the slope,” Pwyll finally decided. “Then south.”

“We won’t be able to see anything down there,” Vessla objected.

Pwyll responded before Thurl could jump headfirst into another argument. “Right. And hopefully no one will see us. With the weapons we’ve got, seeing our enemies first won’t be any real advantage. At best, we might be able to wave hello to a ’Mech before it pounds us into pieces. We’re better off staying as hidden as possible.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked and assumed the others would follow.

The mud outside the woods had dried somewhat in the day’s sunlight, but in the shade it still squished underfoot. A good-sized tear in the flesh of Pwyll’s calf made walking even trickier, and each limping step came with the threat of slipping in the mud. Which wouldn’t matter much—he couldn’t become any dirtier.

He heard three sets of wet footfalls behind him, and nothing else. No bird calls. No squirrels rustling. All other living creatures in these woods had the sense to leave when the slugs started flying.

Pwyll took the moment to attempt to make the detached part of his mind useful. If you’re going to stand a little outside my body, maybe you could look around a little. You know, let me know if you see something up where you are that I can’t see down here?

I don’t work like that, his mind replied. I can only see you.

Great. He resolved to get himself into a blast concussion that would put his mind back to normal as soon as possible.

As he walked, he reached out with his ears, a trick he’d learned long ago. He strained to hear every noise around him, scanning the environment to place and identify each sound. ’Mechs and tanks, of course, would have a hard time sneaking up on him. As long as he could make sure no infantry got the jump on them, nothing should catch them by surprise.

That was when the aerial bombardment started.

There was a whistle first, then a scream, then a thud, then a blast, and the orange flare of the explosion threw sharp shadows across the woods. Trees splintered and fell without a groan, cleanly shattered. The muddy ground, too wet to shake, merely jiggled.

Pwyll made a decision, questioned the wisdom of it, then decided to trust his own intuition. The detached part of his brain agreed that this was wise.

“Toward the blast!” he yelled. “Behind me!” He ran.

“Toward the . . .” Vessla started, but a second blast, two hundred meters in front of the first, cut off the rest of her comment.

The mud wiggled again, more insistent this time. Pwyll turned just as Sera fell.

“Sera!”

“Damn mud!” she replied. “I smell like a moldy washcloth.”

“Are you . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. I just slipped. I’m coming.”

She was back on her feet and right behind Thurl in a matter of seconds.

Pwyll was almost at the first blast site when two bombs hit simultaneously, one in front of them, one to the right, nearly where they had been when the explosions started. The blast concussions threw them off balance, and the subsequent tremors finished them off. All four went down.

Vessla was up first, mud flying off her fist as she shook it at the sky.

“There’s nothing here!” she screamed at the sky. “Four bloody mercs! You’re wasting bombs on four mercs! Idiots.”

“I don’t think they can hear you, Vess,” Thurl said, although without his normal dry mockery.

Two more bombs landed, but the sound of their explosions was lost in the ringing in Pwyll’s ears. They were so far away—maybe half a kilometer—they seemed positively benign.

Pwyll quickly looked at the other three to make sure they were functioning well enough to walk. He took another second to glance at the smoldering trees, making sure fires weren’t going to spread. But the trees were too wet, too far apart—each tree was fated to burn on its own. Then Pwyll looked at what was really important—the sky.

The sunlight had completely faded by now and the bombers weren’t going out of their way to make themselves visible—any light normally visible from the ground was turned off. Their engine noise was faint, which meant they were bombing from high above.

A bombing run from at least two kilometers in the air. The detached part of Pwyll’s mind went to work. They might have dropped the bombs based on a mere rumor that militia troops were hiding in the woods (he had quickly concluded that the bombs were friendly fire—the Halfway militia simply didn’t have that much aerial support left). They might have had the woods designated as a secondary target earlier in the morning and finally got around to dropping some bombs on it now. Or, given the height of the bombers, they might simply have missed their intended target by a kilometer or twenty.

Either the bombers didn’t know there were friendlies in the woods or they didn’t care. Neither option made Pwyll feel any better about his standing in the world.

While he’d been thinking and planning, two minutes had passed. No new thuds rattled the woods. Pwyll gave the order to move on again.

Sera took some quick strides toward him then pulled up her visor. Pwyll raised his as well.

“Quick question,” she said. “That order to go to where the first bomb fell? Where did that come from?”

“Bombs never strike the same place twice.”

“That’s lightning.”

Pwyll shrugged. “Whatever. They’re both deadly things from the sky.”

Sera frowned first, then decided she might as well smile. “Okay. I guess it kept us alive.”

“Right.” He closed his visor to end the conversation—he was pretty sure talking more would do nothing to increase Sera’s faith in his orders.

They continued along near the base of the slope. Pwyll kept his eyes moving, left, right, left, right, left, right. Then left. Left again. Staying left.

He stopped. Took a step forward, then back. Glanced at the larger moon above, looked back left, and did his quick forward-and-back two-step again. Then he raised his hand. The other three stopped behind him, Sera and Vessla trying to follow Pwyll’s eyes to see what he saw, Thurl steadfastly watching their rear.

There was a glint. A dull one, a light reflection of a pale moon, but it definitely was there. Something man-made sat on the slope above them, 300 meters ahead, maybe eight meters above them.

Pwyll motioned them to spread out, then they moved forward, guns leveled. A pause followed each step, as they waited for someone near the glint, or the glint itself, to see them and react to their presence. But after each step, nothing moved. The temptation grew to just walk forward, but discipline won out and the pace remained slow.

An object emerged out of the darkness, surrounding the glint. It was maybe eight meters long, wheeled—three axles, two placed close together in the back. Boxy, blocky, basic military transportation, though he couldn’t see any weapons on it from here.

But right now, transportation was all he wanted.

Step, step, step brought them closer. He could positively identify it now. An APC, wheeled, probably wandered off the nice paved city roads and got stuck out here. And then abandoned.

Or maybe not abandoned. Could have wounded soldiers inside. Or it could be a trap. Might be better to avoid it all together.

Don’t outsmart yourself, the detached part of his mind told him, and Pwyll was happy it was finally giving some useful advice. The thing could be useful and it’s sitting right in front of you. Just be cautious, and you might not have to rely on your feet for a little while.

The walk forward seemed to take forever. Pwyll was sure the battle would be over and the Prince’s Men moved on to another planet before they even reached this vehicle.

The four Death’s Head mercs spread out around the APC. Pwyll suddenly found himself wishing Mackie hadn’t made them wear the skull logo on the stomach area of their uniforms. In the increasing darkness, the whiteness must have looked like an inviting target.

No one moved in or near the APC. No noise came from its engine.

The mercenaries surrounded the vehicle, poking and prodding with their rifle butts for a few moments, just to be sure they didn’t have company.

“All right,” Pwyll finally said. “Crack it open. Sera, Thurl, keep alert.”

Vessla walked to the driver-side door while Pwyll made another tour around the exterior of the APC, this time looking at the condition of the vehicle instead of waiting for someone to jump out. There were no signs of a major weapons hit. The structure, to his eyes, looked sound. He knew there must be something wrong with it or it wouldn’t be sitting in the middle of the woods, but he couldn’t tell what it was by inspecting the outside.

The APC bore markings of the Halfway militia. It also bore several signs of age on its homely exterior.

The door cracked open. Vessla’s visor was raised, and she wore a satisfied smile.

“New personal record,” she said when she noticed Pwyll looking at her. Behind her, Thurl had his weapon trained on the inside in case someone tried to jump out at the last minute.

But it was clean.

The wheels slurped in the mud. The gentle downhill slope allowed the APC to pick up some momentum, and soon Thurl, Sera, and Pwyll were running to keep up with the vehicle. Two doors stood open, making the already ungainly APC look like a box with broken flaps.

“I’m hitting it now!” Vessla called. She worked her magic inside the APC, and the engine sputtered, stammered, grumbled, and then reluctantly muttered to life. Vessla had been leaning on the fuel, and when the engine finally decided to run, it caught a sudden burst of acceleration, leaving the three pushers behind. For the fifteenth time that day, Pwyll found himself down in the mud.

Three hundred meters ahead, Vessla stopped. “Come on,” she called through the comm. “I don’t want to put this into reverse and I don’t want it to idle long. Get your asses in!”

“You can consider that to be my order,” Pwyll said, and the three of them ran to the APC.

Once he had settled into his seat, the bump of the wheels beneath Pwyll was as welcome as water in a desert. The vehicle was barely armored, there was no trace of the machine guns APCs normally carried, and all of its communications equipment was either damaged or gone. But it was dry and fast, and the metal around them at least felt safe, even though a PPC round or large laser would quickly end that illusion.

Vessla drove without lights, so she kept the pace of the APC slow (she had expressed doubts about the ability of the APC’s engine to get it to its top speed anyway). Pwyll stared out the windows, willing himself to focus on the surroundings, trying to fight off the sleepiness created by sitting in a moving vehicle.

If he was feeling too weary, though, his detached mind could always remind him that his situation was still not good. He was in a vehicle with the enemy’s markings. He had no good way of communicating with his side once he returned to the field of battle. He couldn’t guarantee that the Halfway militia wouldn’t take a few shots of their own at him once they saw him darting around and not responding to any orders. He’d be in a lightly armored car in the middle of heavy military giants, and any one of them might take him out at any time.

On the plus side, at least he’d get to the front quicker. The only thing worse than being killed by a huge artillery shell, he’d decided, was sitting around waiting to be killed by a huge artillery shell.

“We’re coming out of the woods,” Vessla said. “Bune is just east.”

“Stay to the west,” Pwyll said. “I don’t think either side wants to be in the city if they can help it.”

Confirmation of Pwyll’s theory arrived shortly. Three quick flashes lit up the sky to the northwest, and echoing booms followed within seconds.

“About ten kilometers away,” Vessla guessed. “We’re going to see the militia’s back lines soon.”

“All right. Speed up to about fifty.” Fast enough to get where they were going reasonably quickly, but slow enough to not look suspicious. “Sera, find a friendly frequency and get someone on the comm.” With no communications equipment functioning in the car, they had to rely on what was in their helmets.

Flashes ahead grew more numerous, and reports followed closer on their heels. They passed a MASH unit, a few disabled vehicle hulks, some straggling infantry. Laser beams came into view, some moving laterally, some appearing as mere pinpoints as the APC looked at them from behind (or, worse, from the front).

Pwyll had one more chance to reconsider his approach. Maybe more subterfuge was called for. Maybe just turning the APC around and getting the hell out of here was the wiser course of action. After all, the addition or loss of four mercs in a weaponless vehicle wasn’t going to have any effect on the battle one way or the other.

If all he wanted to think about was his personal safety, though, there were a million other jobs in the universe he could have chosen. He was hired to fight, not just to stay alive. He should never have chosen this job if he wasn’t willing to do it.

The battle grew closer. He saw battle-armored troops watch as the APC passed, and he knew they were wondering why the vehicle was moving toward the front. They may have tried to hail the APC, but the shattered comm equipment wasn’t letting any messages through. Sera picked up a message or two on her helmet comm, responding each time with an artful combination of gibberish and static. That, combined with the APC’s militia markings was enough. It passed unhindered.

Hell, even in a vehicle we’re still no threat. He was beginning to take the militia’s inattention to him personally.

Ahead, tanks and ’Mechs loomed, while bombs and energy beams continued to fall from the sky. That was no place for an APC, but it was going there anyway.

The APC bumped across the torn-up grass that, before today, had been a broad meadow. Infantry, the only creatures on the battlefield smaller than the vehicle, turned in surprise as they passed. The larger gods of the battlefield didn’t show any sign that they noticed the APC existed.

The earth continued to shake, but gently. None of the crunching thuds of artillery or footfalls of a ’Mech came near Pwyll’s car.

The front line was coming closer. Militia hovercars darted back and forth, laying down cover fire while avoiding enemy shots, while their few surviving ’Mechs pulled back in a more direct path. The Halfway militia was being pounded. They should be retreating faster than they were, but their stubbornness kept them from completely yielding.

“Neither side’s gonna want us to cross over,” Pwyll said, more to himself than to anyone else. “Once we’re in no man’s land, they’ll notice us. Someone’s going to fire.”

The other three nodded.

He raised his voice a little. “Sera, do you have anyone yet?”

“Got someone from ComStar.”

Relief poured over Pwyll. “Great. What did he say?”

“‘Yeah, right. Get off this frequency.’ That’s a quote.”

“He didn’t believe . . .? How did he think you got through the scrambler?”

“He said something about the militia breaking some encryption. I guess they’ve been hitting them with bogus messages all day.”

“But didn’t you identify us?”

“He’d never heard of us.”

Pwyll shook his head, wondering why he felt any loyalty to people who had no idea who he was. If it wasn’t for the damned contract . . .

Ahead and to the right, a tall Hatchetman, in the midst of backpedaling, suddenly planted its left foot and reversed itself, springing forward. A Kanga hover tank was approaching from the Hatchetman’s right, focusing on a target beyond the ’Mech.

“Oh, crap,” Pwyll said.

The hatchet came down. The Kanga had seen it coming, started to swerve away, but the ’Mech had anticipated it, and it buried its right arm in the middle of the hover tank with a crumpling thud.

The tank lurched down, hit the ground, bounced up, and continued forward, turning laterally. The Hatchetman tried to pull its arm out, but the blow had been too strong. The hatchet was wedged in the hull of the tank. The tank pulled on the ’Mech, abruptly losing most of its speed like it had hit an invisible brick wall. It pulled the Hatchetman to the left. The ’Mech, which had been running forward to lower its blow, was caught off guard. It fell.

“Left left left left,” Pwyll said, but Vessla was ahead of him, already leaning on the steering wheel, trying to urge it away from the wreckage without sacrificing any speed or going into a skid.

A scream of metal told Pwyll that the hatchet had finally pried loose from the Kanga. The hover tank had a little forward momentum left, and it spun toward Pwyll’s APC. Meanwhile, ’Mechs and tanks from all directions converged on the fallen Hatchetman, hoping either to finish it off or, if they were militia, provide enough cover to let the pilot get the machine back on its feet.

“Okay. Gun it,” Pwyll said. Vessla, clear of the Kanga, hit the accelerator and the APC pushed forward.

Lasers flashed overhead, closer now. Large metal legs loomed in front of them in every direction. Torsos swiveled, and Pwyll’s eyes jumped back and forth, waiting for one of the pilots to focus on him.

One did. A Raijin, to the left. Pwyll saw its head lower as it concentrated on the car trying to dart past it. Naturally, he thought—the pilot that’s lowest to the ground sees us.

“See that Raijin?” he said to Vessla. “We’re in its sights.”

“I see it.”

“Good. Head straight toward it. Sera, try to get a message to him.”

Vessla’s head didn’t move, her gaze remained fixed in front of her, but Pwyll almost heard her mind do a double take. She didn’t say anything, though. Pwyll appreciated that and resolved, if he survived, to someday come up with a command strategy besides running headlong into trouble.

“Veer some,” he said. “Irregularly. Keep him guessing.”

“Roger,” Vessla said, then immediately jerked the wheel right. The body of the Raijin swiveled to follow. A pulse of laser light fired.

“That’ll be mainly for targeting,” Vessla said.

Behind the Raijin’s head, a PPC fired.

“That’ll be to kill us,” Vessla said. She was already lunging the APC right again.

“Sera?” Pwyll yelled.

“Nothing. He can’t hear us or he doesn’t want to.”

Pwyll gripped his seat as the vehicle seemingly tried to throw him. The safety harness dug into his waist. Behind him, Thurl grunted.

The PPC hammered the ground behind them. The Raijin had been expecting a move back to the left, and the second move right threw off his aim. As soon as the cannon stopped firing, Vessla lunged back left.

And into a pulse of energy. The Raijin’s laser was waiting for them.

The front of the car erupted. Engine smoke poured into the sky, and Pwyll could feel the heat from the impact.

“Everybody out!” he yelled. The four mercenaries scrambled out of the APC and ran. Either not seeing them or not caring, the Raijin moved ahead, taking care to stomp the APC into the ground as it chased its next target. Once again, Pwyll’s force consisted of four people, no vehicles.

“Spread out a little,” Pwyll said. “Don’t give anyone a single concentrated target.” They ran forward into the lane emptied by the passage of the Raijin.

Energy sizzled around them, gauss rounds carved tunnels in the smoke, but they were distant (at least, distant compared to the fire from the Raijin). Pwyll was content to stay small and press forward. He knew enough ancient Terran mythology to know that in those stories, people only really got into trouble when they got uppity and challenged the gods. Those who kept a low profile stayed safe. On the battlefield, he’d let the deities that were the ’Mechs remain dominant without a peep from him.

Then the earth shook again. The thuds were closely spaced and becoming heavier. Pwyll glanced over his shoulder.

It was the Raijin. It had stumbled into more fire than it could handle and was retreating under combined fire from an Enforcer and a missile boat. The militia vehicles formed a vee with the Raijin at its point, and they were trying to close the gap. But the Raijin was faster and was getting away.

But then the smoke swirled, and the two points chasing the Raijin suddenly became three. Beams from a fast-moving Falconer pierced through the smoke on darkness, and Pwyll saw immediately that is was on an intercept course, hoping to catch the Raijin as it fled back.

Two plans came to Pwyll’s mind. The first involved moving his team right, avoiding the Falconer entirely, and letting the Raijin deal with its three pursuers alone.

He rejected that plan immediately.

“We need to get the ’Mech’s attention,” he said.

“The Raijin?” Vessla asked. “The one that killed us?”

“No. The Falconer.”

“Why?”

“Get the Raijin out of trouble.”

“The same Raijin that blasted us?”

“Right. He’s on our side.”

“Somebody should’ve told him that.”

“We’ve got to get in range. Pepper his legs.”

“He’ll never notice that,” Thurl said. “He won’t care.”

“Okay. Right. Keep moving toward him. I’ll come up with something.”

To Pwyll’s utter astonishment, the three other mercenaries followed what must be the stupidest order they’d ever heard without question.

All of Pwyll’s instincts told him he was making a bad shot. His arm kept moving down without him even thinking about it; pointing his rifle at critical areas was a built-in reflex. His arm felt like lead as he tried to push it up.

He willed it steady and fired.

Too high. He’d over-compensated. Less than 150 meters from a ’Mech and he’d missed. Bloody hell.

Frustration improved his aim. The next shots hit their mark, catching the front of the Falconer’s cockpit. The bullets bounced harmlessly off the ferroglass, doing absolutely nothing besides getting the pilot to notice the troopers running toward it. Which was all it was supposed to do.

If the pilot noticed the shots, he didn’t care. The Falconer remained fixed on the Raijin. But Pwyll had already gone this far with the plan, so he might as well do the rest and see what happened. Despite what the detached part of his mind kept saying about how crazy it was.

The ground below him was soft and uneven, churned by feet much heavier than his. His eyes moved from the ground to the Falconer and back, making sure the earth didn’t bring him down.

His three companions had fired at the same time as Pwyll, going for the gut, on the off chance they’d do enough damage to make the ’Mech care. They didn’t.

Pwyll slowed to a jog. Everything was in the Falconer’s hands now. If it did what Pwyll guessed it would, the plan—the insane, stupid, something-no-infantry-squad-should-ever-try plan—could move forward. If not, the Falconer would bound right past him, and the Raijin would probably be doomed.

Behind Pwyll, the Raijin started to turn away from the Falconer, hoping to get away from it without running into the sights of its other two pursuers. The Falconer saw its chance. It slowed to a crawl to line up a shot.

“Go!” Pwyll screamed, so loud that the other three would have heard him without the comm. And he didn’t need to say it—they were moving in already.

The window of opportunity was brief. The Falconer would take a shot, then move again. But they were already close.

The Falconer had nice long feet, but they sloped up toward the leg, making them tough to settle on. This whole thing might make at least some sense, the detached part of Pwyll’s mind told him, if he had any equipment, any at all, for this sort of attack. But, in his favor, he also didn’t have any of the weapons that would make a leg attack effective, so he could spend all his might just hanging on rather than worrying about pesky things like damaging the enemy to which he was clinging.

Miraculously, all four Death’s Head mercenaries managed to climb aboard and hold on. The Falconer fired a few gauss slugs toward the Raijin, but then it noticed the troopers on its legs. Hopefully, the darkness and smoke of the battlefield would conceal the fact that the attackers were holding on for dear life rather than preparing an attack.

The pilot reacted quickly, arms sweeping down fast. Pwyll watched the shiny barrel of a PPC descend on him as long as he dared.

“Move!”

The Death’s Head mercenaries dismounted and sprinted through the legs of the ’Mech. The PPC barrel kept swinging, though, and it was moving fast. Pwyll leaned left and tried to duck, and it was almost enough. The ’Mech’s arm only managed to deliver the lightest of blows—which dislodged Pwyll’s shoulder from his socket. He rolled on the ground, his entire universe reduced to agonizing pain.

Sera hesitated, started to turn. “Keep moving!” Pwyll screamed, and either the authority in his voice or the hopelessness of his situation convinced her to obey. Thurl and Vessla didn’t so much as look back.

The rest was up to the Falconer and the Raijin. All Pwyll had to do now was see if he could stay alive.

He tried to scramble to all fours, but his right shoulder was useless. Instead, he set himself in a tripod. He looked over his shoulder, part of him hoping the Falconer would take another swing at him, part of him just wanting to be left alone.

The Falconer’s pilot had seen him fall and couldn’t resist aiming another blow at him, the left arm swinging back at him like the return swing of a pendulum.

Pwyll’s day had come full circle. He dropped flat on the ground, returning to the sod, hoping the rough bumps of the ground would give him enough protection. The arm came at him too quickly.

Then it hit the ground three meters behind Pwyll and bumped in the air, skipping over him before dropping back down and carving a fresh scar in the moist earth.

That was it. The Falconer was straight again, pointed toward the battle. It wouldn’t waste any more time on a single soldier. All Pwyll had to do was run—and if he didn’t miss his guess, run fast.

As he got to his feet, the air caught fire behind him. He saw the glow first, then heard the crack. Then felt the heat.

A blast and a thud followed. Lasers first, PPC second, Pwyll guessed. The Raijin had used the few seconds Pwyll had given it, turning quickly and bombarding its would-be ambusher.

Pwyll’s feet felt like they were simply skidding beneath them, skimming off the surface of the loose grass instead of actually propelling him forward. He looked backward again and saw the Raijin charging the now-crippled Falconer. More blasts, both laser and PPC kept the Falconer off balance. Its left arm was smoking, never to fire again.

A few shots passed wide of the target, and Pwyll turned right to make sure the Falconer stayed between him and the Raijin, keeping him as safe as he could be given his circumstances. Which, his detached mind informed him, wasn’t safe at all.

The Raijin pressed forward and the Falconer fell. His mission accomplished, Pwyll decided it was time to fall back to earth for a minute.

Even though the Falconer was out of the way, the Raijin held its course, still dogged by two pursuers. Pain stabbed Pwyll’s right arm, keeping time with every footfall of the rebel ’Mech.

It was going to step on him. It was at a full run, far more focused on continued survival than on what insignificant bugs might be lying ahead of it. Pwyll watched it approach and found himself wishing it were taller. He’d like to be stepped on by something big and majestic. An Atlas maybe. Not a Raijin, which was plenty big but lacked grandeur of the largest ’Mechs. Still, it was more than big enough to finish him.

Pwyll had one more task. “Sera? Are you away?”

Her words came between sharp breaths. “Yes. I think. Someone’s. Seen us. Come on. We’ll be. Waiting.”

“Okay,” Pwyll said, and turned to watch death run toward him.

Death, for no reason Pwyll could see, decided to turn a little to the left. Then it pivoted again, tracing a wide circle. It ran right around him, turning as sharply as it could.

Lasers beamed overhead. Pwyll assumed it must be the Enforcer finally getting a shot away after its long pursuit, but then he realized it was coming from the wrong direction. And it couldn’t be the Raijin, because it hadn’t wheeled around completely yet.

He rolled over on his belly, propped himself on his left forearm, and watched the reinforcements come in. A few ’Mechs, a Kangas, and a few things Pwyll couldn’t see through the smoke, spotlights dancing back and forth. On the other side, the militia attackers were already turning to flee.

Pwyll, rather than being dead, found he now had to get up and walk, which he found oddly disappointing. He stood awkwardly and strolled forward.

’Mechs walked by him on either side. A tank nearly ran him down but passed behind him instead. The whole time, Pwyll kept walking in a straight line toward his crew. He was protected either by destiny or by his insignificance, but either way he felt safe.

MIRAGE

By Dayle A. Dermatis

Palatial Estates

City of Shervanis, Shervanis Caliphate

Astrokaszy

The Periphery

1 May 3066

She was being followed.

Shareeza glided through the palace on slippered feet. The ladders of golden bracelets up her arms barely clinked; she was so skilled in movement that she could make them jingle in time to the beating of doumbeks or keep them perfectly silent if stealth was paramount.

Skilled as a dancer. Skilled as a spy.

She didn’t bother being silent now. She already knew someone trailed her, and rather than losing her pursuer, she wanted to learn who he was.

Smoke curling from braziers by the door filled her senses with the scent of frankincense. Before she stepped out, she shrugged a burnoose of unbleached raw silk over her shoulders, drawing the hood up to ward against the hot desert sun and the stares of men. The personal dancing girl of the Caliph’s favorite nephew should never be exposed to the gaze of common men.

Seven years she had been on Astrokaszy, long enough to almost forget her real name; much of her former life seemed like a hazy, cheolant-induced dream.

Seven years of dry sand, of shimmering oases, of dark-skinned men in flowing white who rode sleek horses over the rolling dunes. That they were sometimes accompanied by rogue ’Mechs made them no less exotic.

Seven years of mastering the dance, of isolating one hip and lifting one shoulder and framing her torso with arched, poised hands, of perfecting the shimmy and the seduction. Mastering the art of deception, the skill of blending. Working her way up through the palace to become the beloved of Badr, nephew to the Caliph.

She’d fallen into the role more easily than she’d expected. She knew that was in part to Badr’s influence. Coming from a female-dominated society, she expected to constantly repress the revulsion of being what amounted to a slave.

But Badr never treated her that way. Although she held no official rank or station in his family, he spoke to her as an equal. He shared with her his innermost thoughts—and the Caliphate secrets that she dutifully reported back to the Magistracy of Canopus on a regular basis.

Falling helplessly, hopelessly, in love with him went against years of training.

In the palace, the air was still, but the corridors were shadowy and cool, and there were serving boys with woven fans as big as their bodies, and cups of beaten metal filled with tart fruit juice. As she stepped outside now, the unshaded, glittering sun and dry air hit her like a physical blow.

Still, she was grateful for the hint of a breeze as she made her way through the maze of tan sandstone walls to the bazaar. She was also grateful for the maze, with its hidden alcoves and secret, silent corners where you could meet with an informant, a lover, a spy…or an attacker.

She paused in such a place, where a fountain’s burble would hide a conversation. She left a scarf on the mosaic tile; it fluttered in the faint breeze, implying that she rested there at the edge of the water.

Thus her follower never expected her to slip behind him when he turned the corner into the alcove.

He froze as her small, razor-sharp knife (a lady’s knife, with a sapphire at the tip of the rosewood hilt) pressed against his side, angled expertly to slip between his ribs.

“Who sent you?” Her words whispered across his ear like a lover’s breath.

Sweat stained his armpits, the smell of his fear evident. He was barely older than the serving boys with their giant fans. His employer apparently underestimated her. Or he hadn’t known who she really was.

“I—” He swallowed, his mouth no doubt dry. “I am sworn not to say.”

She pressed the knifepoint until it just broke his flesh.

“N-Najiyah.” She almost couldn’t hear his faint admission.

So.

Badr’s uncle sought a treaty with the Caliphate of Rajirr. The negotiations would be solidified by Badr’s marriage to the Rajirran Caliph’s daughter. Najiyah.

It was said that she was beautiful, with a river of blue-black hair and eyes like oases at midnight.

Shareeza eased the knife from the boy’s side. “Tell your mistress I am no threat.”

The urgent danger past, he squared his shoulders in a fight to regain his courage. “I was sent to follow you, and I will not shirk my duties.”

She knew instinctively that his stubbornness and sense of duty would win over any threat or bribe she could attempt. There was only one solution.

The knife pierced his heart.

She cleaned her knife on his shirt, took his pouch so the killing looked like a robbery, and dumped his body into the jube, the narrow, stinking sewer that ran along the edge of the street. She didn’t bother settling the grate back on exactly so; his body would be found soon enough, with no trace back to her.

It had been the most humane thing she could do. If she left the boy to his own devices, the palace guards would have intervened, and it would have taken a long, painful time for him to die.

It was also part of her job.

She continued on.

The moon had not yet set, a faint sliver-crescent in a sky so pale that it seemed the blue had been bleached out of it. Shareeza had grown used to the contrast here between the faded, tired colors outside and the bright jewel-tones inside.

She rounded a corner and the tight street spilled open into the sprawling plaza that housed the bazaar. A sudden wall of sound: laughter, merchant cries, the startling shriek of monkeys and caged birds, babies’ wails, and the constant stream of haggling.

No one thought twice about her going shopping. No one suspected a thing.

The silk merchant broke into a smile when he saw her, teeth bright in his darkly bearded face. The edge of his turban had turned brown, dyed by a mixture of sweat and dust. He liked Shareeza because she always bought something, and negotiated only as long as was polite, rather than truly fighting for a better price. She fingered a new bolt of silk, emerald green and cobweb fine. (She remembered cobwebs from home. Here the hairy desert spiders preferred direct attack over sticky trap to catch their prey.)

The silk would be perfect as a new dance scarf. She bought more meters than necessary, and some sequined tassels. The merchant wrapped the packages with extra care. The palace would send the money before the day was out.

Although she had a greater purpose for being there, she thought of nothing but shopping. It was that easy to slide deep into the persona of Shareeza and stay.

She tasted figs. She bought some of Badr’s favorite offworld spiced rum in a green glass bottle shaped like a lily, pleased with herself for being able to surprise him with it. She breathed in the bouquets of perfumes and indulged herself in a vial of cinnamon-scented oil. For one of the other dancers, she selected a delicate blown-glass bauble, only a breath more substantial than a soap bubble and just as iridescent.

Despite the striped awnings shading her from the sun, the heat took its toll. Her skin was too fair, her constitution still able to take the Astrokaszeen climate only in small doses.

She slipped into a café and sat in a dim corner, nursing an iced coffee. Fishing out chips of ice, she sucked on them slowly, allowing the nausea to fade.

Najiyah hadn’t sent the boy to kill her, just to observe. To determine, no doubt, if she would be a threat. The irony was, in truth, that she wasn’t a threat to the marriage at all.

Shareeza was under no romantic illusion about her relationship with Badr. She was a servant, a dancing girl, not a marriage candidate. He had told her of the nuptial treaty, of course. Assured her, unnecessarily, that she would never be cast aside. He would do his marital duty and give Najiyah children, to cement the political pact and the union between the Caliphates.

They both understood, and accepted, duty.

She picked up the bottle of rum, admiring the craftsmanship. Her fingers stroked the cool glass and she turned it in her hands.

On the bottom, pressed into the indentation and indistinguishable from the glassblower’s punty mark, was a message chip no larger than the nail on her littlest finger.

She pried the chip out and slipped it into her handheld reader. She had time to scan the message once and commit it to memory before the chip automatically erased itself, leaving no trace on the reader.

The heat fled her body. She was encased in ice, down to her very soul.

Her instructions were clear: stop the treaty negotiations between Shervanis and Rajirr by eliminating the groom.

Assassinate Badr.

Shareeza danced.

Her audience was small, private. She was no common dancer.

There was Badr, of course. His uncle, the Caliph. A few other relatives—she knew their tangled lineage by heart, and even knew a few secret illegitimacies. (Women talked far more than men ever dreamed they did.) A few other dancing girls, although they danced during the meal. Shareeza was kept until last, a real show as opposed to a diversion between mouthfuls of couscous and lamb in yogurt sauce laced with mint, washed down with honeyed wine.

She had sat on a cushion next to Badr as they ate. She said nothing, smiling prettily and laughing when the joke was made obvious for her benefit. No one knew how intently she listened, how carefully she filed information away, how astutely she pieced together random facts.

As the others sampled brandy and coffee and a pastry stuffed with sweet dates and dusted with powdery sugar, Shareeza danced.

She doubted if even the other girls saw the anguish in every step she took.

She whirled beneath shimmering silk scarves of sapphire, amethyst, amber gold. Her long, long hair brushed down her back, tossed in controlled but casual waves.

Badr was fascinated by her hair, the color of harvested wheat flecked with strands of spun gold like the thread couched in designs at the edges of her skirts. It was so unlike the rich brown-black hair of those born on Astrokaszy. To him, it smelled mysterious, felt exotic.

He knew she had been brought as a slave from offworld. She never volunteered more details about her past than necessary, and a fair amount of what she told him involved dissembling and distraction. It hurt her to outright lie to him. Even if it was her job.

Never form an emotional attachment.

Never fall in love.

Shazeera danced, her despair laid bare in her movements.

Badr sipped the brandy from a hammered gold cup, his gaze never leaving her.

The bracelets up and down her arms clinked, and the zills between her thumb and middle finger picked out a fast, complicated rhythm.

Woven invisibly into her beaded bra was a thin, strong wire. She could slip the garrotte around his neck and strangle him while he slept.

She shimmied towards the table, flicking a sheer veil over her face and then away to reveal a sly smile and heavy, kohl-lidded eyes.

One of her bracelets contained a razor-sharp blade. She could sever an artery with a flick of her wrist.

At the right moment, another dancer handed her a sword, just over a meter long and curved, growing wider towards a wedge-shaped tip. She tossed it and turned with it, more graceful than any warrior. Without pausing in her dance, her hips still rising and falling, she settled the sword on her head, balancing the inward curve against her scalp.

She could whirl, twirl, shimmy, lead forward and backward, and she never had to touch the blade with her hands again. It never wavered.

Her resolve must never waver.

The sword wasn’t sharp enough to kill.

She ended the dance on her knees, her back arched, her hair pooling on the floor around her feet. She had danced away her love, spinning it out into the air, releasing it like doves at a funeral.

Somewhere, buried deep inside, was the detachment she needed. In the course of the dance, it traded places with her emotions.

Her position as confidante and lover were over. Her duty, her loyalty, was to the Magistrate of Canopus.

In Badr’s private, lush rooms, they drank the rum, her final gift to him. They loved beneath the crescent moon and glittering stars, and lay afterwards listening to the plashing of the fountain in the courtyard as the sweat cooled on their bodies.

Badr’s eyelids fluttered shut. Unlike the palm fronds fluttering in the soft breeze outside the window, his eyes would never move again.

“Sleep well, my beloved,” she whispered. She cradled his dark head in her lap and listened as his breathing grew more shallow, and finally ceased.

She flicked open the bejeweled poison ring on her finger again. No trace of the poison remained.

Fleetingly, she wished there had been enough for her, too.

Before she stood and laid his head on the pillows, before she gathered her things and slipped away unseen into the night, she set a brass seal on his chest. A seal from Rajirr. The seal of Najiyah, Badr’s betrothed.

There would be no treaty, not even if other candidates for marriage were found.

There would, instead, be war.

Shareeza closed the poison ring and pressed her hand against the gentle curve of her lower belly.

There would be other assignments.

There would never be another Badr. But she would always have his child that she carried within her.

THE HEART OF DIXIE

By Blaine Lee Pardoe

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Third Succession War. That was where I (and some of the other writers in the series) cut our teeth. That was the good old days. You could defend a planet with a company of ’Mechs and support. Salvage was important because the technology had been lost to mass produce ’Mechs. I even have my old battered copy of BattleDroids that said that water was rare and the Ryan Cartel used to haul ice between worlds for a profit. New ’Mechs, let alone units the size of regiments were the things of the past. The Star League was a legend, ComStar was a mysterious techno-cult, the Clans were unheard of, and you lived for the day that Hanse Davion was going to stick it to Max Liao soon — if he ever married into House Steiner.

God those were the days!

This story is one I toyed with about 18 years ago or so as a scenario set or something like that. I found the original notes and liked it because it: 1. dealt with militia troops and, 2. dealt with how an invasion began in the first place. Something neat, fun and dangerous. I wanted to capture the concept of militia and their role and function. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

Fifty-Six Kilometers North of New Wichita

The Northern Continent

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

1 May 3025

It looked like a grass covered hill, not trimmed in generations, just tall light green and dead-brown field grass thigh high waving with each gust of breeze. Against the stark blue sky they could see the insects flittering in the air above the grass, seemingly immune to the wind. The hot summer sun made the sunburns on their bar arms sting.

“You sure this is the place?” Randolph asked, checking his GPS system for the hundredth time that afternoon.

Fletcher smiled. “Yeah. This is it.”

“Kinda obvious isn’t it?” Randolph frowned. “I mean it’s a the biggest-honking hill in the middle of the plains. I thought that these things were concealed a little better than this.” The sarcasm rang with each word.

Fletcher only smiled more broadly. “You’d think that by now you’d have more faith than this. It is a good hiding place — nobody else ever found it did they? Besides, from the geological survey that I ran, the hill is natural and has always been there. It’s not a construct. The locals would have always thought that it belonged there.”

Randolph crossed his arms. “You were always the dork. So how do we get inside?”

Fletcher did a check of the paper that he carried, validating position. “Each Castle was built individually, customized to the world they were on. Entrances were hidden intentionally, you know that. Finding the way in is going to take some time.” Tossing down his backpack into the grass, he pulled out the metal detector and attached the field coil onto the collapsible rod, wrapping the wire carefully around the pole. “We need to run some ground penetration scans with the detector. If we’re lucky, we can find the metal support structure. Follow that signal and we should be able to reach some sort of opening.”

Randolph ran his fingers through his balding head, tossing his comb-over to the side. “Sounds like work.”

“Always looking for a quick buck eh?”

“Don’t you know it. You find this mother load and we are set for life.”

Money. Fletcher shook his head and started a sweep as he walked through the grass along the base of the hill. The headphones were almost over-sized on his narrow head. Swinging the detector’s head in the grass was difficult, the grass seemed to resist each pass of the head over the ground. Each swing stirred the insects into the air. It was hot work but exciting.

Three years of research had gone into this day. Three years of digging through the records from the Star League Defense Force’s engineering corps. Three years of long nights after work; puzzling the data together from buried bits of information. Countless hours of checking old shipping requisitions from centuries ago, learning where thousands of tons of construction supplies could have been hauled to. It had been time well invested. The hill in front of them represented the ultimate prize — a Castle Brian.

Castle Brians had been built during the peak of the Star League centuries before. Hidden complexes filled with BattleMechs and supplies, they were fortified and hardened against even the force of a nuclear blast. They were a deterrent against attack. An enemy would have to deal with defenders with a hidden base that could harass and harangue them. With the fall of the First Star League many of these bases had been searched out and raided for their priceless military hardware. Such caches were filled with such contemporary treasures that they spawned armed invasions.

That wouldn’t happen on Dixie. Fletcher and Randolph had often talked about what they would do if they ever found the Castle Brian. They would secretly take the contents out and sell them in small batches, make their money over time. Strictly cash, tax-free, right under the noses of the authorities. Besides, the property that they were on was owned by someone else. Moving a company of BattleMechs out was bound to attract attention. Best to do it covertly.

“Listen,” he said after a half-an-hour of walking through the thick grass, “Randolph, you go ahead and pitch the tent.”

“Tent?” his associate queried. “Why? We’ve found it right?”

“We think we’ve found it. And even if we have it might take days to find a way in.”

“Fletcher,” he chuckled. “You have to have hope.”

Fletcher was not so optimistic. “If I do find the opening, you may have to make a run back to New Wichita and rent some earth-moving equipment. This complex has been buried for centuries and may take forever to get out.”

It took two days of searching and digging by both of them to locate the tunnel entrance. The doorway, or the top of it when they located it, was a good 150 meters from the hill itself. It was a hatch of sorts, obviously not large enough for a vehicle or a ’Mech, but quite large. It was metallic and resembled more of a bank vault door, mounted low and in the ground so deep that it had taken more time to dig it out than to locate it. Randolph was sure that they would need explosives to blast the door open, but Fletcher found that it was unlocked. It was a discovery that bothered him. Was it possible that someone had already looted this Castle Brian?

They wrenched the door open and the air inside came out reeking of stale water, must and mildew. The molding air had a dead smell like a dead animal. From their packs, Fletcher and Randolph took out their flashlights and aimed the beams inside.

The antechamber was small with another door and a decontamination unit on the far wall. The paint had mostly peeled away, but the faint after-image of a Cameron Star, the seal of the Star League, was still somewhat visible on the one wall. The electronic control unit for the door had corroded heavily, leaving thin rusting streaks running down the reinforced ferrocrete wall. The floor was dust, dirt, water that had seeped in.

Forcing the inner door took a prybar and three hours of hard, intense, sweaty work. The tunnel beyond was a personnel access tunnel that stabbed deep into the hillside. It was a dank tunnel. Many parts of it had pooled water several inches deep. The water had a thick lay of slime over it, a mold of some sort, one that loved the darkness. They walked on a raised side portion of the tunnel that housed ductwork. In some places the reinforced tunnel had collapsed, chunks of the wall fallen into the pools on the floor.

There was some evidence of people. Storage crates, long abandoned, had rotted away to nothing and their contents, from what Fletcher could tell some sort of decontamination suits, had also dissolved over the centuries. The air was heavy with moisture and the deeper that the tunnel ran, the more it angled downward into the hill. Each dozen or so meters the pooled water got deeper until both of the men were up to their knees in the ooze.

At the end of the hallway they found a larger door, cracked open, that seemed to lead to larger chamber beyond. “This is it,” Randolph said. There was a dim light coming from the other side of the doorway, tinted yellowish-orange.

Fletcher was not as optimistic. “All of this water…there must have been some sort of leak.”

“That doesn’t matter, we are talking BattleMechs here.”

“’Mechs are tough, but not tough enough to sit in water for centuries.”

Randolph didn’t care. Wading through the water he wedged himself through the hatch. Fletcher moved in behind him, water sloshing as he tried to keep up. The chamber on the other side opened up to the beams of their lights.

The chamber was some sort of central core. Several other tunnels led off in different directions from the room. In the center of the room, rising out of a deep pool of stagnant water, was a pair of BattleMechs. Crates, half collapsed and semi-submerged, were tossed everywhere. The walls had thick growths of mold or slime of some sort. Emergency lights orange in color, probably powered from a small fusion reactor somewhere, were still on somewhere up near the ceiling. Their orange-ish color altered the color of things in the room.

The ’Mechs — the treasure, stood there and Fletcher found his eyes following them from the pool of water upward. They were lightweights, a Hussar nearest to him and what looked to be a Mongoose behind it. The Mongoose had slipped from her support harness ages ago and had bent at the waist down, as if bowing to the peeling paint walls of the chamber.

He aimed his beams at the ’Mech gantry and was stunned by what he saw. The Hussar was a mess. Not only had one of its legs apparently given way a long time ago, it was held in place by a series of thick stalactites stabbing down from the ceiling. Like stone icicles, these reached downward and literally enveloped the shoulder of the Hussar, encasing it in a concrete-like form. The leg that had given away was contorted and fallen from the knee actuator, held up by a handful of rotting myomer strands.

The light showed him even more depressing details of both ’Mechs. The Mongoose’s cockpit looked as if it was filled with water. Eerie colors of black and green mixed in a pool in the cockpit glass. Coolant leaks from long rotted hoses had seeped out of the armor plates and drizzled down the sides of the ’Mech. On the Hussar, Randolph’s searchlight beam showed that the left arm was encrusted with a stalactite which had seemingly split open the armor plating there. The fist of the Hussar was gone, the fingers had literally dropped off over time, their actuators and myomer wrenched open and rotted. The armor was gone, under the sickening pool of water.

The Castle Brian on Dixie had never fallen to siege or even nuclear attack. It had been abandoned by the SLDF, abandoned and long forgotten. While designed to withstand the fury of war, it had fallen to the forces of nature and time.

“What a waste,” Fletcher said sadly.

“Damn!” spat back Randolph. “Nothing here we could salvage. Those ’Mechs are shot. They couldn’t be salvaged even for museum pieces.”

Fletcher made his way over a half-toppled mountain of fiber-plastic crates. Some were open and their contents were spilled out into the slime-filled ooze. Others, the heavier ones, were still sealed. “Don’t jump the gun Randolph. We haven’t explored all of these tunnels and these crates. There’s bound to be something we can recover and sell.”

“You think so?”

Fletcher flipped the latch on one of the crates and peered inside. “Yes…definitely.”

West Buford

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

15 May 3025

“So, where did you get this?” the man asked, staring at the pistol as Randolph slammed the rest of his beer.

“Let’s just say I found a source for these and other assorted arms,” he replied as his cheeks took on a reddened glow from the dark ale. He pulled the laser pistol back across the bar, his fingers fondling it almost obscenely.

“That little blaster is a classic,” the one man in a suit said. “I must admit Mister Falconi, your source is a good one. A Star League Defense Force issue Mark II laser pistol. This one still has the bluing on it and has obviously never been fired. A mint condition antique. Needless to say, I’m suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” Randolph was caught off guard.

“We are on Dixie. How would such an obviously well preserved classic firearm end up here — and not in a museum or some wealthy private owner’s collection. No,” the man said waving his hand in the air between them. “This is so good that it’s got to be a fake. A reproduction.”

Randolph’s mouth hung open for two seconds in disbelief. “You’re kidding right?”

“It’s a remarkably high quality reproduction, but it’s simply too good to be true. My compliments to your forger.”

Randolph chuckled once and his face got redder. “Show’s what you know. This is the real McCoy. I know, I pulled it out the crate I got it from myself. It’s not fake. In fact, if you were to run the serial number off of this you would find that it was probably never issued. You wanna know why?”

The man in the suit signaled the waitress with two fingers, a beer for each of them. “I must admit Mister Falconi, I am a little curious. If you could shed some light on where you got it, it could alter my purchasing decision.”

The beers arrived and Randolph took another fresh cold sip, licking his lips as he finished. He glanced around nervously as if to make sure that no one in the busy bar could hear his voice. “This is authentic SLDF hardware because it came out of a Castle Brian right here on Dixie. I pulled it out of there a few weeks ago, along with my friend.”

The would-be-buyer leaned back and took a sip of his own beer, far less than Randolph had. “Intriguing, but there is no Castle Brian on this planet. Everyone knows that. There’ve been treasure hunters seeking one for years. If there was one, someone would have found it long before you.”

“Ha!” Randolph laughed. “Shows what you know. We looked for it, mostly in researching the archives and libraries. It took forever but we found it.”

The man paused and leaned forward on his elbows on the coffee table, reaching out and holding the laser pistol with a whole new respect. “You found a Castle Brian here?”

“You bet I did.”

“And this pistol came from it?”

Randolph seemed almost proud. “It sure did. I pulled it from the crate and pealed off the sealing compound myself just a few days ago. There are crates of them there.”

The man turned the weapon in his hands. “Interesting. Tell me Mister Falconi, what else was in this alleged Castle Brian?”

For a moment Randolph hesitated. “There was a lot of stuff there, mostly ruined.”

“BattleMechs?”

He took another long drag on the sweating beer. “There were a few but I wouldn’t say that they were in the best condition.” Randolph chuckled as an acknowledgement that he knew something that the other man didn’t.

“I assume you’re going to let the Lyran government know of your find, especially if there are ’Mechs involved?”

“Shaa…right,” he said sarcastically. “We don’t even have permission to be on the property where this Castle is. I bring in the government and suddenly I’m cut out of any and all profit.”

The man put down the pistol between them. “I’m prepared to make an offer for your entire collection Mister Falconi.”

“It’s not all for sale right now. My associate and I have an understanding about the disposition of these goods.” He slurred the word, “disposition,” slightly as he spoke. “Sorry, but I have to honor that.”

The man reached into his suit pocket and took out a small pad of paper. He jotted down a note on the paper. “Mister Falconi, this is the amount of C-Bills that I’m willing to pay for a crate of these weapons in similar condition. Please look it over before you make any rash decisions.” He slid the pad in front of Randolph.

Randolph’s face got even redder and his jaw hung limp and open for a moment. “You’re serious.”

“Very serious.”

“I’ll have to check with my associate before I commit to this.”

The man pulled the pad back. “I’m afraid that this offer is contingent on a decision right now. If you were not empowered to negotiate, you shouldn’t have contacted me in the first place.”

He hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. “Fine, I accept.”

“Excellent Mister Falconi. I will arrange for the account transfer. I will need to inspect the goods as well.”

“Of course,” he said, gulping down the rest of the beer.

“You’ve made a good decision…an excellent bargain.”

“You did what?” Fletcher squealed. His tiny apartment seemed to suddenly get a lot smaller with the worlds that his friend had uttered.

“You heard me. Don’t be so reactionary,” Randolph said, grabbing onto his friend’s arm and guiding him back to a seat in the chair he had leapt out of. “Don’t worry, I have your piece of the profits.”

“You don’t even know this guy. Randolph, we have to play this low key, quiet.”

“He came highly recommended from a good friend of mine,” Randolph countered. “You’re just nervous.”

“I’m leaving,” he muttered, rising from his chair. He moved to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. “If you’ve got half-a-brain in your head you’d do the same.”

Randolph frowned, then got mad. He took the thick wad of C-Bills and cut it in half with his stubby fingers. He tossed them onto the now-empty chair. “Look, if you want to panic like some schoolgirl at a fraternity party, you can. We did this for the money, you’ve got your share.”

Fletcher stopped. “You just don’t get it do you?”

“Get what?”

The man in the suit sat at the terminal that logged onto the Dixie HPG. He glanced again at the Mark II laser pistol and ran his finger across the handle. It was perfect and its perfection was going to help his people. Dixie was a border world between the Free World League and the Lyran Commonwealth. He had been on the world for nearly twenty years, a deeply planted agent. Posing as an antique buyer granted him the right to ask many questions and to travel freely on buying trips. Over the years he had learned a lot of things, but now he had learned the biggest secret Dixie had to offer.

A hidden Castle Brian. A storage warehouse that held God-only-knows-what.

The message packet was data only and priority. Code phrases were used in case ComStar “inadvertently” let the wrong people see the message, but he doubted that would happen. His contact was another antique buyer in the League, one that was also another agent/controller. With any luck, in a few days, matters would be set in motion to change the fate of Dixie once and for all.

TRANSMISSION CODE: 392847KT —DATA STREAM COMPRESSION HIGH, ENCRYPTION DELTA EPSILO BRAVO ONE

From: Francis Hollander

To:Marcus Dale, Marcus Antiques and Collectables, Colfax, Free Worlds League

Text:

Marcus,

Have recently purchased a collection of rare SLDF issued pistols. It came from a warehouse that only recently has been opened here on Dixie. I believe that I will, with your assistance, be able to secure other items in this warehouse for possible resale. I was deeply impressed with the size and quantity of the goods available.

I am working with a seller named Randloph Falconi. Upon your confirmation, I will secure from him the address of this new warehouse. Speed is of the essence in that no other local buyers have been included on the bidding.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

Your Most Sincere Friend,

Francis

The code words were chosen carefully so as to not attract attention. “Warehouse” was a key word — a phrase that SAFE had long ago set up to indicate a Castle Brian. “Local Buyers” indicated that Lyran intelligence had not picked up on the possibility of the Castle Brian. The closing phrase, “Your Most Sincere Friend,” was the key. It was one indicating that a military operation was required for the operation. He reviewed it one more time and stabbed his finger on the send button. Now the die had been cast. Everything else was in the hands of his handlers, superiors, and the Captain-General.

Task Force Extractor

DropShip Hawk’s Shadow

Approach Assault Vector

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

17 June 3025

Colonel Eve Hansi moved across the bridge of the Hawk’s Shadow smoothly, almost coolly. Some of it was the low gravity, some was her calm demeanor. Every eye on the bridge followed each of her floating steps. She had inherited the Fourth Brigade of the Fusiliers or Oriente a while ago when many of its officers had been embroiled in a conspiracy against the League. When she assumed command it was because of her SAFE background and her ruthless character. The conspirators, either in action or thought, had been dealt with brutally. If rumors were believed, tortured to death at her own hand. She commanded both fear and respect at the same time.

“Message coming in from the Lyran governor, a man named Herr Vonderholf, demanding to know our intentions,” the communications officer said cutting through the silent tension.

She smiled. “I show up with a reinforced battalion and he wants to know why I’m here? Leave it to the purse-pinching merchants of the Commonwealth to try and bargain their way out of this. Patch it through to my station,” she said, running her hand back through her jet black hair. “Governor Vonderholf, this is Colonel Hansi of the Free World’s League. I demand your immediate surrender of Dixie to my Fusiliers.”

“Who are you to make demands of me?” came back a barking voice from a man that had to be much older than her, older and more egotistical.

“I am the person that is going to take this planet from you. My way, you live. Your way, and countless people will suffer and die.”

“The Dixie Militia will defy you. We will bathe your landing zones in blood for bringing war here.”

Colonel Hansi laughed. “Excellent. I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.” She stabbed her finger at the control button and cut off communication. “Make preparations for a combat drop. Deploy Combat Air Patrol in five hours when we enter range of the planet. Assemble my senior staff. If our precious Governor wants to put up a fight, I will not deny it to it.”

City of Vanceburg

The Northern Continent

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

Fletcher listened to the earpiece carefully as the comm.. unit rang again. Fletcher had left town weeks ago but had kept up contact with Randolph, despite his stupidity. With the news of the approaching House Marik forces, he and he alone knew the reason that they had come. The Castle Brian. It was the stupidity of Randolph that had brought them here, it had to be. Now his friend had disappeared. Would the same happen to him? He slammed down the personal comm. unit and wiped the sweat from his brow.

This had changed. It had originally been a quest for treasure. He had always felt that. It wasn’t even the money but the search for it that had been important. He loved the hunt and the quest to find the Castle Brian had proven to be a fantastic challenge. Now that didn’t matter. His discovery, his intelligence, had brought war to his home world. Damn. Damn it all to hell.

What now? Perhaps if he passed the information onto the authorities on Dixie they could negotiate with the House Marik forces, tell them that there was nothing on the world worth risking their forces for. No. That wouldn’t work. This invasion commander would never believe the word of her enemy. Even if they inspected the facility they would claim that the Lyrans had moved away all of the military hardware.

Perhaps he could parlay with the invaders directly, tell them right where to go to seize the Castle Brian. He assumed that Randolph had been taken prisoner by spies on world already and would most likely tell them the location even if he didn’t. Would they believe him or think he was luring them into a trap? And if they did take the Castle Brian, would they still think that the Lyran commander had already stripped the facility of the hardware? Of course they would…he wouldn’t believe them.

Oh God, what have I started?

The tight and congested tactical operations room for the militia was not comfortable — in fact it was getting hotter. Colonel Fritz Volger of the Dixie Militia stared at hard copy report with a gray-eyed stare that would have melted glacial ice. Other commanders like using the holographic displays, he liked paper…it was tangible, real. And when you were pissed off, you could wad it up and toss it at someone or across the room to make a point. He wanted to do just that but knew that it would do no good. The other men and women in the room with him were is subordinates. The last thing they needed was for him to shatter their morale.

Besides, the House Marik forces were already doing that.

“What do you think sir?” his aide de camp, Hauptmann Angela Dickerson asked.

“I think,” he said, rising to his feet and staring into her heart. “We’re going to earn our pay in the next month or so.” He ran his fingers through his cropped salt-and-pepper hair

“Sir, they’re dropping with a battalion if not more,” a junior officer piped in. “We’ve barely got two companies of militia against everything they can toss at us — front line troops and all. Our troops are mostly infantry and vehicles. They will be coming with ’Mechs.”

“Don’t wet yourself Leutnant Oak,” he replied sarcastically. “I’ve sent a message for reinforcements. The Archon will provide. God Bless Katrina Steiner.”

There was a pause. “Sir, what is your plan?”

“Simple,” he said. “Win.”

“Sir?”

He laughed, just slightly, to let them know he wasn’t afraid. He had been through military operations his entire career. The truth of the matter was something he knew, he wasn’t the best officer. If he was, he wouldn’t have been assigned command of militia in some obscure border world. He had seen combat before but had been wounded two times, both times at the outset of operations. Colonel Volger knew he hadn’t kissed enough ass over the years for another chance to prove himself. No, House Marik was serving that up to him. I just have to make sure I don’t get downed in the first five minutes of battle this time around…

“They’re here for a reason,” he said calmly. “We need to figure out what their objective is and keep them from it. The name of the game here is to stall, to wear them down, let them get frustrated and hopefully sloppy.”

“Stall sir? I assumed we’d dig in for a defensive fight at one of the fortifications.”

He shook his head. “I have a healthy respect for the Free World League. This is the Fusiliers of Oriente…tough sons of bitches. They’ll want us to dig in because they have the firepower to take us out. I have not intention of obliging them.

“Why have they hit us?” Hauptmann Dickerson queried.

“For them to strike at Dixie, not part of a general campaign, tells me that they believe that there is something here important enough to raid us. They’ve come in battalion strength. That’s more than enough to take the world but to hold it, this far across the border, is going to take more troops. It doesn’t make sense because the Commonwealth can toss in troops to retake the world pretty easily. They’re looking for something, I can feel it in my bones. We simply need to deny them whatever it is.”

An officer stepped up to the table and handed him a note. He looked at it and smiled. “And it looks like I win the prize for being right.” He nodded to the messenger who saluted, executed a perfect about face, and left.

“Sir?” Oak asked.

“We know whey they’re here. It appears that some locals discovered a Star League era Castle Brian here on Dixie. Word must have leaked to the Free Worlds League.”

“A Castle Brian? Geez, we’re saved. All of that hardware…” Leutenat Oak started grinning. “We’ve got it made. All we have to do is refit with that gear.”

“Don’t get your undies in a bunch Oak,” the Colonel countered. “One of the guys that found it has told us that there is nothing there.” It’s an empty ruin.”

“Crap.”

Colonel Volger rubbed his chin in thought. “No, not crap. In fact—” he glanced at the flight trajectory reports for the approaching DropShips and smiled. “we might just be able to turn this to our advantage.”

“How’s that sir?” his aide asked.

Volger smiled broadly. “Now, we just need to figure out how to turn what they don’t know against them.”

Dixie

Fast Burn Approach Vector

Lyran Commonwealth

22 June 3025

“Damn needle in a haystack!” she spat, staring at the sensor display on the bridge of the Hawk’s Shadow. Colonel Eve Hansi wanted to smash the display screen but knew that that sort of action would not be interpreted well with the bridge crew. Things were so much easier when I wasn’t in command. Flunkies can throw tantrums. I have to be a leader. Her Combat Air Patrols had been running search patterns but had not found any sign of the elusive Castle.

“Sir, a planet is a large place,” the sensor tech responded.

“Really?” she sarcastically snapped back. “I should write that down for future reference.”

“Without knowing exactly where this Castle Brian is located it makes our landing zone choice difficult at best. Castle Brian’s were designed to be undetectable and hidden even from ground forces. It takes time Colonel.”

“We don’t have time,” she said through gritted teeth. “You need to look for construction equipment concentrations, signs of digging or attempts to conceal large-scale digging efforts. We have to know where to drop so we can seize that facility quickly.”

She scanned the eyes of everyone on the bridge. They feared her, she could feel their fear. It all had to do with when she assumed command. She as a SAFE operative and her first job in the unit was to remove those individuals not loyal to the Free Worlds League. Most of the key officers found themselves stripped of command, some sent off for further, “interrogation.”

“Let me make this clear. We are operating behind enemy lines. Yes, it is local militia down there and we can take them. We’re the fightin’ Fourth of the Oriente Fusiliers. The Commonwealth does not take kindly to these types of raids. They will send some front line regiments after us. Each day we are there brings reinforcements closer, reinforcements that are not militia but troops who would like nothing more than taking us out.” With each sentence she gained more composure, more control over her temper. “We need to move and move fast. Landing is in two days. Sensor Tech; I need a LZ. You need to make that happen.”

The sensor tech had beads of sweat forming on his brow as she spoke. “Yes sir. I will give you my best.”

“That is the minimum that I ask,” she said. Pushing away from his console, she floated across the bridge to her seat. With a graceful motion she turned and pulled her lean frame into the seat, putting on the restraining strap.

“Look at those flight patterns,” Colonel Volger said, more to himself than to anyone else in the tactical operations center.

“Sir?” an adjutant officer asked.

“Grid patterns. Their Combat Air Patrols are not flying to find or fight us. They’re searching.”

“What does it mean Colonel?”

Volger grinned. “It may mean that my hunch paid off.”

Banner Andersen moved the ConstructionMech forward, plowing a huge furrow as he walked. Sod curled up as he moved forward and the stark tan clay under the topsoil stood out brightly. There were five of the heavy “working man’s” ’Mechs and numerous dumptrucks working the hillside. In the distance he saw a lonely militia BattleMech standing on the ridgeline at the edge of a cluster of trees. He had seen other troops as well but they seemed to be hiding.

“Damn strange if you ask me,” Andersen said into his comm unit to his boss from Fogerty Construction. “What exactly are we building?”

“Andersen, cut the chatter. The government asked us to plow up this hillside according to that Militia engineer. They are paying us triple the going rate to do what they ask as long as we get started now. In the distance tents were being erected along the hillside and tarps were being spread, apparently with no reason.

“Damn weird. We’re not building anything.”

“For the bonus you’re being paid, who cares?”

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

24 June 3025

“Sir,” the tech called out. “I think I’ve got it.”

She drifted across the bridge like a hawk ready to drop on her prey. When she arrived at the workstation she looked at the ground imagery. Enhanced with the sensors and systems, it was a remarkably clear picture. Construction equipment, recent work, tents equipped with electronic filtering gear to obscure sensor penetration. “It was the tents that got me too. Why would you obscure a routine construction project?” The sensor tech added, noting where her eyes were focused.

“Location?”

“Southern continent. It’s miles from any city. In fact it’s out in the middle of nowhere. I almost missed it.”

“You catch that in the trees?” she said poking her finger at the display.

“I couldn’t make it out, even with enhanced imaging.”

Colonel Hansi grinned a predatory smile. “You might not see it but I do. That is the arm of a Centurion sticking out. That is the spot alright.” She patted the sensor tech on the back hard. “You earned your pay this month,” she said and he let out a low but audible sigh of relief. “Feed the coordinates to the helm. Captain, alter your trajectory for a landing near that site. I will review the terrain and let you know the exact coordinates in the next two hours.”

Almost gloating she broadened her smile. “We’ve got them.”

“Rainbow Company Actual this is Iron Crown,” came the voice of Colonel Fritz Volger over Leutnant Hollister Raven’s neurohelmet earpiece. She stopped the slow walk of her Centurion to a complete stop and surveyed the terrain from her hilltop cover under the massive oaks. The centuries-old ’Mech actually creaked as it stopped. It had been in her family for generations and was all between her and being dispossessed.

“You’re a go Iron Crown,” she replied.

“They’ve taken the bait,” Volger said.

Great…or is it, ‘aw crap?’ “Understood,” she settled for.

“You will be executing orders marked Tango, One-One, Bravo,” he stated.

“Confirm,” she said keying T, 1, 1, B, into her battlecomputer. “Tango, One, One, Bravo.”

“Enemy ETA is 40 hours. Landing Zone is projected in your sector.”

“It worked sir.”

There was no gloating in his voice. “Yes, apparently it did. Good luck and keep your head down,” Colonel Volger replied.

“Yes sir,” she replied. Like I have a friggin’ choice. She keyed in the command frequency for her company. “Alright Rainbow company. Here’s the latest. Our shell game worked. Get those civvy ’Mechs out of here before they get toasted. We have inbound DropShips from the 4th Brigade of the Oriente Fusiliers coming to pay us as visit. They probably know we’re here but not what we’re up to. Our mission is simple; buy time.”

Colonel Hansi pushed herself back hard into the command console seat and let the automatic five point safety harness’s auto-tightening system do its job. If it got any tighter it would be considered kinky, she thought to herself. The DropShip Hawk’s Shadow was quaking slightly as it began its drop through the atmosphere. Even in her Atlas she could feel the rocking and buffeting. She adjusted the latching and locking mechanism to hold her neurohelmet in place and surveyed her own display.

Thirty seconds to drop. She tied in to her the scrambler channel for her entire command. “This is Colonel Hansi,” she said firmly as the Hawk’s Shadow rocked heavily. “Our target is below, just as planned. We are going to do this by the numbers. Command the Second Company will move to the hill, secure the Castle Brian and the high ground. Third company; you will split your Lances out and form a perimeter two kilometers out. Primary objective is securing this facility. Rest assured it is defended.”

As she spoke there was a massive buffeting as the DropShip door opened. A red warning light came on in her cockpit warning her that it was too early to drop. It began to blink every second on and off — letting her know that they were on drop approach. “I will see you on the ground. Hansi out!”

The light turned green and she sprung out from her restraining harnesses that held her Atlas in place. Hansi allowed herself a moment of satisfaction — this ’Mech had been a Lyran build. She had taken it out with her family Archer eight years ago. The Archer had been trashed, but this Atlas was hers, a prize of war. The 100 ton behemoth lumbered down slowly, its feet sinking into the sod over half a foot with each stride. Dust and loose debris billowed out in every direction as the Hawk’s Shadow’s massive fusion drive landed the DropShip safely at the foot of the hill where she had seen the construction and excavation taking place.

The signs of plowing were everywhere, dirt piled, tents ripping in the wind. She saw hardware there as well. Okay you Lyran buggers, where in the hell is the entrance to this place? “Third Company, you know the drill, get out there and secure the perimeter.”

The explosion cut her off. Her command company’s most recent replacement, Sergeant Sharpe was piloting a Vindicator heading for the mangled forms of the wind-whipped tents. There was a solitary explosion nearby, rocking her Atlas as if it was the first rumble of a thunderstorm. She missed where it came from but saw the smoldering crater and the fallen form of the ’Mech. The lower right leg of the BattleMech was peeled up like some sort of Capellan slipper, curled up at the toes. Combined with the crater, Colonel Hansi knew what she was facing. Mines.

“All units, hold up. We have mines in the area. I want the sappers out here and out here now.” In the distance she saw clods of turf rising into the air and felt the rumble of another blast. Stinking bastards, of course they mined it.

She moved slowly forward as the sappers deployed, mine detectors in hand. Hansi heard another rumble, this one very different, crisper. A flicker of light off to her right forced her to turn. She saw the now standing Vindicator of Sergeant Sharpe and just past that Olsen’s Quickdraw. The Quickdraw shook violently and a wisp of gray smoke rose from its back and from the ground near it. Another cracking blast rose causing a crater just between them. These were not mines. No, this was the enemy. This was an artillery barrage.

She had few choices. One was to order her units back to their DropShips and depart, find another LZ and secure it. Another was to wait, let the sappers do their job, then deploy out after the attackers. The other, the one she arrived it first, was to risk the mines and rush out to take on the attackers.

“Company commanders we have incoming artillery. All units are to deploy per our plan. Better to ignore those mines and take out that arty. Move and move fast. I want these defenders found and destroyed!”

Leutnant Hollister Raven watched as the Long Tom fired one last barrage over the hillside. Then, unceremoniously, it tore up the sod as it beat a path out of the staging area. Raven’s Centurion could feel the massive Long Tom rumble past and she focused on her long range sensors. They were out there all right, the House Marik troops were sweeping the hills looking for her and her force.

The artillery barrage had been aimed at damaging a number of their ’Mechs, hopefully forcing them to move into the mine fields the dotted the area. This was not going to stop them. This was the Oriente Fusiliers after all. All she could hope to do was to wear them down and run and hide.

They were securing the hillside which they assumed was the Castle Brian and setting up a perimeter. Fine. That was right out of the House Marik military operations manual. Let’s see how they like something out of the ordinary.

“Sweep Lance, this is Rainbow Actual. They have a patrol moving to the east towards your position. Make one pass then take them for a stroll.” She switched to her tactical display and saw Sweep Lance, hidden in some broken boulders, move out. A Pegasus, a Packrat, a Savannah Master, and a Galleon slowly crept out. By now they would be painting on the perimeter sensors of the Fusilier’s force. They should run. Doctrine said that they should. But they didn’t.

The Galleon and the Packrat fanned out to the flanks. The Savannah Master and the Pegasus charged forward, straight at the approaching company of ’Mechs. Leutnant Raven allowed herself a smile as the hovercraft dodged side to side, making themselves harder to hit, punching up their speed. She knew what was happening. The Marik company commander was confused. Was this some sort of decoy? A diversion? Who would send in two small hovercraft against such a force? It was an insane. No one would. It had to be a trap. He ordered his lances to fan out and hold their ground. The advance turned into a slow perilous gait.

Raven didn’t pull back the hovercraft.

The Galleon and Packrat peppered away at the enemy at maximum range while the two hovercraft charged right into the walking Marik company. The Savannah master was lightly armed and had toilet paper for armor. Its only protection was the speed which it moved. Dodging side to side in jerky motions it dove past the advance line of ’Mechs, getting off a few small laser blasts to the rear of the ’Mechs. It was like a mosquito taking on an elephant and the Fusiliers simply ignored the tiny hovercraft.

The Pegasus was a different matter. Its short range missiles twisted and contorted in flight, their white smoke trails filling the air between them and the lead BattleMech, a lumbering Ostsol. All of the missiles found their marks, mangling armor plating all over the Ostsol’s front and legs. The Fusilier ’Mech and three others returned fire, a quad burst of medium laser fire, crimson red, stabbed out at the militia hovercraft, half of them hitting the right flank skirting. The Pegasus began a low meandering arc as it revved even faster, an arc added to by the crumbling of its hover skirt.

A wave of missiles, probably from the nearby Archer, Leutnant Raven couldn’t tell for sure, rained down on and around it. A cloud of dirt, sod, and smoke rose up like a funeral pyre from where the Pegasus had been a moment before. Raven’s heart skipped. Was it alive?

From within the cloud there was a blast of short range missiles and the burned remains of the Pegasus emerged. Streaks of smoke from the holes in her armor marked her flight path as she raced to get away. Crimson laser beams stabbed at her, hitting the ground, burning streaks of black into the grass, but nothing else seemed to hit her. The Savannah Master, as if in cue, darted back through the front line of the ’Mechs — giving the Archer a parting shot to its legs that did nothing but sear the gray-purple decorative trim there. The two hovercraft raced away, swaying side to side to make themselves more difficult to hit.

The Oriente Fusiliers smelled some sort of a trap and advanced but did so cautiously, carefully. This allowed the Packrat and the Galleon to fire off a final volley and start to flee. The Packrat was hit by a long range laser burst, its rear door melted into place by the blast. A salvo of long range missiles hit the Galleon and chewed it up. The right tread of the tank was blasted by two of the missiles and after twenty meters or so, it ground to a sickening halt in the soil. There was no way to save it.

“Rainbow Actual to Rainbow Four. Punch out. Head for rendezvous coordinates Alpha.” As if to accentuate the point, a large laser beam sliced up the top of the Galleon, peeling away armor plating as it went.

The crew bailed from every hatch on the tank and ran. Against the wall of approaching ’Mechs it didn’t seem like much but Leutnant Raven knew it was the best that they could do.

“Rainbow Actual to Iron Crown,” she said, signaling the rest of her lance to fall back. “We’ve found and engaged the enemy. We are in full retreat.”

“Good work Rainbow Actual,” came the Colonel’s voice. “Stick to the plan and good luck.”

The Rasgali Game Preserve

The Southern Continent

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

29 June 3025

The thunderstorm’s massive rumble shook Colonel Hansi in her cockpit seat as sure as if she had taken a direct hit from an autocannon round. It had been five days since she had arrived on Dixie, a world that she had grown to dislike. Five long, tedious, patience eroding days. The southern continent was apparently prone to rain showers each afternoon during this season. The effect on the ground that had been driven and walked over by her battle force as well as the exposed earth from the digging done there had turned the hillside into a sea of bright tan mud and muck.

She wouldn’t have minded it if it had washed away the opening to the Castle Brian, but it hadn’t. She would have been happier yet if it had flushed out the two lances of force that had been harassing her vastly superior Fusiliers. It did not. They struck once every day or so, firing off a few rounds and running. She had caught one lance with a company of her ’Mechs and had obliterated it. Her losses thus far had been one ’Mech, a light Stinger that had taken an autocannon burst in the cockpit from an older model Hunchback. Payback had been just…the Hunchback and a militia Catapult had been taken down after a long and painful pursuit.

Every ’Mech had shown sign of wear and tear, occasional damage, irritating occasional damage. Frustrating occasional damage. Like everything else about Dixie, it simply was getting on her nerves.

“Colonel, we are receiving a message on a SAFE coded frequency, scrambled for your eyes only,” came the voice of the Communications Tech aboard the Hawk’s Shadow.

“I was not anticipating a message,” she muttered to herself more than to the Tech. “Fine, patch it in to my cockpit.”

“Audio only sir,” the Tech replied. There was a hiss, a crackle, then a voice, a calm almost regal voice. “Colonel Hansi this is Satin Sheet, SAFE code niner-niner-Tango Bravo. Request authorization.”

She knew SAFE codes, they had been her lot in life for years. “Satin Sheet. Code authorization is Whiskey, Bravo, Charlie, five, three, zero.”

“Colonel, you are a difficult person to locate. It’s taken me days to find you.”

She didn’t know who this agent was but assumed it was one of a number of operatives that SAFE had planted on House Steiner worlds. “I was not in the mood to broadcast my location to the general public.”

“You are here to capture the Castle Brian I reported I assume.”

“No comment.”

“If you area Colonel, I have a bit of news you will be interested in.”

“I’m listening,” she said, only slightly irritated at his cocky tone of voice.

“You’re looking in the wrong place.”

Her eyes narrowed at the words. She didn’t like being told she was wrong, ever. Her hands clenched on the armrests of her command couch. “Proceed,” she said slowly through gritted teeth.

“I’m transmitting the coordinates to you now,” the spy reported. She saw that her battlecomputer downloaded the coordinates and autoloaded the map. “I located one of the two men that found the Castle Brian. Apparently the local militia commander lured you on a proverbial wild goose chase down on the southern continent.”

“What were you able to learn about what is in this warehouse?” she asked. The legends of Castle Brians and their contents, in some cases mysterious and deadly lostech, was the stuff of childhood stories and adult nightmares.

“Nothing I’m afraid. My subject suffered a cerebral aneurism during our, eh, ‘discussions.’ While he had a partner that man has disappeared. I assume that he is in the safe custody of the local government.”

Colonel Hansi’s BattleMech rumbled again as thunder creaked and finally burst outside. It gave her a moment to pause, to contemplate. She pushed her anger down deep into her mind and soul. She’d been misled; plain and simple. Fine. Now she had what she needed to achieve her mission. “I appreciate your efforts. Your service the Free Worlds League is noted. I will pass word to your superiors.”

“It is an honor to serve,” the voice replied. “But I must forewarn you. The local militia commander who tricked you down to the south is likely to be prepared for your arrival. I wish you the best of luck.” With a static-filled pop and hiss his voice disappeared.

She switched channels. “All commands,” she said in a cool controlled tone. “Prep the DropShips for departure. All units, break camp and fall back to your ships. I want pre-flight checks run and departure plotted in the next three hours.” She surveyed a tactical readout of the area where the real Castle Brian was as she heard the chorus of, “yes-sirs,” in her earpiece. Rolling hills, very few trees, deep knolls that would obscure line of sight. One city near by, New Wichita — not close enough to factor in for the coming fight. There was better terrain for a battle, but not too much. This would be a place where she could prove her combat acumen.

Yes, this would be perfect.

She crawled in the soaking wet grass. The thunderheads had moved on only a few minute before, but Leutnant Raven didn’t care if it was pouring down rain. Her scouts had told her that the House Marik forces were loading up. She had to see for herself.

Lifting up the enhanced binocs she scanned the DropShips off near where the mock Castle Brian site was. The teams were hosing off the muck and mud from camp area. Crates were being loaded. The perimeter defense had contracted to the cover from the DropShip turrets.

Raven stared at the DropShips and the lines of men and material. “If we only had that kind of force and firepower at our disposal…” she said longingly. Militia units never got the top of the line equipment and never enough material. The cold wet feeling on her thighs and chest stirred her back to reality, brought her to focus.

She picked up her comm. unit. “Rainbow Actual to Iron Crown. It appears that our guests are packing it in. I’m willing to bet that they are heading your way.”

There was a pause before Colonel Volger replied. “Iron Crown to Rainbow Actual. Compliments to you and your unit. Get down to the barge and head our way.” Militia units didn’t have DropShips making sea barges the best way to travel between continents. It would take two or three days in the best case to reach where the rest of the Dixie Militia would be, most likely too late if it boiled down to a straight-up battle. Arrangements had been made a while ago for the evacuation, but there were certain laws of physics that could not be changed. Still, she had to try.

“See you soon Iron Crown,” she said, shutting down the channel. “Aright boys and girls,” she muttered to herself. “Time to shag it the hell out of here.”

Fifty-Eight Kilometers North of New Wichita

The Northern Continent

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

3 July 3025

Colonel Volger looked at the tactical display of the region around the Castle Brian and wondered what he had missed. Leutnant Raven’s force had done its job, it had bought them time — precious time. He had used that time to harden the battered and rotted Castle Brian into a defensible position and to transform the terrain into something that he could use to execute his strategy. Despite that time and the hard work and sweat that his men and women (and the locals) had provided, Volger knew he had overlooked something. That was how military operations worked. No matter what, you overlooked things. On occasion you could get into the head of one of your opponents and see the battlefield through their eyes.

Volger did not delude himself. He was no Napoleon, no Patton, no Rommel, no Kerensky. In reality he was a semi-washed up Regular Army officer that was given a distant outpost to defend with a handful of militia. Most of the people in his command were veterans and had fought and fired in battle before. They wouldn’t run unless he told them to. At the same time they had friends, families, businesses, and lives tied up on Dixie. They were not the same as Regular Army.

That was where his strategy came in. Fritz Volger allowed himself a thin smile. Yes, he wanted to attack and destroy the Free Worlds raiders. Any Regular Army officer would. That wasn’t the path he was going to follow. Volger did not lose his focus. My job is to defend Dixie. Destruction of the enemy would accomplish that but was not the only way to achieve that goal. His strategy was based on his goal, plain and simple.

His enemy would move quickly. Last time she dropped right on the fake Castle Brian and had discovered mines. What she didn’t know was that he only had a handful of mines remaining in stock and her odds of hitting them were pretty limited. This Colonel Hansi was not likely to make the same mistake twice. She’d drop close, but not on top of the old Star League fortification. She’d come in from two or three directions at once with the intent of overwhelming the defenders. He hoped to blunt that kind of assault. That would confuse her, buy him a day or so while she planned her attack in greater detail.

Popping open his neurohelmet he rubbed his eyes. They stung both from lack of sleep and the pollen that he had waded through. Stopping he looked around his Orion’s cockpit and drank in the details. Am I setting us up for slaughter? Perhaps. Probably not. It was all simply a matter of time…

He walked the Orion forward, way from the hillside where the Castle Brian was located. The technicians he had inside of the bunker were securing the last of the supplies inside the tunnel complex. I hope this old girl has one more battle left in her, he pondered as he stared at the tunnel entrance that had been cleared and made more operational in the last few days.

I hope I have one more battle left in me.

Landing Zone Charlie

Sixty-Eight Kilometers North of New Wichita

The Northern Continent

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

7 July 3025

Colonel Hansi had studied the terrain as best she could but until she saw it for the first time it was difficult to fully understand. The tall grass was something she had not counted on — something her satellites had not fully conveyed. She had seen what appeared to be trenches or roadwork around the suspected Castle Brian. In fact satellites and her own CAP had revealed at least one ’Mech-sized tunnel entrance.

She had to admit that for a militia commander, the man who led the Dixie Militia had done pretty well. He had tricked her into wasting days on a different continent while he had reinforced his position at the real objective. The Dixie Militia was a glorified company. Yes, they could muster some additional mixed arms, but she outnumbered them three to one and some of their force was days away on the southern continent.

Hansi knew her enemy was no fool. No doubt with a Star League Castle Brian in his possession he was busy doing what he could to rearm and reactive any recovered technology and BattleMechs that he had found there. Buying extra days could tip the scales to his advantage if she allowed that to happen.

She had not intention of doing that.

Her three DropShips were spread out coming down to the north, the south west, and the east of the hill that the SAFE operative had told her was the objective. Her plan was to deploy far enough away from the Castle facility to allow her to organize her forces and close in simultaneously from three sides. At the last minute, as she surveyed the terrain, she had reassigned several MechWarriors and their rides; specifically those with jump jets. Her intent was that she would not allow the ground to be turned against her again.

“Alright Fusiliers; deployment pattern bravo. Secure the LZ’s and deploy skirmishers out two kilometers from the LZ’s to probe for signs of enemy recon and surveillance. Await my orders for assault.” She moved her massive Atlas forward at a ponderous stride as her sensors switched to long range. There was nothing — no sign of the enemy. No, they had dug in at the Castle Brian. If I have my way it will be their grave.

One by one her commands signaled in. Just short of three companies of the Free Worlds League’s best MechWarriors and fighters fanned out and prepared to rush the Castle.

She had the command company form up alongside of her, lance formations, in a wide V with her at the apex. The ground was dry, unlike what she had left in the southern hemisphere of Dixie. The waving grass billowed in the wind looking like a sea of brown and green. While it was spring in the south, it was fall here in the north.

“Fusiliers!” she barked in her best impression of a drill sergeant. “Roll!” She moved her Atlas into a slow run at the front of the formation while the rest of the command company followed. They tore paths through the tall grass as they moved forward driving the small animals in the grass before them.

Colonel Hansi led her company up over a long sloping hill. As she reached the crest she could see the downward slope leading outward to a much larger hill in the distance. There were huge piles of dirt and rock piled up, obviously recently dug. Some of the construction equipment was still there in place. Tracks from either bulldozers or tanks tore up the sod. This was it. A Castle Brian. Unconsciously she licked her lips and carefully pushed her throttle forward. I never thought I’d live to see one — a virgin one.

Off to the north she could see a trench where Treacher’s Company was going to be coming from any moment. From space it had appeared to be more of a roadway, but now that she was on the ground she could make it out. It was at least ten meters and was very deep. An anti-Mech trench if she ever saw one. Damn. This was bound to blunt Treacher’s assault. “Treacher this is Hansi on discreet. You have an anti-Mech trench to your front. Shift to the north and see if you can find the end of it. Put your jump-capable ’Mechs over. Flank that trench with everything else. We’ll see you at the objective.”

Treacher acknowledged the message as she felt her Atlas pick up a list leaning forward as he went down the hill. She was still in the front but her company’s formation was now more of a jagged disjointed line than the perfect V it had been at the start of the run. “Hansi to command company, dress that line,” she said. She surveyed the hillside but saw no signs of the enemy. “Where are you hiding?”

Suddenly the ground in front of her Atlas disappeared. The tall waving grass collapsed down into darkness. Her Atlas slammed forward, hitting a wall of dirt and sod just below the cockpit. Her entire body weight was tossed in an instant into the side of the trench she had fallen into. Damage indicators flickered red at the loss of center torso armor from the fall. “Command company hold up!” she barked as she still attempted to contemplate the situation.

“Command Strike Lance, we’re down!” came one of her Lieutenants. From what she could tell they had hit the same concealed obstacle she had.

Suddenly her sensors picked up fusion reactors suddenly coming to life, powering on in a quick-start mode. The ’Mechs had been hidden behind the massive mounds of dirt that had been piled up, obvious excavations from the trench. Her trench had been covered like a tiger trap, a thin layer of sod and grass put in over the top. “All units, be aware this is a trap. There are anti-Mech trenches here. Secure your lines where you are. Advance jump capable ’Mechs per our plan. Get some infantry forward,” she said as a wave of short range missiles blasted into her Atlas, hitting her cockpit and right shoulder. A missile shrapnel fragment cracked her cockpit canopy, warning just how close death was.

She wanted to fire back but couldn’t possibly raise her Atlas’s arms enough. “Get me cover fire now. I want a Prime Hauler over here and pull me out of this hole!” She saw a Phoenix Hawk from her Eagle Claw lance rise into the air and land in front of her. It was firing at a target near the Castle Brian. Another wave of missiles came in, this time at the Phoenix Hawk. A chunk of armor plating from its left arm was blasted free and rained down in front of her cockpit. One piece came to rest on her shoulder as a PPC blast sent additional shards of armor in every direction. Damn it!

Troops jumped into the trench and on top of her Atlas, most carrying heavy cables. Lasers stabbed the air just above and to the left of her cockpit, obviously aimed at her ’Mechs. Waves of missiles came back along with brilliant bursts of charged particles. Above, around, and in front of her battle was raging. “Damn it. You guys get moving and get me up now!”

Hauptmann Angela Dickerson of the Dixie Militia watched as one of the companies of Free Worlds BattleMechs stopped just shy of the exposed anti-Mech trench. She had a lance. The odds were three to one. They fired down at her force. One of her ’Mechs, a Locust, didn’t stand a chance. A PPC blast of azure energy lanced its right leg as it fired desperately back. The leg was cut at the mid-shin, severed with a wave of sparks and smoke. As it toppled to its side a ripple of missiles, long range missiles, caught it. The ’Mech quaked on the way down, sending up billows of black smoke. As if that wasn’t enough, several medium lasers stabbed at the fallen form. Two red beams missed, cutting through the smoke, while three more hit the fallen Locust. They seared the carcass of the crumbled and smoldering BattleMech. The Senior Warrant Officer that was the pilot, Drain Hurst, never stood a chance. Flames lapped upward out of the space where the cockpit windshield had been, gutting the fallen militiaman as if a blast furnace had been turned on.

She flanked the debris of the Locust with her Centurion and spotted at least one of the assailants that had killed Hurst. It was an Assassin along with a Stinger that had lit their jump jets and had come across the trench. Further down she saw a Vindicator that had come across as well. She locked onto the Assassin, her targeting reticle fixed on her enemies sloped head-cockpit. Lock tone filled her ears as she hit the primary target interlock circuit trigger. Payback…

Her Luxor autocannon and long range missiles fired at the same time. A stream of autocannon rounds stitched up the right torso, each one violently rocking the Mark Assassin. The missiles followed a second or two later, plastering the BattleMech everywhere, including the already crippled chest. As she felt the cockpit temperature of her Centurion swell up around her she watched as the Assassin MechWarrior fought for control of his/her ’Mech and turn to face her.

Then came the explosion as the missile ammo stored in the torso went off.

The blasts inside the chest of the Assassin burst out in several area, tossing armor plating off and into the nearby Stinger. The blast was fatal. The Assassin twisted at the knee actuators and dropped down to the ground with a sickening thud. The Stinger and Vindicator turned to engage her as a wave of missiles from a Marik Archer on the other side of the trench tore into her. The Centurion rattled and shook as more than half of the missiles found their mark. Red and yellow damage indicators lit up on her secondary display, telling her the true story of the carnage. Smoke blocked her direct vision but she knew that the Stinger and Vindicator on the edge of the trench were there, preparing to turn and take her out.

She keyed in the code into her battlecomputer. It transmitted the signal to the detonation charges that were set. The militia had located several dozen barrels of petrocycoline, used primarily in inferno missile rounds. Nastier than napalm, this substance had been sprayed carefully into the tall grasses on the militia side of the trench. There was only enough to cover a few areas but she was sure that both of the enemy ’Mechs were in the right spot. As they had moved in the grasses both of them had been coating their legs and feet in the sticky flammable substance.

The charge went off to her right and from there a wall of intense fire shot up nearly ten meters into the air and at least five meters deep. She used the opportunity to swing in on the other side of the fallen Locust to see what happened. When her field of vision cleared Dickerson could see both of the Marik ’Mechs in flames. The Vindicator half-fell, half-stumbled into the trench, making matters even worse as its flaming and blackened legs poked up. The Stinger lit its jump jets, making the heat and flames worse, but managed to get back across the trench before it overloaded itself and shut down.

Hauptmann Dickerson locked onto the Stinger and blasted it with her autocannon. The rounds ripped up the arm and toppled the already damaged BattleMech. As it dropped, the Dixie Militia officer juked her joystick and started to fall back before that Archer could reload.

“Hurst, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope your death wasn’t in vain,” she said under her breath. Opening a channel she called out to Colonel Volger, “Iron Crown, the left flank is holding — barely.”

Sergeant Hearns of the Dixie Militia climbed the gantry at the rear of the Hussar. The old ’Mech was nothing more than a rotting shell, but the Colonel had ordered it brought out and supported with a steel gantry from the rear. They had salvaged what they could from the weapons, but so far the Castle Brian had yielded little more than junk and souvenirs for antique collectors. The rotted fist and leg had been tack-welded into place. Now that the tarp that had covered it had been pulled away the Hussar was basking in the light of day for the first time in ages.

What a piece of junk.

The fusion reactor of the Hussar was operational but its power feed controls had rotted away over a century before. They had test fired the reactor and it worked, barely. The power levels it produced could have lit up a desk lamp but not too much more. Hearns and his tech team had wanted to remove it but the Colonel had other ideas. It seemed nuts to him but then again who could make sense from officers?

Reaching into the makeshift reactor startup controls he had wired to the rear of the ’Mech he activated the fusion reactor and throttled it up. It wasn’t much, but it was working. It was the only thing that was running on the Hussar. Hearns settled and watched in the distance as the battle unfolded. Hell of a place to be in a fight…hiding behind a rotting hulk.

Colonel Volger ignored the five-pack of long range missiles that slapped into his Orion’s left leg and watched as Warrant Officer Kreiger’s highly modified Blackjack stepped out of the Castle Brian tunnel entrance. The welders had been busy and had done a fairly good job if not sloppy close-up. Adding some additional armor plating on slowed the stride of the Blackjack, but it created a necessary illusion. The feet of the ‘Jack had been trimmed away as well. Most of the work was sloppy but it only had to hold up to long range sensors.

The modifications had been to make the head more cylindrical and to alter the shape of the torso and arms. It was all cosmetic, the ’Mech itself was still essentially a Blackjack. There were a few other modifications but they had been done by the techs, not simply a welding crew. But to a long range sensor, it would appear to be something else, something quite different.

Kreiger lumbered off to the flank where at Atlas was half-in and half-out of the anti-Mech trench. The arm-slung PPC that had replaced the autocannon in the right arm was the most significant modification. The weapon whined as its capacitors charged then Kreiger fired it. The searching white-blue energy beam cracked outward and slapped into the Atlas at its midriff. The hit was a miracle. The Blackjack was not properly balanced with the additional shaped armor plating and the targeting computer was jury-rigged to compensate for the weapon.

The Free Worlds ’Mech was left with a blackened hole near its waist, a hole billowing white smoke from the hit. Volger smiled. Good job Kreiger. The Marik recovery team wrenched it hard out of the trench onto its back and the Atlas pilot lumbered upright. A lance of Marik ’Mechs flanked it, pouring on cover fire as they all drifted back out of weapons range. Some shots hit the mocked-up Blackjack blasting off some of the cosmetic work — not enough to ruin the disguise.

While Hauptmann Dickerson’s front had held, First Leutenat Oak’s flank had been swarmed by a lance of jump-capable ’Mechs that had fought hard and fast. Oak had only a lance for defense and had fallen back so that the Free Worlds League force could not relay on the non-jump ’Mechs for fire support. The battle had been a slug-fest, literally, with the last combat being physical with ’Mechs punching and kicking. In the end Oak and the rest of his lance were down, but so were the Marik ’Mechs. He had held the front at the cost of every machine.

His augmented company was short with the battered remains of the lance with Leutenat Raven still days away. Half of his company that was there was gone. There were no reserves. Everyone including his own Orion had suffered some damage.

They only have to push and push hard and we’re toast. In amazement the assault didn’t come. In fact the Oriente Fusiliers began to drift back, laying down smoke and covering fire as they did. It was a waste of ammo — Colonel Volger had nothing with which to launch a pursuit. Fires lit the tall dry grass in areas where errant missiles, shrapnel or lasers had missed their targets. Smoke from the trip that Dickerson had laid on her front still rose up, blotching out the sun like a fast moving storm cloud.

Don’t tell me it worked?

Colonel Hansi was still furious when she reached her DropShip. She personally had been insulted when she had fallen into the trench leading her troops into battle. The Lyran militia had pummeled her and a number of her ’Mechs. They had lost eight ’Mechs, two full lances in the fighting. When she had deployed the jump ’Mechs to rush the trench, it had never dawned on her that there might be concealed trenchworks on the other two assault fronts. Then there had been the fire trap that had totally blunted one company’s assault. I hadn’t expected each front of have some sort of trap and layers of defense.

Captain Treacher came on the command channel. “We have all pulled back to the LZ’s and are rearming and refitting sir.”

“Good,” she spat back. “They were tougher than anticipated.”

“Sir, did you check your long range sensor data?” Treacher asked.

“No, not yet.” Why?

“Colonel,” the Captain came back , “we need to talk.”

It took two hours to assemble the MechWarriors at the ad hoc command post at her DropShip — part of the price of spreading out the Landing Zones. Each brought burned data with them on disks. She pulled her own feeds and those of her troops and now understood why. Staring at the long range sensor feeds she then made eye contact with her company commanders.

“You are seeing what I see then?”

They all nodded.

“Star League era BattleMechs,” she replied. One of them, a Black Knight, had fired a PPC right at her, hitting her Atlas in the waist. I was probably lucky it didn’t move in to finish me off. The Hussar was apparently only starting its power-up cycle during the attack but the fact that it was there was significant.

“This Dixie Militia has recovered some of the treasure from that Castle Brian and is using it,” she said carefully.

“Those ’Mechs are equipped with lostech,” one Lieutenant said. “We were probably lucky we stumbled into that trench. They might have eaten us for dinner if we’d gotten any closer.”

Fear. She didn’t like it but understood it. She heard it in the Lieutenant’s voice and saw a hint of it in almost every face. “These Lyran money-changers are smarter than we gave them credit for. They are equipping themselves with Star League technology. Chances are if we had pressed them harder they had more hidden in that Castle Brian just waiting to come out. As it stands; our withdrawal probably saved most of our lives.” She did what she could to spin the retreat. It probably wouldn’t hold up with her superiors or her former peers in SAFE, but it was a start.

“Colonel,” Captain Vargus asked, “What are your orders sir?”

She looked at the data, the three-dimensional image of the militia Black Knight that hovered in front of them, then stared down at the topographical map on the portable holotable. “We can’t rush in like that again. We aren’t sure what they have tucked away there. We have a solid perimeter around them so we know that they can’t be reinforced with additional MechWarriors or supplies. We’ll need a way to breech that trench for starters. We need to probe their defenses and get a better assessment of what we are up against. In a few days we will mass our forces along one front and hit them. That tunnel entrance will be secured and held as our primary objective. We can then move inside and take them on — one-on-one if necessary.

“For now set up perimeter patrols and sentries,” she said slowly, “For now we rebuild and refit.”

“They had us balls-to-the-wall,” Hauptmann Angela Dickerson said. “Why didn’t they just finish us off?” She leaned forward on the folding chair and into the light that hung down in the old tactical ops room of the Castle Brian. The room had been pumped of water but was still a mess.

Colonel Volger allowed himself to smile. “First they were surprised when they hit that trench line and the one fire zone. It shattered their initiative. Then they thought they spotted Star League era ’Mechs. That caught them off guard and sent a little fear into them. They outnumber us but are afraid of what we may have pulled out of this Castle Brian.” He spoke like a man quite proud of himself.

“But sir,” Leutenat Oak said, wincing as he adjusted his seat. His arm was in a sling and his head was wrapped in field dressing. “We didn’t get squat out of this dump. It’s a bust.”

“They don’t know that,” Hauptmann Dickerson said, now fully understanding the Colonel’s plan. She gave her CO a knowing nod.

“We should have just let them take the facility. They would have seen it was a disaster.”

“No good,” Volger said. “They would have assumed that we had stripped it of the good gear. As long as they thought that, Dixie would not be safe. In fact, no matter what, they will assume that we have hidden or concealed the hardware that doesn’t exist. That’s fine by me.”

“Sir,” Dickerson pressed, “What’s next? How do you take advantage of this?”

“We need to hold them off for a few days or so. At least one of those they are bound to be reassessing what happened to them and repairing damage. If we’re lucky, we’ll have Leutnant Raven’s remaining force on the continent and moving in our direction. That will add some degree of confusion to our Marik guests.”

“What happens after two days? How are we going to defeat this Free-Worlders?”

Colonel Volger smiled broadly. “Let’s just say defeating the enemy isn’t the key to winning this fight. We beat them with the one thing they can’t control and don’t have much of — time. Trust me.”

Landing Zone Charlie

Sixty-Eight Kilometers North of New Wichita

The Northern Continent

Dixie

Lyran Commonwealth

9 July 3025

“Colonel Hansi,” the sentry said as he stepped into her tent and saluted.

“What time is it?” she said, sitting up, wincing slightly at the light being turned on.

“0500 Hours sir,” the sentry replied. “My apologies for waking you sir, but you said if we—“

“I know the orders Corporal. Spit it out. What have we got?”

“Air lance on Combat Air Patrol has detected a reinforced lance of ’Mechs and vehicles coming up from the Port Blue Savannah. It apparently is the force we faced on the Southern Continent. They must have taken a barge or ship and are heading this way to reinforce the militia we have bottled up in the Castle Brian.”

She smiled. “They’ll never make it. I am going to detach Treacher’s Company. They should be more than a match. Then when he gets back we can complete our fascines and rush that Castle.” The fascines were rolls of logs and sticks that she planned on pushing into the anti-Mech trench. Once there her ’Mechs and tanks could run over them and into their inner defenses.

“Yes sir,” the sentry said, still at attention.

“Our hosts have made their first big mistake,” she said with a feral grin. “Go wake up Treacher and tell him to prepare for immediate operations.”

Colonel Volger’s battle weary Orion moved to the forward position, a massive mound of mud, dirt, and rocks that had been excavated from the trench. Any further forward and he would be in range of the forward position of the House Marik forces. Likewise if they came only a few meters closer, they would feel waves of long range missiles raining down on them. He could make out a Warhammer in the distance, watching him as closely as his unit watched the Marik invaders.

The weather had held and had almost been pleasant. His techs had salvaged a number of ’Mechs, some of which were cobbled together to operational status. He was short on MechWarriors and had gone so far as to press one of his technicians as a MechWarrior. All part of being in the militia.

“Alright Kraus,” he said into his microphone that transmitted to the scout that had called him up. “I’m here. What is it that you’ve spotted?”

“They have stripped away a reinforced company,” came back a Germanic accent in his neurohelmet’s earpiece. “Started hauling ass and gear out just before dawn.”

Volger adjusted his long range sensors and sidestepped out from behind the dirt mound. Sergeant Kraus was right of course, he usually was. Were they being sent out to another front as part of a general assault? Or did they have another target? He paused then activated his command channel. “Iron Crown to Rainbow Actual,” he signaled.

Leutnant Hollister Raven came back in his ear and mind. “Go Iron Crown.”

“It looks as if you have guests heading for you. One company reinforced.”

“We are down to one lance Iron Crown,” the voice said wearily back. “I am open to suggestions.” There was a hint in her voice that she wasn’t going to like what he was going to say next.

On occasion, I like to surprise those in my command.

“Break and run Rainbow Actual. You have hours before they are on you. Hit the road, best possible speed. Take these boys on a long hike away from here. Run ‘em like dogs on a hunt — long and hard.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me,” he said. “Remember, God loves the militia.”

Pirate Point Bixby

JumpShip Haberdasher

Dixie

10 July 3025

“All ships report safe emergence sir,” the captain of the JumpShip Haberdasher said.

General Raymond Vargus looked out of the portal at the massive orb of Dixie that hovered below him, casting a blue/green light on the bridge. “Dump the data from the MILSAT satellite to my console.” He scanned the situation reports that had been beamed up from the Dixie Militia. It was a standard procedure, but the lonely militia was facing a non-unique situation. Most militia commanders when faced with a vastly superior force did things that made little sense.

Most dug in to wait for reinforcements. That worked if you were on Hesperus, but usually when outnumbered three to one or more, most positions were far too weak. Others tried to make a name for themselves and attack. Those militia commanders usually were dead. The good ones, the smart ones, called for help and kept the enemy busy and moving until reinforcements arrived.

So, what kind of commander was this Colonel Volger?

General Vargus looked at the reports. Castle Brian…decoy location…fortification. “Signal all commands. Immediate combat drop operations in ten minutes.” He floated over to the egress door for the bridge. “A Militia commander who understands tactical and strategic concepts…that’s a man worth saving. Comm — send a message to all Militia officers. Let them know we’re here and the Archon and high command send their compliments.”

Captain Treacher maneuvered his command lance to the far right flank. The area was a swamp and it was that swamp that had finally slowed down the militia force he had been tracking. They had led him on a merry chase across the countryside, wasting hours and forcing him to detach from the logistical support of the rest of the Fusiliers. When the small militia force had made a run through the swamp it gave him just what he needed, a chance to catch up and intercept them. Now they would pay for running.

“This is Captain Treacher of the Oriente Fusiliers, Forth Brigade,” he said clearing his throat. “Militia commander, you are penned in. We have your flanks covered and the only road out. I will allow you to surrender. Power down and you and your troops will live. Slug it out with us and we outnumber and outgun you more than three to one.”

There was a pause which he expected. Treacher opened his mouth to order the assault when a ragged female voice, dry, weary, came over the open channel. “This is Leutnant Hollister Raven of the Dixie Militia,” she said with an eerie calm. “You gave us quite a chase Captain. I compliment you for sticking with us.”

“There will be plenty of time for pleasantries once you have powered down your ’Mechs and vehicles, Leutnant.”

“I don’t think so,” she said with a hint of sternness creeping into her tone. “You pursued us quite far. Have you spoken with your commander lately?”

The question caught Treacher off guard. For the first time since the fight at the Castle Brian he felt a chill run down his spine. “Why?”

“Check in with her, then we’ll talk,” Raven said with a slight chuckle.

Rage. That was the word that best described how Colonel Hansi felt. Pure white burning-hot rage. The three jumpships had arrived at a pirate point undetected. Now the DropShips were only minutes away from landing. The transponder told her the story — The 8th Lyran Regulars. They were coming in with full force, nearly a regiment of troops. Their intended LZ was between her force and Treacher’s detached company, far off in the hinterlands.

Hansi pounded the control console of her Atlas the release her fury but it didn’t help. The situation had changed and wasn’t in her favor, not at all. The commander of the Dixie Militia had been craftier than she had ever thought. He had tricked her into giving up the one commodity that he needed; time. He had no intention of slugging it out with her. He was buying time to trap her on Dixie.

She wanted to fight…wanted to kill. Reason crept into her thoughts. It wasn’t going to happen today, not now, not in this situation. She had been outfoxed by a simple militia commander. It hurt but not nearly as much as if she lost her entire battalion to the 8th Lyran Regulars. A “strategic withdrawal” could be weathered, could be spun with her upper command. Defeat and destruction were permanent.

“This is Colonel Hansi to all units. We are evacuating immediately. We have less than an hour to withdraw. All commands report to your DropShips for immediate hot-lift.”

A jostled voice came on the command channel. “Colonel this is Treacher,” his voice seemed nervous.

This was the hardest part of all. “Yes Captain.”

“We can’t be back at the LZ in time…you know that. Request extraction at our current coordinates or others that you designate.”

She licked her lips. An entire regiment of Lyran forces were dropping on Dixie — smack-dab between her and Treacher. He didn’t know yet, couldn’t know. Hansi bowed her head and took a moment to close her eyes and think.

“No can do Captain,” she said.

“Sir?”

“We have a regiment inbound, regular troops. We can’t make the hook-up.” Her words rang like a bell. There was an uncomfortable pause before Treacher spoke up again.

“Do you have any last orders sir?”

“Yes, I have message I want you to pass on to the militia commander…”

Leutnant General Raymond Vargus, the acting CO of the 8th Lyran Regulars took long careful steps towards the Castle Brian to avoid the numerous mud-filled holes. His uniform was a dress uniform, crisp and pristine, as opposed to the mud-encased militia men that stopped their work and saluted him. The man at his side was a MechWarrior followed by a Lyran guard. The trio made their way to the massive door of the Castle Brian.

Colonel Volger saw the General and realized that he hadn’t bathed or shaved in days. He ran his fingers through his short hair and realized it was a waste of time to try an improve his appearance. Instead he stepped forward and saluted. The General replied kindly and smiled.

“Excellent job here Colonel,” General Vargus said, surveying the area. “You and your troops are to be complimented.” He said his words loud enough for the non-commissioned troops nearby the hear them.

“Thank you sir. My troops deserve the praise. All I did was make sure that we followed the established battle plans.”

“Indeed you did,” he replied. “You held off the Fusiliers long enough for us to deploy. Their retreat left behind a company of force that surrendered to us. I want you to know that we refused their surrender until your Leutnant Raven could accept it on behalf of the Commonwealth.”

“I appreciate that sir.” He was more relieved to hear that Raven was still alive. He was worried that the Marik Company might opt for a military solution to their plight and would wipe out the small lance.

“In fact,” the General said, stepping aside. “This is the Captain of the force that was pursuing your lance. This is Captain Vitto Treacher of the Oriente Fusiliers. He indicated that he carried a message for you.”

Volger’s eyebrows cocked as he gave his head a surprised twist. The Marik Captain appeared as worn out as he felt himself. He gave Volger a curt nod, an informal salute. “You are the militia commander here?”

“I am Colonel Volger of the Dixie Militia.”

“I report — eh, reported, to Colonel Even Hansi. She was who you faced her. She wanted me to extend her compliments to your defense of this facility and this planet. She said that she hopes your commanding general will put you on front-line status and that you will offer her a rematch of this fight on the planet of your choosing.”

It was a compliment — and a threat. For a Free Worlds League officer, it was the highest compliment that could be offered. Volger nodded. “If you are traded for prisoners in the future and see her, tell her that I look forward to the rematch.”

“And,” the General added, “I think it’s safe to say that he will have his choice of assignments after his successful defense here.”

Volger smiled broadly. Half to himself, half to the General, he muttered the words, “God bless the militia.”

He was shocked when the General responded. “God bless them indeed sir,” and with that he offered a congratulatory salute to Colonel Volger.

PIRATE HUNT

By Dan C. Duval

Mica V

Mica Majority

8 April 3067

MacGraw leaned back in his harness, trying to relax as the airstream rattled and shook the lander. He fingered the new Guardian’s pip on his collar and mused that these were not the first set of those particular pips he had worn, not even the first set he had been promoted into. That first set was just before those pirate bastards took out New Dallas. Before they killed Andrea and the kids.

They had not killed him yet, though they tried. He would hunt them down and burn them out, stump and root.

And if his highness Captain Aperleau—riding in the other Mark VII landing craft—had his way, MacGraw would be giving these pips up soon, too.

When raiding a pirate base, it would be nice to have more than two small landers, with only eight men in each, but a planet was a very big place and one battalion of the Borderers spread very thinly over it. According to the briefing, a flight of Seydlitzes from the Third would be on a five-minute call, if they were needed.

Recon images showed six barns, lined up eave-to-eave, with nothing else around them, a very suspicious layout for a farm or dairy. Especially when the end barn was six times the length of the others, and tall enough to hide a DropShip inside. The planned landing zone was practically on top of the barns

He glanced down the double row of men in the lander cabin, facing each other, four on each side. Forest camo and tiger facepaint. Weapons locked in their racks. Veterans all.

The Outworlds Alliance suffered from pirate raids for decades, for centuries, most quick hit-and-run attacks taking food and weapons. But the last few years the raids had gottenbecome larger and started getting close to the factories the Alliance depended upon to supply the regiments, or to the warehouses where spare parts and ammunition were stored. At least, whatever military supplies that President Avellar had not sold for cash.

MacGraw had survived such a raid himself, before he’d even started in school.

Along with the other boys in the family, MacGraw slept in a blanket on the floor, while his mother slept in one bed, and his five sisters shared the other two. The tiny room they lived in made for cramped sleeping but at least it was warm in the winter. He remembered that they used to have rats, but the dumb ones ended up in the pot and the smart ones went somewhere else.

He awoke to the sounds of shouting outside, of crashes, the splintering of wood. And screams. High-pitched screams of women. Higher-pitched screams of agony. All of the kids sat up where they were, most blinking their eyes from sleepiness, while some of the younger ones started to sniffle.

Mother leapt out of her bed and fell to her knees next to it, scrabbling around underneath the mattress.

“Prepare for landing,” crackled over his headset and MacGraw lifted up the tactical display tied to his lapel. A colored circle showed the world, Mica V, with a red cross in the middle of the circle and a tiny green dot almost on top of it.

They were in luck. The plan was for all of the teams to land at their scattered targets simultaneously. The shaded line of the terminator bisected the red cross in the middle of the display. His team would arrive right at local dawn. The tactically perfect time to arrive.

He thumbed one of the buttons on the unit and zoomed the picture in, until he had a schematic of the area around the barns. In this view, the barns were just rectangles of fine lines, all in a row, with that one long one reaching about halfway across the height of the display. Even though they were about to land, none of the green dots signifying friendly troops were on the screen yet. When the landers touched down, the dots would just suddenly appear on the display.

Given any luck, any people around those barns would think the same, that the Borderers just suddenly appeared.

The speakers crackled again. “Landing jets, two seconds.”

“Rig it up, children!” he roared.

He could have saved his breath: these were veterans. They had not loosened their harnesses since they left the DropShip. None of them had chambered rounds and the two heavy-weapons men with their Gauss SMGs had not charged their weapons.

And those Gauss SMGs. Each fire team was organized around a single heavy weapon, usually a light or medium machine gun, backed up with riflemen. Two weeks before, however, some tech twonks showed up with four of these things. Brand new and right of the crate, since they were still wrapped in plastic.

Besides the heavy round they fired, the Gauss gunner could carry almost twice the number of rounds of a regular machine gunner: machine gun rounds consisted of bullet, cartridge, and propellant, while the Gauss rounds were just the 4mm ferro-nickel bullets. The Gauss SMGs power packs could be recharged from any vehicle or aerospace craft, as long as an adapter was available. With the power packs, the Gauss gunner carried more overall weight, but the double load of rounds did not add any bulk.

The downside, of course, was recharging the power packs. Since they had no spare power packs, they could not carry extras. One load of rounds and the gunner had to return to his support craft to get a recharge and a new ammo load.

But for close-in, heavy support, the Gauss was sweet, since the barrel did not overheat. The gunner could spray bursts as fast as he could swap magazines and pull the trigger.

MacGraw glanced at his own weapon, a smoothbore autoloading shotgun with a big cylindrical magazine hanging under it. Another surprise present brought in by the twonks. Thirty 13mm low-velocity rounds. Perfect for close-in work. And even if they did not penetrate body armor, the energy of the round might well knock an enemy down. Only semi-automatic, but after touching off an entire magazine on the range, his shoulder would not have appreciated a fully automatic weapon.

He would have preferred something that did not require him to keep track of how many rounds he had fired, but then these kinetic rounds would not reflect off a bright piece of metal and burn down the gunner, like a laser rifle might do.

Over his ten years in the Line, he’d never seen so many new weapons all at once.

Not that he was complaining about getting new equipment for a change. Maybe the rumors of Clan Snow Raven involvement with the Alliance were not rumors after all.

The lander made a sudden looping swing and, when the fusion drives lit off with an overwhelming roar, that familiar giant hand pressed MacGraw into his harness and compressed his spine until his breathing stopped and his vision narrowed to a tiny tunnel. Seven hundred kliks per hour to zero in ten seconds. Then the bottom dropped out and the lander hit with a thud, rocking slightly for a few moments.

Not bad. It didn’t feel like the pilot dropped them more than about three meters that time.

He snatched at his tactical again. Two groups of green dots. One group in front of the big barn, the other at the other end of the line of barns. He hoped the pilots got it right: his group was supposed to hit the big barn. Maybe they even had the lander pointed the right way.

He slapped at the harness release in the middle of his chest and the straps popped from the buckle and retracted into the seat. He grabbed up his autoloader from its rack near his knee and had his foot on the threshold when the lander ramp slammed down on ordinary dirt.

A wall of cold, damp air rolled over him, rushing in to replace the warm, dry air of the lander. The sudden chill made his sinuses ache.

A barn door occupied most of his field of view, not twenty meters away. OK, these boys can fly, after all.

He glanced down to his right and saw the line of barns, one after another, each enough like the one next to it that they could have been stamped out by a machine.

And each of them absolutely filthy. Webs filled with dust hung at the edges of the doors, streaks of dirt ran down from the edges of the roof, and tufts of grass and thorned canes. [did you mean “canes and vines”? Because as far as I know, there’s no such thing as “canes of vines”]edged the bottom of the doors. At the sides of the barn, clumps of vines leaned against the walls, with tiny paths beaten down between the barns, just wide enough that the thorns would not catch at the shoulders of an adult passing through.

Away to the left stretched a gentle hill thickly forested with some sort of scrub oak or maybe vine maple, irregular patches of grass under them. What he could see of the sky was already a light blue, promising the sun would appear any second.

And the place was dead quiet.

He snapped the bolt on his autoloader and thumbed the safety off. It’s all live from here on.

He ran the two steps down the gentle slope of the ramp and humped his way to a personnel door next to the main doors of the barn. This had been used recently: none of the vine canes had crept across it and only one corner had a tiny triangle of webs in it.

He paused in front of the door, waiting for Cooper to fumble a flash-bang out and yank its pin. When Cooper nodded, MacGraw kicked the door next to the knob and it splintered, slamming open with a crash and almost bouncing closed again, but not before Cooper flipped the grenade through the opening.

The explosion was loud and sharp, slamming the door shut, fully snapping the knob off and bouncing back open again, with MacGraw already heading through, sighting down the length of his autoloader. Clearing the door, he stepped to his right, clearing the doorway for the next man, and scanned the room with the muzzle of his weapon.

By the time his eyes had adjusted, he saw a roomful of dirty, scrawny kids, crying, crawling on their hands and knees—or just their knees—to cluster around the only adult in the room, a fat woman with wild hair and not the cleanest nightgown he had ever seen. The wailing had just begun but it rapidly wound up to full volume.

The room was nearly as cold as outside, despite what looked like at least eight people crammed into a space that couldn’t be more than five meters square.

He scanned again, found no men or weapons, and latched his gaze onto a door in the back wall.

With his left hand, he signaled Cooper and the man behind him—unrecognizable now in identical camo, harness and helmet, the stock of his autoloader covering half of his face—to the door and stepped toward the woman, the muzzle of the autoloader turned on her, never letting it waver.

“You! What’s in there? Who else is here?”

The woman, children climbing up her thighs and cringing behind her knees, almost fell. Tears ran down her face and the hem of her nightdress darkened: she’d peed herself.

He let the muzzle droop a little, not enough that he couldn’t hit her with a round in the belly with a touch to the trigger, but not pointing at her face anymore.

“N-n-no w-w—no one,” she said.

That felt straight to him, so he looked out the door, to catch the eye of Merriandez, one of the heavy-weapon troopers. He flicked a finger at him, waited until Merriandez got inside the door then pointed at the door at the back, now flanked by Cooper and probably Berditz, like gargoyles protecting the gates of hell. He closed his fist and Merriandez nodded, setting himself with one foot placed well behind him, leaning into his weapon.

The Gauss SMG did not look like much more than an assault rifle. Merriandez thumbed the power activation on the SMG and a high-pitched whine sang from the weapon. He looked at MacGraw.

Cooper and probably-Berditz watched MacGraw, though they still kept their muzzles pointed at the door.

MacGraw held up three fingers, then two, then one and Merriandez pumped burst after burst into the door, which disintegrated under the rounds. The sound of splintering wood overwhelmed the quiet whipping sound of the sub-sonic rounds.

Cooper—and it really was Berditz, he now saw—pushed their way through the door and jumped to either side, as MacGraw came through low and dived to the floor, splashing up a cloud of dust and dirt that obscured his vision for a few moments. He suppressed the urge to sneeze.

Nothing.

Two hundred meters away, the far end of the barn looked like a sieve, the newly-risen sun casting dozens of tiny beams through the holes the Gauss SMG had made in the far wall, each shining down on an empty floor covered in dust, trash, and clumps of old, moldy hay.

Clambering to his feet, MacGraw glanced around. Nothing that looked like any sort of contraband. No boxes or bulky items covered in plastic tarps, just broken farm tools and odd scraps of metal, all covered in dust and webs. The floor showed footprints in the dust, but all the feet were small. Kids, probably scavenging for wood.

If anyone had ever tried to hide something in here, it was years and years ago.

He tilted the microphone up to his mouth and clicked his transmit button twice.

“Go,” he heard in his earpiece.

“MacGraw. Nothing here, Captain.”

“Look around and see if you can find anything.”

“Sir, you don’t understand. There never was anything here. Dirt all over everything. Spider webs. Nothing has been in this place for years.” He turned back to the small room, the children still huddled around the woman. She held one of the youngest in her arms.

The shouting and crashing outside got closer.

When his mother abruptly stood up and waved her hand behind her, the other kids scampered across the floor, ducking behind her bed and under the other two beds.

He didn’t really think about it but found himself at her hip. His head didn’t even come to her armpit yet, but she looked down at him and gave him a smile, then reached her left arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

The tramp of boots and the growling voices stopped at their door.

Pulling her arm from him, over his head, she put her hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him around behind her.

It suddenly became quiet. One of the kids behind him started to cry out but one of the older kids must have muffled it, because it cut off immediately.

MacGraw clutched at her nightgown, right at her hip, the warm feel of her heat seeping into his hand.

With a crash, the door burst open.

“Check the other structures.”

“C’mon, Captain. There’s nothing here but a bunch of kids, slowly starving to death.”

“Check the other structures.”

Slapping the mike down from his mouth, he snapped, “Crap!”

He waved Merriandez outside. He called to the two men still inside the main barn. “Poke around. See if there’s anything at all out there worth a damn.”

He stomped outside to find the rest of his team. Merriandez snapped a fresh magazine into his weapon. Jedderson, fourth of Merriandez’s team, stood outside the door, scanning the woods.

MacGraw pointed at Jollof, a big, wide man, but still the junior man of the group. Junior meaning all crap jobs came to him. “Run me a perimeter, kid. Two hundred out. See if you can find anything.” He reached up and tapped the microphone hanging under his own chin. “Command 2. Keep talking.” The big kid nodded, hefted his autoloader, and disappeared around the side of the lander.

MacGraw flicked at the controls at his waist and Jollof’s voice muttered over the top of the open hum of the primary command channel, Command 1. Our imperious leader is not talking to anyone at the moment.

He waved to the other three: Beck on the second Gauss SMG, and the next-most junior members, PJ and Abollo, the two of them almost twins in their camos and face paint, even though Abollo was a shiny black man and PJ as pink as a baby. “C’mon.” He turned and started toward the next barn, his autoloader dangling at the end of his arm.

The whole point of this mission was to find where the pirates were based, the pirates that kept raiding into Alliance space. Over the last few months, the Borderers had been checking out possible bases on the unaligned worlds but, like here, they kept turning up empty.

And Aperleau wanted to waste time scaring the hell out of a bunch of squatters.

He wanted those bastards. Any pirates they found might or might not be the ones that took out New Dallas, but they were pirates. Scum.

He reached the personnel door of the next barn. He should wait for PJ and Abollo, but he knew there was nothing here.

He kicked the door in. It flew off its hinges with a satisfying crunch.

The morning light glared into his eyes and he couldn’t see anything but a man-shaped shadow filling the door. His bowels went liquid and his knees almost gave way, but he saw the dull, dark barrel of the old shotgun swing up in his mothers hands. He jumped when it went off, the bang louder than anything he had ever heard in his life, as the shadow seemed to leap backwards and fall flat on its back in the dirt in front of the house. The whole room filled with stinging smoke that rasped at his throat and burned in his eyes.

Out in the sunlight, though, laying in the dirt, it was just a man. Not a soldier in uniform, just a man in dirty clothes, carrying some sort of pistol. A pirate, someone told him later.

The man’s right leg twitched for a long time, though the rest of him lay very still.

The shot caught MacGraw in the throat. It wasn’t really painful, it just sort of stung, though he couldn’t catch his breath. He staggered back a step and his knees gave way.

A small detached voice in his head said ‘Shock.’

Hands caught his shoulders and eased him slowly to one side, until he lay in the dirt. He felt grit dig into his cheek, then a hot, liquid ooze touched him and spread beneath his eye.

He wanted to cough, to catch a breath, and he could feel his chest heave, but nothing moved. Shouts sounded far away and he could see boots and little puffs of dust. Was that a woman in a nightgown they dragged by him?

A hand pulled at his shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

Merriandez doubled as their medic. His face stared down, framed by the pretty blue sky. A large hand swung out of nowhere, a white pad in its palm, and pressed against the side of his throat.

Other hands fumbled at his helmet strap, gently slid the helmet out from under his head, and let his head down. The cold, cold dirt seemed to suck the heat from the back of his head.

“He can’t breathe,” Merriandez growled. “I’ll have to do a cut-down.”

Though his chest continued to heave, MacGraw did not really feel a part of it. His body would do what it would do, while he just watched the sky and the faces and the flash of a scalpel and wondered what it all meant.

Would his leg twitch, too?

BE NOT AFRAID OF GREATNESS

By Phaedra M. Weldon

Robinson City, Robinson

Draconis March, Federated Suns

2 April 3039

A cool breeze, mingled with the scent of an approaching spring storm, ruffled pink and white cherry-blossoms from a nearby row of trees bordering the farthest corner of the KidsWorld parking lot in Robinson City. Pedals drifted by like oversized snowflakes as Teagen Reeves narrowed the focus of her binoculars. She tracked the approaching groundcar while sitting in the passenger seat of her brother’s taxi.

“Well now that’s a sweet ride,” her brother Joss said in a soft voice. He was three years older than she was, with the same light lilt in his voice their father had once had.

Teagen shook her head slowly as she watched the ground-car park. “Avanti? Too risky.”

“No, it’s perfect,” Joss said. He was leaning closer to her from his position in the driver’s seat. He didn’t have binoculars, but they weren’t necessary to see the target. Teagen liked her toy because of the things it showed her beyond what the naked eye could see. “Better resell. And the parts are worth a hell of a lot more than the sum.”

She gave him that. Joss knew his cars, having collected them since their dad left him his vintage Westline Fastback. Which still sat in their chop shop. Without a motor.

But Teagen knew her specs too—and this thing screamed “go away,” from its low-profile tires to the pings and whistles displayed on the binoculars’ readout. “Joss, I think this one’s military, or he’s into more gadgets than me.”

“He firing up on the grid?”

“Sparkling like a celebration day kid’s toy.” Teagen narrowed her eyes as the Avanti driver’s door opened.

Joss gave a low chuckle. “You can handle it.”

Teagen zeroed in on the clothing. Dark green trousers and jacket, signature starburst on vest, golden spokes across his chest as he turned. “Military. Leftenent from rank insignia.” Teagen pulled the binoculars back from her eyes but didn’t lower them. “Looks like dad’s uniform.”

“What? That spook you?”

“No,” Teagen said, and she heard and felt him shift beside her. “Seems wrong to take this guy’s car. I mean — he’s going inside a kid’s toy store. And besides, it’s going to rain soon. Look at those clouds over the mountains.” She was stalling, and she knew she was. Only Teagen didn’t know why.

But Joss’ mind was already made up. He wanted the Avanti. “So? The military will just issue him another one. They can afford it.” Which may or may not be true.

Teagen had heard the rumors for years of the impending war between the combined forces of the Federated Suns and Lyran Commonwealth against the Draconis Combine.

For ten years the universe had waited, and for ten years, nothing foretold had happened. Many of her friends and most of her family refused to believe it would happen either.

Most people Teagen knew often voiced their disappointment with Hanse Davion and his inability to vanquish their ancient foe, the Dragon.

What bothered her most, especially after growing up on her father’s stories of the Second and Third Succession Wars, was that no one, or at least no one on Robinson, seemed to care.

Unless they were a Sandoval. The Duke was as always ready to strike against his people’s enemy.

Teagen was all for it, as long as it didn’t interfere with her business.

She refocused her attention on the soldier as he moved a briefcase to his trunk and locked it. With a glance back, the young Leftenant went hurriedly into the toy store as thunder gave a distant accompaniment to the afternoon.

“Well, I say go.” She tossed the binoculars into the back seat and opened the passenger’s door. She wore black, leather gloves, dark shades, and had tucked her hair up into a black, Robinson Buccaneers baseball cap. “Radio Lee. Tell him to be ready. If this thing’s lojacked it’ll take me a few extra minutes to disarm.”

“Lee? What about Mick?” Joss arched one eyebrow. “I know you and Lee got this new thing between you, but you can’t leave Mick out of everything.”

She pursed her lips. There wasn’t time to talk about the fact she disliked Mick. Didn’t trust him. With a shrug, she turned away.

The wind felt chilled against her cheek as she moved hurriedly across the parking lot to the silent Avanti. Teagen secretly hoped the thing wasn’t tracked. Deactivating a track was time-consuming, and she’d read the man’s body language to mean this was to be a quick stop for him.

Perhaps even an impulse buy. He wouldn’t be in the store long.

Getting inside the Avanti wasn’t difficult—she’d perfected her art years ago. The difficulty came a beat later as her body tensed, listening for the screaming alarm she suspected would come standard on the sedan.

When no alarm sounded, she took in a quick breath, slid into the driver’s seat, noting the still new aroma of leather, and reached down to the small open area beneath the ignition.

Hotwiring a car wasn’t a rare skill, nor was it one her father had taught her. Joss’ friends had been good at stealing cars during their high school days, and being the only female in the group—a default member due to Joss’ popularity—she’d picked up on it. Over time, they’d become quite good, and by the end of graduation, had created an adequate night-shift job capable of sustaining their daily utilities.

Though questionable in its pursuits, thieving put food on their tables and clothes on their backs. Children of Robinson were expected to enter the Battle Academy, and if not, then some respectable, nearby college for a less than preferable education.

Media and a long history of the defense of the Draconis March convinced the populace that joining the military was the more respectable choice after High School.

All but Teagen, who had never taken the tests, had failed their entrance exams into the Robinson Battle Academy. And maybe their present occupation was little more than a rebellion against a society that touted the greatness of war.

Being a MechWarrior had never been her dream, though she was sure it had been Joss’. Though she admired her father’s history as a Warrior and defender of the FedSun, she wasn’t interested in actually fighting any war. War was just something any child of Robinson grew up with, living within the Draconis March.

War was simply an acknowledged way of life.

The total time it took to open, wire and start the car was little more than two and a half minutes. With a thumbs up at her brother waiting in his taxi, Teagen slowly drove the Avanti out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. Joss would stay behind with his light flipped to off-duty so he could watch to see what happened when the owner stepped back outside.

She didn’t think this particular snatch would go badly.

But then again, Teagen had been wrong before.

The traffic along Robinson City’s major thoroughfare was light heading south where she and the others had their shop. She did notice an increase of presence with the Robinson Police Department, all heading in the opposite direction.

It was nerves that told her their target was KidsWorld.

It was experience that told her to get the damned Avanti off the freeway and away from the notice of the Robinson P.D. as soon as possible. She wasn’t sure they were looking for her, but why take chances?

After taking several detours on the secondary roads, into areas where there weren’t enough people to notice an Avanti sedan much less care, Teagen pulled the car over onto a service road and phoned Lee.

“Tay,” her brother’s best friend answered. His usually carefree tone seemed less so to her. “Where are you?”

“Over near the southern loop.” She checked her chronometer. It was half past three in the afternoon. She’d been on the road fifteen minutes—not a good thing to do with a stolen car. Luckily no one could readily see her now. “You heard from Joss?”

“Just that you were bringing out a sedan. Mick and I are ready—”

“Lee…” Teagen frowned. Another brisk wind whipped the leave-covered branches of a poplar tree in front of her. The sky had turned a monochromatic gray over the mountains near the spaceport. The spring storm was nearly on the city and the smell of rain came through the Avanti’s open driver’s window. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this snatch. Did Joss tell you it’s a military car?”

“Yeah. So? We’ve stolen military vehicles before. What’s the problem?”

The feeling settling in her stomach twisted into a Gordian knot. How could she tell him about a feeling only? Or explain it? Yeah, Lee was right. They’d stolen bigger, more expensive craft from the military before.

But this time…this time something felt…

Well…wrong.

Had it been because the guy’d been wearing a uniform so similar to their father’s? That the sight of that very uniform still made her feel warm inside—even if the pension from her father’s death in battle had done little to further her or her brother’s futures?

No. There wasn’t any one thing. It was only her gut, and the knot now permanently entrenched for the long haul.

She gave a short sigh. “Look, do me a favor—just check the vids. Have Mick monitor the local Robinson City P.D. channels.”

“Tay…what’s up?”

“Trust me on this one. I’m going to try to get the sedan to the shop. But if I can’t get through, clear out.” With a press of a button she disconnected and slid the small phone into her jacket pocket.

Another gust of wind picked up a stray piece of gold paper and flipped it over the sedan. She pulled the sedan back out into traffic and moved along the lesser roads heading south.

After twenty minutes of inching through earlier than usual rush our traffic — those just getting off of work mingled with those wanting to get home before the storm hit — Teagen repeatedly rubbed her palms on her jeans as her stomach tightened with every minute spent out in the open with a stolen car. Nausea kept her on the edge of her seat as she constantly looked in her rear view mirror. She kept the window down — allowing the cold, stormy air to keep her focused.

She was now three kilometers from the turn that lead to their shop.

The building was nestled in a grove of cypress and pine trees behind the house she and Joss had inherited from their grandparents. Just three more blocks and she would be at the turnoff.

One street away, Teagen encountered a roadblock. She leaned out driver’s window.

Flashing pinpoints of red, amber, blue and white formed a line across the entire roadway. Teagen saw men in uniform—both military and police.

Her rational voice said it could be anything. Escaped convict, robbery or license check.

A longer inspection revealed it definitely wasn’t a standard license and registration check either. People were being asked to exit their cars.

The military’s presence here ruled out armed robbery or escaped convict. That really wasn’t their jurisdiction.

Stolen military property was.

Panic threatened to seize her, make her useless. She sat perfectly still, her hands clutching the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. They had to be herebecause of the car.

But why? As Lee reminded her, they’d stolen military vehicles before. What made this one so different?

Now was no time to panic. Dark clouds continued to gather above the city, overcastting the bright spring afternoon, now turning to afternoon. The LCD over the radio read nearly four. She was twenty cars back and several men in military uniform with two leashed dogs began walking down the row of cars.

The smart thing to do was to abandon the car. Just get out and leave. She’d used gloves and her hair was pulled up in a baseball cap. There shouldn’t be any trace evidence—or at least any easily found.

But then, her exiting and abandoning the exact make and model of the car stolen would red flag her presence even more. Whatever she decided, she needed to do it soon.

No one had come up behind her, so Teagen wasn’t boxed into the lane as of yet. She eased the sedan into reverse and backed up slowly, using her rearview mirror as a guide. She glanced at the soldiers. None seemed to notice the car’s movement.

To her right was a restaurant. A seafood place she’d never been in. Teagen hated fish of any kind. Still careful—and sweating profusely in the afternoon’s cooling breeze—she maneuvered the car into the right lane, and then turned into the parking lot.

Just to make sure her odd movements didn’t trigger any patriotic nerves of those still in line—those who might observe her movements as suspicious—Teagen parked the sedan in a slot near the front door, shut off the engine and got out.

A quick glance at the now stalled traffic showed no one was watching her. With another glance at the restaurant, Teagen slid back into the car.

Her phone chirped. “Hey.” ID said the caller was Joss.

Thank goodness.

“Teagen,” her brother’s voice was hushed, a hoarse whisper. “Get rid of that car. Now. Just walk away and get home.”

“Where are you?” She kept a close eye on the uniformed boys and girls near the roadblock. It wouldn’t do for one of them to hike it into the parking lot. “Why? Is this thing lojacked?”

“No — yea — no… look, the Leftenant forgot to arm it when he went inside.” There was a pause.

“You know this how?”

Another pause. “The police questioned me, searched my taxi. Luckily I’d tossed your binoculars into another car’s open window or those alone would’ve sent me to the station.”

“What’s up with this car?” She looked around at the dashboard. She opened the glove compartment. Nothing out of the ordinary. Drycleaning ticket. Movie ticket stubs. Teagen looked down at the passenger side floorboard.

French fries here and there. She looked on the floor behind her. There were more french fries, a half eaten cookie, and what appeared to be several fast-food toys. “Is it a prototype of some sort?”

“No,” Joss answered. “I don’t think it’s the car, Teagen. I think it’s something he left in the car.”

She sat up straight as she recalled watching the young man put something in the trunk.

The briefcase.

Shit.

“Look, Teagen, I’m serious. Leave the car. Wherever you are, just leave it.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the shop. But I’m not sure they didn’t follow me.”

Teagen twisted in the seat as she looked back at the roadblock. No uniforms yet.

“Teag.” Mick Wu had the phone.

She didn’t like Mick very much—trusted him even less. His parents were reportedly Cappellan washouts. Ex-patriots who sold out to the FedSuns years ago. Or so Mick liked to think. That was the story he told everyone.

Teagen had never really cared. It wasn’t Mick’s heritage that bothered her. It was his personality.

Slime.

“You got this car everyone’s so hot after?”

A shiver traveled down her spine. “Yeah. You know that.”

“Duke Sandoval’s just given a special report on the vids.”

Teagen frowned. What would Duke Aaron Sandoval be doing giving a special report—unless they’d finally gone to war?

A small part of her hoped that’s what all this was about, some larger, world-shattering event, and not about the theft of one Avanti Sedan.

Or a briefcase that now shined in her memory like a light in a dark cavern.

She couldn’t stay here. Not parked this close to a roadblock. Joss was right. Abandon the car and run like hell to the shop.

But curiosity had her in its cursed clutches. Their desperation to retrieve the car had to be due to the briefcase. It was the only thing she could think of that the owner left inside.

Locked in the trunk.

“What’s the report about?” she asked.

“Apparently the gridlock traffic is due to some communications technical glitch. Looks like the planet’s on a blackout due to it — can’t get HPG signals out till they’ve fixed it. They’ve also closed the space ports.”

Damn.

“This isn’t a technical glitch, Teagen. You know that.”

She nodded, knowing he couldn’t see her. “Yeah, I know that.”

“Joss keeps telling me to tell you to ditch the car and get home. Me? I think we need to take a look at it—see what all the fuss is about.”

As much as she hated to admit it to herself, Teagen had to agree with him.

Teagen cranked the car. Like most restaurants, she was sure there was a back exit. Some small road that bled out onto a secondary one into the neighborhood behind it. “I’ll take a look myself and get back to you.”

“Alone?” Mick’s voice raised a notch. She wasn’t sure how, but he’d managed to sound even slimier. “We split profits evenly, Reeves. Whatever you find we all have a say.”

She didn’t answer, and instead ended the communication.

Teagen eased the sedan around the back and turned right down a roughly paved road. The sun was gone completely behind the clouds. Lightening cracked the sky before her as she crested a hill that overlooked Robinson City.

There was a small motel near the city’s borders, yet tucked far back enough to be out of the city’s view. She and Joss used to hide there sometimes, when a particular fence got too risky.

If Joss thought about it, he’d know that’s where she’d be. And hopefully he’d leave Mick behind. The situation could get out of hand, if it hadn’t already.

Teagen tossed the phone into the passenger seat. If she was careful, and remembered all the back roads her father had taught her, she could easily avoid any more roadblocks.

Once to the motel, she could pop open the trunk and have a look at what was inside. Thunder followed along her path as she thought over what it could be the military was so up in arms about.

Something so important that they would close down the spaceports and cut off communication off-planet.

And something valuable enough to get Mick Wu’s undivided interest.

Phobos Motel was little more than a long, narrow building nestled away from the main road near a grove of pecan trees. The rain had just started as Teagen checked in using a phony name, though one Joss would recognize, and cash.

She had to jimmy the trunk lock in the rain. The cold water pelted at her face, whipped about by the wind. She was glad she still wore the cap over her hair. Two jerks and the trunk popped open.

The light from the lid illuminated a good-sized silver briefcase slid to the back against the rear seats. Teagen leaned in, grabbed it. The weight surprised her first and as she moved quickly to the door of her room she guessed it contained a personal computer.

Two low wattage bulbs inside shade-less lamps bathed the room in an eerie, dim light. Sticky, matted green and brown shag covered the floor, and Teagen wasn’t sure the brown was part of the original carpet color.

The walls shone oily with faded floral wallpaper, and if she looked at them in the light just the right way, she noticed traces of something splattered across the surface.

After locking and dead-bolting the door, Teagen set the briefcase on the bed in front of her and pulled out her small, leather case. Inside were six silver, slim tools she’d acquired in trade several months ago from a dealer whose latest acquisition belonged to a police officer.

He’d had to unload the car real fast.

Unlocking the thing wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped. As the storm rallied on outside, the rain beating against her window, Teagen picked at the lock. It finally gave, but the face of the lock itself was badly damaged.

She doubted the thing would ever lock again.

Inside was a computer, as she’d expected. There were two folders, each with dates on them. On their fronts was the symbol of the Federated Suns, a red sun, yellow burst and sword thrust upward.

A small feeling of pride swelled within her as she thought of her father.

There was a small pistol nestled to the right, still in its holster. She checked the clip and found it fully loaded. There was also a military I.D. Leftenant Adrian Robertson. He was handsome with blue eyes and high cheekbones. The information said he was married with a small daughter.

Which explained his rush inside of KidsWorld.

And his mistake.

Had it been her birthday? Had he forgotten? And in a rush neglected to set the car’s alarm?

Setting aside the I.D., Teagen glanced through the papers in their folders.

Much of the language made little sense. There were numbers, listed regiments, some names she recognized while others she didn’t. Battalions and more numbers. And there was the ever-present list of ’Mechs and their Warriors.

Her father’s preference had been the Locust, able to cover great distances quickly. He’d piloted several others, but he’d always bragged about his pride and joy.

It was the ’Mech he died in during the Fourth War.

With a sigh, Teagen set aside the folders and opened up the computer. It was time to start using those hacking skills she’d been working on.

She gasped aloud when the screen flared from black to on. No security. Not even a thumbprint security pad. The monitor simply came on displaying several open documents.

It was as if he’d simply closed it and allowed it to go to sleep without setting a password before running in the store to get his kid a toy. Teagen was shocked at Leftenant Robertson’s negligence with something that was obviously important.

And yet she applauded him on his dedication to his child. She was sure he was sweating his preoccupation at the moment.

Teagen’s gaze tracked downward.

And as she read, her heartbeat increased.

Names came to the surface: Wave One, Four Axes, Operation WINTERSCHNEE. Operation STURMHAMMER.

Years of listening to her father taught her how to read the information before her. Teagen nearly fell off the bed as the realization of what she had in her hands hit her.

These were the detailed plans for the Steiner-Davion attack on the Combine.

April 16, 3039.

Today was April 2.

The first wave was scheduled to hit Vega, Anting and New Mindham. This was within the first of the Four Axes. Next they would push onward to thirteen more worlds.

Including Atlais.

Nashira.

Thestria.

Operation WINTERSCHNEE, under the command of Nondi Steiner, would hit Alnasi, Alrakis, Altais, Kessel, Konstance and Vega. Operation STURMHAMMER would give way to five more worlds before Wave Two pushed into Al Na’ir, Ashio, Nirasaki, and Murchison.

The Third Wave would concentrate on Altair, Deneb Algedi, Dieron and Styx.

She paged down continuously, scanning the major points, unable to stop reading, and yet knowing somewhere deep down that the more she knew, the more she entrenched herself in danger.

It was nearly eleven before Teagen pushed the computer away and stood. She nearly tripped over the second bed and put her hand to her forehead. With an angry sob she turned on the Vid and found the local news.

“…tonight though many of those stranded in Robinson City are keeping a positive attitude.”

The camera switched to a middle-aged couple dressed in matching sets of clothing. Teagen recognized the background as Terminal A at the Robinson City spaceport. How often had she said goodbye to their dad there?

“….Well you know, I believe the Duke’s doing what he can,” the male was saying, a crease between his thick, dark eyebrows. “It’s not his fault those Blake wackos can’t keep the HPG units working properly. Seems to me if we’d just stop targeting the Combine and just get rid of Comstar—”

The man was abruptly cut off. The scene switched to a young woman. Blond. High cut skirt. “I’m not upset, not really, though I am a bit concerned that he’d shut down the space ports when the only thing being reported is a glitch in communications.” She shrugged straight perfect shoulders. “I think there’s something else going on.”

The screen switched back to the anchor. Teagen glanced at the open computer, unsure whether to toss it out the window or close it.

“It is rumored that vital, military information was stolen this afternoon, and the Robinson police, in conjunction with the military, are desperate to get it back. We’ve been given reports of roadblocks and more intensive security checks being implemented throughout the city. In other news relating to the over-priced ticketing at the space—”

Teagen switched it off and hung her head. She was in trouble—damn big trouble. Yeah, they were missing information all right. And if this information got into the wrong hands—Combine operative hands—then things would go to shit really fast.

And it wouldn’t matter that Teagen Reeves didn’t have anything to do with that, or didn’t intend on stealing the information, just the car. If she were found with this information, then not even her brother would ever find her.

Unless they accused her brother as well.

Damn.

She had to get rid of the computer. But how? Where? Teagen grabbed it up and set it back inside the briefcase, along with the papers and I.D. She kept the pistol out, just in case.

She had to have some way to defend herself.

Maybe it was listening too well to her father, but if there were anyone in the city loyal to the Combine, now would be his or her chance to give aid. If they found her and the briefcase, then they’d just as soon kill her and take it.

Tossing it into the dumpster was no good. Neither was wiping the hard drive—if they found it that way then they’d be certain she’d read it. Or sold the information before wiping it.

“I am so fucked,” she muttered out loud as she stuck the pistol into the back waistband of her jeans. She had to do something.

Teagen grabbed up the briefcase and went outside. After locking the room, she set it back in the Avanti’s trunk and drove to the nearest convenience store.

With cash she bought several small chains and a pad-lock. Luckily the cashier didn’t pay attention or didn’t care about her purchase. Teagen tossed the items into the trunk with the rest and drove back to the motel.

Her tentative plan was to just lock up the briefcase, wipe it down, and leave it and the car in a parking lot. If the police were looking for the Avanti, surely they’d discover it in a parking lot in a public place and find it and the briefcase.

And maybe they’d see that everything was there—minus the pistol—and not pursue her.

Or at least, she hoped so. Or her plans for a future would come to a rather abrupt end.

Mick and Lee were in her motel room when she got back. Seeing their car parked behind the office and not in front of the room made Teagen suspicious. Why park so far away? The rain had slacked up to a drizzle, and the lot was little more than mud and crunched asphalt.

She left the chains, lock and briefcase in the trunk and went up to her door. It opened before she could slide her key in.

Mick stood there, his hair plastered to the sides of his face. His shirt and jacket were wet as well. Lee sat on the farthest bed, his expression glassy, and his complexion ghost-like.

“Where’s Joss?” she asked as Mick stepped back to allow her into her own room. “And how did you get in here?”

“Same trick as usual,” Mick said in a sly, ultra-slimy voice. “Cash.”

Teagen moved to the far side, near the bathroom. She looked at Lee, but he never looked at her. His hands were behind his back. She looked back to Mick. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Did you find anything in the car?” Mick asked.

She narrowed her eyes. “No. Just kid’s toys. Mick,” she put her hands on her hips, feeling the weight of the pistol at the small of her back. “Where is my brother?”

“Joss isn’t coming,” Mick said as he reached up and scratched his nose. “He didn’t feel up to it.”

Lee made a noise. It was then Teagen saw the rope binding his wrists. She moved toward Lee. “What is with the bondage, Mick? And where the fuck is my brother?”

“Stay where you are!” Mick moved quickly, producing a needler from inside his jacket. He aimed it directly at Teagen’s chest. She stopped, keeping her back away from Mick.

There was nothing she could do to avoid getting hit with a needler, especially at this close range. Teagen held her hands out to her sides. “What is going on, Mick?”

“Money, Teag. Money. And the promise of a future off this fucking rock.” He gave her a slow smile. “I figure with the information I got from Joss, you have the car the military’s look’n for, right? And knowing you, —you found whatever it is they’re looking for inside.”

She matched his smile with one of her own, though she didn’t feel it. A glance at Lee told her he wasn’t feeling well. He was listing to one side, and looked ready to faint. Had Mick shot him? “Is that right?”

“Yeah. And Lee here—when Joss refused to cooperate—he knew about this place. See, he and Joss were really close. And I always knew Lee had a thing for you,” he smiled again. “I got friends coming, Teag. And they’re gonna pay me a small fortune for what you found.”

“When did you decide to strike out on your own, Mick?” Teagen needed to buy time. If Mick had friends coming, and they wanted what she’d found, she was sure they were somehow connected to the Dracs.

And if they were allowed in and got hold of that briefcase, none of them would leave this room alive. And the Steiner-Davion assault would stand in jeopardy.

“No cut, then?” She gave him a sly look. “After all, it was me that took the car.”

He held the needler steady. “What did you find? Show me.”

“Your buyers didn’t tell you?” thinking fast, Teagen reached behind her and put her hand on the pistol.

“No, just that it was something vital to them.”

She chewed on her lower lip. More than likely whoever these buyers were, they were guessing at the information the military was tracking down. Which might give her an edge in this situation.

“Okay,” she smiled. “The only thing I found in the car was a gun.”

“A gun?” He looked confused before noticing her arm movements. He strengthened his aim. “Pull it out slowly—with your left hand.”

“Sure, Mick,” she pulled the pistol out slowly, cradling it awkwardly with her left hand. Mick knew she was right handed and using the gun with her left would be difficult. “See? This is it. I can only guess the gun is worth something?”

He lowered the needler long enough for her to pop the gun up in the air catch it with her right hand and aimed below Mick’s belt. She fired twice, shattering both knees. He yelled out and fell back, the needler bouncing out of his grip.

Quickly she snatched up the needler as Lee came to life. He struggled against the ropes as Teagen moved behind him to unknot them.

“Neat trick,” Lee said as he finished loosening the last knot. He pulled hands around front and rubbed his wrists. “Joss is dead.”

“I know,” and this was the truth. She’d known it the moment she’d seen the car parked away from the door. Joss always parked two spaces to the right of their room—a signal that it was he and all was clear.

Teagen just didn’t want to believe it.

Mick writhed on the floor, tears streaming from his eyes. His moans were going to attract attention if the gunshots hadn’t already.

“Who did he call?” Teagen asked as she grabbed a towel and started wiping things down.

“Some friends of his,” Lee took the needler from her and pulled a small bag of small blue pills from his jacket. She recognized them as a popular upper. He dumped them out on the floor beside Mick. “A little insurance so the police suspect his injury comes from a bad deal.”

Nice thinking. Teagen shoved the stolen pistol back into her waistband and carefully gathered up the spent bullets, prying one from the doorframe with a pocket knife. She then gathered up the casings and motioned for Lee to follow her out the door.

Lee remained standing over the moaning and writhing Mick. It was then Teagen realized she’d nearly severed his left calf at the knee. Mick’s foot was turned backwards where the force of his fall had twisted it.

“Lee, we have to go. Someone had to have called in the gunshots.”

He nodded absently. He clutched the needler tightly in his right hand. “He killed Joss. It’s not right he lives, Teag. He was going to betray us,” he pulled his gaze away from Mick to her. “I don’t know what it is you found, but if he got his hands on it, he was going to betray us all.”

“Lee…” Mick said in a tight voice. “I can make a deal…I can get us all off planet…we don’ t have to—”

Teagen jumped when Mick’s blood splattered across her face, each drop a tiny warm pressure against her skin. Lee had fired the needler directly into Mick’s face. Skin, cartilage, and blood exploded over Lee, as well as the floor and surrounding furniture.

Lee shoved the needler into the back of his pants. “Let’s go.”

Teagen remained where she was. Lee put a hand on her shoulder, then put himself between her and the body. He tucked the index finger of his right hand beneath her chin and lifted her face. She locked eyes with him as she started to shake. “We can’t allow him to live. He’ll rat us out. But you’re right, we have to go now. We have to get to Joss’ body.” Lee swallowed, the rims of his eyes red. “We have to bury him.”

Yes. They should go. Mick killed Joss. He deserved to die.

She could almost hear the distant sound of a siren.

If they could hold out till after April 16, none of it would matter. The war against the Combine would finally begin.

She would find her brother’s body, and then she would bury him beside the grave of her father.

Once in the Avanti, they drove several kilometers to an all night diner. She parked the car in the back and the two walked silently into the deserted diner.

The floors were dingy white and the bar was chrome and red tile. The stools had lost most of their seat covering, as had the booths. The smell of grease thickened Teagen’s stomach as she slid into the booth and looked out at the dark night.

At the traffic along the highway moving, like strings of precious jewels.

Lee told her what had happened. How Mick had knocked him in the head and tied him up in the back room. Mick had then shot Joss in the thigh and questioned him while he slowly bled to death.

Lee knew the code for parking, but he’d lied to Mick. So Teagen was forewarned.

Teagen decided then not to tell Lee what she’d learned. She only told him that there was a briefcase in the trunk—one that had important information on it that couldn’t get into enemy hands.

It had to go back to the military.

“And that’s your plan?” Lee asked as he picked at a plate full of fries. “Just drop it off and hope someone finds it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do.”

He looked about the place. “I have an idea.”

She watched him stand and talk to the waitress. Money changed hands and he disappeared behind the bar. Ten minutes passed before he returned, a single sheet of white paper in his hand.

He carefully laid it on the table beside her untouched food.

Teagen read the note carefully:

“I may be a thief, but I am a patriot too. I return this to you, together with my assurance that I have not copied or passed on the information it contains.”

She looked up at him over the note. “You think this’ll work?”

“Just put that pistol back in the briefcase with the computer. We’ve got a clip back at the house that’ll replace the spent bullets. You picked them all up, right?”

She nodded. The R.C.P.D. may not investigate the death of a drug dealer, but the military would certainly examine the gun, and know it was recently fired. And if they found Joss’ body, things could get even worse

Lee continued. “We leave the car somewhere public, like you said, and then we phone it in.” He punctuated his next words with finger taps to the scratched tile tabletop. “We make sure they find it.”

The waitress set the bill on their table and Teagen reached for her wallet. As always, the flap opened to a picture of her father instead of her I.D. He was there, dressed in his shorts and boots, his coolant vest over his shoulders. Behind him were the lower legs and feet of his ’Mech, the Locust.

She took out the photo and held it up, thinking of her brother. Teagen flipped the picture around and read the back out loud. “To my joy, Teagen Molly. May the flame of the sword of the Federated Suns stand tall.”

“Your father was a patriot, wasn’t he?”

Teagen nodded slowly. Though she’d never wanted to fight, she knew in her heart on this day she had fought a grander war on a smaller scale.

She didn’t pilot a ’Mech, nor had she donned a uniform. She did believe in her home, and in her world.

After replacing her photo, she paid the bill. On the way back into town she turned to Lee. “Ever wanted to just go somewhere? Off of Robinson?”

“Yeah. You got an idea?”

“My dad had a place on Mallory’s World. Been thinking about technical school.” A war was coming. There was little time to prepare. “Been thinking of honing up on my mechanical skills.”

“No one can disassemble an engine like you,” he grinned but never took his gaze from the road. “Want to hop over there. Just us?”

“Yeah,” she settled back in the cushy leather chair. “Oh, and I think you should call in the anonymous tip.”

“Any reason why?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I just like the idea of being the silent patriot.”

Lee laughed. It was a nice sound. “A patriotic thief. Now who’s ever going to remember that?”

CALLIE’S CALL

By Victor Milán

Aguardiente State

Galisteo

Free Worlds League

3039

“Comanches, ma’am,” said the black Galisteo Ranger with the lordly paunch pooching his khaki and olive camouflage blouse well out over his web belt. He had a boot up on one of the mesquite-piling planters that fringed the farmhouse porch and was gazing out across the meadow toward a blue-white sun setting into rolling scrubland. Dry, warm breeze from the west brushed Callie’s cheek like a feather. It smelled of sweet flowering bluedabs and white trébol just closing up shop for the night, arid soil and tangy brush.

Callie’s little sister Ellie, nine years old and as petite and redheaded as Callie was rawboned-tall and blonde, gasped at the words. She huddled against her sister; the patrol’s arrival had brought them away from their online studies in their bedroom at the back of the foamed-concrete farmhouse. The Rangers’ armored scout car pinged as it cooled, out in the bare dirt yard around the flank of the house next to the barn.

Ma’s broad handsome face creased in a frown. “I thought the Comanche Nation was friendly to Aguardiente State,” she said. Her English had the somewhat clipped nasality of Santa Fe, the Southwestern Worlds’ capital on Sierra.

The four-man detachment’s commander turned a blue-turbaned head toward her. “The Nation is, yes, Miz MacDougall,” he said. “These are renegades. Outlaws of the worst sort.”

“The Nation elders’ll hear from us about drivin’ ’em into our range,” the black sergeant said, “come next Gathering.”

The tall Sikh, lean as a Liao swordblade, nodded toward Callie. Though just fifteen she stood almost as tall as he.

“I see your daughters aren’t armed, ma’am,” he told her mother. “Best see to that while the emergency lasts.”

Ma’s expression set beneath her bangs, strawberry-blonde beginning to silver, dried by actinic sun and ceaseless chaparral wind. “We don’t hold with children carrying weapons, Captain Singh.”

The militia officer’s face went rigid behind his neat beard. His dark blue eyes were scandalized, Callie saw. But he was too formal-polite to speak out.

“Big Jim thought different,” the noncom said, chewing a bit more determinedly on the end of his grass-shoot, “back when he was alive.”

“I’m the man here,” said a tall, lean, sharp-featured man with black hair blowing on and off his forehead, who stood barefoot in the doorway in a sleeveless white shirt and baggy trousers. “I am. And she’s Mrs. Mason now.”

“You say so, Rance,” the sergeant said.

“That’s enough, Sergeant Quivira,” the captain said without turning his head.

“Yessir.”

“Perhaps you should consider evacuating for the duration,” Singh said. “The marauders are reported to be riding motor vehicles and horses, but it’s possible they have a light BattleMech.”

Ma cast a worried look at her husband. “This is our home,” he said, all haughty. “We won’t be pushed off our land by a bunch of outlaws.”

“I expect the Sheriff to do her duty,” Ma said, raising up her head. Sheriff Catlin Cates commanded the county Ranger detachment when it turned from lawmen to militia during emergencies. Such as now, Callie reckoned. “She’ll protect us.”

Singh raised an eyebrow at his sergeant. Quivira sighed.

“No daughter of mine is going to tote a gun,” Mason said. “Any more than I’ll have her driving a ’Mech.”

Singh said nothing about the neglected beanfield back of the house, or the AgroMech rusting near it. Not aloud. But —

“Don’t you rag on him, Frank,” Ma said. “He injured his poor back.”

Singh glanced at Mason. “No doubt.” He turned to Callie’s mother and touched his brow in salute. “Good evening to you, ma’am. If you see or hear any sign of the marauders, radio us at once.”

“I will,” she said, looking down at her hands as she scrubbed them together in her apron.

“So that’s what became of you, little one,” Callie said through the cracked windscreen of her AgroMech. The Sperry-Browning .50-caliber machinegun mounted in the Ranchhand ’Mech’s left arm was tipped skyward for safety. She kept the other arm level and ready for action. It was tipped with an electric prod designed to get the attention of a beast weighing up to five metric tons with a hide like several centimeters of Kevlar. If anything sprang at her she reckoned it would at least buy her time to get the big MG into action.

The six-month old Range-bull calf couldn’t have heard her, even laying aside the Diesel engine’s blatting idle. She judged it had been no more than twelve hours since the lobo plumado pack had pulled the stray down and ripped her half-tonne body open.

It had been an expensive meal. Near the dead calf lay what Callie reckoned as three of the feathered pack predators. They had been so well gored, tossed, and trampled it was impossible to tell sure. The scene was prominently overmarked by the serving-tray hoofprints of the herd bull, Diablo Rojo, four thousand kilograms of muscle and mean with a four-meter spread of horn.

Though just thirteen summers old Callista MacDougall knew about death and loss. You didn’t come up in the wildlands of Galisteo without seeing plenty of it up close. Sometimes it came quick, like the death of One-Ear, her beloved Aussie sheepdog, killed protecting her from an enraged adolescent Ranger bull.

Sometimes it came slow. Like the three months it took her father to die, wasted to a shadow of his former robust self, from liver cancer two years ago.

She let the AgroMech stretch its legs some on the way home, a pounding run up and down the knife-back ridges that slanted across the MacDougall spread, swerving around outcrops of granite and ancient lava, bounding joyously through evergreen shrubs gnarled by the endless steppe wind into shapes like stooping giants. A few Ranger cows loped away from the snorting, rampaging ’Mech with their horse-sized calves racing frantically behind.

Her father would not have beaten her for the sin of running valuable meat off the stock. He’d never raise a hand to any female unless she were an enemy soldier in battle, much less his own flesh and blood. But he would give her that look, and shake his head. And that, to Callie’s mind, was probably worse.

When Callie got back Ma stood on the farmhouse porch with a hand raised to shield her eyes from the slanting late afternoon sun. Ellie stood at her hip with both arms around her mother’s waist, looking at the ’Mech with huge green eyes. She had taken James MacDougall’s death harder than either her sister or her mother, at least visibly. She had retreated into herself, spoke seldom, acted as if she always expected to be saddened or scared and was seldom disappointed.

Something about her mother’s manner made Callie bring the machine to a teetering stop five meters from the porch instead of heading on back by the shed to park the Ranchhand.

“Ma,” she called out the open side of the cockpit. “What’s the matter?”

Her mother smiled, looking for a moment again like the image in the hologram she had posed for with her husband shortly after Callie was born, that sat on the end table by the living room sofa. She even wore the same blue gingham dress, Callie realized. “Nothing’s the matter,” she said, and to Callie’s astonishment sounded a bit breathless. “Come on down from there and meet your new father.”

“New —” The next word caught in Callie’s throat as if barbed.

A tall thin man stepped out on the porch. “Yes, come on down from there, Callista,” Rance Mason said. “No daughter of mine is going to labor like a hired hand.”

“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want you driving that old AgroMech any more?” a voice asked from behind her.

She let go of the bale of alfalfa hay from which she’d been peeling a flake to feed the horses and stood upright. “Yes, sir,” she answered, keeping her voice level and her hands before her where the man couldn’t see them ball into fists. Six months had done little to reconcile Callie to her mother’s marrying the charming ne’er-do-well of Abiquiu County. But then, she hadn’t seen much of his alleged charm.

“Then why were you out in it?” he demanded, coming forward. Afternoon sunlight crowded in through the door behind him. Blue-white dazzle made him hard to make out in the barn’s relatively cool gloom. The warm smells of hay and horses, normally comforting, now seemed somehow muted, sterilized.

“Rounding up strays from the herd,” she said, turning. “What’s left of it. Seems like nothing gets done around here any more. You don’t want Ma or me doing any work. But you’re all the time in town on your business, and you won’t hire on any hands.”

“Times are tight in the Trinity,” he said. “Money’s tight. My bidness is all that keeps this family going.”

“Keeps the money going, more like,” she said. “All that ever happens is the money Ma got from Daddy gets spent, but none ever comes in.”

He was close to her now, closer than she was comfortable with. With no more warning than a lightning strike his right hand lashed out.

Even then she was tall for a girl, and strong from slinging twenty-kilogram bales and hefting heavy equipment day in and out, though her mother always told her she’d never have looks, with her plain, somewhat round face and all. She learned then just how much stronger a man was than even a strong woman in the upper body. His backhand struck red sparks off her cheekbone into her brain like flint on steel, made her eyes water and her head reel. She found herself lying on her back among busted bales without any sense of having fallen there.

“You got a mouth on you, girl,” he said, a shadow standing over her. “You got to learn to obey. You got to learn to respect your elders.”

Her eyes darted left and right. For some reason her heart thrilled with fear. But the bales rose like ramparts left and right, trapping her with the foamed-cement wall behind.

“You don’t know what it does to a man,” he said. His voice had changed. Dropped low in tone and low in the throat. He was doing something with his hands she couldn’t see for the sun glare and the sweat and tears that burned in her eyes. “Watching a girl come up like you are. Blossom before his eyes. You — ”

The weight that came down on her was crushing and abrupt. Half robbed of breath she tried to fight. But he was heavy as sorrow, and his arms as strong as grief.

“Callie!”

She jumped as her sister grabbed her arm. The younger girl’s seldom-heard voice was not loud but pitched to penetrate the electronic music pulsing through Callie’s sound-damping headphones.

Outside the window the day had dwindled to nothing but purple and indigo and stars, and a touch of grey brushing the tips of the highest peaks of the Dolores mountains to the east. It was full dark in the room they shared, but for the glow of the desktop monitor where Callie was studying about the Fourth Succession War Hanse Davion had started as a wedding present to his Steiner bride for her Modern History class, and for the wistful tiny gleam of the handheld game unit Ellie had left abandoned on her bed, where she had been playing a game about little girls and city parks and flowers that seemed as remote from their life out here on the verge between mountain and desert as the yellow backside of El Dorado, the system’s biggest ringed gas giant.

“It’s Tyco,” Ellie said, now low and urgent. “He’s barking fit to bust.”

Having peeled off her headphones Callie could hear the Collie-Chow cross going off outside, low and angry. He was Ellie’s special pet; Callie got along well enough with him, but had never been much for dogs since One Ear died.

A snarl of automatic gunfire, muted by the walls but unmistakable to a Galisteo frontier girl. A yip, brief.

Ellie’s face crumpled. “Tyco!”

Callie grabbed her arm. “Come on.”

Clutching her ragged teddy bear Don Fernando to her chest, Ellie MacDougall stared at her stepfather with wide green eyes. She stood beside the shed, its boards sun-greyed and buckled, in white and gold wildflowers up to her hips. A stiff spring wind whipped her smock around her bare legs and sent bits of grass seed prickling at Callie’s cheek. Bees hummed around them, and the flowers smelled sweet as rock candy.

“You run along now, honey,” Rance Mason said in the phony country-boy accent he liked to put on to try to fit in. He was smiling that lopsided smile of his. Certain other women of the county tended to go all fluttery at it. It turned Callie’s soul to ice. “Go on in the house now.”

The girl hugged Callie. Then turned and fled. Callie felt a stab of hope that her sister would bring their mother.

The hope died like hope. Ma never came. She never listened, where Rance Mason was concerned.

The man turned to Callie. “Weren’t expecting me back so soon, huh?”

“You usually don’t come back till after dark,” she said. “Maybe not then.”

He laughed. “Come give your daddy a kiss. A big old kiss.”

He took a step toward her. She brought up her right hand.

He laughed again. “A wrench, huh. You been trying to get that old thing running again?”

He nodded to the Ranchhand AgroMech which stood beside the tumbledown shed. Trumpet vines had grown up its legs and nodded orange flowers to the wind. A Western scrub lark had built a nest at the top of the cab. A piece of straw stuck out all any which way.

“It runs just fine,” she said. “Just wants tuning. You stay away from me!”

He had taken another step forward. She brandished the heavy eighty-centimeter tool at him.

“Huh.” He shrugged, fingered his long chin. “So you think you’re through, huh? Well. Well, I tell you, you gotten kind of rangy and homely for me anyway. Two years, a man starts to think about a little change in pace.”

He fingered his sharp chin, feigning thought. “Maybe it’s time to break in that younger sister of yours. She’s mighty sweet. She wants raising up right.”

“Touch her,” Callie said, “and I’ll kill you.”

He stood there and looked at her with his head tipped to one side.

She dropped the wrench into the flowers. Then waited, head up and arms slack by her sides.

In the front room Rance had the closet door open. He was struggling with the unwieldy length and weight of James MacDougall’s old Zeus rifle. He had the weapon halfway out of its snallygaster-hide case. Callie’s mother stood to one side twining her hands in her apron and looking sick.

The man saw Callie come in and thrust the weapon at her. He couldn’t hold it up for long; its still-cased butt thumped on the hardwood floor Jim MacDougall had laid by hand when Callie was four, before Ma was even pregnant with Ellie.

“Here,” he said, fumbling with a box of cartridges the size of a big man’s fingers. “You do this. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“Oh, Rance,” Callie’s mother said. “Maybe we should go.”

“Too late!” Sweat streamed down his face despite the artificial cool of the climate control. As if to confirm his desperate assessment a series of high-pitched yips rang from near outside. They might have been coyotes — the totem animal of the three Southwestern Worlds, loved and hated both. But Callie knew they weren’t, even before a motorcycle engine snarled from right outside the house.

“They’re here, dammit. You take this, girl. Make your damn self useful. Other people done for you all your life. Now you give back.”

For a moment she stared at him. His eyes were wide and had gone so dark they were almost black.

“You’re good at hitting,” she said. “But not somebody who hits back, huh?”

“Now, Callie,” her mother said, “I know you and your father have had your differences — ”

“He’s not my father!” Holding tight to Ellie’s wrist she turned and ran for the back of the house.

“Damn you, you little bitch!” Froth flew from Rance Mason’s mouth. “You’re nothing but a little coward.”

Ellie hung back, terrified.

“You leave us here, missy,” her mother said, “don’t ever come back.”

A heave of Callie’s hips and shoulder overcame her little sister’s inertia. She towed the younger child rapidly toward the back door.

“You’re no daughter of mine, Callie MacDougall!” Her mother’s voice rang like a bell as she burst out the back screen and into the night.

“Liar!”

The slap rocked Callie’s head back so hard a flying pigtail stung where it struck the fresh red palmprint. Callie’s mother was still reckoned a mighty handsome woman by the men around Deadman’s Mesa — though quietly, when her husband was in earshot, since he was known for his temper a lot more than his self control. She had filled out some, though, over the years, spread out through the hips a bit. And the labor of trying to keep the ranch from crumbling back into the alkali high desert soil despite her husband’s proscription, done in intense bursts during his frequent and lengthy trips into the county seat at Abiquiu, had strengthened her already-large frame.

Callie touched her cheek. She tasted the iron tang of blood. “Ma! I’m telling the truth. I swear!”

“Don’t lie to me!” Ma screamed at her.

Callie drew in three gasping, despairing breaths. She felt — lost. Helpless. Her cheeks burned from more than the slap. It was as if she was talking to a stranger.

“Ma, I’m not. I’m telling you, he — ”

She faltered as rage flared in her mother’s eyes. They were green like Ellie’s, not cornflower blue like hers.

“You’ve always been jealous of Rance.”

“Jealous?” she shouted back through tears.

Her mother nodded. Her mouth was a line, “You wanted all your mother’s attention for yourself. Well, for you and Ellie. And that’s natural, a little girl without her daddy. But it’s gone too far now.”

“Gone too far?” Callie gasped as if she’d just plunged into a snowmelt stream in springtime. It had gone too far. Way beyond too far. . . .

“I won’t let you break up this family, missy,” Ma said. “I’ve fought too long and hard to keep it together. You hear me?”

“I don’t see much fighting,” Callie flung back, “but there’s sure hitting. Only it all goes one way. I’ve heard you crying by yourself in the pantry when you thought Ellie and I were outside. You’re nursing a shiner right this minute!”

Her mother shook her head. The anger seemed to have drained from her. Now she was a long-suffering parent, struggling to understand and be understood by her wayward teenage daughter.

“You don’t understand. He loves me. He loves us. You don’t know how hard it is on him, you’re so ungrateful.”

Callie just stared. Her breath seemed to have congealed in her throat.

You were strong, she thought. You held us together after Daddy died. And you must’ve been strong before. Daddy would never marry a weakling, no how.

But she didn’t say these things. Because her heart could not harbor the feelings she got when her mother struck her.

“Quick, now!” Callie’s voice hissed like a startled road snake as she chivvied her sister up the handmade wood ladder to the loft of the darkened barn. “Hide in the hay and don’t come out for anything.”

At the top of the ladder the girl stopped and looked down at her sister. Then she vanished. In his stall to Callie’s right the ten-year-old chestnut gelding, Tony, stamped his foot in agitation. He whickered a challenge to the horses he sensed moving around outside.

She’ll be safe here, Callie told herself. At least as anywhere. The renegades wouldn’t set fire to the barn before they stole the two horses, Tony and his cranky sister Chica. And maybe not then. There was a door at the back of the loft for Ellie to escape out of if the raiders did torch the place. It was a half-cylinder of stressed cement anyway, although the wooden interior structure and stored hay would go up pretty fast.

From the field behind the house Callie heard screams. It was time to go.

The Comanche sentry sat on the ground beside the derelict AgroMech with a long hunting rifle cradled in his arms. Though he was mostly a shadow mound with little more definition than a barrel cactus, something in his posture told Callie he felt aggrieved at having to watch a lousy old Ranchhand, which any fool could plainly see wasn’t going anywhere, while his buddies had all the fun. She let herself momentarily hear again the shouts and hoofbeats — and the screams — from the bean field around behind the house, confirming that some of the raiders were still busy amusing themselves.

Then she shut the noise off again. She could risk neither pity nor fear. There was nothing within her but a white-hot chill. She needed to keep it that way, she knew. Or she and Ellie would die.

Of more immediate concern, she reminded herself, was the twenty-ton Locust crouched out in front of the house. Fortunately it faced west, across the scrub toward the county road. Assistance from neighbors or the Rangers would most likely arrive that way.

But the local militia had nothing that could survive tangling with a BattleMech, even one as puny as a beat-up outlaw Locust. Callie knew a lot about BattleMechs. The striding metal giants with their enormous power fascinated her. She studied them religiously online, every night after her schoolwork.

A meter and a half long chunk of native Galisteo ash, ten centimeters by ten, lay in the weeds and trash at the foot of the shed. Slipping forward silently — not that she needed to be that quiet — she picked it up. She cocked it over her shoulder.

Tears streaming down her face she took a running start. The man heard her at last. It was bad for him; he straightened slightly and raised his head as if to listen. It gave her a clear shot.

The impact ran through the heels of her hands all the way up her arms. It seemed to do so something funny to her stomach so she almost puked.

She hit him again in the side of the head. The bones of her arms vibrated painfully as if ringing from the shock. The man fell over clutching at himself in silent agony and rolling on the ground. He had heavy dark hair braided into a long ponytail.

She raised the makeshift club again. By the fourth or fifth time she struck, she felt hardly anything at all.

The Ranchhand started first try. She knew it would. She turned the big Diesel over every day that her stepfather went into town to do his mysterious business. As for the vines that twined around it, they would no more hold it than her mother’s final words had held her inside the house to die helpless and afraid.

Working the clutch with practiced thrusts of her leg she engaged the leg actuators. She had to move, now, because the renegade Comanche raiders had definitely heard the engine fire up.

Rex Kicking Bird was also pretty pissed at being stuck in the cockpit of this lousy ’Mech while the party went on. He just hoped they saved some for him. It stank of oil and fermented sweat in here, and only some of it was his. He was the dude driving the baddest machine around. Why didn’t he get first crack at the good stuff?

The jackhammer clamor of a spray of .50-caliber bullets against the Locust’s left hip actuator housing and the port side of his cockpit made him almost jump out of his skin. The three-sixty vision strip mounted above the windscreen didn’t work, like a lot of systems in the old and ill-maintained BattleMech. But just turning his head he didn’t have a lot of trouble seeing the muzzle flare, big as a Range bull, the machinegun made as it fired another burst.

He stared in wordless amazement. It was a crapheel AgroMech firing him up.

The Locust couldn’t swivel its torso. Kicking Bird had to get the thing walking before he could bring his own weapons to bear. By the time he lined up the sights on the ’Mech which had shot at his ride it was a quarter-klick off, bouncing away at a pretty respectable clip up the side of a low scrub-dotted hill.

He punched the firing stud for his centrally-mounted medium laser. A brilliant green flash lit the night, the side of the house, the underside of the windbreak Russian olive southwest of it, an ancient shed, and the hillside.

A three-meter tall evergreen scrub fifteen meters left of the fleeing Ranchhand flared white, briefly incandescent like a light bulb filament, as if struck by lightning. The glare died, leaving the scrub tree, too green to burn properly, sending up tendrils of greasy grey smoke.

“Whoa!” Kicking Bird exclaimed as his heat indicator shot way up. Coolant wasn’t circulating any too well, here, either. Snarling a curse he triggered twin bursts from his own arm-mounted machineguns. Big clouds of alkali dust puffed up either side of the AgroMech as it crested the rise, pale in the light of stars. He might have tagged the machine but it didn’t slow down. It dove straightway out of sight.

Screaming in fury he triggered another burst. He heard angry shouts from the porch. Some of his buddies wanted to know what the hell he thought he was doing.

That made him smile. He took a breath. Got hold of himself.

His smile broadened, showing where he’d been missing a tooth for a few weeks since Scab knocked it out in a fight over loot. Well, he’d get it replaced sooner than Scab would replace the guts Kicking Bird let out of him with his big Bowie. . . .

He was gonna get to have him some fresh hot fun after all. The dirt-grubber ’Mech was wads slower than his own fusion-driven war machine, run down and out of tune as it was. He reckoned the Ranchhand had enough lead on him now to make it a chase.

At least a little bit of one. He put his machine into a springing, rattling run at the hill.

Very little natural terrain on a habitable planet is actually flat. The chaparral of the Deadman’s Mesa district wasn’t hardly flat at all. And Callie MacDougall knew every fold of ground as well as she knew her own front yard. The marauder BattleMech might have been faster than hers, not to mention armored so well she could barely hope to scratch it with her single Sperry-Browning, and packing a laser that would flash-fry her in the cockpit at a single hit, charring her to charcoal and welding her carbonized tissues to metal briefly liquid.

But she didn’t have far to go, as the red-tailed hawk flew. And the two more shots the Locust took at her with that nasty green laser as it chased her over the hills went wider than the first one had.

The Range-bull herd had settled in for the night along a trickle of stream running down a shallow-sloped draw not six hundred meters from the house. The rhino-sized cattle, gene-manipulated reconstructions of the ancient Terran Aurochs but even bigger, smarter, and probably meaner, needed to eat the daylight hours away to fuel their vast and powerful bodies. But the UV-rich light of Galisteo’s sun pumped the local flora, sparse as it was, full of energy. They could settle down each night for a proper sleep.

Which they hated to have disturbed. Some of them raised their big wide-horned heads in annoyance at the familiar hated blat of the Ranchhand’s Diesel. If Callie ran around long enough they’d get mad enough to get up and attack her in spite of the fact they feared the AgroMech well. That .50-caliber wasn’t only for Galisteo’s very formidable predators. . . .

But Callie had no time to wait. And she wanted something very particular from her herd of just over a hundred surly beasts. Fortunately, she had the tool for the job.

She dialed up the gain on the ultra-prod mounted on the Ranchhand’s left arm. Zapping one of the adolescent bulls, much less Big Red his own bad self, would be disaster: he’d go rage-blind and charge the ’Mech, Sperry-Browning or not. Instead she found a two-year old heifer with half a meter busted off her right horn, whom she knew to have an excitable disposition.

The prod, a hyped-up version of a stunstick, shot a bright blue spark across half a meter of air to strike the reclining cow in her left haunch. She shot up to her feet squalling — and smelling — as if she’d been branded.

Callie touched her up again. The girl didn’t have to be too careful with the juice; once she got the herd up and moving she could keep them going by shooting behind the rearmost. Bawling in fear and outrage the heifer fled her tormentor, up the grassy bank of the skinny little streambed. Herd reflex made the others jump up and follow. To help them along Callie triggered a shattering blast into the night.

Up at the head of the draw, the small but infinitely deadly Locust loomed suddenly black against the starry sky.

The first thing Kicking Bird saw was a crapload of cows. Big cows, like the white-eyes ranchers ran out here. A seethe of flesh a hundred meters down the arroyo from him.

He didn’t care. On the herd’s far side he saw the AgroMech, dancing around as if it had kicked open a scarlet-wasp mound. He triggered his laser and was gratified to see yellow glowing globules of glass that had a second before been dirt fountain up the left-hand side of the machine. A half dozen gobbets clung to the Ranchhand’s leg like self-luminous fruit.

“Gotcha,” Kicking Bird cried.

Then he realized the herd, muscle and bone and wide, wide horns collectively massing at much as several Atlas BattleMechs, was running right toward him.

Heedless that the heat-needle was already in the red he fired the laser again. The beam struck a cow at juncture of neck and churning auburn shoulder and split the huge beast apart like a strike from a Hatchetman’s axe.

The thermal override kicked in. The Locust’s systems powered down with a dying whine.

He could still fire his machineguns. Fortunately they had locked aiming more or less at the onrushing herd. He saw one great beast, eyes rolling and foam flying from its mouth in streamers, go down. Then another, and another.

Then the first of the stampeding monsters crashed into the locked-up right grasshopper leg of his ’Mech.

The Locust tottered. An undifferentiated wave of Range-bull meat slammed against it. It toppled to the side.

Rex Kicking Bird screamed as his right shoulder popped out of joint when he struck the left-hand side of the cockpit. The machine bounced a little, then began to rock wildly as frantic Range cattle continued to run into it. Their frightened, angry bellowing filled his head.

Powerful as they were the monstrous cattle were unlikely to make much impression on the armored cockpit of even a light BattleMech. But pain and the sheer unexpectedness of events had tumbled Kicking Bird’s gyros as sure as getting knocked off its feet had done to his Locust.

Screaming in wordless panic he scrambled to his feet on the port side-window. He pushed open the starboard hatch, now overhead. Then he jumped up, caught the frame with his good arm, and kicking wildly boosted himself up and out into air that stank of churned up dust and dung and sweat-wet cowhide.

In the dark with his hefty harem jostling him from all sides, El Diablo Rojo missed his aim. The hook of his mighty rack of horns failed to impale the impertinent two-legs which had appeared out of its metal carapace like a fire-cicada shedding its husk. But the shaft of his right horn caught the human in the belly, doubled him up, and swept him off his machine.

Into the middle of a maelstrom of hooves. Bellowing triumph, Diablo Rojo began to jostle his way through the cows. It was his prize, damn it; and he meant to get himself a piece before there was nothing left.

The herd bull’s eyes weren’t anything to write home about, even in the light of the full blue sun. But ululating high-pitched cries told him right where to go.

“Died hard for a city boy,” Staff Sergeant Hector “Teco” Quivira said, shaking his head over what remained of Rance Mason. He clicked off his big flashlight.

“Muerta de las lanzadas,” remarked Yvonne Gutiérrez, the Galisteo Ranger platoon scout. Middle height, spare badlands build with a face like wind-eroded rock and a brush of broom-stiff black hair, she was half-Comanche herself and just a bit tougher than she looked. “Horseman speared him to the ground from behind, through the shoulder, see? Facedown in the beans. Then they kind of took turns riding past jabbing him with their spears. Takes a while if the boys don’t get impatient.”

She looked around. “What I don’t get is what happened to the dudes who did this,” she said, gesturing at the bodies and parts of men and horses strewn around the little well-trampled field behind the MacDougall house. “Looks like they got hit by a giant weed-whacker.”

Teco Quivira nodded toward the AgroMech, parked out in front of the house in a semi-crouch, as if it had hunkered down to peer inside curiously and frozen that way.

“I’d say that’s about right,” he said.

Captain Narayan “Frank” Singh of the Galisteo Rangers felt his cheeks tighten behind his well kept beard as he stepped into the open front doorway of the MacDougall holding. One of his men coming behind started to raise a flashlight. The captain waved him off. The headlights of the scout car parked in the yard facing the house cast plenty light inside.

More than enough.

Singh glanced only briefly at what lay in the open doorway. Apparently the man had been so engrossed watching and listening to what was going on in the living room that he never noticed the AgroMech’s approach. Until it touched him from behind with the Range-bull prod. Now he was half charred and half blown open like a frank held too long in a mesquite campfire.

The inner partition walls of the house were wood and synthetic paneling. Head-sized holes gaping in them showed how the ’Mech jock had stuck the machine’s .50-caliber through the door and hosed raiders off the former Ms. MacDougall — Singh had never been able to think of her as Mrs. Rance Mason, and it was pretty academic now.

Just how many raiders . . . well, that would have to wait on the coroner’s techs sorting through the wreckage. Singh reckoned they had a job of work cut out for them.

In the center of the floor James MacDougall’s widow lay on her back in a graceless sprawl. Somebody had thrown a sheet over her. The younger daughter, the redhead, lay sobbing across the motionless body.

The older knelt by her mother’s head. She was a blonde, Singh recalled. But in the light from outside he saw her hair, now, was mostly red, too.

“Sir.” He jumped. One of his deputies, now Private for the duration of the emergency, had materialized by his elbow.

“What is it, Watkins?” he asked.

“We accounted for all of ’em, sir,” the young man said. “Or, I guess, she did.”

Singh raised a brow. “All of them?”

“Yessir. Near as we can reckon, none of the owl-hoot bastards got away. Hoo-ee, you should see what them Range-bulls left of that Locust driver after they’d been stepping on him and tossing him a while.”

Singh held up a strong, slender hand. “Please, Private.” Even a Southwestern World Sikh had his limits.

Rocking ever so slightly, Callie stared down into eyes she knew would never see her again. She stroked faded strawberry blonde hair from her mother’s cool forehead. The hair felt lifeless to her hand, even though she knew full well it was no deader than her own.

“I’m sorry, mother,” she said. “I wish I could have saved you. But I had my call.”

She leaned forward to kiss her mother’s brow. “And I made it.”

“Perhaps you should come out, now, miss,” Captain Singh called from the doorway. “Your mother said your name was — Kali?”

Her senses bright with the adrenaline still sizzling in her veins like bacon in the pan, she caught the way he replaced the sharp “a” of her name with a broad one.

She knew the name he called her by from her schooling. She was a good student, quick-minded, with an imagination that ranged far beyond the ranch and even the endless steppe and desert of Galisteo.

“Yes,” she said, rising. “Kali. That’s me.”

Gently she raised up her sister from their mother’s prostrate form. Taking her by the hand, she led her out the door into the dawn.

The strong, grim men of the Galisteo Rangers stepped back to give her space to go.

PACK HUNTERS

By Jason Schmetzer

Monhegan

Federated Suns

13 May 3067

Lieutenant Ivan Sharpe watched the range fall on his heads-up display as he approached the nav marker. He kept his hands steady on the controls of his Cavalry Attack Helicopter despite the heavy vibrations and the crackle of burning wiring behind him in the cockpit. They had to get there in time.

The militia ’Mechs had lost the pirates at the edge of the Bankin Preserve, which meant that they were headed for the depot at the forest’s heart. Sharpe’s contract, his colonel’s contract, held them responsible for that depot. It was his to defend, now that the militia had dropped the ball.

Four ’Mechs, fifty tons and higher. Sharpe blinked. Twelve helicopters to stop four BattleMechs. His console pinged at him as the Cavalry roared past the nav point at better than 160 kph.

“All flights,” he said on the company channel, “keep together and keep moving. We can hold these guys until the ’Mechs get here. We just have to stick together.” They were promised a DropShip and ’Mechs.

“Nice speech,” his gunner said.

“You do the shooting,” he told her. He pulled back on his yoke and balanced the cyclic, bringing the Cavalry around and pointing it at the depot, two kilometers distant. “I’ll do the talking.”

“That’s a heavy lance, Ivan,” she said.

“We can do it,” he said. They had to do it. No one else from Regiment could get there in time. It was his helicopters or they pirates had enough time to destroy the depot. He turned the Cavalry’s nose away from the depot and onto the last bearing reported.

“Let’s find them,” he said on the open channel, “and let’s kill them.”

Warm shafts of sunlight penetrated the thick Monhegan forest cover. A bird flashed in and out of the sunlight between the thick gray maple trunks. Dominic Halstead smiled as he watched it, forgetting for an instant what brought him to this world. But only for an instant.

An alarm blared inside his cockpit as the mercenary’s lasers found him. The waspish beams feasted on the armor covering his Centurion’s chest, flash-heating the aligned diamond-steel composite until it ran like water. Dominic snarled into his neurohelmet and snatched at his controls, willing the ’Mech to respond. He was too slow.

“Someone needs to do something about these bugs,” he said. He let the Centurion’s balky right arm fall. The screech of tortured metal coming from the damaged shoulder actuator made him cringe. Outside the insulated safety of his cockpit, that sound would carry for kilometers.

A burst of static belched in his speakers, and then a voice. “Then bloody do something about them,” Charlie said. The telltale scratch of interference marked the firing of Charlie’s big Donal PPCs, making Dominic close his eyes. Too much gun for so small a target, he thought. Not that Charlie wasn’t right. Sometimes the big guns were all you had.

The unit had been on Monhegan for a day, scouting toward the loot. Charlie had led them here from Brockway, the full lance, to snatch some parts from a transit depot. Kerensky knew they needed the parts. Charlie’s Black Angels had seen better days, even before they turned bandit. It was supposed to be a simple job: walk in, shill the defenders, and walk out. Charlie paid good for the information. With the nonsense down in the Cluster heating up with the Taurians, he figured no one would be watching all the way up here.

No one except these double-damned helicopters. Ever since they skunked the ’Mech pursuit at the edge of the forest, Charlie had been intolerably cocky. Then the first helicopter spotted them, and the poking began.

Dominic pushed his controls forward, moving the Centurion between two massive Monhegan maple trees. The jutting shoulder guards on the ’Mech’s arm cut deep grooves in the sappy bark, but Dominic paid them no mind. The air in his cockpit was warm, but not stifling, and filled with the smells of a day in the cockpit. He toyed with the idea of opening the hatch to let some fresh air in, but a glance at the humidity index told him it would be a bad idea.

“At least it’s not ’Mechs,” Johnny Baron said. His Dragon was walking left flank, opposite Dominic’s Centurion.

“’Mechs would be easier,” the rearguard ’Mech’s pilot said. Janice Lipton preferred to face other ’Mechs. They were usually scared of her. Not too many jocks would tangle with a Stalker.

“Keep it down,” Charlie said. “We’re getting near the edge of the woods. If you see a chopper, burn it down.” The defenders liked picking on Charlie’s Warhammer. Dominic had echoed the damage schematics from Charlie’s ’Mech a few times; the vintage machine was more melted armor than ’Mech. Dominic had gotten a good view when they’d crossed a small clearing, and nearly burst his gut laughing. The Warhammer looked like it had been molested by an army of gremlins with screwdrivers.

Just then his cockpit alarms blared a warning: two more of the damned aircraft were coming toward him. He raised the Centurion’s right arm and canted the torso back to unmask his long-range missiles. No plastic bug was going to get a free shot at him, not this time.

The helicopters roared overhead without firing. His own burst of cannon fire and group of missiles rippled harmlessly into the sky, kilometers away from Dominic’s intended target. He swore into his neurohelmet, ignoring the chuckles it elicited from his lancemates.

God damn these mercenaries.

Sharpe dragged his yoke to the left, bringing the nose of his Cavalry Attack Helicopter around to port. The pirate lance was still under the cover of the thick Monhegan forest, but they wouldn’t stay there. The depot was barely two kilometers away, safely hidden in plain sight. It sat in the middle of a cleared fire zone a square kilometer in size. The pirates were barely a half a klick from the edge of the zone.

“Any word on the ’Mechs?” Sharpe radioed.

“Nothing yet, Ell Tee.” His wingman, Warrant Officer Samuel Howe, was in touch with Regiment. “Last I heard the DropShip was still boosting.”

“Bloody great,” Sharpe muttered. He brought the Cavalry into a low hover, meters above the treetops, and watched as the rest of his company swarmed on the pirate’s position. Pain made him shrug his shoulders together. The cockpit was too tight for him. There were calluses on the outsides of his knees where they rubbed against his instrument panel. The techs had given up repainting the scuff marks. The gentle stinging smell of burnt wiring told him his mad flight to get into position had cost him, but he ignored it. Either maintenance would take care of it or he’d be dead.

The platoon of Mantis Light Attack Helicopters that made up his Three Flight were blurs, zipping along at treetop height to flash laser fire at the pirate ’Mechs before they could respond. The Cavalry’s own targeting system couldn’t keep a detailed track on the ’Mechs at anything over a hundred meters, but the Beagle probes in the strike helicopters were more discerning.

Two Flight’s four heavy Yellow Jackets were hovering just off the ground behind the depot itself, waiting for the pirates to emerge so they could engage at range with the mammoth gauss rifles slung under their fuselages. It had taken them a bit longer to arrive. The big gunships were ponderously slow compared to the strikers, but they compensated in other ways.

The other two Cavalrys of One Flight were following Three Flight, dropping missile barrages on targets marked by laser fire. But were they hitting anything?

“Three-One,” Sharpe called, “report.”

Warrant Officer Danielson’s voice was too chipper for the situation. “Still beating the bushes, Ell Tee.” There was a flicker of light on Sharpe’s cockpit canopy. “Three-three and —four are still making runs.”

“Return fire?”

“Are they shooting, sir?”

Sharpe couldn’t help but smile. “Shoot ‘n scoot, Mike.”

“As long as they stay in the woods, Ell Tee.”

Sharpe brought the Cavalry’s nose down and accelerated toward the engagement zone, Danielson’s words echoing in his head. Once the ’Mechs were out of the woods they’d have clearer shots at his birds. They were fast, but his helicopters had weak wings. It would only take one shot to down most of his craft.

And those ’Mechs had a lot of guns.

“I can see the edge of the woods,” Charlie said. Dominic looked at the grainy imaged painted on his tactical display and sighed. The killing field was everything the intel predicted: a full kilometer of open terrain. The open ground beckoned to Dominic’s anger. He saw himself smashing enemy helicopters to the ground like a colossus. Damn these trees anyway.

“I’m clear,” Baron said. Dominic’s tactical display painted the icon for the Dragon just outside the treeline. There was a grin in his Baron’s exultant voice, and beneath it the staccato roar of his autocannon firing. Dominic opened his mouth to reply when his console beeped at him. Four more red icons flared into being behind the depot.

“Oh, shit,” Baron said.

The exposed blue Dragon icon flickered and died.

“Stay in the woods!” Charlie shouted. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, stay in the woods!”

“That’s a kill!” Sharpe called. He dove the Cavalry past the downed ’Mech, noting the heavy damage Two Flight’s gauss rifles had done to the sixty-ton ’Mech. Two of the rounds had combined to tear the Dragon’s left arm off at the shoulder, and a third was actually embedded in a rent in the tough torso armor over the ’Mech’s heart. The final round had done the killing, however, demolishing the recessed cockpit between the Dragon’s shoulders. “Nice shooting, Two Flight!”

Acceleration pressed him into his seat as he pulled back on the cyclic, raising the Cavalry higher in the air. His gunner, Corporal Julie Madsen, loosed a barrage of missiles at the treeline as they passed.

“Thought I saw something in the woods,” she said. The airframe vibrated as the heavy missiles rotated in the launcher, but Sharpe was long accustomed to the oscillation.

“I don’t tell you how to shoot,” he said, bringing the Cavalry around.

“And I don’t tell you how to fly.” There was a pause, and then she gestured left from her seat in front of him. “Now go over there. I want to blow something up.”

“Baron is gone, man!” Charlie was saying. “Must have been turrets on the depot or something. Artillery maybe. Something took him down in single salvo.”

Dominic grimaced and flicked the switch that muted the speakers in his neurohelmet. He’d seen the icons; it was more helicopters. More of these damn annoying insects that pecked and pecked until they hit something important.

Trees exploded a hundred meters to his left as one of the bugs unloaded another fart of missiles. He flexed his fingers and toggled his com system back on. They had to stay together.

“—we should have brought the DropShip,” Charlie was saying.

“Shut up for a minute,” Dominic yelled.

“—Good Christ, maybe it’s the Clans—“

“Shut up, damn it!”

“—there was some down in St. Ives, remember?”

Dominic turned the Centurion away from the woodline and toward Charlie’s Warhammer. It was only a hundred and fifty meters or so, but the trees slowed him down. Charlie didn’t stop babbling the whole time. Dominic came up behind the Warhammer and raised the fist on the Centurion’s left arm.

Then he pushed the seventy-ton ’Mech over.

“God damn it, Halstead!” Charlie said. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving our asses,” he said evenly. “Now shut up and listen.”

“We’re not going to hold them once they get into the zone,” Madsen said over the Cavalry’s intercom. Sharpe nodded at the words, knowing full well she couldn’t see it from her position in front of him.

“We’ll hurt them, though,” he said. “One-Two!” Howe. “Any word on the ’Mechs?”

“They’re in the air, Ell Tee.”

“ETA?”

“According to Regiment,” Howe said, “They’re on deorbit now. A couple of minutes to drop range.”

“Maybe we can hold them,” Sharpe said. Only a couple of minutes. Another fool might wander out where Two Flights guns could chop him. The bastards might stay lost in the woods for that long.

“Here they come,” Madsen said, just as a flight of missiles skipped past the fuselage.

Or they might not.

Dominic led the charge out of the treeline, letting loose a flight of missiles at a conveniently close helicopter. They missed, but the bug’s pilot jerked his nose away from the lance, and that was something.

“Make for the depot,” Charlie called. His Warhammer was between Dominic’s Centurion and Lipton’s hulking Stalker. The azure fury of his Donal PPCs flashed past Dominic, making the hair on his arms stand out. Both shots missed, but they scattered another bunch of bugs.

“Keep up your fire,” Dominic said, “and we can keep them off balance long enough to get inside the depot. They won’t dare drop missiles on us in there.”

“You’d better duck, Halstead,” Janice Lipton called.

A sledgehammer blasted the Centurion in the center of the chest, slowing its rush enough that Dominic had to clutch at his controls to keep it on its feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an explosion of dirt and a silver flash. The other helicopters had come out again. The ones that had killed Baron and his Dragon.

Now they were shooting at him.

“Son of a bitch,” he cursed. A loud clunk from deep inside the Centurion’s chest announced the readiness of his missiles, and he wasted no time. Dragging the reticle over the ungainly shape of one of the gunships, he jerked the trigger. He watched the missiles, ignoring the other helicopters driving toward him, and snarled in triumph as the LRM barrage tore one of the gunship’s rotors off, sending it crashing to the ground.

“That’s one,” he said. Only a dozen or so more to go.

Sharpe held the yoke as far over as it would go, trying to ignore both the pyre that had been one of his Yellow Jackets and Julie Madsen’s shouting. The legs of his G-suit inflated, pushing the blood back into his torso as the helicopter banked. Julie swore again and slapped a hand against the canopy for balance.

“Turn so I can shoot one of the fuckers!” she said.

“Do you want to drive?”

“Do you want to shoot?”

“Coming around,” he said. “Hit that bastard!”

“Almost in range,” Madsen said.

The missiles’ firing was anticlimactic. Sharpe watched all three flights bore in on the Centurion. Most of them hit, knocking the slender ’Mech to the ground. He kept the Cavalry’s nose down, speeding toward the target. The airframe oscillated in time with the reload sequence. A few more seconds. Sweaty hands tightened on the cyclic, damp and slick inside his gloves.

The Centurion flashed underneath and out of Sharpe’s vision. It had just begun to rise. Sharpe heeled the Cavalry over, letting the acceleration push him back in his seat. Lightning flashed past as the Warhammer trailing the Centurion fired again, but the storm of ions passed a dozen meters beneath them.

“Nice stop, Ell Tee,” Danielson called. Sharpe jerked his eyes away from the Centurion and found the four needles of Three Flight. “Can we play too?”

The lead Mantis dropped its nose and its altitude until it was skimming barely three meters from the ground. The other three fell in behind it, sliding from side to side as they accelerated. A column of dust rose behind the ‘copters as they passed 180 kph.

“Three Flight,” Danielson said. “Light him up.”

The glare was bright even through the darkened visor of his helmet. Sharpe watched the four VTOLs skip past the kneeling ’Mech, each one stinging as it went. The Mantis’ broke by pairs, one going left, the other right.

The Stalker in the rear of the formation settled back on its haunches and blew the leftmost pair out of the sky.

“Three-One!” Sharpe called. “Mike!” Static answered him.

“Howe!”

“Three minutes, Ell Tee,” his wingman called.

Three minutes. Surely they could hold for three more minutes. Sharpe angled the Cavalry around a clutch of stubborn maples. One hundred eighty seconds. That was all the time he needed.

“Thirty seconds and three ‘copters,” Julie Madsen said. “Doing the math, Ivan?”

“We can hold,” he snarled. The contract said they’d hold. They would hold. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A quarter of his strength was gone. How was he going to slow them down? A plan flashed through his mind, but he frowned. It would be expensive.

There was nothing else left to try. Sharpe rolled his head around, listening to the sinews in his neck crackle. His calves tightened as he flexed his legs in the cramped cockpit. To stand up straight again, to stretch, would be Heaven.

“Okay, troops,” he said on the company channel, “new plan.”

The ground shook as Charlie’s Warhammer charged past Dominic’s Centurion. Debris danced on the cockpit panels, pieces of controls knocked loose during the last attack. It had taken him two tries to get the Centurion on its feet.

“Stop lounging, Halstead,” Charlie sent as he passed.

“Easy for you to say,” Dominic muttered. The armor schematic on his damage panel showed more red than green. The lasers had shredded armor all across his ’Mech. He remembered how he’d described the damage to Charlie’s ’Mech — gremlins with screwdrivers — and moved the Centurion’s left arm up to where he could see it. He laughed. The description fit.

“We’re almost there,” Charlie said.

“I’ve got your backs,” Lipton said. Her Stalker was a hundred meters behind them, barely out of the woods. It was a smart position. It would take her behemoth a good month to hump its way to the depot. Back there she could range her lasers and missiles across the field as needed.

“The bugs are doing something new,” Charlie said.

Dominic ignored the Centurion’s arm and concentrated on the tactical screen. Three of the VTOLs were clustered behind the depot, using the buildings for cover. The three heavy hitters, Dominic thought. The rest were arcing around behind it, two hundred meters back.

“They’re coming around,” he said.

“Then get up here,” Charlie said. His Warhammer paused long enough to stamp the two-meter gates before moving into the depot proper. “We’re in.”

As one the three remaining Yellow Jackets rose from behind the depot and fired. Dominic saw the birds appear, saw the flicker in his instruments as three high-capacity electromagnetic cannon discharged in close proximity. He braced himself, prepared to be knocked over again.

Janice Lipton cursed.

“You okay?” Dominic asked.

“Please shoot those things,” she said. “They poked big holes in my pretty ’Mech.”

“Heads up,” Charlie called.

The rest of the swarm flashed overhead, led by the three thicker-bodied aircraft. Dominic couldn’t get the Centurion’s arm up fast enough; the earlier attacks had melted armor into the right shoulder assembly. Charlie got a flight of missiles off, but they flew wide.

“Janice,” Dominic said, but that was all he had time for.

Thirty-six short-range missiles knocked the massive Stalker over on its side like it was made of paper. It disappeared beneath a hellish storm of explosions. The hefty breeze carried the smoke just far enough away that Dominic saw the eighty-five ton ’Mech struggling to rise. A ruby flash from its arm-mounted lasers tore the tail from one of its attackers, but the damage had been done. The Stalker’s left knee was shredded.

The trailing pair of ‘copters arrived, and Dominic looked away. There was a flicker of reflected light across his controls. A pain-wracked scream screeched in his helmet speakers, distorted at the transmission point by hideous feedback. He heard the explosion through his cockpit as the Stalker’s ammunition exploded; felt it in the ground.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Charlie said. “We’re dead.”

“You might be right,” Dominic said.

The Centurion’s long-range scanners pinged.

Sharpe ignored the cheering over the channel. He concentrated on watching One-Three crash. The Stalker’s parting shot had taken Dancing’s tail rotor clean off, and the torque from the massive blade was spinning the ‘copter like a top. The pilot managed to aim the stricken craft for a clearing in the maples, but it still hit hard, flipping onto its side. The Cavalry’s thick rotor tore itself to pieces against the hard Monhegan soil, but it looked as though the crew might have survived.

“One minute for the ’Mechs,” Howe called from One-Two. He was orbiting the crash opposite Sharpe.

“We can take them, Ell Tee,” Madsen said.

“They’re just sort of milling around,” Two-One reported. “I think they’re scared, Ell Tee.”

Sharpe brought the Cavalry’s nose around to point at the depot. The Warhammer was actually shuffling around — Sharpe had never seen a ’Mech look nervous before — but the Centurion was watching them, its big right-arm cannon already pointed.

“The ’Mechs will be here in forty-five seconds,” Howe said. “Let them handle it.”

Two ’Mechs for five helicopters. Sharpe knew it would be a clean victory at Regiment. His troopers had done more than their share today. Helicopters don’t usually stop ’Mechs.

But his brief was the depot, and the pirates held the depot. Any second now they could start shooting it up, and all the ’Mechs in the world couldn’t save the munitions and parts there.

“We’ll take them,” he said.

“But the ’Mechs-“

“Are dropping, I know,” Sharpe said. “The pirates will be looking up at them, not down at us. Form up on me, flank speed, one pass and then support the ’Mechs.’

“You’re sure about this?” Howe asked.

“That’s our depot,” he said. “Two fight, wait until we get there, then pop-and-stop.”

Leaving the downed helicopter where it was, the remaining VTOLs fell in behind Sharpe’s Cavalry and accelerated. Overhead, the sky flashed with the blue flame of BattleMech drop packs.

“We’re so dead,” Charlie said.

“They’re coming back,” Dominic said. He moved forward until he could hide most of the Centurion behind the wall. His missiles could bear, but only just. He was hiding from helicopters. A week ago he’d have laughed at anyone who suggested it.

“That’s a lance of ’Mechs coming down, Halstead.”

“The helicopters will be here before them.”

“They’re going to kill us.”

“Fine.” Dominic stabbed the com system off and concentrated on the ‘copters. His HUD showed him range, bearing, and speed. All had passed one hundred fifty kph, and the trailers were still accelerating. He squeezed his triggers, firing everything, even the rear-mounted laser. It would hit something behind him.

Even Charlie got a shot off, a beautiful PPC stroke that splashed itself over the leading ‘copter’s nose. It wasn’t enough. Dominic’s cannon fire tore the rotors from one of the trailing targets, sending the slender arrowhead into the hard Monhegan ground. A hoarse victory scream escaped from deep in his gut.

Then the ‘copters arrived, and Dominic’s world exploded.

Sharpe’s right hand cramped into a painful claw as soon as he set the Cavalry down outside the depot. He clutched at it with his left, kneading at the knot of muscle in the palm. Julie Madsen laughed.

“It hurts,” he said.

“What?” She unbuckled her restraints and twisted in her seat. “No, the canopy is stuck.”

Sharpe frowned and looked away from his hand. There was a gray splash on the left side of the canopy, armor flash-melted by the Warhammer’s final shot and redeposited on the Cavalry’s canopy. It had sealed the cockpit closed.

“I told you to go right,” Madsen said.

“Don’t tell me how to fly,” Sharpe said.

A man tapped on the side of the Cavalry and gestured to Sharpe. The man was wearing a cooling vest; that made him the lance commander for the recently arrived ’Mechs.

Sharpe pointed to the melted armor fusing the cockpit closed. “Won’t open,” he shouted, hoping the man heard him.

“We could be here a while,” Madsen said as the man turned and beckoned to a couple other dismounted ’Mech jocks.

“Some of us longer than others,” Sharpe said, going back to massaging his hand. Half his company down. Most commands were disbanded with fifty percent losses.

“You did good, Ivan,” Madsen said.

“I got a lot of good troops killed.”

“No,” she said. “They did that.” She pointed over his shoulder at the smashed shape of the pirate Warhammer. Once Sharpe had captured their attention, Two Flight had popped up and put them down with accurate gauss fire to the back. The arriving ’Mechs had charged up ready for battle, only to find smoldering wrecks.

“I should have waited for the ’Mechs.”

Madsen took his cramped hand in hers and began massaging the palm for him. “You couldn’t have done that. Then the depot would be burning and we’d be supporting a ’Mech battle, trying to keep that idiot from getting killed.” The Mechwarrior was trying to chip the fused armor with the tip of a combat knife. Sharpe watched him until he managed to break the blade. Then he turned his head and laughed. A steel blade against diamond-weave composite.

“You might be right,” he said.

RED KHOPESH

By Steven Mohan, Jr.

New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis

Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery

6 February 3066

The man who called himself Mark Castor walked through the charred and blackened ruins of the neighborhood to remind himself why he was about to do this terrible thing. Gray ash swirled in the light breeze brought by twilight, coating his polished black wingtips and staining his cream-colored slacks, lending the air the taste of soot.

Castor walked amidst the broken and collapsed buildings, eyes down, searching for something in the burnt wreckage that had once been someone’s home. He didn’t know exactly what the thing he sought looked like, but he’d know it when he saw it.

He always did.

He kicked aside a blackened timber and orange sparks flew up into the purple sky. The traces of wood that had survived the inferno still smoldered, even after four days. Something stirred in him at that thought, but it wasn’t enough.

He kept looking.

The bitter stench of smoke clung to everything, no doubt he’d have to toss the slacks and the blazer later. Not to mention his tie. It was impossible to get the smell of smoke out of silk.

He frowned, feeling churlish and put-upon, which wouldn’t do at all.

And then something caught his eye.

It was really no more than a scrap of fabric, oddly shaped and singed at the edges, but it was exactly right.

Mark Castor looked down at the little scrap of pale pink cloth, the blue button eye, the half-smile left over from when the doll’s face had been mutilated. He felt his insides cooling to absolute zero, his guts turning to an ice stronger than steel.

He knelt down and picked up the scrap, handling it tenderly, as if it were a treasure of great value. Then he shoved it into his pants pocket and turned to go, ready now to do what had to be done.

The bar — Ronnie’s Place — was only six blocks down and three over from the nineteen homes that had been destroyed during the pirate’s raid, close enough that Castor decided to walk. By the time he reached the bar, dusk had given way to night and the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.

Castor shivered and pushed his way inside.

Ronnie’s Place wasn’t well lit, but it was cheery. White tablecloths covered the small tables, candles flickered in sconces on the walls, a polished bar slick with moisture sweated off the translucent green bottles of chilled beer.

This time it scarcely took Castor a second to find what he was searching for.

Amidst the quiet murmur of the regulars, the clinking of glasses, the dance of golden light, he saw her at a booth in the far, back corner. A booth with a nice view of the door and situated (he guessed) not more than five meters from some kind of exit.

Tracy Malfont.

Her low-cut black tank top revealed plenty of cleavage and hinted at the absence of a bra. Skin-tight black leather pants covered long, slim legs. She was a dishwater blond, hair cut short, mouth set into a tight, hard line, gray eyes that were all calculation.

She was sexy as hell, but she wasn’t pretty. She was the kind of woman men would fall over themselves to sleep with, but wouldn’t look at twice if she hadn’t been showing so much skin. Castor thought maybe she had been lovely a long, long time ago, and the thought made him sad in the same way that finding the doll’s torn face made him sad.

A regret for something lost.

He slid into the booth next to her, blocking her exit.

Castor felt the tip of a blade prick through the white broadcloth of his shirt, dimpling the skin just beneath the ribs.

She smiled at him. “No one invited you,” she said in a low, menacing voice.

Castor didn’t look at her. Instead he waved the waiter over. “Do you have sake?”

The boy’s furrowed.

Castor sighed. “A scotch, then.”

The boy’s face lit up, and he went to get Castor’s drink.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” said the woman, putting a little more force behind her short blade. “You are not welcome.” The smile never left her face.

“You’re not up for a little fun?” said Castor, letting her think she knew what he was.

She laughed. “Not with you.”

The stab of pain told Castor she was pushing harder. The trickle of moisture told him she’d drawn blood.

The boy returned with his drink. The kid couldn’t have been more than sixteen and obviously not very bright. To make matters worse, his attention was focused more on the woman’s chest than on what he was doing.

Castor bobbled the drink as the boy handed it to him, spilling most of the scotch and drawing the woman’s involuntary attention for a crucial second.

Castor’s right hand darted down, grasped her wrist, and twisted.

Something gave in the woman’s wrist and she gasped.

Her knife clattered to the floor.

Just as he caught the falling shot glass in his left hand.

“Ah, what a shame,” said Castor to the boy. (He still hadn’t turned to face the woman.) “Could you bring me another?”

“Of course, mister,” said the boy, bobbing his head obediently, pulling up the damp rag he’d been sopping up the spilled liquor with, and scuttling away.

Castor and the woman passed the short time he was gone in silence. Once, she shifted her body subtly, probably angling for another weapon. Castor employed a sharp downward jerk of her wrist to persuade her that that was not a good idea. Afterwards she lapsed into stillness.

The boy returned and set the drink down on the table with a loud clack.

Castor smiled his thanks, carefully snared the shot glass with his left hand, and sipped the amber liquid.

He sighed again. “That really is bad.”

The woman said nothing.

I plan to deduct the price of a new shirt from your pay.”

The woman blinked. “What?”

“Blood stains,” said Castor. “They’re just about impossible to get out.”

She shook her head. “No, I meant the part about the pay.” She opened her mouth. “Wait. You’re not Castor are you?”

Castor offered her a sharp smile with plenty of teeth and released her hand.

She snatched it away from him, cradling it against her chest while she massaged it with the other hand.

“I’m glad to see you’re not irredeemably stupid,” said Castor.

“You might’ve told me,” she muttered.

“I find this approach gives me a better idea of who my employees are.”

“So did I pass the test?”

“Oh yes,” said Castor, sliding a card across to her that listed a time and a place. “You’re exactly what I hoped you would be.”

Her eyes flickered down for a moment. “So tomorrow, then.”

Castor nodded. “Turns out you and I are going to have some fun after all.”

New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis

Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery

7 February 3066

Castor deliberately arrived fourteen minutes late to the meeting. Partly it was because Brother Richard Kittrick was a punctilious prig and Castor just couldn’t resist tweaking him. But mostly it was because Malfont’s crew was going to be there, and Castor was well schooled in the art of primate dominance politics.

Power meant never having to be on time.

So he made them wait.

When he stepped into the dark warehouse in the commercial district he found Malfont and the rest of her lance lounging around the cargo area, two women and two men, three of them leaning against the boxes stacked to the rafters, the fourth draped over a low wooden pallet, eyes closed, maybe asleep.

Primate dominance politics right back at you, Castor thought.

Kittrick of course stood in the middle of the group, practically at attention, but trying to look like he was not at attention, clipboard tucked neatly under his left arm. The man looked up and breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Mr. Castor. So good to see you. I thought you might not be coming.”

Castor chuckled. “I apologize Brother Kittrick, I was just enjoying the considerable charms your world has to offer.” He said it with enough enthusiasm that Kittrick had to wonder if Castor were making fun of him. Randis was not bad for a Periphery world, but not good for a world any place else.

Kittrick flashed him an uncertain smile and indicated Malfont with a gesture. “This is—”

“Oh, I’ve already had the pleasure of making Ms. Malfont’s acquaintance,” said Castor. He favored her with a warm smile.

“What’s the score?” asked the man laying on the pallet in a bored voice. His face was hidden by a thick, black beard, and his eyes were hidden by black sunglasses. He wore a royal blue ball cap pulled low over his forehead. That would be Colorado Henderson, Malfont’s second.

“Mr. Castor represents an organization called the Interstellar Relief Fund,” said Kittrick earnestly. “And he has come to this planet to help us get back on our feet.”

That was a lie, but Kittrick didn’t know that and he told the story beautifully, so Castor let him go on.

“He’s brought with him many items that will help our people: pharmaceuticals, seed grain, water purification units, and—”

“Money,” said Castor. “Two million C-Bills in currency, to be precise.”

Time seemed to stop for a second as the mercs digested that little piece of news.

“Supplies, equipment, and funds, all need to be disbursed to the outlying districts,” said Kittrick, “but—”

“But,” said Malfont, folding her arms across her chest, “after the latest hit you want to be careful. So you’d like a little extra muscle to escort your supplies.”

Castor nodded. “We can deliver supplies to the northern cities via DropShip, but we’re going to have to walk the material into the Golden Harvest Ag District.”

A man who hadn’t spoken yet folded his arms across his chest. “Why doesn’t the Brotherhood take care of it?”

He was tall, maybe two meters, with chocolate-colored skin. Khalid Iraabi. Most people would be intimidated by his size, but in a broken-bottle, no-holds-barred fight Castor would’ve been more worried about Henderson.

Or Malfont.

“Second Battalion is off-world searching for the pirates who hit New Hope,” said Kittrick, allowing irritation to creep into his voice. “And most of First is committed to defending the industrial cities to the north. That is why we hired you in the first place.”

“Our contract is for the static defense of New Hope,” said Henderson sharply. “Not escort duty.”

Castor shrugged. “If you’re not interested . . .”

The fourth member of Malfont’s Raiders was a slight woman leaning against a box behind Henderson. Comfort Sawyer looked over, displaying a little interest despite herself. Her skin was the rich red color of freshly-cut cedar. Her pretty face was framed by long raven hair. “So how much?”

Castor pursed his lips, made it look like he was thinking about it, even though he wasn’t. “Fifty thousand for the added risk.”

Iraabi glanced at Malfont.

You’re going to take it, thought Castor.

“These pirates are mean,” said Malfont. “Have you seen what they did to the town?”

Oh, yes, thought Castor, I’ve seen what they’ve done to the town. “OK, 50k more when the mission is complete.”

Malfont chewed her lip, thinking. No one else spoke. So they were disciplined. Good.

“A hundred is nice,” she admitted, “but it won’t come close to covering our expenses if we get hit.”

Castor stared at her. She was good. Of course, Kittrick had no idea what was going on. He probably thought they were haggling over price.

Castor frowned thoughtfully. “If we run into trouble, I’ll promise you, hmm, let’s say 25% salvage.”

“Fifty,” said Malfont.

“Forty,” said Castor. “And not a penny more.”

Malfont glanced back at her associates. No one spoke, but she must’ve seen what she needed to, because when she turned back to Castor she said, “The terms sound good.”

“So, then, we’ve got a deal.”

Malfont flashed him a tight smile. “Maybe. First, I’d like to know a little more about my employer.”

“That hardly seems necessary,” Kittrick blustered. “The Fiefdom of Randis vouches for Mr. Cas—”

Castor laid a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Brother Kittrick.” He held his hands out palm up. “Ask your questions.”

Malfont studied him for a moment. “You’re Draconis Combine, right?”

“Turtle Bay,” said Castor.

That earned him a raised eyebrow. There was a slight pause as Malfont did the math. “You must hate Clan Smoke Jaguar.”

Castor said nothing.

“Of course, there is no more Clan Smoke Jaguar.”

“Of course,” said Castor evenly.

“Tell me how you came to be here,” said the woman, brushing a strand of dusky blond hair out of her face.

“I was a professor. English literature, if you can believe it. When the Jags destroyed Edo, it prompted a greater interest in interstellar relations. So I came to the Periphery to see if I could do some good.”

Like all good lies, it was swaddled in a bundle of truths. If anyone went to the trouble of checking Castor’s story, they’d believe it, because it would feel right. His name really was Mark Castor, and though that wasn’t his full name, it was what he’d gone by ever since he’d moved to Turtle Bay. That’s the name Malfont would get out of her sources, even if she was lucky enough to have an ISF contact.

And he really had been an English professor. He could talk for hours about The Canterbury Tales if he needed to prove it. And the destruction of Edo really had woken him up, though not precisely in the way he was suggesting.

It was a good cover.

Truth was always the best lie.

“Where were you born?”

Castor blinked. He hadn’t been ready for that question. Since he hadn’t prepared a plausible lie, he answered with the truth. “Lee.”

“Lee?” growled Henderson. “How did a FedSuns citizen turn into a Snake?”

Even Kittrick looked curious now.

“Does it matter?”

“Some of us used to serve in the AFFS before,” said Sawyer softly.

“Before what?” asked Castor.

“Before,” said Malfont crisply.

Castor nodded. And now that they knew they had a FedSuns citizen, they’d think he was an MIIO operative sent to retrieve them unless he explained exactly how he’d come to live on Turtle Bay.

He’d slipped. It was a small one to be sure, but still a slip.

Castor smiled gently, remembering Serina’s dark hair cut short, those blue eyes, her mischievous smile, the feel of her body under his hands. “I fell in love. You can look it up if you like.”

It seemed no one had anything to say to that.

“Anything else?” asked Castor.

Malfont shook her head. “Draw up the contract and we’ll sign.”

Castor nodded. “Good.” He turned to look at the Fiefdom official. “And now maybe Brother Kittrick can tell us about the pirate attack. So we know what we’re up against.”

Kittrick nodded. “They came in fast. They jumped into a pirate point and raced in at two gees. Their Leopard grounded just outside New Hope. They debarked two ’Mechs, a Hunchback and a Panther and headed straight for the water purification plant. Carried off a pile of spare parts. It’s like they knew exactly where to go.”

“And the damage to the city?” said Castor.

“The pirates made a bee-line for the plant,” said Kittrick bitterly. “They didn’t care what was in the way.”

“And I’m sure the fire fight with your garrison force didn’t help,” said Malfont mildly.

Kittrick gave her an odd look. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as Castor had thought.

“How many dead?” Castor asked. It was a bad question, but he just couldn’t help himself.

“Two hundred,” said Kittrick grimly.

“Any idea who they were?” Malfont asked.

Kittrick shook his head. “Someone new. The odd thing is we haven’t had much problem with pirates in the last year or two. Almost like someone cleaned them out.”

“Maybe you got complacent,” said Malfont easily.

Kittrick opened his mouth, but Castor cut him off before he could respond to Malfont’s jibe. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed tweaking the brother.

“Markings?”

Kittrick touched his heart. “They had black scarab beetles painted here.”

“Black Scarabs,” said Castor. “Sounds like a nasty bunch.”

Kittrick nodded. “I’d guess they’re a small band, too small to mess with any of the major Periphery powers, so they prey on small settlements. Sometimes an independent world like Randis.”

“Two ’Mechs,” said Henderson, stroking his beard. Sometime during Kittrick’s dissertation he’d sat up and pretended like he was paying attention. “Versus our lance and . . . “ He looked at Kittrick and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“I’m leaving the Blackjack and the UrbanMech here to garrison the city. But I’ll bring along my JagerMech.” He glanced at Castor. “The Fiefdom of Randis will guarantee that the Interstellar Relief Fund’s kind charity is properly directed to the people who need it.”

“So five against two,” said the tall, dark man. “Sounds like good odds.”

Kittrick snorted. “Just because the Scarabs only used two ’Mechs before doesn’t mean that’s all they have.”

“Still,” said Malfont, “we have five.”

“Six,” said Castor softly. “I have a ’Mech as well.”

Malfont’s Raiders were in for a big score, so none of them ventured their opinions on their employer’s ability to pilot a ’Mech, but Castor noticed a smirk flit across Henderson’s face, watched Iraabi and Sawyer share a look.

Malfont, however, didn’t look amused. She studied Castor thoughtfully while she rubbed her wrist.

“Six ’Mechs,” said Kittrick. “Half a company. “I almost hope we do find the pirates.”

Oh we’re going to find them, my friend, thought Castor. You don’t know it yet, but we are going to find them.

New Hope, Southern Continent, Randis

Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery

9 February 3066

When Malfont showed up she was wearing less make-up and showing less skin. She wore a cotton blouse dyed turquoise that made her gray eyes look blue and a long black skirt. She’d gathered her dishwater blond hair into a pony tail. It was a softer look and Castor liked it better than her Vixen from Hell.

He thought she looked lovely.

She seated her self next to him at the conference table, not across, a choice that told Castor something about her considerable skill as a politician.

“Do you have the contracts?” he asked.

“Right here,” she said and produced three sheaves of paper from a leather-bound folder. Paper. Castor had to stop himself from shaking his head. This was the Periphery, after all.

They sat in a conference room in New Hope’s biggest hotel. It was a small room with pale green wallpaper decorated with a couple of bland landscape prints. The table was pressed wood. The chairs were pre-formed plastic. It was the kind of place less suited for interstellar intrigue than for a meeting by the local book club.

Castor couldn’t think of a reason to sweep the room for bugs beforehand, but he had anyway, more out of habit than anything else.

The room, of course, had been clean.

Castor reached for one of the packets of paper and turned to the last page. He looked up. “You haven’t signed.”

Malfont flashed him a smile. “I wasn’t sure what name you wanted to use. Mark Castor or Mark Davion.”

Castor managed to keep the surprise off his face, but it was an effort. So. She had very good contacts indeed. He sat back in his chair. “It’s Mark Castor-Davion, actually. How did you know?”

“Once she knew you were Lee, Comfort thought you looked familiar. Then it was just a matter of looking it up.”

Castor nodded.

“Are you in line for the throne?”

He barked a laugh. “Everyone named Davion is in line for the throne. Unfortunately, the line stretches from New Avalon to New Syrtis, and I’m not anywhere near the front.”

“You’re a baron.”

Castor snorted. “My brother’s a baron. I’m just a family embarrassment.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I haven’t called myself ‘Davion’ in almost twenty years. When I moved to Turtle Bay I stopped using the name. You’ll understand that it’s not too popular in the Combine.”

Malfont favored him with a level stare. “I think you’re lying. I think you know we would’ve pressed for more money if we knew we were negotiating with a noble.”

Castor shrugged. “What’s done is done.”

Now it was Malfont’s turn to laugh. “I don’t think so, highness. What do you say we revisit the matter of our fee?”

Castor fingered the doll’s face in his pocket. “No,” he said coldly. “We agreed to terms in good faith. If you won’t proceed, I’ll hire someone else.”

Malfont offered him a sharp smile. “There is no one else on this dirty, backwater world.”

Castor nodded. “Very well. Then I’ll have to withdraw my offer of charity. I’m sure the Brotherhood of Randis will be most distressed to learn you’re the reason they lost out on such a nice deal.”

Worry flashed across Malfont’s face, but she didn’t fold. “I wonder what the Brotherhood would have to say about a man who lies about his identity?”

“I told you the truth. My name is Mark Castor. I was an English professor on Turtle Bay. And I work for the IRF.” He shook his head. “A debate over my exact name won’t be enough to break a verbal agreement duly witnessed by a brother of the Fiefdom of Randis.”

Malfont folded her arms across her chest, pursed her lips. “Tell me,” she said softly.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me why you left the Federated Suns.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s none of your damned business.”

Malfont slowly exhaled and sat back in her chair, watching him warily. “Look. Something doesn’t quite add up here. If you don’t help me understand what it is, I will pull out of this contract and the Brotherhood be damned.”

Castor closed his eyes and drew a deep, shuddery breath, not wanting to remember and not able to stop. After a minute, he spoke in a husky voice.

“Her name was Serina. She was beautiful, she was . . .” He shook his head. “I met her at university when I was doing my postdoc. She was a writer. We, we fell in love.”

Malfont watched him gravely, absolutely still, measuring him with those gray eyes.

“I followed her to Edo. We married, had a little boy.” Castor’s voice caught on the word. He didn’t have to fake the emotion in his voice.

“Just like that,” said Malfont.

“No, not ‘Just like that,’” Castor snapped. “It caused a hell of a scandal. Marrying a Drac. My mother told me she’d never speak to me again. It took a lot of time and effort to win them back over. I had to take a trip to Lee just to mend fences.” He covered his eyes with his hand. “I left Serina and Tommy back home.”

“And?”

“And that was May of 3050.”

Malfont sucked in a startled breath.

“When I got back, Edo was a sea of radioactive glass and everything I’d ever loved was gone.” His words were sharp, brittle, all the sorrow cut right out of them.

Malfont reached forward and took his hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

He glanced down at that hand, her skin warm against his. Looked up and met her eyes.

“And now I suppose we go back to my room and really seal the deal.”

Malfont blinked. “I don’t—”

“One thing I’ve learned, Ms. Malfont, one thing the Jaguars taught me, is that there are no selfless acts. Everyone’s out for number one. I would’ve thought you’d have learned the same thing.”

She withdrew her hand. “You don’t sound like a philanthropist.”

“IRF is a charity organization,” said Castor. “That doesn’t mean we’re stupid.”

“So you’re angry,” said Malfont. “You want to bust a few heads. And where better to do it than the Periphery? And IRF hired you because they want someone who can provide security.”

Castor said nothing. It was easier when they told themselves the lies.

She shook her head. “It’s not a pretty story, but it does make more sense than your cover.”

“You think we’ll see some action?” Castor asked.

“Oh, I think you’ll be obliged.”

“You’re in, then?”

Malfont thought for a second and then nodded. “What do you want from me?” she asked.

He reached forward and signed the contracts, then pushed the pile of papers towards her. “I have certain expectations. I want you to meet them.”

She studied him for a second and then jerked her head down in a rough nod.

Castor pushed his chair back and stood. “Very good then.”

He stalked out of the little conference room, but not before he read something in those stormy gray eyes, something he hadn’t expected to see.

Hurt.

Main Road, Southern Continent, Randis

Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery

11 February 3066

Castor stalked his assault ’Mech along the reinforced ferrocrete road that connected New Hope to the Golden Harvest Agricultural District. The road trembled under the passage of his 95-ton Banshee. Castor hoped the highway would hold. It was supposed to be rated for 100-ton vehicles, but this was the Periphery and not everything always lived up to expectations.

Golden Harvest was little more than a scattered collection of ten or twelve buildings, home to scarcely a hundred souls, but all it would take was one water reclamation unit to pull moisture out of the vast salt lake the locals called the Sea of Poison and the land around the town could be made to bloom.

Unfortunately, on the sparsely populated world of Randis, Harvest was a good 1400 klicks from New Hope. And of course it lacked the spaceport needed to support DropShip ops. So there was no choice but to slog it out over ground, no matter how questionable the highway might be.

Not that the highway was likely to be a big problem for anyone else.

Castor’s BNC-3M was by far the biggest and most powerful ’Mech in the convoy, and he had no doubt it had drawn several startled looks from Malfont’s Raiders when they’d formed up outside the warehouse. The Banshee was painted the lustrous black of a moonless night.

No emblem.

Along with the black paint job, the demon’s head gave the Banshee a fearsome appearance, one matched by the machine’s actual armament. Twin PPCs mated with medium lasers jutted from its torso. A small laser mounted just above the cockpit rounded out its offensive capability.

The M-variant’s total reliance on energy weapons made heat a problem, but it also allowed its pilot to operate far from a friendly base. And Castor couldn’t have been farther from a friendly base.

And he could always step the massive ’Mech forward and throw an armor-splitting punch if he had to.

Castor had organized his force in standard escort formation. Brother Kittrick’s blue and silver JagerMech led the procession of sixteen trucks hauling semi-trailers at a stately thirty, forty kph. Malfont’s people patrolled the convoy’s flanks. Castor had reserved rearguard for himself.

The road curved around a stand of dark Douglas firs and Castor lost sight of the last truck. They were moving through East Kandlia, an area of rolling hills and fluorescent green foliage. The two-lane highway cut through an evergreen forest undergirded by heavy bracken. Decent cover for a ’Mech force, Castor thought. Even better for infantry.

No.

The ambush wouldn’t go down here.

Still, he would’ve felt better if he could’ve seen the whole convoy.

He walked his ’Mech around the trees and the road straightened out, giving him a view of the last half-dozen trucks and Malfont in her leopard-spotted Quickdraw a couple hundred meters ahead of him and to the left.

“Contact,” Iraabi snapped over the command circuit, jerking Castor out of his reverie, “North-nor’west, range 400 meters plus.”

Castor scowled. What the hell was going on? “Say again, over.”

“Moving to engage,” shouted the big man. He was piloting a Javelin, a small but fleet ’Mech. If he chased after the contact, the situation could quickly get out of hand.

“Negative, Iraabi,” Castor shouted back. “What are you facing?”

“Light ’Mech.” The man’s signal wavered and broke under the sound of multiple missile hits. “Warb— static —classifies it— static —a Koshi.”

Damn. Suddenly Castor understood exactly what had happened. No time to dwell on it now. He’d have to move fast to salvage the plan.

“Convoy halt,” Castor roared over the battle circuit. “Kittrick, Henderson, and Sawyer, hold your posits.” He stepped off the ferrocrete highway and pushed his 95-ton Banshee into a lope.

“But—” said Henderson, ready to argue.

“The Koshi is fast,” snapped Castor. “This could be an attempt to draw us away from the convoy. Stand your ground. Malfont and I will converge on Iraabi’s position.”

“Enemy is stepping back,” shouted Iraabi.

No doubt the Koshi was keeping out of range of the Javelin’s SRMs while simultaneously pummeling the small ’Mech with its longer range missiles.

“Don’t pursue,” Castor shouted.

As long as the Koshi kept a few hundred meters between it and the Javelin, Iraabi was a sitting duck. At least until Malfont and Castor could get there with their longer-range weapons.

It took extraordinary discipline for a MechWarrior to stand his or her ground and take fire without the option of hitting back.

But Castor couldn’t have Iraabi chasing after that Koshi.

He reached a clearing and took in the tactical situation with a glance. Iraabi’s Javelin was down on one knee. The Koshi had scored multiple hits with its LRMs, shattering armor and scorching the Javelin’s green paint job.

Malfont’s Quickdraw crouched next to the wounded Javelin, pouring crimson fire into a distant hillside. Her lasers suddenly cut out. “Damn. He was just there a second ago.”

The big man managed to stand his ’Mech up.

“What did you see, Iraabi?” Castor snapped.

“Take a look,” said the merc and a still picture came up on one of Castor’s data monitors. The gun camera shot was grainy and out-of-focus, nowhere near the quality of the video feed an Inner Sphere warrior would expect. Still it told the tale well enough.

The pic showed a light, bipedal OmniMech. That was a Koshi all right.

The ’Mech was painted red except for a red logo outlined in white over the left side of the machine’s chest: a knife with a narrow handle and a long, curved blade. This was a nasty weapon, one that could be used for either slashing or hacking. It was an ancient design.

One the early Egyptians had called “khopesh.”

Castor dropped down from his chain-link ladder, hitting the soft earth in an easy crouch. The cool evening air drank the heat from his body. Castor closed his eyes and stretched, working the soreness out his much-abused muscles. Somewhere a cricket chirped noisily.

Malfont’s angry voice cut through the peace like a blade slicing through flesh.

“What the hell was that?”

Castor exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Malfont looked as tired as he felt: khaki shorts soaked dark with sweat, cooling vest glued to her chest, dark blond hair matted and rank.

But she was mad, too, standing there with her hands on her hips, legs spread apart. Yeah, mad as hell. “Where did that Koshi come from?”

Castor shrugged. “You saw the same pics I did.”

She folded her arms across her cooling vest and scowled at him. A flush of pink colored her cheeks. “That wasn’t a Black Scarab,” she snapped.

“How can you be sure?” said Castor evenly.

“Well, how about the damn paint job?”

Castor pursed his lips. “Comfort’s ’Mech is mirror gold. Henderson’s is painted like a lionfish. Yours has leopard spots. And Iraabi’s is green. Yet you’re all Malfont Raiders, correct?”

She leaned in, pointing behind her. “But the Scarabs had the same paint job. Why would other members of the same unit be painted differently?”

“Maybe the two who attacked New Hope had the same paint job because they were brothers,” he said. “Or lovers. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. The red paint job doesn’t prove the Koshi isn’t a pirate.”

She put her hands on her hips. “’Koshi’ is the Snake designation for a Mist Lynx. That’s a Clan OmniMech. So why are we being attacked by Clanners?”

“Come on,” Castor scoffed. “We’re not being attacked by Clanners. Maybe the Koshi was captured. Or maybe it’s being piloted by a disgraced Clanner who joined up with the pirates. Or an ex-Smoke Jaguar.”

He stared at her steadily, daring her to push the issue further. To risk her secrets to gain his.

“You know what I think?” she hissed.

“No,” said Castor, “what do you think?”

“I think you’re engaged in some mad vendetta against the Clans,” she said, her voice rising. Suddenly others in the camp were watching. Teamsters, Malfont’s people, Kittrick. “You’re going to make them pay for Edo. I think that ’Mech was a member of some kind of Clan hit squad sent to hunt you down.”

Castor’s pulse pounded in his ears, but somehow he kept his voice level. “So I’ve attacked the Clans, huh? Now how exactly do you suppose I’d do that? It would take at least a company to raid even a garrison world. And a battalion would be better. If I had a battalion of ’Mechs lying around, why would I need to hire you?”

Malfont balled her hands into fist, her face twisted with rage. “Because you’re a damned Davion coward.”

That got everyone’s attention. For a second the camp was filled with perfect silence.

Castor raised his voice, making sure everyone could hear. “So today we were hit by a Clan hit squad? They sent a single light ’Mech against us and then withdrew. Sound like Clan tactics to you?”

Malfont opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Don’t know, Malfont? Well I do. Believe me, I know all about the Clans. He turned away from her, facing the crowd, and put out his arms, palms up. “So where are they? Why haven’t they attacked? Do you think they’re trying to work up their courage? Or maybe they’re so sick of bloodshed, that they’ve given up altogether?” He wheeled on Malfont. “Is that what you’re saying?”

She glared at him, arms locked tight across her chest, jaw set.

Castor shook his head. “No, the Koshi wasn’t Clan. He was acting like something else.”

A moment of silence drew out.

“Pirate,” said Kittrick.

“That’s right,” said Castor savagely.

Malfont stood there for a moment, eyes glittering with hatred, and then she turned on her heel and stalked away.

Main Road, Southern Continent, Randis

Fiefdom of Randis, Periphery

12 February 3066

The road dropped away from Castor’s Banshee, carried away by the dip in the earth. The convoy was passing through a narrow defile, cut by a long-dead river. The walls of a great canyon rose up on either side of the convoy, grand accumulations of sedimentary rock formed and then eroded away by the same forces, as if the earth was nothing more than a plaything for the winds and rains and flowing water to shape according to their capricious will.

Tension stretched Castor’s nerves taut.

Surely this was where the attack would come. In this remote area where they couldn’t get a signal out, where they were forced to wander through a warren of narrow passages, passing heedlessly under the guns of an unseen enemy.

He fingered the scrap of pink cloth stuck into the waistband of his shorts.

This was where the whole sordid game would play itself out.

The narrow gap between the rock walls forced the convoy to proceed single file and so Castor had rearranged his force, accompanying Brother Kittrick at the head of the convoy and placing Malfont in the middle and the remaining three ’Mechs in the rear.

Malfont had complained bitterly about the arrangement, arguing it was unwise to leave the rear without even a single heavy to guard it. Castor pointed out that a trio of ’Mechs ought to provide ample protection for the formation’s rear and sent her fuming back to the line.

Up ahead the defile opened into a narrow valley, wide enough for a ’Mech to pass by the convoy on the left. Kittrick was in the lead and Castor watched the Randis MechWarrior step his squat JagerMech past an opening in the right wall.

The big machine was ugly, with its rounded cockpit set well below its powerful shoulders. It stalked the world on clumsy-looking spade feet. But it was a dangerous ’Mech. Even with an idiot for a pilot.

Especially with an idiot for a pilot.

In his rear monitor, Castor saw Malfont’s Quickdraw rise on a pillar of plasma, using her Chilton 460 jump jets to leap over the trucks.

Just as emerald and ruby laser beams sliced into Kittrick’s right side, vaporizing armor and tracing black scorch marks across the JagerMech’s royal blue paint job. Castor’s external sensors picked up the heavy rattle of an autocannon.

“I’m under attack,” shouted Kittrick.

Castor immediately stepped his Banshee to his left, pivoting as he did so, just as Malfont’s Quickdraw came down near the head of the convoy. He pushed his ’Mech into a lope, heading away from the battle.

“What’re you doing?” she shouted. “Kittrick needs our help.”

“It’s the Scarabs,” shouted Kittrick. “I see a Hunchback and movement, at least two ’Mechs. I need help.”

Castor moved his Banshee just as fast as it would go.

“Castor,” shouted Malfont, “you coward.”

Castor brought his ’Mech to a sudden stop, reached out with his left hand and locked it on the Quickdraw’s right wrist. Then he reached back with his right arm, tightened the hand into a fist, and smashed it into the other ’Mech’s cockpit.

Ferroglass shattered under the impact and steel groaned as the canopy frame buckled under the impact.

Castor hit her again.

And again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Malfont shrieked.

Castor leaned down, so that his head-mounted laser was pointed directly at Malfont’s cockpit. It was only a small laser, but he was at point-blank range and he’d savaged her canopy. No ferroglass remained to offer even a hint of protection.

The slightest caress of his finger on his pickle and Malfont would die.

She quailed before him, sexy as hell in her shorts and cooling vest.

“Order the Scarabs to stand down,” he said over the command circuit.

She shook her head frantically. “I don’t know what—”

“Do it,” said Castor harshly. “Or I’ll fry you now.”

“OK, OK,” said Malfont quickly. “All Black Scarabs stand down. I say again stand down.”

Castor’s eyes flickered down to his rear monitor. The fire from the opening in the wall stopped. Kittrick’s JagerMech had been forced to its knees. Slowly it stood up. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“Malfont’s Raiders and the Black Scarabs are the same group,” said Castor, keeping a careful watch on Malfont.

“No,” Kittrick whispered.

Malfont said nothing.

“It’s true,” said Castor. “Why do you think she was so certain the Koshi wasn’t one of the Scarabs? Because she knew it wasn’t one of hers. Part of her crew acts as the pirates, while the rest are defenders. They provide both problem and solution and clean up on both sides. It’s the oldest game in the book.”

He saw Iraabi’s battered Javelin settle to the earth on its jump jets between the Banshee and the JagerMech. It landed with its back to the road, facing Castor’s weak rear armor. The light ’Mech’s SRMs were an itch Castor could feel in his back.

“W-why did you agree to accompany us on the convoy?” asked Kittrick, puzzlement in his voice.

“Are you kidding?” asked Castor. “The odds were six against two. They pick up all the equipment and money in the convoy, plus a couple of big ’Mechs. And it would all be low risk, since they’d take us unawares.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Malfont.

“Negotiate, of course,” said Castor.

“The odds are still six against two,” said Henderson.

Castor shook his head. “Five against two. The instant someone fires, Malfont is dead.”

“Still,” said Henderson.

Malfont’s bitter laugh filled the command circuit. “Don’t think you’re going to use my life to ransom yourself, Castor. My crew will see my death as an opportunity to split the take one less way.”

“I will fight to the death,” said Castor coldly. “You may take me down, but I’m going to do a lot of damage. To you, to the trucks, to my Banshee. This op’s going to turn into a big loss.”

“I don’t think you have the guts,” Henderson sneered.

“I do,” said Malfont quickly. “Listen to him, Colorado. He’s dangerous.”

“You’re just trying to save your own skin,” said Iraabi.

“Let’s call it a draw,” Kittrick whined. “We’ll allow you to withdraw. Maybe take a portion of the convoy.”

“We didn’t come here for a kill fee,” said Comfort. “We came for the whole deal.”

“Then take the whole convoy,” said Kittrick, “but leave us alone.”

“No,” snapped Castor.

“You don’t have a choice,” said Malfont.

Castor chuckled. “Don’t I?”

Suddenly multiple beams of energy stabbed Iraabi’s Javelin in the back. The little ’Mech was lightly armored to begin with and the rear was its weakest point. Powerful energies sliced through the Javelin’s Star Guard armor, reaching for the missile storage within.

The Javelin erupted into a brilliant orange fireball.

The ’Mechs in the side passage started firing again, targeting Kittrick’s JagerMech.

“Hold fire,” Castor shouted, “HOLD FIRE.”

“We don’t take orders from you,” Henderson snarled.

But the fire stopped.

“Don’t you want to see what you’ll be facing before you decide to fight?”

Beyond the wreckage of the burning Javelin, stood a Jenner and a Stormcrow flanked by a pair of Manticores. All painted red. All bearing the mark of the Khopesh.

’Mechs were beginning to appear on the cliff overhead, too: a Bishamon, a Timber Wolf, the Koshi.

“So the Koshi was yours all along,” breathed Kittrick.

“My scout forces were shadowing the convoy from the start,” said Castor. “They were supposed to stay out of sight. Too bad for Iraabi he had such sharp eyes.”

“That’s cold, Castor,” said Malfont.

“Yes, it is,” he answered. “You should have some company about now, Henderson.”

“I make out a Pack Hunter and—” The strength sagged out of his voice. “And an Atlas,” he whispered.

“By my count, that makes it twelve against four if you count the tanks,” said Castor. “Still want to fight?”

“What do you want?” Malfont whispered.

“I want you to join me,” said Castor.

“What?” snapped Kittrick.

“So that’s what this was all about,” said Malfont. “It wasn’t about charity or seeing some action. It was about recruiting.”

“That’s right,” said Castor.

“Listen—” said Kittrick.

“Why should we join you?” asked Henderson.

“You mean other than the fact that if you don’t I’ll burn you to ashes.”

“Yeah,” said Henderson. “Other than that.”

“All right,” said Castor, “fair enough. How about this? I’m a winner. Ask my people if this little exercise doesn’t convince you. You’re going to make lots of money. I won’t even take a share, other than what’s needed to keep you in armor and weapons. And no honor is required. Once a target’s been designated, I don’t care who you maim or rape or kill.”

“What’s the catch?” asked Comfort.

“There’s only one rule,” said Castor. “You attack who I say.”

“My God,” Malfont breathed, “you do have a mad vendetta against the Clans.”

“I’m not stupid, Malfont, and I’m not suicidal either. We’re not going to take down Strana Mechty tomorrow. But the Clans have one critical weakness, one I plan to exploit.

“And what’s that?” said Sawyer.

“Honor,” Malfont whispered.

“Very good, Tracy,” said Castor. “Which is why I’ve gone about building a force that doesn’t suffer from that defect. A force that can adopt a fighting style as nasty and ugly as its emblem.”

“Castor,” shouted Kittrick, “you can’t do this. They murdered two hundred people.”

Castor screwed his eyes shut, clutched the scrap of pink fabric, remembering why he was doing this.

Acknowledging the cost.

“If you oppose us, Kittrick,” he rasped, “it will be sixteen to one. Don’t make me kill you.”

There was a moment of silence and then Kittrick stalked his JagerMech towards the units blocking the mouth of the valley. The Jenner and the Stormcrow moved aside to allow him to pass.

“Castor,” snapped Kittrick, “You’re as bad as they are.”

No, thought Mark Castor-Davion to himself, I’m worse.

Because I had a choice.

THE LAST FULL MEASURE

By Kevin Killiany

Terran System

Military Academy of Aphros

Training Vessel Sheridan

22 November 3067

Every last reading was a lie.

Gripping the back of the command chair, Precentor Captain Teodore Kopulos could smell the tension in the bridge. Not quite fear, not yet, but the officers of the Sheridan knew they were in trouble.

Acting Ship’s Master Gerald leaned forward in the command chair, straps holding him against the inertia. Voice clipped with tension, he ordered the Ops Officer to double-check the radiation fluctuations. In the same breath he asked again for an update on repairs to the failed capacitor coupling. He waved off Tac’s report of anomalous debris in the gas giant’s gravity field and ordered a damage control team—at this distance it looked like a coolant leak. Kopulos begrudged the younger man his sharp eyes, able to read the engineer’s screen from the command chair.

Knowing his gross movements might distract those working frantically to save the ship, Kopulos flicked only his eyes from station to station, his head moving the minimal micro millimeters necessary for him to take in the each in turn. Whatever else might be said about the Bonaventure-class corvette, its bridge was laid out with efficient simplicity.

The Sheridan had been executing a tight hyperbola around the gas giant, slingshotting through the gravity well for cheap Vee on its way to the system’s nadir recharge station, when the port engine had blown, taking the aft stabilizing thrusters with it. In the space of a heartbeat the moderately daring maneuver had become a deadly tumble. Now the bridge crew was fighting the giant’s gravity, trying to turn their downward plunge into a low orbit before they fell far enough for the dense atmosphere to snag their jagged hull and strip the ship open.

Tactical repeated her report of proximate debris, her voice all but drowned out by the drive engineer’s whoop of success. The aft thrusters, half of them anyway, were back on line.

Acting Ship’s Master Gerald called out bearing and thrust numbers—he’d apparently been calculating their escape even as they fell. Helm responded instantly.

The sudden change in angular acceleration almost cost Kopulos his grip on the command chair. Around him the bridge crew still moved with frantic speed, calling out readings and actions in rapid coordination. But the edge of fear was gone from their voices, replaced with the confidence of triumph.

Tactical shouted—

Every screen went dead. The light panels flicked out. Only the gas giant’s light, sweeping the bridge as the viewport swung past it every few seconds, illuminated the men and women of the bridge, frozen in stunned surprise at their stations.

“Engine room, this is the Captain,” Kopulos said in the darkness. “Station keeping.”

The gyrations of the gas giant slowed as thrusters cancelled the WarShip’s tumble. At last the striped globe, a safe distance below, was centered against the vastness of the star field.

Kopulos did not order the lights up, preferring the steady glow of Jupiter as he considered the shadowy forms of the cadets.

“Analysis, Mister Gerald?” he asked quietly.

“I killed us, sir.”

“Succinct,” Kopulos conceded. “Any thoughts on how?”

“I ignored the Tactical Officer’s warning about orbital debris until it was too late to avoid collision, sir.”

“And why did you do that, Mister Gerald?”

“I was too focused on getting internal damage under control,” the cadet answered promptly.

“Things were happening very quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you’d had more time you would have realized the debris field represented a danger?”

The senior cadet had more sense than to fall into that trap. Gerald remained silent, gripping a handhold as he floated at attention.

“Mister Gerald,” Kopulos knew cadets found his quiet tones more unnerving than the sharp bark most field instructors employed. He was gratified to see Gerald did not visibly flinch. “How would you characterize Cadet Nakamura as a navigator?”

“Excellent, sir,” there was a faint note of relief as Gerald realized the Captain’s evaluation was evidently moving on. “He’s prompt and accurate in his calculations.”

Kopulos nodded judiciously, obviously weighing the cadet’s words.

“And Cadet Edelweiss?” he asked. “This is her first tour as bridge Engineering Officer.”

“Handled herself very well, sir,” Gerald said. “Demonstrated competence and thorough understanding of all systems and procedures.”

“I concur, Mister Gerald.”

The younger man’s eye flickered at the quiet confirmation. Kopulos could see he realized he’d made some mistake, but wasn’t sure what it was. Yet.

“Who is responsible for detailing damage control parties, Mister Gerald?”

“The Engineering Officer, sir,” Gerald’s answer was prompt, his tone slightly puzzled.

“And who provides the helmsmen with bearing vectors and thrust parameters?”

A slight hesitation.

“The Navigator, sir,” Gerald answered with the deflated tones of self-realization.

“You were not focused on the crisis, Mister Gerald,” Kopulos let a little steel slide into his voice. “You were distracted from the crisis by minutia that were none of your responsibility. You had a competent engineer at her post, an able navigator on duty, but you let the excitement of the moment drag you into doing their jobs for them at the expense of your own. Because of that, you missed information, properly delivered three times, that could have saved the Sheridan.”

Kopulos looked at each of the cadets in turn, knowing they felt his eye even if all they could see in the Jupiter glow was the shadows beneath his brow. Then he turned his attention back to Gerald.

“Before you rise to the command of your own ship, I can almost guarantee you will serve under at least one officer who will seek to micromanage every operation,” He said. “Every navy is full of them. But you must not—ever—emulate them. Your ship and the lives of your crew will depend on you trusting your people to do their jobs. And your crew will do their jobs better if they can trust you to be doing yours.”

He paused a moment, letting those words sink in.

“What exactly is your job as commander of a vessel?” he asked mildly.

“To carry out assigned missions,” Gerald hazarded, then amended slightly: “And preserve the safety of my ship and crew.”

Kopulos did not actually sigh. That was as close as most cadets got.

“You are responsible for a very small world,” he said. “And that responsibility requires you to make tough choices, life and death choices, quickly, often under extreme duress. You must always be aware of the big picture—the context in which events take place and in which you must act. Pay attention to everything, but meddle in nothing. More of your choices will be correct if they’re informed, and good information comes from people who know they have your trust.”

Kopulos propelled himself aft along the central shaft of the Sheridan with the otter grace of a lifetime in space. Which annoyed him. He was in the mood for stalking along the windward rail of a square-rigged ship, his boots clomping hollowly on the deck, while the men of his command bent their backs to cheating another knot of speed from the wind.

Not that he’d ever done such a thing. But tall and angular and lantern-jawed, he’d always thought the role would have suited him.

In one respect the Sheridan was like one of those ancient barques of war. It was obsolete. The Bonaventure-class corvette had been retired six centuries ago. Most were scrap, though he didn’t doubt a few pirates in the dark reaches of the Periphery numbered Bonaventures among their rag-tag fleets; he’d always been a romantic.

The Sheridan had been stripped of its weapons and K-F drives and parked at salvage yards. Kopulos hated those places, ghost flotillas, some a hundred vessels strong, of space-cold hulks in their lonely solar orbit far from the traffic lanes. But four centuries ago the Military Academy of Aphros had rescued the rugged corvette. They’d towed it to Venus orbit and set about refitting it as a training vessel.

A group of cadets pulled themselves to attention, gripping the guide ropes, as Kopulos approached. He wanted to sail by without a glance, but their training was more important than his mood. Pausing mid-flight, he acknowledged their salutes properly.

They were on their way to the mess on the gravity deck, of course, the next shift coming on. If they’d been on duty they would have carried on and he could have passed unnoticed. Like a real captain with a real ship.

The original crews and captains of the Sheridan—should they ever travel through time for a visit—would be moved to tears to see what had been done to their WarShip. If they were able to find their way around.

There were two hundred and forty-three people aboard a ship originally designed to carry one hundred and twenty-nine, counting pilots—two complete crews of cadets and their instructors. The central hold was now a barracks for the additional bodies. The six fighter bays and the great empty caves where the K-F drives and their batteries had been were now packed with a mind-boggling assortment of equipment and materiel for simulating any number of EVA emergencies.

Not that these kids needed much practice with EVA suits. Attending an academy on a hell-hole like Venus meant learning to wear an environmental suit like a second skin. If the Sheridan ever broke down, the cadets were well able to get out and walk home. That had been funny the first time he’d thought of it.

There was a K-F control room, of course, right where it should be, with screens that said whatever the simulation computer said they should say and controls that felt and looked and acted like the real things. And sails, prone to complex malfunctions with which to challenge the cadets. Training aboard the Sheridan was as thorough and as realistic as it could be without actually jumping anywhere.

Much like my career.

Kopulos shook off the thought and spared a glance at a pair of cadet techs properly ignoring him as they worked. They were testing the section of auxiliary fire control circuit that stretched along this bit of corridor, comparing their resistor readings to the specs. He was confident the two would eventually discover the misconnected point defense subprocessor, but if they were still testing exterior lines, that satori was still hours away.

The weapons systems were, to the eye and diagnostic instruments, all present and correct, matching the design specs of the Bonaventure corvette. At least in terms of number and placement. The long-range missile launchers and the autocannons could only fire marker rounds, while the ersatz laser batteries produced spectacular light shows that delivered about one percent of a real weapon’s energy to the target.

There was a persistent rumor the Naval 35s could flash cook a frozen pot-roast to perfection. Every year someone tried to devise a way to covertly test the absurd claim and every year Kopulos—while never acknowledging he was aware of the secret experiments—usually awarded points for creativity and initiative to those who carried them out.

Only the drives were original equipment. Close to a millennium old, they could still slap the corvette through tight maneuvers at three gravities thrust. Aphros graduates remembered helm instructor Ann Reed’s demonstration of threading the asteroid belt at speed for decades. For his part, Kopulos was always amazed the heavily modified—and weakened—training ship survived those sessions of flat-out skew-and-burn.

Commander Marcos Palmer, chief engineer and defacto second in command of the Sheridan, was setting tasks for a new shift in the engine room when Kopulos arrived. Freshmen, the cadets tried not to betray they were aware of the captain making what they no doubt thought was a surprise evaluation as they listened to their assignments.

“Gave the speech on a captain’s responsibilities again, didn’t you?” Marcos asked when the cadets dispersed to their duties.

“How can you tell?”

“You always look particularly depressed right after you’ve been your most inspiring,” the shorter man grinned. “Got time for coffee?”

“Always.”

The senior cadet acting as Chief Engineer responded with understandable ambivalence to the news the two primary instructors would be on break. He knew that meant either an uneventful shift or all hell was going to break lose while they were unavailable.

Kopulos bet the cadet would be on the intercom to Gerald before they were clear of Engineering.

Marcos did not take the red jacket of his uniform from the secure net on the final bulkhead as they passed. That was one of the few regs he tended to ignore.

Kopulos suspected it was because the red jacket of his order so clearly set him off from the cadets and other Aphros instructors. Though it could just be that he didn’t like wearing it in zero-gee. After all, his black coverall, with its half dozen extra pockets for God—or rather Blake—knew what, did stand out in contrast to the baby blues of the cadets and the instructor’s pearl greys. However, only the silver disk at his upright collar, with its circle-with-crossbar theta emblem, testified that chief field instructor of engineering was not his only calling.

The gravity deck housed all mess, medical, and exercise facilities, a grouping most cadets found significant. Rotation kept the primary deck at oh-point-four gravities. Mass distribution in the training vessel was uneven and changed frequently to accommodate different testing and practice scenarios. The revolution rate needed to simulate earth-normal gravity, while more gyroscopically stable, would have entered unnecessary torque considerations into every maneuver. The cadets generally found things a little light on the grav deck, but Kopulos found it comfortably close to his native Mars.

Or what he remembered of his native Mars. He’d been in the Sol system twelve years—nearly twenty-three Terran standard years—and spent less than a year of that time on his home world. None of it in the last standard decade. Of course, without family a home world was nothing more than another rock in space.

The officers’ mess was a corner of the general mess demarked more by tradition than any actual barricade. In the mess hall, by academy tradition, rank was not recognized except when a direct order was being given or received. This prevented nervous cadets inadvertently scattering trays of food as they leapt to their feet every time they saw an officer. The practice also allowed the instructors who so chose to interact informally with their students.

Waiting his turn at the coffee urn, Kopulos nodded simply to any cadet who made eye contact, neither seeking out nor avoiding acknowledgement. Marco, however, smiled at several of the young men and women, greeting most by name. The captain knew he would be remembered with respect by the cadets who trained under him, but Marco would always occupy a warmer place in their hearts. There probably wasn’t a graduate of Aphros who hadn’t told the engineer their life story at one point, or come to him for advice about career or romance or personal direction.

Making his way to the officer’s area, Kopulos sat with his back to the larger room, not wanting to contribute to the indigestion of cadets who might imagine they were under his watchful eye.

“So, give,” said Marco, sliding into the seat opposite.

“Bah. The usual complaint,” Kopulos said. “Those who can’t teach.”

“On the contrary, my friend,” Marcos replied. “Those who can teach. Any moron can do a job. To take what you know and instill it in others, that requires a special talent.”

“And the usual counseling,” Kopulos added.

“It must be working,” Marcos grinned. “Already I see your mood has elevated from morose to dour.”

“You are by far the strangest priest I have ever met.”

“I keep telling you we’re not priests,” Marcos leaned back in his chair. “Some of us who have studied the Word are simply called to share our understanding with others.”

“I doubt your Blessed Blake had much to say about old star captains who never amounted to enough to be a has-been,” Kopulos’ mouth quirked as he swirled the liquid in his cup. “But I appreciate the coffee.”

“Oh, I’ll grant your career did not involve much buckling of your swash, whatever that is,” the younger man agreed. “But it was your thirty years of steady service—three decades of intelligent dependability—that earned you the posting to the Military Academy of Aphros.

“Flashy exhibitionists are entertaining, even useful at times,” Marcos shrugged, his ready grin popping back into place. “But civilization depends on the ones who get the job done, and done right, day after day.”

Kopulos regarded the engineer through his brow.

“You, my adaptable Adept,” he said, pointing with the index finger of the hand wrapped around his mug, “missed your calling when you went into JumpShip Operations. You should have gone into counseling. Or public relations.”

Terran System

Military Academy of Aphros

Training Vessel Sheridan

07 December 3067

“Sir?” It was Edelweiss, late of Engineering and currently on Tactical. She glanced to be sure she had Acting Master Grainger’s attention. “I’ve got multiple jumps.”

Kopulos frowned. The report was partial, which was not good, and completely unexpected, which was even less good.

The Sheridan was above the elliptic, giving Mars the prescribed wide berth on the final leg of their tour.

After the disaster of being smashed by orbiting Jovian icebergs, the exercises had gone exceptionally well, with every bogie hidden in the asteroid belt located and neutralized in near record time. Among the targets destroyed was a three-kilo pot-roast flashed to vapor. A catapult, powered by the retraction piston for the dorsal sensor array shroud, had launched the ill-fated beef. Its clever design and placement had earned Gerald a few points unawares, though not enough to undo the damage of destroying the ship.

For the last forty hours they’d been coasting, all internal systems at minimum, while freshman repair crews frantically patched “battle damage” to the hull. Soon they would discover corrupted plasma injectors would require complete replacement before the corvette could decelerate. It was a tricky operation, but most crews usually got it done in time for their final approach to Venus. There were rare overshots, of course, and last-minute three-gravity burns were not uncommon.

There was nothing in any of the scenarios about unexpected JumpShip arrivals.

Particularly since the zenith jump point was eight days away at single-gee. Not close enough for arriving ships to register.

“Where away?” asked Grainger, apparently reaching the same conclusion.

“Bearing three-four-oh mark three-oh-oh, range—” her voice trailed off in doubt. “Sir, I may have a sensor malfunction. I show ships jumping in system inside Mars orbit.”

“Tac, feed your numbers to Navigation,” Kopulos ordered, breaking protocol. “Cadet Rice, using those coordinates to plug-and-test, can you project a Mars-Terra-Sol LaGrange point?”

The bridge had gone electric with his first words. Stepping in without asking permission announced “this is not a drill” as loudly as any alarm klaxon.

“Ninety-seven percent match,” Rice confirmed after a moment’s calculation. “They lead it a little, but it’s a pirate point.”

Kopulos nodded once, sharply, acknowledging the junior’s quick analysis.

“Terra or Mars, Edelweiss?”

The young woman did not answer immediately but studied her screen, one index finger slightly raised. Telling him to wait while the intruders built up enough thrust for their course to be apparent. Good.

“Mars, sir,” she said a moment later. “Looks like one-point-two gees acceleration. Estimate Mars orbit in twenty-three hours.”

“Confirmed, sir,” Rice let him know Tac’s numbers were still being echoed on his screen.

“Are they flying colors?”

The cadets looked at him blankly.

“Can we read their identity transponders?” he asked patiently.

“No IFF transmissions, Precentor Captain,” Edelweiss responded as though answering an exam question. She had the wit not to remind him protocols assumed ships running dark were hostile.

Kopulos reached for the intercom built into the arm of the command chair. Grainger leaned as far out of his way as the zero-gee retention straps would let him.

“Commander Palmer?”

“Here, Captain.”

“Hope you haven’t set up the next surprise, Marco,” Kopulos said, giving the ashen Grainger a sour grin. “We’re going to need those engines.”

Thirteen centuries ago, naval battles had been fought like space battles. Hours would pass between first sighting of an enemy’s sail and the firing of the first shot. Hours of maneuvering and planning and positioning for what could in the end be only moments of gunfire. Or days.

Kopulos envied his spiritual ancestors their poop decks to pace as he sat, held to the command chair by two gravities thrust—six times the field he’d grown up in. Though his long frame had hardened to standard gees decades ago, on long, steady pulls his bones still ached. Now only his eyes moved, flicking from repeater screen to repeater screen as he watched the tactical situation unfold.

If he were still on active duty and the Sheridan a commissioned vessel, he could have contacted system defense, coordinated with real WarShips. As it was, Kopulos and his young charges were playing a lone hand against unknown odds. He had no illusions that the Sheridan would be anything other than a diversion. But anything that weakened the invaders’ thrust against his homeworld was a weapon.

To that end, he was not approaching the aggressor fleet too quickly. Ships in space did not actually see other ships until they were within weapons range. At distance they identified other vessels by transponders and by electronic signature. Each class of ship could be identified by its distinctive array of sensors and communicators. Such as the readings that told him, for example, that the attacking fleet was built around a Congress and a Soyuz—that last determining their approach speed.

However, the Sheridan was a training vessel intended to prepare cadets for service on a wide range of WarShips. It had several electronic suites arranged in parallel from which they could select to emulate whatever ship a given exercise warranted.

At first Kopulos had been tempted to rotate through the repertoire in an effort to create the illusion of a small fleet, but he’d abandoned that plan as too easily penetrated. Instead he’d configured the Sheridan’s electronic array to mimic a more formidable contemporary of the Bonaventure-class corvette; something potent enough to give them pause in their assault on Mars. So he held his approach to two gravities, arcing wide as though seeking to pin the invaders against the planet. It was a balancing act, trying to appear a threat while keeping distance and giving the enemy time to wonder how many Aegis-class heavy cruisers Terra had at their disposal.

As long as they kept maneuvering vectors consistent with the larger vessel, the enemy should not be able to penetrate the ruse until the Sheridan was close enough for direct scans to reveal it lacked two-thirds the necessary mass.

The plan was simple. If and when the invaders responded to the threat of the “cruiser,” the Sheridan would lead any ships that attempted to engage as far out of formation as possible. With three gravities of thrust available, they could outrun anything in the aggressor fleet.

Assuming none of those ships was pulling the same electronic subterfuge they were. It would be a shame to find themselves suddenly confronted by a flotilla of Kirishimas.

So far, however, the invading force was showing no interest in the “Aegis” closing from above the elliptic. Though no doubt aware of the ship, they maintained focus on the apparently primary target, letting the interceptor burn its fuel coming to them if it dared.

Kopulos gave them points for solid tactics.

For his part, Commander Palmer had devoted the last twenty hours to an effort to bring some sort of weapon system on line. He’d explained to Kopulos that at some point someone may try to shoot at the Sheridan and being able to shoot back might be a good idea.

Nothing could be done about the missile launchers and autocannon, of course. Marker rounds looked enough like the real thing to give an enemy pause until the first salvo landed, but that was about all they could be counted on. The ship simply didn’t have any live munitions.

Instead Marco focused on getting the governors off the lasers and routing power through capacitors that could handle a full weapons load. There were no weapons grade assemblies aboard, of course, but there were plenty of spare parts for “emergency” repairs on the training units they had. Enough for him to cobble together parallel banks sufficient to contain the surging energy flow. However, connecting the banks to the actual weapons was requiring some creative and hasty fabrication carried out under two gravities.

There was no time to test the new systems, of course. Kopulos hoped they’d never be used. They wouldn’t be, if his plan worked.

And if Mars mounted any sort of defense.

That was one aspect of being an academy instructor and not commanding an active WarShip. Kopulos had only the vaguest sense what forces were in the Terran system. Other than avoiding posted no-traffic zones, he’d had no reason to pay close attention to the comings and goings of local defense forces. He had no idea what resources Mars had with which to meet the attack.

Tactical had reported a single Naga in polar orbit. Though much slower than a Bonaventure, the aged destroyer had over twice the Sheridan’s mass and ample firepower to make a difference. But the ship was simply following its orbit, to all appearances an empty hulk.

Probably the next generation’s training vessel.

Kopulos ran his eye over the repeater screens, knowing one of the cadets would already have called out any sightings. If anyone else in-system was burning to the planet’s aid, they weren’t showing up on the Sheridan’s sensors.

In-system jumps were always possible, of course, but LaGrange points far enough from Mars to be safe were nearly a quarter-million kilometers out. Too far for anything that hadn’t arrived already to engage the invaders before they reached the red planet.

It looked like the open stages of the battle were up to the Sheridan and whatever Mars Defense had on hand. They might give the invaders pause if they appeared to be more of a threat.

“Commander Palmer?” he asked into the intercom, pleased his voice did not betray him.

“Here, Captain.”

“How are we coming with those weapons systems?”

“Port side thirty-five and large lasers are still a light show, but we’ve upped the wattage,” Marcos reported. “If we don’t hit anything and give them a chance to get an accurate energy reading, they look like a full-power array.”

Kopulos nodded a millimeter, knowing the intercom wouldn’t pick up the gesture but trusting Marco to sense it. He hadn’t really expected more.

“Starboard array has a little more punch,” Marcos surprised him. “No threat to a capital ship, but we should earn the respect of aerospace.”

“Enough power to take out heavy fighters?”

“More like annoy them severely,” the engineer chuckled. “But we’ve got enough juice to make them cautious.”

“Good work,” Kopulos said, and meant it. Anything that had the potential to tie up enemy assets was an advantage.

“Sir?”

They had worked through the watches during their long intercept and Edelweiss was again on Tactical, looking to be sure she had his attention before reporting.

“Cadet Edelweiss, we are in a situation where seconds could be vital,” Kopulos kept his voice smooth. “Your good manners could cost lives. Please report without prompting.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” the cadet came to attention in her chair. “Multiple drive plumes in Mars polar orbit, sir. Unfamiliar configurations.”

Kopulos brought her screen up on his main repeater.

Multiple was right. Some form of energy field, probably an ECM developed after his retirement, was fogging the readings, but he counted three dozen, maybe four, vessels pushing up out of Mars orbit. Their layered formation made picking out individual ships difficult.

It was unsurprising their sensor patterns weren’t in the Sheridan’s database or Kopulos’ own memory. Neither an aged training vessel or a retired captain had the security clearance to be privvy to cutting-edge weapons systems.

New WarShips? Possible, particularly given the interdict against close Mars approach. DropShips, too. If he was reading the thermals right, there were at least three classes of vessels in the mystery fleet.

On the heels of that thought came the realization why the invaders had been ignoring the “Aegis” closing in on them.

“We walk like a duck, we sound like a duck, and we look like a duck,” he said quietly. “But we don’t fart like a duck.”

“Sir?” Rice this time, again at Navigation.

“Our decoy action.” Kopulos answered. His mistake could at least further the cadets’ education. “When impersonating a vessel with three times your mass, remember to triple the volume of your exhaust gasses.”

“Our thermal mass signature,” Tomas, the cadet at helm, said. “They can read our heat.”

“Wouldn’t that be impossible to fake?” Rice asked. “With three times the exhaust we’d have to be either three times more massive or three times faster.”

“Vent omnifuel vapor?” Edelweiss suggested. “Maybe superheat it with a small laser?”

“Good thinking, Cadet,” Kopulos acknowledged. “The temperature would be wrong, but close enough to instill serious doubt. I wish I’d thought to consult you sooner.”

Edelweiss tucked her chin into her chest, smiling under the compliment.

Kopulos’ own smile drifted back into a frown as he considered the problem of the unknown ships. Were they sufficient to turn back the invaders? He didn’t know enough to begin to speculate. Not taking his eyes from the unfamiliar readings, he thumbed on the intercom.

“Commander Palmer, I’d like you on the bridge,” he said, his voice in the conversational calm that struck fear in the hearts of cadets. “We have a mystery I think only an engineer can solve.”

Watching the commander’s profile as he studied the mystery craft on the screens, Kopulos realized his friend knew exactly what he was looking at. What Marco was obviously struggling with was how much he could say about what he knew.

“Are they enough to stop the invasion?” he asked, trying to break things down into yes/no questions that could be answered without compromising security.

“I don’t know,” Marco answered quietly, glancing toward the cadets at their stations and Reed at the helm. His voice didn’t carry.

Lieutenant Reed had relieved Cadet Tomas at helm; Kopulos wanted the best hands he knew of on the controls if the Sheridan was going into battle. He’d ordered thrust cut. They were close to terminal velocity for making Mars. The math of accel/decel dictated they’d get there faster if they dropped in on current inertia ending with a full-bore three-gravity braking burn than if they’d made the standard mid-point flip.

“They weren’t meant for this,” Marco said in the same quiet tone.

Kopulos could believe it. A second group of planetary defense vessels had mobilized in the time it had taken Marco to reach the bridge. Perhaps sixty craft total, only moments from engaging the incoming fleet. But not as a cohesive force. Each ship was clearly coming at the invaders ASAP with individual ships outstripping the whole with no sense of formation. As though someone, caught by surprise, was simply throwing whatever came to hand at the threat.

Which probably wasn’t too far wrong, now that he thought of it. The Sol system had gotten complacent in its security.

Not so the invaders. A half dozen assault DropShips were deployed to protect troop and ’Mech carriers. The database identified a Fortress, and a mix of Intruders and Hannibals. Two DropShops hanging back were tagged Vengeance, which implied—given the aerospace compliments of the Congress and Soyuz WarShips—at least three Level IIIs of aerospace fighters in the swarm defending the descending fleet.

Mars was flinging a handful of gravel at an oncoming boulder.

And to their aid came the Sheridan, old and toothless as her captain, snarling ineffectually at the juggernaut’s heels.

The battle was joined.

The tactical computer updated its estimates on positioning of the aerospace screen as weapons fire and explosions gave it hard numbers.

Incredibly, the first defenders, small DropShips according to the Sheridan’s targetting computer, seemed to cut through the wall of fighter cover with no losses. None engaged the fighters, pressing on to larger targets. Reaching the fleet, and again there was no apparent formation or plan to their attack, the defender ships swarmed the Fortress. They avoided the invader’s fire with high-gee flip and burn maneuvers Kopulos thought would have challenged heavy fighters.

“Going to be a lot of loose teeth and sore backs on those ships,” he commented quietly to his friend.

Marco grunted noncommittally, watching the screens.

Kopulos realized his friend was caught up in the battle. So was he, but three decades of naval command had given him a gallows humor his young friend apparently didn’t appreciate.

The second wave, if the helter-skelter clot of defenders could be called that, cut through the screen of aerospace fighters. But unlike their earlier cousins, they took losses, one of them exploding once it was past the fighters but before it had reached the invading DropShips.

“Tactical?”

“Looks like concentrated aerospace fire from behind, sir,” Edelweiss answered promptly. “Readings of the explosion force patterns indicate seventy percent probability they’re susceptible to aft attack.”

“Damn,” Kopulos said quietly, his sardonic humor of a moment before gone.

If his cadets could figure that out it was a cinch the invaders already had. What would be the crew of a small attack craft like that? A dozen? Twenty? It didn’t matter. One life lost to the invaders was too many.

To the unpracticed eye the battle unfolding on the screen became a melee as more defenders penetrated the screen and more screening fighters dropped back to engage them.

The invasion fleet shifted formation slightly, but it was still a tight formation, still under cohesive overall control as the DropShips reformed to offer each other what cover fire they could. Not a usual maneuver with aerospace coverage so dense, but the swarm of defenders, dancing through the web of weapons fire with bone-snapping agility, was necessitating unusual measures.

The defenders were hurting the invaders. Attacking DropShips were going dark or igniting in flares of venting plasma and atmosphere. The fourth and last group had passed the aerospace screen without firing a shot, most of the fighters having pulled back to close defense of the fleet. These defenders had ignored the DropShips as well, carrying their dodging and flipping attack directly to the WarShips

But it was not enough.

One by one the torches of the defenders thrusts were being extinguished under the disciplined fire of the attackers’ coordinated defense. The boulder was crushing the pebbles thrown against it.

There may have been other fleets of defenders, hanging in silent orbit as these had been, but if there were there was no sign. The defense of Mars was in the hands of the dozen defenders still harrying the WarShips.

And the Sheridan.

They were closing, close enough for even a Bonaventure to have deserved a little attention, but still being ignored. The invaders were clearly going to clean up the immediate threat before turning their attention to the lone ship dropping down from above. Sound tactics even if they didn’t know the old trainer had no weapons.

No weapons except...

“Order all hands to EV suits,” Kopulos ordered. “Man all evacuation stations.”

“Teo—”

Kopulos cut Marco off with a hard glare as the cadet at Communications relayed the order through the ship..

“Lieutenant Reed, Cadet Rice, I want a spiral,” Kopulos said, still meeting the commander’s eye. “Point three gee thrust. Once around Mars then intercept the hostiles.”

“You’re going to ram,” Marco said. It wasn’t a question. “You’re going to drop the cadets on Mars, then ram one of those WarShips.”

“Sir!” protested Rice.

“Nonsense, Marco.”

“Permission to stay on board,” Edelweiss cut in, the cadets at Communication and Engineering a beat behind her.

“Denied,” Kopulos snapped. Then, once again his studied calm: “All of you have done excellent work, but we’re dismissing class ahead of schedule.”

Not a cadet moved. Holding themselves against the air currents, they each regarded Kopulos with level suspicion. Only Reed continued to work, laying the complex course into the flight control.

“I have no intention of throwing my life away,” Kopulos assured them. To a real crew, a seasoned crew, he would not have made the gesture. But these were, after all, cadets and, in many ways they’d rather die than admit, they were still children “There’s no real danger.”

“Right,” Marco said. “What’s your plan?”

Normally such a question would be unthinkable, but Kopulos saw the commander was helping. Giving him an opportunity to provide a rationale to make the cadets more comfortable in abandoning their captain.

“Swing over the horizon, lasers blazing,” Kopulos said easily. “See if I can’t draw their aerospace cover out of position long enough to give our boys a clear shot.”

“The helm is locked down, you could set the simulator to fire the lasers. There’s no reason for you to remain onboard.”

“The hostiles could move,” Kopulos pointed out. “Course may need a few last minute adjustments. It’s a long shot, it’s doubtful the invaders will spare Sheridan a glance, but I don’t want to carry young officers into potential danger unnecessarily.”

“Of course,” said Marco.

Flashes on the sensor screens and, more faintly, through the viewport. The battle for Mars continued.

“Get in your suits and to your pods,” Kopulos ordered.

The cadets rose, pulling themselves to attention, and brought fingertips to brow. Their captain, glaring through the sudden sting in his eyes, pulled himself upright and returned their salute.

“I’m going to have to make a call,” Marco said when they had left.

Kopulos nodded, indicating the communications station. No doubt a planet under attack was going to need reassurances about a dozen small craft suddenly appearing in orbit.

Marco moved to the console, keeping his body between Kopulos and the screen as he adjusted frequency.

“Voice identification,” he said clearly. “Adept thirteen Rho Marco Palmer—” he lapsed into a series of syllables that conveyed nothing to the others on the bridge.

“Annie,” Kopulos said quietly. “Lock down helm and get to the pods.”

“Like hell.”

“Shooting you in the leg and dragging you isn’t my first choice, but it is an option,” he hardened his voice. “That was an order, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Reed locked down her station. “If you need to make any course corrections...”

“I know how to bypass the interlocks,” Kopulos cut her off gently as he pushed himself toward Tactical.

“Sir.”

Kopulos paused. Bracing himself to attention, he returned her salute.

It took him less than a minute to slave fire control from Tactical over to helm. By the time he was done, Marco was again standing by the command chair, evidently waiting.

“You don’t have to do this, Teo,” he said. “Mars defense got caught flat foot, but they should be able to handle this.”

“Should being the operative word, Marco,” Kopulos said. “Mars is my home. I’m as much Mars defense as any of those ships getting shot up out there.”

“Coming over the horizon you won’t have time to make more than minor course corrections.”

“That should be enough.”

“What if you miss?”

“Then I’ll be a foolish old man in Solar orbit,” Kopulos smiled. “Do me a favor and don’t send a rescue party.”

“Can’t promise that,” Marco said solemnly. “The Sheridan is a valuable ship.”

Kopulos grunted.

“Do me a favor?” Marcos asked. “If you come over the horizon and see Mars has mounted a heavier defense, go for that solar orbit.”

“Of course,” Kopulos extended his hand. “Now get to your escape pod.”

Kopulos would have liked to spend his last moments in the command chair, but was prevented by the irony of command. For all his responsibility and authority, the captain of a WarShip didn’t actually do anything. He needed control of the Sheridan on her final run, and for that he had to sit at helm control.

Marco had been right, he saw as he came above the horizon. Mars Defense had somehow mobilized dozens, scores, more of the mysterious ships. They were swarming the invaders. The attacking fleet, he saw, had lost its cohesion in the face of the frantic, unorganized onslaught of the defenders. Instead of covering each other as they had, DropShips and JumpShips and WarShips were all locked in individual battles for their lives. Many more of the hostile DropShips had gone dark in the hour it had taken him to ensure the safety of his cadets, and the Soyuz WarShip was clearly dying.

But some of the DropShips were getting through, he could see them descending under power for the surface. And the Congress was breaking free. If it could regroup, organize the fighter screen—

But it was breaking his way, almost directly toward him, and its gunners continued to ignore the toothless training vessel.

Triggering the slaved fire controls, he launched a volley of LRMs. Paintballs. But they might distract the invader’s ECM and point defense into wasting time and attention.

Kopulos tapped the thruster controls. He wasn’t the best of pilots, but only the slightest corrections were necessary. He rotated the Sheridan, bringing Mars into view; stopping when his home, the Terran god of war, filled the sky above him

Satisfied, he fired the lasers. A light show, flash without force, but that was all he needed. He wanted the WarShip looking at him. He wanted them to realize what was about to happen.

They did. Tactical lit up with multiple weapons lock alarms as the WarShip’s batteries locked. Too late.

Teodore Kopulos palmed emergency thrust. Beneath him the Sheridan gathered itself and lunged. Aged captain and ancient ship, they leapt into the heart of the enemy under the blood red sky of Mars.

OF WAR AND PEACE AND CHERRY TREES

By Steven Mohan Jr.

PART ONE

The Castle of Unheard Screams, Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

14 November 3062

When the beast came for Shintaro Yamada he was kneeling on the rough stone floor of his cell, his back to the small window, head bent and eyes closed.

The unusual part of this situation was not that Yamada was meditating.

Meditation was all Yamada had left and he allowed nothing to stop him, not the brutal beatings, not the hunger that gnawed at his guts, not even the bouts of despair and self-doubt that must come to all men.

No, the unusual part was the beast, whom Yamada had not seen for many years.

Yamada was a short, powerful man dressed in shabby, gray overalls tight enough to reveal muscles of steel. He’d once worn his hair in a warrior’s topknot, but not any more. Since coming to the Castle of Unheard Screams, he’d shaved his skull clean.

He wasn’t a warrior any more.

Prison, especially a prison as tough as the Castle, breaks most men. But for others it’s a crucible that fires and hardens the spirit. Yamada was such a man. In fact, he’d grown so calm and certain during his years in the Castle that half his guards thought he had been broken.

The other half thought he was crazy.

And perhaps he was.

Beyond his window, which was a square fifty centimeters on a side, was the thing that Yamada loved most in the world: a cherry tree, its gnarled brown-black limbs heavy with pink blossoms. Yamada approved of cherry trees on general principle—they were one of the few Japanese symbols appropriated by House Kurita that still spoke to him—but that wasn’t why he loved this one.

Shintaro Yamada loved this cherry tree because an incompetent gardener had planted it too close to the prison wall.

As it grew, the beautiful tree was crowded by the lifeless wall. Early in the tree’s growth its branches had pushed against the wall but, of course, the stone would not yield. Later, the tree’s trunk began to grow at an angle, like some trees will do when subjected to a constant wind. And so this majestic organism, though twisted by an instrument of evil, had found a way to be a cherry tree and not a wall.

That endeared it to Yamada.

Though he loved that tree and longed to see it, he did not go to the window.

Instead, he used the tree’s presence as an exercise to strengthen his soul, for when evil tries to bend a good man to its purpose it will use that which he loves most to accomplish the task.

To his great sorrow, Yamada knew this to be true.

So he was kneeling on the hard floor without even a tatami mat to cushion his knees when he heard the jangle of keys and the heavy stone door scrape open.

Yamada did not raise his head. Did not open his eyes.

The part of him still adept at tactical analysis noted that it was not yet time for the mid-day meal. A beating, then? For the entire term of his imprisonment he had known nothing but these two alternatives. Inwardly he shrugged.

It did not matter.

Then a deep voice spoke. “It has been many years, eh, Sho-sa?”

The part of Yamada’s mind still capable of analysis identified the voice as that of Tai-sa Hikotaro Maru of the ISF.

The beast.

It would take all his strength and skill to resist this man.

This beast.

“It has been six,” Yamada said as calmly as he could manage. “And I am no longer a Sho-sa.”

“We took away your rank,” said the beast. “We can give it back.”

Yamada opened his eyes and looked up.

The beast looked just as Yamada remembered him. He was a timeless, changeless figure. An icon of unspeakable evil. Like Yamada himself, the beast was on the short side of average. He had a round, pleasant face, and his black hair was tamed by a salaryman’s conservative haircut. He wore a dapper gray suit and a scarlet tie. The tie was the one flaw in his appearance because it bordered on the memorable. Evil does not wish to be remembered. Evil is clever and tricky, and so it fashions its servants from the mundane, the every day.

The common.

“What do you want?” asked Yamada.

“On the 18th of October the Alshain Avengers attacked the capital of the Ghost Bear Dominion.”

Yamada’s tactical mind suddenly saw what the beast was after, the whole thing laid out before him like some horrible banquet of death and dishonor.

Clan Ghost Bear would retaliate, of course. And with much of the front-line DCMS deployed along the Lyran border, the Ghost Bears would easily conquer the worlds along their own border.

Unless the DCMS could raise a reserve force capable of fighting a holding action until they could be reinforced by regular units. Of necessity, the reserve force would be made up of green officers pulled from the academies.

And led by a few carefully chosen veterans.

“I will not do it,” said Yamada firmly.

“I think you will,” said the beast.

“I am a criminal.”

The beast shrugged. “This is war.”

Yamada laughed bitterly. “Hai, and war is the great crime before which all other crimes kneel.”

“I like you Yamada-san,” said the beast. “You know I’ve always liked you.”

“Yes,” said Yamada without a trace of irony, “I know. But I swore long ago to serve only the cause of peace. To fight against war in all its many guises.”

“The cause of peace.” The beast sighed. “See where it has brought you?” He indicated the cell with a sweep of his hand. “You, a hero of the Clan Invasion.”

“You put me here,” said Yamada.

“You left me no choice, Yamada-san. Surely you can see that. You had become a symbol of the peace movement. It’s one thing for scruffy radicals to march for peace, but when a man of your stature speaks out, well . . . it undermines House Kurita’s legitimacy. We couldn’t have that.”

“Iie,” said Yamada dully. “We couldn’t have that.”

The beast squatted down so he was eye-to-eye with Yamada. “You must tell me, Yamada-san. Why did you choose this path? Whatever else passes between us, I, I must know.” Real doubt clouded the beast’s features.

It was a masterful performance.

Yamada did not have an answer, at least not one that a man like the beast would understand. “The Fourth Succession War,” he said wearily. “The War of 3039. The Clan Invasion. Our meddling in FedCom internal affairs. And now this war with the Ghost Bears. It never ends, Tai-sa. How many young warriors must die before it finally ends?”

The beast studied him for a long moment, no doubt considering which argument would sway him. “No one loves war, Sho-sa. I, myself, tire of the—”

“You know nothing of war,” said Yamada savagely. “Torturing desperate prisoners in dark rooms is not war. War is the sharp odor of fused electronics, the smell of cinders and ash, the reek of blood. It’s the thunder of eighty mil slugs ripping through your armor. It’s seeing a young Hojuhei lying dead . . .” Yamada’s voice broke. He hated himself for showing weakness before the beast. He swallowed and continued, ì. . .lying dead on the field of battle, his body entombed in twisted and scorched metal. That is war, Tai-sa. Something you know nothing about.”

“I see now,” said the beast. “So we should not fight the Clans. We should allow them to roll through the Combine. Raise our children in sibkos. Genetically engineer our people. Teach us to worship at the altar of war.”

“No one needs to teach House Kurita to worship at the altar of war,” Yamada shot back.

The beast smiled. “Come now, Yamada-san.”

“I will not fight for the Coordinator,” said Yamada firmly.

“I ask you not to fight for something, but against something.”

“Iie.”

“I ask you to fight against war,” said the beast, “for surely that’s what the Clans are, war incarnate. And did you not just tell me that you have pledged to fight against war in all its guises?”

And so the beast tried to bend Yamada to his will using that which he loved most.

Then, in a flash of insight, Yamada saw how he might turn this trap against the beast, like the cherry tree suborning the wall’s will. He found the beast’s eyes with his own.

Hai.

The beast did not even grant him the dignity of speaking that single, small word before a broad smile stretched across his common face.

DCMS Command Center, Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

16 November 3062

The very first place Yamada went after he was released from prison was the planet’s command center. The warden brought him a working uniform with the insignia of a Sho-sa on the collar. Yamada slipped into the hated uniform and then the beast drove him to the command center.

He left one prison and entered another.

The command center was a white-washed stucco box. Nondescript. Practical. His shiny new boots clicked on the drab, gray tile as he followed the beast to the main briefing room. The two men slipped in unannounced and took positions against the back wall.

Yamada had known what he would find at this briefing, but it still shocked him. None of the officers clustered around the holotable looked old enough to have graduated from the academy, though they all wore a Chu-i’s rank.

Children.

The Coordinator was sending children to die.

And for what?

There was no way they would hold this world against Clan Ghost Bear. Not this world. Or the next. Or even the next.

The briefing officer entered the room and the young cadets came to attention.

“At ease,” she called out. “My name is Tai-i Deborah Cahill of the Richmond Reserves. Tai-sa Schmidtt of the 2nd An Ting Legion has given us the honor of defending the city while his forces attack the enemy’s DropShips.”

She was a young woman, too young for this kind of work, not yet 28, surely. She was short, even for a woman, standing no taller than one meter sixty, with the kind of athletic build that resulted from working out in a gym. She wore her honey blond hair just off the collar. Her eyes were a clear, soft green. Her face was unmarked by scars.

So this was the woman the Coordinator sent to preside over the death of children.

“I won’t lie to you,” she said to the assembled officers. “We have drawn a difficult, dangerous duty. We have only the few ’Mechs left to us when our regular forces withdrew. We are to hold this world for the Combine against Clan Ghost Bear until we are reinforced by a front-line DCMS unit.”

There was silence in the room as the youngsters digested that bit of news.

After a moment Cahill nodded to herself and said, “This is how we’re going to do it.”

The lights dimmed and a hologram appeared, a map of the capital city. Newport stood on the banks of the New James River nestled within a great evergreen forest. The New James was a wide, powerful river, 600 meters across at its widest point and deep enough to accommodate ocean-going shipping.

“The key to Richmond,” said Cahill, “is Newport. The capital is home to the HPG, the principal spaceport, and a quarter of the world’s population. If we can hold Newport we can hold Richmond.”

Heads nodded around the table.

They so wanted to believe.

“The forest provides a natural defense, making it hard to move in ’Mechs and armor. Only three arterials cut through the forest.” She pointed to a trio of gray, ferrocrete ribbons that intersected the city from the south, the east, and the northwest. “Since the Ghost Bear DropShips landed on the Derrington Plateau we expect them to move in from the south. We will guard this access with two companies of ’Mechs. We will leave another company under the command of Jensen at the northwest access and a lance under the command of Domoto at the east access.”

More nods. She sounded so certain.

“Are there any questions?”

Of course there were none. They were too young to know they even could ask questions.

“Then good fortune to you and your units. May your bravery serve the Combine.”

She was answered by a shouted chorus of “Hai.”

The lights came up and the young officers filed out of the room, leaving Cahill alone with Yamada and the beast.

She looked at Yamada and her green eyes narrowed. “So this is Shintaro Yamada. The traitor.”

“That is for the ISF to determine,” said the beast tightly, “not you.”

For a moment Cahill’s gaze flickered back to the beast and her lips pressed into a thin line. But even this rash young officer was wise enough not to speak against the ISF.

Not on a matter of loyalty.

She turned back to Yamada. “What do you think of my plan, Sho-sa Yamada?” She placed an exaggerated emphasis on his rank, mocking him.

And suddenly Yamada found he was furious, furious at this woman who was too stupid to see that she had just sent a roomful of children out to die. “I find your plan to be pedestrian and obvious. As will the Ghost Bear commander unless he is a fool.”

Cahill’s mouth popped open as if it were spring-loaded. “How dare you—”

“Fortunately, I will only need a lance of ’Mechs to fix it.”

Cahill blinked. “A lance. I have only four companies to defend the entire—”

“Your assumption that the principal attack will come from the south is stupid and wrong.”

She glanced angrily back at the beast.

He just shrugged.

Cahill’s jaw set. “So you’re saying they will ambush us along one of the other roads.”

“Ambush us?” Yamada slowly shook his head. “Iie. Look. They think of us as barbarians. As an army of rabble. They will not expect us to answer a batchall, but they will still seek to follow zellbrigen. That is their weakness. They must be who they are.”

Cahill shook her head; she still didn’t understand. No wonder the beast had demanded his help.

Yamada pointed to a bridge that crossed the river in a long, graceful arc. “The east access crosses the New James here. That’s why you assigned only a single lance to this road, isn’t it? Because you’ve set spoilsport charges on the bridge.”

The beast looked from Yamada to Cahill.

“Hai,” said Cahill. “If we take heavy pressure in the east, we’ll retreat across the bridge and blow it. Without it they can’t get their support trucks across. A combined arms force will become a mere gaggle of ’Mechs.”

“So of course they’ll focus on one of the other two routes,” said Yamada.

Cahill folded her arms across her chest. “I assume the Ghost Bear Star Colonel can read a map.”

“Oh, you can be sure of that, Tai-i,” said Yamada.

“What will they do?” asked the beast, clearly fascinated.

“The principal thrust will be against the bridge. They will match Tai-i Cahill’s ’Mechs one for one. Zellbrigen. But—” He held up a single finger. “Honor is not the same thing as stupidity. They will hit hard and fast. The ’Mechs will be piloted by their best warriors. And since they’ll need to hold the bridge as well as capture it, they’ll bring infantry, too.”

“Elementals,” Cahill whispered.

“They’ll cut through your little cadets like a laser through flesh,” said Yamada.

She swallowed. “I’ll blow the bridge now.”

The beast offered her an arctic smile. “Why would you do that, when you know what they’re going to do?”

Cahill looked at Yamada. “How can we possibly beat them?”

Yamada favored her with a wolf’s smile. “They are expecting barbarians. So. Let’s give them what they’re expecting.”

The beast threw his head back and laughed.

Main Commercial Arterial, Outskirts of Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

17 November 3062

Star Colonel Christer Hall, commanding officer of the Fifth Bear Regulars of Xi Galaxy, stepped his massive Kodiak 2 out onto the highway, leading his modified Star of BattleMechs away from the field of wheat they had just trampled through.

The Kodiak was a Garrison ’Mech that sported a squat, powerful body. Its flat head, snout, and triangular ears gave it a distinctly ursine look. And it did not just look mean.

It carried an immense Ultra-20 autocannon in its right shoulder and a pair of Streak SRM-6 launchers in its left. Mounted in the center of its chest just below its reactor was an extended-range large laser. And the Kodiak’s designers had given it medium lasers mounted on each hand, just over the knuckles. The great bear even possessed a trio of titanium “claws” on each hand, the perfect last-ditch weapon for a ’Mech caught in a desperate close-quarters battle.

The Kodiak 2 was also equipped with powerful jump jets that gave it more mobility than its cousin.

Hall’s ’Mech was a heavy-duty monster designed to smash an enemy or stand its ground and take a pounding. Which, if Hall had been the kind of man who was inclined to introspection, was exactly how he would have described himself.

If he were very lucky and very good he might take Newport today and with it Richmond. And then he would take the Howling Bears on to the next Combine world.

Hall had sent one of his assault trinaries and a supernova to give the DCMS the overwhelming attack it undoubtedly expected along the southern route into the city. He had split his other trinary, leaving Alpha and Bravo Assault Stars behind to defend his DropShips and sending Charlie to attack the northwest road. But all of these moves were feints.

The real action would be along the lightly-defended eastern route.

He had pulled together a strike package out of his Supernova Trinary Command. They would hit the forces defending the bridge hard and fast. A grim smile touched Hall’s lips. The DCMS would never know what had happened.

Hall walked forward a quarter of a klick until the plains gave way to an evergreen forest. He brought his Garrison ’Mech to a halt and the three other war machines in his Star stopped with him. The tremor of the ’Mechs’ footfalls slowly died away, swallowed by the silence of the dark forest.

On Hall’s maps this route into the city was marked as the “Main Commercial Arterial:î four lanes of reinforced ferrocrete designed to accommodate heavy trucks carrying grain from the east and AgMechs going the other way. Hall did not worry about the highway’s ability to support his 100-ton Kodiak.

He did worry about an ambush.

No traffic moved on the highway. It was deserted.

There was nothing to see but the road itself and the trees. Giant pines, cedars, and firs crowded together like soldiers eager for battle. Sentinels ten, twelve, even fifteen meters tall.

Tall enough to hide a ’Mech.

He glanced down at his radar repeater. Waves of static washed across the screen, making it hard to read. The world’s defenders had hidden small ECM emitters in the woods, making it hard to discern the tactical picture whenever they passed one by.

Hall knew hewould meet the city’s defenders on this road, but he did not for a second believe they would step forward and challenge him like true warriors. There would be surprises and trickery and deceit. Any doubt he had about that had disappeared when he heard of the cowardly attack on Alshain.

“They are expecting us,” said MechWarrior Ivan over the common frequency. Ivan piloted the Viper that stood in front of Hall’s Kodiak. Behind Hall was MechWarrior Dag in a Nova and Star Commander Birgit in her Mad Dog. All stood perfectly still, more like monuments than war machines.

“Of course they are expecting us, MechWarrior,” snapped Hall. “Try to keep the comms channel clear for important observations.”

“Aff, Star Colonel,” said Ivan meekly.

Hall switched his comms suite to HF for long-range comms. “Epsilon, this is Alpha. Are you in position, quiaff?”

“Alpha, Epsilon.” Hall recognized Star Commander Annika’s confident voice even over the imperfect synch of the encrypted link. “Aff, Star Colonel.”

“Excellent, Star Commander. We will join you shortly. Out.”

A grim smile twisted Hall’s lips. Perhaps the soldiers of the Inner Sphere believed the concept of zellbrigen limited his Clan’s ability to fight. Well, they would soon find they were not the only ones who could be clever.

Hall keyed the ’Mech-only channel. “Elementals are in position. Move out.”

He pushed his Kodiak into a lope. The highway shook and the trees trembled with each stride. Hall hoped the road would hold together under the pounding of his ’Mech’s run. It would do little good to capture the bridge if his assault force tore apart the highway.

The three other ’Mechs which, paced by the swift Viper soon passed by the Kodiak. If an enemy ’Mech waited in ambush, the Viper would make a tempting target. But its speed would give Ivan a better than even chance of surviving a surprise attack. Once Hall caught up to the sniper the battle would be over.

Hall deeply disliked using such tactics. Concentrating fire. He gritted his teeth. But he liked losing even less. And if the DCMS ’Mechs showed themselves, he promised himself he would engage them in honorable battle in accordance with the dictates of zellbrigen.

“I have sighted the enemy, Star Colonel,” Ivan called out. Hall could hear his excitement even over the link. “I turned the corner and there they—”

“Delta, this is Beta,” cut in Star Commander Birgit. “What is your position?”

“Grid Square One Four,” answered Ivan. “At the opening.”

Hall knew instantly where he was. For most of its run the highway paralleled the river, but a decade before an engineering project had straightened an oxbow, leaving an opening in the forest nearly 800 meters in diameter.

“Are they hiding in the woods, quiaff?” asked Dag, the Nova pilot.

“Neg,” answered Ivan. “They are lined up as if waiting for us, a Sunder, a Black Hawk, and a Bishamon.”

Hall frowned. Inner Sphere lances normally fielded four ’Mechs. Where was the fourth? “Delta, Alpha. You have sighted three enemy ’Mechs, quineg?”

“Aff, Star Colonel,î answered Ivan. “Three enemy ’Mechs.”

Hall chewed on that for a moment as his ’Mech plodded toward the Viper’s position.

He liked the potential match-ups. The Sunder was a worthy opponent for his Kodiak, the Black Hawk a heavier version of the Nova, and the Mad Dog could be paired against the spider-like Bishamon. But if there were a fourth DCMS ’Mech out there somewhere an ambush was still a possibility.

Unless the local commander had deemed the bridge not worth defending with more than three ’Mechs.

In either case, there was nothing he could do about it now.

“Hold, MechWarrior Ivan,” ordered Hall. “Unless they break the rules of zellbrigen we will engage them singly. I will take the Sunder. Star Commander, you will engage the Bishamon. MechWarrior Dag, you will take the Black Hawk. All units fall back and follow my lead. Epsilon, your status?”

“My special detail is holding for your order, Star Colonel,” was Star Commander Annika’s crisp reply.

“Very good. It will come soon, Star Commander. Stand ready.”

The timing was delicate. He wanted the DCMS forces focused on his ’Mechs when Annika’s elementals slipped in beneath the suspension bridge to cut the spoilsport charges that had to be there. That meant she could not go until his ’Mechs were fully engaged.

His Kodiak lumbered past the rest of the Star. Dag and Birgit brought their ’Mechs up to speed to follow.

“Hey,” said Ivan, “what about me?”

“Hold here,” said Hall. He spared a glance at the dark forest surrounding them. “And see if you can flush out that fourth ’Mech.”

Hall came to a bend in the road that traveled to the right. A thick growth of trees obscured his view into the opening beyond. The forest was thinner to the left and the ground worse. Out of the corner of his eye Hall could see the shallow depression that had once been the river’s course and beyond that the deep blue of the river itself.

He selected an open comm channel and said, “I am Star Colonel Christer Hall, a bloodnamed warrior of Clan Ghost Bear and commanding officer of Xi Galaxy’s Fifth Bear Regulars. I hereby invoke the ritual of zellbrigen and challenge the pilot of the Sunder to a duel of warriors. In this solemn matter, let none interfere!”

His radio crackled and a voice said, “This is Chu-i Domoto. Bring it on, Clan scum.”

Hall allowed himself a smile. “You have much to learn about insults, my friend. As well as war. Fortunately you are about to gain instruction from an expert in both.”

He peeked around a stand of Douglass firs and found the Combine ’Mechs right where Ivan reported they would be. The 90-ton Sunder was a blocky beast. Its cockpit was located under a missile rack, making it look a little like a metal box with limbs. It was not particularly fast, but Hall had no illusions about its ability to fight. The Sunder was heavily armed and armored and this one sported a rearing Kurita dragon the color of blood on its left shoulder.

All this he saw in a fraction of a second.

Hall jerked his left arm up and fired two emerald beams of light at the Combine OmniMech. He just had time to see his lasers miss low, scoring armor on the Sunder’s right thigh, before he ducked back behind his makeshift cover.

A second later a bolt of lightning from the particle projector cannon in the Sunder’s right arm incinerated Hall’s cover and set the brush ablaze. The trees had deflected most of the force of the blast, but a quick glance at his wireframe schematic showed a few patches of yellow mixed among the green.

Hall loosed a flight of Streak missiles and stepped his Kodiak back behind another stand of trees.

The Sunder answered with another bolt of PPC energy that set fire to more trees. Hall backed his ’Mech up one more time.

As he moved, he saw the Bishamon skittering towards the river. It was a logical move. The design would give it an advantage on the uneven ground. Not that that small advantage would save him when he faced a warrior of Clan Ghost Bear.

“Birgit, the Bishamon is moving off to the left. You can cut him off if you move through the forest.”

“Aff, Star Colonel,” answered Birgit. She sprayed the forest on their left with fire from her arm-mounted lasers, felling trees and burning away brush. Clearing a path.

It was a dangerous maneuver. If Birgit lost her footing she would go down hard. And if the Bishamon closed with her, its natural stability advantage would be even greater in the woods. But if she made it to the treeline unopposed, the forest would give her some cover as she attacked. He did not dare order her to run through the opening for an attack the Bishamon’s flank.

That would expose her to all the punishment the Sunder could dish out.

Hall ducked left and let loose another volley of laser-fire, then he ducked back. The lasers and SRM’s had not done much to slow down the Sunder, but he could not bring his large laser or autocannon to bear without exposing himself to return fire.

The huge Combine ’Mech answered with more PPC fire.

A sheet of orange flame consumed the trees before him. They had quite a cheerful little blaze going. Hall could hear the dull roar of rushing air and the crackle and pop of wood split by sudden angry heat. Sweat stung his eyes and he dragged his forearm against his brow, wiping away a sheen of perspiration. Maybe that was the Sunder’s plan.

Burn him out.

Hall swallowed hard. It would take more than a little heat to scare away the commander of the Howling Bears.

The growing forest fire was playing hell with his thermal sensors, but it would impact the enemy the same way. He was happy to let the woods burn. It meant there was no DCMS ’Mech hidden in the forest to his right.

He dodged around the burning forest and traded ineffectual fire with the Sunder.

He and his partner were performing an intricate waltz. Time to shake things loose a little.

“Time to get you in the fight, Dag. I am going to step forward and engage the Sunder. You dart in and take the Black Hawk, quiaff?”

“Aff, Star Colonel,” said Dag enthusiastically.

Hall switched to another channel. “Annika, go thirty seconds from now. Mark.”

“Aff, Star Colonel.”

Hall drew a deep breath and stepped past the growing blaze. He let loose with the Ultra-20 Autocannon mounted just below his right shoulder, another flight of Streak missiles from his left, and a sizzling ruby beam from the torso-mounted laser.

His cockpit temp inched up another couple degrees, but the Sunder staggered back under Hall’s sudden assault.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hall saw Dag’s Nova charge the Black Hawk. That split second was precisely as much time as he had to think about his subordinates, because the Sunder’s pilot regained his balance and stepped forward. The blocky ’Mech raised its arms and let loose with a twin-PPC blast from its right arm and the autocannon in its left.

Just as Hall tapped his jump jets.

His Kodiak hopped to the right. The bolt of PPC energy just missed, but he felt the autocannon find its mark, slashing across his torso.

Hall loosed another volley of Streaks. They flashed in and impacted the Sunder’s chest. For a second a wreath of smoke obscured the other ’Mech’s view. Hall used that time to turn and hit his jump jets. A volley of laser fire just missed him low.

His comms unit crackled in mid-jump. “Star Colonel, this is Star Commander Annika. We have cut the wires and secured the bridge.”

“Already, quineg?” answered Hall.

“Aff, Star Colonel. We met no opposition.”

No opposition. Could the defenders of this world be that incompetent? What was going on?

Hall tapped his jump jets again to slow his fall and took the landing in a crouch. He still felt the shock in his body and heard the crunch of shattered ferrocrete.

He half-turned and stumbled forward as a volley of Streak missiles caught him in the back. On his wire frame schematic his right shoulder armor flashed from green to yellow.

Hall managed to maintain his balance and turn. He could not get a lock—both thermal and electronic sensors were out—so he took his aim with the Ultra-20 in his right shoulder and walked it toward his opponent.

The Sunder pilot managed to avoid the barrage of shells by quickly stepping his ’Mech to the right, but it gave Hall time to dodge around a stand of burning trees. Ordinarily a copse of pine, burning or otherwise, would be poor cover but with sensors down the Sunder could not get a lock. Since he did not know where Hall was, the Combine pilot dared not close and risk the Kodiak getting off a kill shot. So the Sunder was reduced to taking random shots at the burning forest.

Hall used the momentary respite to assess the tactical situation. His elementals held the bridge, so once he dispatched the Inner Sphere ’Mechs he would control a route into Newport.

Dag had chased the Black Hawk part way down the highway, getting them out of the clearing and shielding both ’Mechs from the firepower of the two giants. Hidden behind the right spur of the forest, Hall could not see how that battle was going.

To his left, Birgit was fencing with the Bishamon on the uneven ground near the river. She seemed to be using her forest cover to good advantage, but she was moving with a noticeable limp in her left leg. Must have damaged a knee joint.

Hall dodged around burning forest and fired his left hand lasers. He was playing a lethal game of hide-and-go-seek with the Sunder.

Time to finish him off.

He hit his jump jets and leapt over the burning patch of forest.

He cut out his left jet a moment sooner, allowing the right jet to turn him in mid-air. For an instant he was outlined against the blue sky, vulnerable to attack. The Sunder raised his right arm and lightning sizzled the air.

But missed Hall.

And then he came down. Hard.

Less than fifty meters from the Sunder’s left side.

Hall covered the distance in five or six quick strides. He grabbed the Sunder’s left arm and pushed it up and out.

The Sunder pilot triggered his massive autocannon. The arm shook and vibrated with the discharge of hundreds of rounds. The stream of autocannon fire passed harmlessly to the left of the Kodiak’s bear-like head. Hall held on for his life.

He leaned forward to slash the Sunder’s back. The titanium claws on his right hand ripped through armor, shredding it to tatters.

The Sunder pilot pivoted around his trapped arm, bringing the other arm to bear.

Hall let go and stepped in back of the turning Sunder.

Only a second—

Hall raised both hands and poured eight beams of emerald fire into the Sunder’s back, quickly melting through what was left of the armor and the reactor shielding below.

Then he jumped.

A half-second before the Sunder pilot ejected.

Hall brought his Kodiak down in time to see the Sunder go up in his rear monitor. One second he was looking at a proud ’Mech of the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery and the next the war machine was consumed by the golden fire of an angry sun. Hall pushed his ’Mech into a run, knowing he was still too close.

Armor telltales on his back blinked from green to red as he caught shrapnel raining down from the shattered Sunder. He stumbled but managed to keep his feet.

He glanced at his wireframe schematic. His back armor was gone and the armor shielding his own reactor in the front was seriously depleted. In addition, he felt a stiffness in his left arm, no doubt damage from the death grip he had held on the Sunder’s arm.

But he was still standing.

Which meant the bridge, the city, and ultimately, the planet, would soon be his.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Birgit’s Mad Dog go down.

Ruby light flashed and the Mad Dog’s left leg crumpled. Birgit’s ’Mech toppled over, crashing against the ground with an impact that Hall felt in his bones.

“Star Commander.”

Nothing.

“Star Commander.”

No answer.

How had Birgit, a Star Commander of Clan Ghost Bear, been defeated so quickly? The Bishamon pilot must indeed be a great warrior. If he survived the next encounter Hall would take him as isorla. Hallís Kodiak was banged up, but even with his battle damage he ought to be able to dispatch the spider-like ’Mech easily enough.

He turned to face the Bishamon and selected an open channel. “I am Star Colonel Christer Hall of Clan Ghost Bear. I hereby invoke the ritual of zellbrigen and challenge the pilot of the Bishamon to a duel of warriors—”

His radio crackled with static and then a voice said, “Don’t you think you’d better ask me first?”

Hall saw something moving in his peripheral vision and glanced to his left.

Rising out of the river was an Atlas, water cascading off its boxy form, its grinning death’s head painted flat white, its gleaming silver body picking up the orange glow of the inferno raging all around them. This was not a ’Mech.

It was an angel from Hell.

With a flash of insight Hall suddenly understood: who had truly felled Birgit’s Mad Dog, the real reason for the jamming, and how the forest fire had masked the thermal signature of the Atlas hiding in the river.

Hall just had time to credit the evil vision, when the monster let loose with its hip-mounted gauss rifle. The 125-kilo projectile slammed into his left side and he staggered backwards . . .

And almost went over.

“Ambush!” Hall shouted over the ’Mech circuit. “It is an ambush!”

He had barely regained his balance when the Atlas stepped forward and blasted him with its two large lasers, vaporizing great slabs of chest armor. The temperature in the cockpit spiked and alarm klaxons blared. The Atlas had gotten part of his reactor shielding.

He would not survive another hit like that.

He let loose with his shoulder autocannon, but the Atlas charged right through the hail of gunfire as if it was not there. Suddenly Hall knew this was it, the end to all his magnificent ambitions, the end to everything.

The Atlas raised its arms for the kill shot . . .

Then jerked its head to the left as a flight of short range missiles impacted its chest.

The Atlas turned to face Ivan’s Viper, which had raced into the clearing.

“You took my opponent, Star Colonel,” said MechWarrior Ivan cheerfully over the ’Mech channel, peppering the Atlas with emerald needles of light from his pulse lasers.

No wonder the stravags had left the bridge undefended. Why worry about infantry when you can crush your opponent’s BattleMechs? Hall had been lured into the perfect trap. He keyed the strike force comms circuit. “This is Star Colonel Hall. All forces, withdraw. I say again, all forces, withdraw.”

As Hall watched, the Atlas turned and aimed its gauss rifle at Ivan’s Viper.

“Hit your jump jets, Ivan!” Hall shouted.

But Ivan did not flee.

And the gauss slug smashed into his cockpit.

For a fraction of a second, before Hall hit his own jump jets and pushed his Kodiak into a series of great, bounding leaps, he saw the Atlas standing there like an avatar of death, limned by the yellow-orange light of the fire. Instead of the Kurita dragon Hall expected, the ’Mech sported a different insignia on its left shoulder.

A twisted tree, its dark limbs heavy with pink blossoms.

OF WAR AND PEACE AND CHERRY TREES

By Steven Mohan, Jr.

PART TWO

Main Commercial Arterial, Outskirts of Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

17 November 3062

The fire roared like some great beast as it swallowed trees whole, consuming everything in its path with a ravenous hunger that could never be sated. Powerful, swirling winds buffeted Shintaro Yamada’s ’Mech as cooler air rushed in to replace the superheated air lost to the immense updraft. The beast breathed.

And it spread.

Angry winds blew burning branches, needles and cones from tree to tree, feeding a crown fire that raced through the forest’s canopy. All around Yamada’s Atlas the world was orange-yellow flame and towering heat.

It was easy to believe he’d descended into Hell.

He stepped forward to finish the crippled Kodiak with his arm-mounted lasers when a hail of missiles impacted his right side, knocking him off stride. He pivoted to find himself face-to-face with a Dragonfly.

This lightweight ’Mech, called a Viper by the Clans, was fast but lightly armored. Dragonflies typically darted in to harass bigger, slower opponents and then dashed away before the opposing ’Mech could land a crushing blow.

This one stood its ground.

Long enough for Yamada’s Atlas to complete its deadly turn and line up its hip rifle perfectly.

The Dragonfly just stood there firing its pulse lasers into the heavily armored Atlas’s torso.

Yamada triggered the gauss rifle and the weapon’s powerful magnetic fields instantly accelerated the 125-kilo slug up to supersonic speed. The Dragonfly’s pilot never had a chance. The slug smashed into the smaller ’Mech’s cockpit and out the other side.

That was enough for the Kodiak.

The huge garrison ’Mech turned and bolted, hitting its jump jets in a maneuver that sent it fleeing in a series of great, bounding leaps. The Star Colonel who piloted the Kodiak must’ve sounded a general retreat because an instant later the Clan Nova leapt high above the trees, still joined to Chu-i Xia’s Black Hawk by a line of ruby fire.

Yamada centered his sights on the fleeing Nova. A tone sounded in his ear and he loosed a flight of short-range missiles.

They caught the Nova mid-jump. The multiple explosions weren’t enough to destroy the ’Mech, but they were enough to knock it off-balance. The Nova pilot came down in the center of the opening in the forest. On one leg. There was no way the limb could take that kind of impulse. For an instant the shriek of rended metal pierced the fire’s roar. Then the leg snapped off and gravity pulled the damaged ’Mech down. The ground shook and groaned with the great impact.

“I’ll finish the Nova,” signaled Yamada. “Xia and Lee, take down the elementals. Go.”

Lee’s Bishamon skittered across the uneven ground, racing for the highway. The other two ’Mechs were faster than Yamada’s Atlas. They’d have a better chance of catching the elementals before they could withdraw.

Yamada stalked his ’Mech over to what was left of the Nova. The great machine lay face-up in a bed of shattered ferrocrete. Then its head turned and the Nova struggled to rise.

Yamada jerked his right arm up and poured megajoules of killing energy into the Nova’s cockpit.

The ’Mech fell back, its cockpit a mess of blackened and twisted metal.

Yamada stared down at the wreckage. His hands shook. He had acted on instinct. That instinct had probably saved his life, but he’d killed a man who might’ve been merely captured.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and stepped his ’Mech into a fast walk.

He couldn’t think about it or he’d never get through this. Just act and react. That was all he could do. Act and react.

“We have engaged elementals,” said Xia’s voice over the ’Mech circuit.

“I’m proceeding to your position,” answered Yamada.

Clan Ghost Bear had fielded maybe two, three points of infantry in their effort to take the bridge. That meant as many as fifteen elementals against two ’Mech’s, a clear mismatch. Xia and Lee could handle it themselves, but Yamada would not send children to do what he would not do.

Yamada raced down the highway between walls of flame fifteen meters high, the roar of the fire drowning out all other sound. Above him the sky was low, fashioned from roiling black smoke. He charged past the burning timber and into the clearing that had been cut around the bridge’s entrance.

The Clan elementals were pinned down on the bridge.

No doubt they had planned to fade into the forest if something went wrong, but the angry inferno tearing through the trees had cut off that escape, leaving them with few options. They could engage two (now three) ’Mechs head on, which was suicide. They could turn and flee along the bridge and get shot in the back. Or they could use their jump jets to scatter and hope that some of them made it.

Being Clan warriors, they chose to stand and fight.

By Yamada’s quick count there were fourteen elementals up and six down. (So four points, then.) Clan elementals were the pinnacle of infantry development, genetically engineered monsters more than two meters tall and encased in heavy battle armor that made for a ton of man and machine. But there was no way they could stand up to the firepower of a BattleMech.

Xia and Lee poured laser fire into the nearest elementals, melting right through the armor to kill the warrior within.

One of the elementals stepped forward and fired the dual missile pack he wore on his back. A pair of SRMs streaked toward Yamada’s Atlas. The missiles hit the Atlas in the chest and Yamada staggered back, his chest armor flashing from yellow to red.

“That’s enough,” he snarled.

He lined up his hip rifle and fired. The gauss slug instantly smashed the elemental into bloody pulp.

Yamada charged forward, savagely picking off soldiers with his arm-mounted lasers. The elementals fell back under his onslaught. One didn’t fall back fast enough. Yamada stepped down with his right foot, crushing him under 100 tons of ’Mech.

That was too much, even for Clan elementals. The surviving infantry broke and ran.

Xia and Lee surged after them.

Yamada took a step forward to join the pursuit and almost toppled over. The crushed elemental’s armor was still stuck to his ’Mech’s foot, just thick enough to throw off his balance. He raised his right leg and dragged the bottom of his foot against the concrete barrier at the bridge’s side.

It was like scraping dog shit off his shoe.

He peered down at mess of smashed metal that had once been a person. Suddenly he couldn’t do it any more. Yamada turned his back on the ’Mech’s chasing down the last of the elementals and slowly walked away.

The Castle of Unheard Screams, Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

19 November 3062

The next time Yamada visited his old cell it had a new occupant.

He didn’t know it was his old cell at first, but after the guard pushed the door open and he saw the crack in the stone high up on the far wall and the bowed cot with the broken wooden frame, he just knew.

They had put the prisoner in his old cell. Just the kind of sick joke that appealed to the beast’s perverted sense of humor.

Yamada stepped into the cell and the guard closed the heavy stone door behind him.

The woman sitting on the sagging cot looked up.

She wore prison grays. They were clean and new at least, which was better than Yamada ever had. It would’ve been better if she’d been in uniform, but when DCMS infantry had pulled her from her crippled Mad Dog all she’d been wearing was a pair of shorts and a ’Mech cooling vest.

“You are Birgit,” he said.

“Star Commander Birgit,” she answered tightly.

“I assume you have no bloodname,” said Yamada, “or you would’ve shouted it at me by now.”

She stared at him without speaking.

Yamada could see her body was lithe and trim under the gray jumpsuit. Her brown hair was cut short, but it was still a woman’s hair, reaching just below her ears. She might’ve been pretty if it weren’t for ugly black bruise that framed her left eye and the flash burn had transformed the skin of the right side of her face into a mottled pink. “I will not tell you anything,” she croaked.

Without looking at her he stepped past the cot and peered out the small window.

It was. It was his old cell.

Her voice called him away from the view of the cherry tree. “I will not betray my Clan.”

Yamada affected a sigh. “Such loyalty,” he said softly.

He realized he was acting, couching his words to get the desired result. This woman was playing his role, while he played the beast. How easily evil reclaims those it has lost. It was not a comfortable thought.

He turned and fixed her with a hard stare. “You think you’re better than us.”

“Of course we are,” snapped the woman. “We are strong and we are civilized. We do not manipulate our enemies. We do not trick them. We meet them openly on a field of honor. We do not hide behind words.”

Yamada nodded. “I see.”

“And that is why I will tell you nothing of our plans, our order of battle, our supply situation—”

Yamada waved away her words with an impatient hand. “I don’t care about any of those things. I will tell you a secret.” He leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t need them.”

Her eyes widened.

“We launched a feint against your DropShips. When a Star of your ’Mechs rushed back to help we ambushed them and cut them apart.”

She clenched her jaw and a muscle pulsed in her cheek.

“There’s more,” said Yamada. “Your DropShips have grounded on the Derrington Plateau and yet you continue to attack from the east. Clearly you have to be resupplying your forces somehow.”

“What did you do?” she whispered.

“A lance of DCMS ’Mechs caught a column of your support and maintenance forces and smashed it.”

“B-but they are noncombatants. You murdered them.”

If she expected him to deny it she was going to be disappointed. “Hai,” said Yamada coldly. “Every last one of them.”

Her head jerked back as if she’d been slapped.

“Are their lives worth any more than the young warriors you so easily send out to die? You in the Clans try to wrap up war in a pretty little box. As long as you can keep the world on the outside of the box clean and safe, you don’t care what bloody horrors you spawn on the inside.”

“That is a lie.”

“But they have not yet built the box that can hold war. As you are about to learn.”

“You are a monster.” The woman’s voice shook with emotion.

“Maybe so, but I am winning.”

“There can be no true victory without honor,” she said firmly.

“Really? Now who is hiding behind words?”

The blood drained from her face. Yamada let her think about that for a moment.

“Wh-who are you?” she finally asked.

Yamada bowed. “I am the one who defeated you in combat.”

A look of disgust twisted her features. “The Atlas pilot. You are the surat who tricked us.” She spat at his feet. “You are no warrior.”

Yamada smiled ruefully. “I agree. But so far I have been unable to convince my government of that. Perhaps you can speak to them for me?”

“You have no honor,” she snapped.

“There can be no honor in combat,” said Yamada. “The idea of honorable battle is the one thing that makes the Clans truly dangerous.”

She looked at him for a long moment and then shook her head. “If you did not come to gain information from me, what do you want?”

“To talk about your commander: Star Colonel Christer Hall, bloodnamed warrior of Clan Ghost Bear.”

She shook her head. “He is nothing like you. He is a true warrior, a man of unshakeable honor.”

Yamada offered her a smile that made the skull’s grin of his Atlas look friendly by comparison. “That’s just what I was counting on.”

Kandin Arterial, Outskirts of Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

19 November 3062

It took only a single glance at the battlefield to tell Yamada how badly the fight had gone. Despite all his subterfuge, all his clever tricks, Clan Ghost Bear had very nearly broken the back of the Richmond Reserves.

It had been a close thing.

Somehow, somehow, Cahill and her band of children had held, had beaten back the Clan assault. But at a terrible, terrible cost.

The fighting had been fierce enough to shatter the reinforced ferrocrete of the southern access. In some places, autocannon fire had abraded the ferrocrete down to its internal steel supports. Errant laser fire had sketched lines of smoky black glass in the sand that bordered the highway and had set patches of grass aflame. But that was not the worst of it.

The worst part was the twisted, blackened wreckage stretched across twenty kilometers of road. An endless column of scorched and broken equipment.

But no bodies.

The battle had been far too fierce to leave behind bodies. The great beast of war had incinerated the fallen, cooked them in their cockpits, their turrets, or their powered armor leaving nothing but charred carbon.

Yamada could taste the truth of that in the sooty grit carried on the wind.

He suddenly felt a presence behind him and knew at once whom it must be. “This,” he said without turning, “this is war.”

“How could you bear to give it up?” asked the beast cheerfully.

“I don’t have time for this,” said Tai-i Deborah Cahill dully. “If we have something to discuss, let’s discuss it.”

Yamada turned. The beast looked the same (always the same), but not Cahill.

Looking at her made Yamada’s heart heavy. Three days of combat had aged her ten years. The heat of a ’Mech’s cockpit had matted her honey blond hair to her skull and the soft, smooth skin of her face was now marked by a three-centimeter line of stitches that started at the corner of her left eye and sliced across her cheek. That would leave a scar.

Worst of all her pretty green eyes had hardened into something angry. And afraid.

Yamada knew those eyes had seen horrors they never could’ve imagined even three days before. He felt pity for her. Cahill was a fool, but she did not deserve to be subjected to the nightmare of war.

No one did.

He glanced at the beast. “I’m going to call Star Colonel Hall and challenge him to a trial of possession.”

The beast said nothing. Not the slightest emotion flickered across his face.

Cahill frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Yamada met her eyes. “For the city.”

“What? That’s insane.” Cahill looked from Yamada to the beast and back again. “We’re winning.”

The sweep of Yamada’s hand took in the terrible carnage of the battlefield. “Does this look like winning to you?”

“But you beat them at the river and took down their supply chain and—”

“We’re fighting a holding action,” said Yamada savagely. “Academy cadets can’t possibly hold off the Fifth Regulars. We can win today, maybe even tomorrow, but in the end we are going to lose. He knows that.” Yamada jerked his head at the beast. “Why do you think he has not spoken?”

Cahill turned toward the beast, her eyes wide with hurt and betrayal.

The beast met her gaze for a second and then turned to Yamada. “What are you going to ask for?”

“Two weeks. That ought to be enough time for your reinforcements to come—if they ever will.”

“Hai,” said the beast. “Two weeks.” Then without another word the beast turned and walked off.

Cahill watched him go, her jaw hanging half-open. “My people,” she whispered, “ they died on this road, for, for . . .” Her mouth worked, but no more words came out.

“Be careful Tai-i Cahill,” said Yamada softly. “That way lies treason.”

DCMS Command Center, Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

20 November 3062

Star Colonel Christer Hall, bloodnamed warrior of Clan Ghost Bear didn’t look anything like Yamada expected. He had a shock of thick brown hair, warm blue eyes, and a long, aristocratic nose. A patch of scar tissue marked the cheekbone just under his left eye where some laser had come within a hair’s breadth of slicing through his features, but except for that flaw he could’ve been a holovid star anywhere in the Inner Sphere.

Right now that near-perfect face filled the two-meter screen in the main briefing room. The pretty countenance twisted into something ugly and hateful. “So you are the stravag who makes a mockery of the rules of honorable combat.”

Yamada stood in front of the screen, his arms folded across his chest. “There is nothing honorable about slaughtering human beings, Star Colonel, whatever you may tell yourself.”

That earned him a raised eyebrow from Hall. “So says a man who murdered a good portion of my quartermasters.”

Yamada glanced over at Cahill and the beast, both of whom sat silently just outside the camera’s pick-up. He was playing a dangerous game. It would have been better if the beast were not here, but that was not to be. It had taken all of Yamada’s skill to convince the ISF officer to allow him to propose the trial (not to mention Tai-sa Schmidtt, the planetary commander). More could not be expected.

Yamada shrugged. “We in the Inner Sphere do not love quartermasters any less than warriors.”

A muscle pulsed in Hall’s cheek as he struggled with his fury. “How can you expect me to meet a man such as you on the field of honor?”

“Funny, Star Commander Birgit had much the same reaction.”

Hall’s eyes widened, then he locked his emotions down. “So?”

“So. I will tell you what I told her. I have been able to beat you my way. And I will beat you your way. If your defense of honorable combat is anything more than empty words.”

The massive image of Hall shook its massive head. “I invite you to try all your dishonorable tricks, Sho-sa Yamada. In the end they will mean nothing. We shall still beat you. That is how I shall defend the idea of honorable combat.”

“Hai, you will beat me,” said Yamada.

Cahill’s head jerked up a little at that. The beast sat perfectly still.

“But that’s not the question. The real question is: How long?”

Hall frowned as if he didn’t understand.

Yamada smiled, a cold, hard smile. “Shall I spell it out for you?”

Hall said nothing.

Yamada placed his hands together, palm to palm. “Perhaps you know that I fought Clan Smoke Jaguar. One of the things I learned then was that there was not a Star Colonel alive who didn’t yearn to be a Galaxy Commander. And not a Galaxy Commander who didn’t yearn to be a Khan. And I suppose no Khan who didn’t yearn to be ilKhan.”

Hall maintained his silence, but his eyes narrowed.

“Hai, in the end you will win Richmond,” said Yamada almost cheerfully. (He could feel the talent for manipulation growing in him like a cancer, feel himself growing more like the beast every day.) “But how long will it take? How long before you can move on to the next battlefield? Move on to the next chance for . . . glory?” Yamada turned his back to Hall’s giant face and shuffled some papers on a desk. “How long before you are reinforced?”

When he turned back, Hall no longer could have been mistaken for a holovid star. His face was taut and hard, and Yamada guessed it was taking every ounce of Hall’s control to keep from exploding. “What do you propose?” It came out as a growl.

“A trial of possession,” said Yamada. “If you win, the DCMS will withdraw from the city. And if I win: a truce.”

“How long?” said Hall.

Yamada shrugged. “Two weeks.”

Hall blinked. “I am sure you expect to be reinforced in two weeks.”

“Perhaps. But I may be able to delay you nearly that long anyway. And how long do you really have? How long before some eager Star Colonel takes the next promising world? I hear Schuyler has already fallen.”

For a long moment, no words passed between the two men. Finally, Hall said “What force composition do you propose for this trial?”

This was the moment of maximum danger. The moment when all he’d planned and sacrificed for might be stripped from him. He stepped into it like he would’ve faced any other danger. “A single BattleMech on each side. Your Kodiak against my Atlas.”

The beast stood up at that.

Yamada turned and bowed low from the waist. “Unless the honorable Tai-sa Maru wishes to claim the honor for himself.”

For a second Yamada locked eyes with the beast. Slowly the beast eased back into his chair.

Yamada turned back to the screen. “It seems that we here have the stomach for such a duel. What about Clan Ghost Bear, Star Colonel Hall?”

Hall nodded slowly. “Bargained well.”

Then the screen went black.

The beast launched himself out of his chair. “Are you mad?”

Yamada met the man’s anger steadily. His glanced over at Cahill and then back to the beast. He had no need to say the words: Have I been wrong yet? Would you rather turn the defense of the city over to her?

The beast jabbed an angry finger at him. “You had better win.” Then he stalked out of the room, Cahill in tow.

Yamada watched them go. In truth, neither Hall nor the beast knew what he had planned. Only five days in the service of war and already he was a liar and a murderer. Truly, he grew more like the beast every minute.

DCMS Command Center, Newport, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

21 November 3062

The sound of Yamada’s footsteps echoed on the ferrocrete of the BattleMech storage facility as he walked toward his Atlas. He wore only boots, a pair of shorts, and his cooling vest. What he was about to do would be difficult, but there was little doubt in his mind that he could do it. Was he not the greatest MechWarrior the little world of Richmond had ever produced?

He shook his head at that grim thought.

The techs had painted the Atlas a mottled green and gray, a paint scheme that would help disguise it in the Black Foothills. Yamada would’ve preferred to leave the Atlas unpainted, clean silver, but the beast had insisted. The fate of this world depended on this duel and the beast was unwilling to cede any possible advantage.

At least he had allowed Yamada to keep the cherry tree.

The Richmond Reserves was an ad hoc unit with no history and no emblem. Yamada had noticed that some of the other ’Mech pilots had painted his tree on their own war machines. It didn’t surprise him.

But it did make him sad.

Despite his best efforts no one really understood what that tree meant.

“Sho-sa Yamada.”

Yamada turned.

Cahill stood behind him wearing a pair of gray coveralls. She bowed low. “I just wanted to wish you luck and say . . .” She licked her lips. “I wanted to say that you are a great warrior.”

“A great warrior.” Yamada snorted. “I can think of no insult more vile.”

Cahill swallowed. “I used to think that the members of the peace movement were weak. Afraid to fight.” She shook her head. “But you’re not. So? Why did you join them?”

“If you can even ask that question then perhaps you should go back and reexamine the wreckage on the southern road.”

“Is there nothing worth fighting for?” she asked angrily. “Nothing worth dying for?”

“Those are two separate questions,î said Yamada. “The answers are ‘iie’ and ‘hai,’ respectively.”

“Then it is evil to fight.”

“Hai,” Yamada snapped.

“And no good man may take up arms against his brother?”

“Right again,” said Yamada angrily.

“If that is true, then must not good always cede the battlefield to evil?”

Yamada stared at her for a long moment, shaking with fury. Then he turned his back on Cahill and climbed the chain-link ladder that led to the cockpit of his Atlas.

The Black Foothills, Richmond

Pesht Military District

Draconis Combine

21 November 3062

The Black Foothills gained their name from the massiveevergreens that covered the area, blanketing the forest floor in darkness. Hall pushed his Kodiak slowly through the woods, knocking down pines and cedars and fir trees, leaving a trail of destruction behind him.

Letting the sun into this dark place.

He moved slowly partly because the Kodiak was slow, but also because he intended to be damn careful this time. He remembered well the sight of a monstrous apparition rising out of the river, water cascading off its horrific silver form.

He would not let that happen again.

Which was why he was pushing through trees as he searched for Yamada. He had decided to avoid the dirt logging road that weaved its way through the Black Foothills. No roads. The engagement by the river had taught him that, at least.

Unfortunately the Black Foothills were dotted with small valleys and ridges perfect for hiding ’Mechs, even one as massive as an Atlas. Hall was sure that was exactly what Yamada was doing: hiding. If there was any doubt, all he had to do was look down at the white snow that degraded the performance of his radar repeater.

More small emitters.

The DCMS officer could call this arrangement a trial of possession if he wanted to, but Hall did not expect for one second that his enemy would fight with honor. And so Hall had ordered a pair of aerospace fighters into the sky. The Ammons orbited high overhead awaiting his orders. The second he saw any hint of betrayal, Hall would call in an air strike. The Star Colonel hoped for an honest fight.

But he was ready either way.

I can beat this barbarian scum, Hall thought. No, I will beat him.

The Sho-sa had shown himself to be cunning, just as a leopard was cunning. But like the big cat, Yamada was beyond reason, beyond the rules of men. Those traits made him dangerous, often to others, yes, but sometimes to himself as well.

This time Hall would turn the Sho-sa’s dishonor against him like a blade.

If he could only find him. Yamada had yet to do anything to violate the strictures of zellbrigen, but this endless search for him was maddening. Perhaps it was Yamada’s plan to bore him to death.

A high-pitched jump tone shrieked for his attention.

Fire control radar.

Hall’s eyes flicked down to his repeater. The snow was gone. Yamada must’ve had some sort of remote for turning the ECM emitters off and on.

Large blip, undoubtedly an assault ’Mech bearing east-northeast, less than a quarter klick out, which would just about put him on the—

The volley of missiles hit as Hall was turning his beast toward the road. Explosions rippled across his chest, vaporizing armor and throwing him off his stride, but doing little serious damage.

Hall thumb touched the red pickle that would release his own flight of missiles, glanced back at the repeater and—

The snow was back.

“Oh, you clever, clever bastard,” Hall muttered under his breath.

He pushed his Kodiak into an ungainly run, toppling trees in his path and setting the earth trembling. Yamada had disengaged his electronic countermeasures long enough to get a radar lock and launch a missile strike and then had reenergized ECM before Hall could reply. But he had made one critical error.

Now Hall knew where he was.

Hall’s Kodiak burst through the treeline and stepped forward onto the dirt road. He saw the back of an Atlas pushing through the trees on the other side of the road. Hall raised both paws and poured emerald fire into the retreating ’Mech’s back.

The Atlas veered left, taking it out of Hall’s line of fire.

But it was close enough for Hall to lock on with thermal sensors.

He loosed a flight of Streak SRMs at the Atlas and charged down Yamada’s trail of broken trees. Hall saw the explosion bloom white on his IR sensor. “Yes,” said Hall. The bloom was huge. He must have set off a secondary explosion within the Atlas, which meant—

No.

Hall saw an orange flame licking at the forest understory. He had not destroyed the Atlas. Instead Yamada was using his energy weapons to set the forest ablaze. Having denied Hall the use of his radar, the Sho-sa was trying to do the same with his thermal sensors.

We shall just see about that, Hall thought savagely.

He hit his jump jets and leapt skyward on pillars of superheated plasma vented out of his feet. He came down hard, landing on crouched legs not a quarter klick behind the Atlas. Even before Hall straightened up he was pouring a steady stream of autocannon fire into the other ’Mech.

Yamada answered with his twin rear-mounted pulse lasers, slicing into Hall’s torso armor.

The Atlas pivoted, bringing its hip-mounted gauss rifle to bear as Hall took a step forward. The massive projectile slammed into his chest and knocked the Kodiak off stride, giving the other ’Mech just enough time to complete its turn and expose its more heavily armored chest to Hall. He saw the strange cherry tree emblem painted on the Atlas’s left shoulder.

Hall lashed out with his lasers and his massive autocannon.

Yamada answered with his arm-mounted lasers and his gauss rifle.

For a single, horrible moment the forest was a hell of ruby light and exploding ordinance.

Then the Atlas backed away, keeping its damaged rear armor turned away from the Kodiak and out of reach.

Hall broke off his attack and charged around Yamada’s path. His great garrison ’Mech could go toe-to-toe with the Atlas, but if he could get behind Yamada he might end this all with twenty or thirty seconds of sustained fire.

The Star Colonel glanced down at his thermal scanner. The small sun at the heart of Yamada’s Atlas was an incandescent white circle. But it was already starting to fade into the brightening background as the fire started to burn in earnest. Already the fire prevented Hall from achieving a missile lock.

But he had a good enough idea of Yamada’s position for a close quarters attack.

Hall hit his jump jets and star-hot plasma punched him skyward. His eyes flickered downward. In time to see Yamada’s signature merge into the thermal background. His computer was not going to give him a firing solution this time.

This was something he was going to have to feel.

Hall cut his jets and Richmond’s gravity pulled him down in a ballistic arc.

He came down. Hard. Hard enough to send a shiver of force rippling through the earth. Hard enough to launch a shower of orange sparks into the air as he smashed through a copse of burning pines. Hard enough that his gyrostabilizer whined in protest.

But his instincts had not failed him.

He had landed less than twenty meters from the Atlas.

And behind him.

Yamada was better than the Sunder pilot had been. In the second it took for Hall to steady himself the Atlas was already turning to the right to face him. Hall’s massive Ultra-20 autocannon cut a line in Yamada’s armor from back to front cutting across the other ’Mech’s right arm.

And into the medium laser mounted there.

Hall had not done the damage he had planned to the other ’Mech’s back, but he had disabled one of Yamada’s weapons.

And he was close.

With a growl deep in this throat, Hall closed the distance between his enemy with a couple quick strides and clamped down on Yamada’s disabled right arm with his left. He reached forward with his right claw and shredded the Atlas’s chest armor.

But Yamada was not the Sunder pilot.

He did not struggle to free his useless right arm and he did not bring his left arm around for a laser shot. Instead he pushed off with his massive legs, throwing 100 tons of assault ’Mech right into Hall’s Kodiak.

The two great ’Mech’s went down like a pair of barroom brawlers.

Hall was on the bottom.

Well over a quarter million pounds of ’Mechs crashed to the earth. This time the earth did not just shudder, it groaned and broke, shattered under the weight of the two machines tangled together like lovers. The force of the impact knocked Hall’s teeth together and flung him against his five-point safety harness, hard enough to push the air out of his lungs. Reality dimmed for a moment.

When it came back Hall found that somehow, somehow, Yamada had managed to partially free his Atlas from the embrace, because he was staring up at the barrel of the Atlas’s left arm laser pressed right up against the cracked surface of his ferroglass canopy.

Hall’s radio crackled. “I would like to speak with you, Star Colonel.”

“Do it,” Hall snarled. “Do not toy with me, Yamada. Fire.”

“There is another way.”

“You have won the trial of possession. There is no other way.”

“Actually,” said Yamada, “I thought we might put the trial of possession on hold for a few minutes. And discuss the terms of my surrender.”

“W-what?” Hall stammered. “But you have won. Why would you—”

“No one’s won anything here,” said Yamada, and for the first time his voice sounded sharp.

“You have won. What do you want from me?”

Yamada sighed. “And what have I won? A chance for the DCMS to reinforce this world so the battle will go on longer, killing more young warriors on both sides? And what if the Combine prevails? Your forces will be back in ten years or twenty. Or someone else’s will be. None of this solves anything.”

Hall shook his head. “I do not—”

“Clan Ghost Bear has a reputation of tolerance toward conquered populations. I ask you if this reputation is deserved.”

“We interfere less with native cultures than others would. The Jade Falcons, say. But, I still do not—”

“On this world, I was the head of a peace movement.”

“Peace movement?” Hall whispered. The words tasted strange in his mouth.

“A movement of people that argues there is another way, a better way than war.”

Hall gasped. “Th-that is obscene.” His voice shook with fury.

“I have heard it said many times that Clanners are humanity’s finest warriors. If that’s true, if it carries with it even a grain of truth, you will be able to defeat an idea in a fair fight as easily as you can defeat an enemy.” Yamada’s voice dropped a notch. “Or are you afraid?”

“I fear nothing.”

“Good. Then if you give me your word of honor as a warrior that you will allow this organization to function after you capture this world, I will concede this trial to you.”

Hall chewed on that for a moment, pondering a way out. “What if the DCMS does not honor your surrender?”

Yamada snorted. “The Richmond Reserves are filled with fools and children. Without me they will crumble in your hands like an origami swan. The city will fall and soon after that the rest of the world.”

Suddenly Hall saw it, saw it all. He could have Richmond and the opportunity to hit the next world. All he had ever wished for lay within his grasp. All he had to do was forsake his honor and claim a victory that truthfully belonged to another man.

And suffer the existence of a movement of weakness, growing like a cancer within his Clan.

“And if I say no.”

“Then I will kill you.” Yamada’s voice was full of ice.

Death or glory. Honor or victory. The compromise tasted bitter in his mouth.

He would not bear it alone.

“I accept your proposal,” said Hall. “On one condition.”

“Hai?” Yamada sounded hesitant.

“You will agree to serve as my bondsmen.”

“I am a man of peace,” said Yamada.

Now it was Hall’s turn to snort. “Then kill me now, ‘man of peace.’”

“Then kill me now, ‘man of peace.’” Yamada heard the harsh bray of Hall’s laughter over his radio and winced. How could he allow himself to become isorla after all he’d been through, all he believed?

Could he do that? Give himself to war for the sake of peace? Certainly, it was no greater a sacrifice than that of the young men and women whose bodies had been shattered by a gauss slug or burned to carbon by a laser or torn asunder by the death rattle of an autocannon.

Yamada believed in peace with his heart and soul, but war was something that grabbed a man by the gut and didn’t let go. The truth was that all those years of meditation had done him little good. War was like a drug and now that he’d had one more taste how could he ever give it up? It was too late for him. He had been ruined by the glory of war, the savage beauty of combat.

And suddenly he understood the true meaning of the cherry tree, struggling to be what it was, what it had to be, despite the presence of the wall. Like the tree he revered, Shintaro Yamada had no choice but to be what he was, and what was he, if not a warrior?

Slowly Yamada pulled his arm and its laser back from the Kodiak’s cracked canopy and readied himself to serve the only master he’d ever truly known.

FALL OF THE BLOSSOM

By Steven Mohan, Jr.

Lotus Flower Facility, South Hangar

Munich, Radstadt, Ghost Bear Dominion

19 March 3064

Shintaro Yamada spun left, kicking high, his left boot smashing into the beautiful line of his opponent’s jaw. He felt the brutal give of bone, heard her sharp gasp, but even still he did not quite believe it. So when she dropped to her hands and knees, spotting the gray ferrocrete with her blood, he ignored his instincts and danced away.

After several shuddery breaths, she climbed to her feet.

Yamada had learned long ago that death could steal upon a man in the most unlikely of places. Today it had found him in a little-used corner of the South Hangar. It was a place bathed in the watery, yellow light of sodium lamps and hidden behind the backward-bent leg of a Warhawk. In the distance, Yamada heard the crackle and hiss of arc welders, the electric hum of hoist cranes, the clang of metal and the shouts of men. But all that was far away.

Here there was nothing but the rasp of labored breathing and the endless, unblinking stares.

They fought in a ten-meter circle defined by the bodies of fourteen Ghost Bear warriors, all silent as stone. Yamada felt the weight of their attention, their eyes made black by the jaundiced light.

He wrenched his thoughts away from the circle. It was dangerous to forget his opponent—even for an instant.

MechWarrior Angelica offered him a slow, insolent smile, her teeth filmed with bright blood. She spit out a tooth, her smile never fading. So it was going to be like that.

“You cannot beat me, Angelica,” said Yamada. “Step outside the circle and save your life.”

“The man of peace,” she sneered, “always trying to find another way.” She was a small woman, slim and muscular, as fast as a cobra, bronze-skinned, her ash-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore boots, pale blue shorts, a black sports bra—and nothing else.

“There is no logic in needless death.” He paused. “Uh, quiaff?”

“Iie,” she snapped, throwing the Japanese word for no back at him. “Because I have found another way.”

And suddenly she lunged at him, careless of his reach, right arm swinging wide, something glittering in her hand.

Knife.

Yamada’s body was already moving back and down by the time his mind found the word.

But not fast enough.

A line of fire slashed across his naked chest.

Yamada didn’t dare look down as Angelica danced back, her lithe body sheened with sweat, dark eyes eager to plunge the blade deeper.

It didn’t matter. Yamada didn’t need to look at the wound. He saw dark blood staining a half-centimeter of her blade, felt the sting of sweat tracing a line nipple to nipple, the pucker of parted flesh, the dull ache of the ribs that had saved his life.

This time.

The pair circled, he wary of her speed and blade, she wary of his power and cunning.

“Yield,” said Angelica, “and I promise it will be quick.” She flashed him a cruel smile.

Yamada smiled back. “Is that supposed to fill me with despair? Is it supposed to frighten me?”

She struck fast, flicking the knife from her right hand to her left even as she thrust at his right side.

Yamada spun away, landing a kick to her left knee that sent to her to the ferrocrete.

For a second he considered finishing her and then he saw the tension in her shoulder, the flex of her calf. Ready to spring. A trap.

He backpedaled, laughing. “You think you are clever? I spent years in the hands of the ISF. I do not fear you.”

She leaped to her feet.

“In the Castle of Unheard Screams we used to do a little dance like this every day before breakfast.”

For a moment she watched him shift sideways, feet apart, arms wide. “I notice for all your talk of bravery, you are still retreating.”

“And I notice for all your talk of honor, you’re the only one with a knife.”

An ugly murmur passed through the assembled warriors.

“I thought this was supposed to be a Circle of Equals,” he pressed.

“You are not worthy,” she whispered savagely.

They circled, each looking for an opening.

“So that’s it,” said Yamada. “I’m not worthy. It’s not that the Ghost Bears are cowards. Afraid of an idea.”

She snarled and rushed him, feinting right, lunging left. Yamada spun and kicked up, his boot connecting smoothly with her left wrist. He felt the delicate bones shatter even as the steel blade clattered to the deck.

They dove for it at the same time.

Yamada was a fraction faster. Now he had the knife.

She stumbled back, cradling her left hand in her right.

Yamada feinted with the knife, and brought his leg around in a sweep kick that knocked her legs out from under her. She landed flat on her back, her head hitting the ferrocrete with a sharp crack.

For three, four seconds she was stunned. It might as well have been an hour.

He did not give himself time to think, time to regret what he was doing. He leapt, aiming for her neck, bringing all his weight down in a single terrible blow landed by his right boot. A sickening crunch echoed off the building’s cinder-block walls. Two of the Ghost Bear warriors actually flinched.

“So,” said Yamada, breathing hard. “Who’s—next?”

He was rewarded by an uncertain silence. They were surprised. Shocked. No one dared challenge him.

Yamada grinned even as he worked to regain his breath. “I have to say—this is the very worst—murder attempt—I’ve ever seen.”

And then his cocksure smile froze on his face.

From behind he heard the soft scrape of rubber against ferrocrete. Someone stepping into the ring.

Yamada turned and saw Star Colonel Christer Hall standing behind him, arms folded across his chest. Hall was a powerful man with a shock of thick brown hair, blue eyes, and a long, aristocratic nose. There was an ugly white scar just beneath his left eye, but that was his only flaw.

For an instant those angry blue eyes locked on Yamada, and then the Star Colonel stepped past his bondsman to address the circle. “This is improper,” said Hall softly, and if it had been quiet before, it was dead silent now. “My bondsman has no standing in a Circle of Equals.”

No one spoke. Yamada didn’t think anyone breathed.

“Or maybe this is not about him. Is this really a challenge to my authority?”

No one moved.

Then a warrior behind Hall, a man named Edward shifted on his feet. “He is chalcas. He challenges the way of the Clans.”

Hall did not turn to look at Edward. “And you know better than I how to meet this threat, quineg? Your solution is to trade his dishonor for your own. Or has murder become the way of the Clans?”

Edward licked his lips. “I-I request surkai, Star Colonel.” Surkai.

The ritual of forgiveness.

Hall stepped to the body of MechWarrior Angelica. She lay flat on her back, staring up at the hangar’s ceiling with lifeless eyes. He knelt down and picked up her bloody knife. Hall stood, turned to meet the gaze of each of his warriors. “If you ask it, I will face any of you in a Trial.” He glanced down. “But I shall not be as merciful as my bondsman.”

He stepped out of the Circle of Equals without further challenge.

Yamada scrambled to follow him.

They made their way outside the hangar, and onto the streets of a busy military base. All around them the Lotus Flower thrummed with activity. The sour belch of diesel and the deep growl of heavy engines marked the passage of a convoy of trucks loaded with spare parts, rations, and medical supplies. Warriors marched along the sidewalk. The earth trembled under Yamada’s feet—somewhere in the distance a DropShip was lifting.

For more activity than sleepy Constance.

They’d only been here a week, but already Yamada could feel something: a tension borne on the air, the chewed-tinfoil taste of electricity.

Something is coming.

Yamada tried not to look, but his eyes found the Black Tower anyway, a monstrous structure stabbing into the blue belly of the sky. During the days when the base had been called the Lotus Flower Correctional Facility, the dark tower had been central to its terrible purpose. When the Ghost Bears had taken the world, they had struck the word “Correctional” from the name. They did not believe in rehabilitation. Neither did the Combine, but the Clans were more honest about it.

Yamada’s glance was no more than a flicker of motion, but Hall somehow still noticed. “I am told,” he said without turning, “that when Radstadt was a Combine world, the Lotus Flower Facility was a prison.”

Yamada said nothing.

Hall stopped and turned. “You have lost much since our bargain on Richmond.” Hall inclined his head toward the tower. “No doubt the Kurita secret police imprisoned your fellow conspirators in the peace movement after the Combine retook the world.”

Yamada’s hands closed into fists. “And you, Star Colonel?” he snarled. “You won a world and then lost it. What did your adventure on Richmond profit you?”

“It won me an assignment to the Second Bear Regulars.”

Yamada snorted. “You traded one garrison force for another.”

For a moment Hall stared at Yamada blankly and then a mean smile cut across his face like a wound. “I won you, Shintaro.”

“We have yet to see whether that was victory or defeat,” said Yamada tightly.

Hall folded his arms across his chest. “In either case, you will stop haranguing my warriors about the way of peace.”

“If I do not?”

“Then obviously they will kill you.”

Yamada stuck his chin out defiantly. “I am many things, Star Colonel, but I am not a coward.”

Hall put his hips on his fist, studying Yamada closely, turning something over in his mind. “You will tell me something, Bondsman Shintaro.”

“Of course, Star Colonel.”

“When you fought on Richmond you painted a cherry tree on your Atlas. Why?”

Yamada drew a deep breath. He hadn’t expected such a perceptive question from this man. “At the prison where I was held there was a cherry tree. Some fool of a gardener had planted the tree too close to a wall. The tree grew twisted and bent, but still it grew. Despite the world’s stupidity, it had not forgotten how to be a tree.”

Hall nodded slowly. “Despite the universe’s pressures, you will not deny who you are.”

Yamada blinked, again surprised at the man’s insight. “Hai.” He shook his head. “I mean, Aff.”

“Very good.”

Yamada raised an eyebrow. “You approve?”

“Every man should be who he is. Your problem is you do not know who you are.”

Yamada snorted.

“You are a warrior, Bondsman Shintaro. “Your inspired strategy on Richmond proved that.”

“You’re wrong,” said Yamada.

“You tell yourself you agreed to come with me to save your peace movement, but the truth is you wanted to fight. You burned to fight.”

Yamada shook his head. “Iie.”

“Really? Just now you fought with more skill and honor than any of my warriors.”

Yamada sucked in a startled breath. “You were watching me.”

“You are a remarkable warrior, Shintaro. A warrior worth some effort. One day you will be of use to me.”

The bondsman shook his head. “Never.”

“You deny it,” said Hall softly. “And yet when the moment came, you found the brutality you needed to save your own life. Tell me, Shintaro, do you remember the sound, the feel of your boot on Angelica’s neck when you took her life?”

Yamada shuddered, whether from horror or excitement he couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

“You came to us because you are a warrior, and the Clans have the best warriors in the galaxy. If you have the courage to face this truth, you will prosper. If not, it will destroy you.”

“You are wrong. I will not fight for you.”

A smirk flashed across Hall’s face. Without word or ceremony, he reached out and cut the bondcord from Yamada’s wrist. “I think you will.” He shoved something into Yamada’s hand.

Yamada glanced down. A data crystal. He looked up. “What’s this?”

“Gunzburg,” said Hall.

Yamada shook his head. “I don’t—”

“Clan Wolf believes they can play their games with impunity.” Now the Star Colonel’s smile was wintry cold. “It is time for them to learn otherwise.”

The Desolate Black

Outside Stortalar City, Gunzburg, Wolf Occupation Zone

12 April 3064

The control sticks felt wrong under Yamada’s hands. As he pushed his Atlas through the swamp he felt the sucking swirl of mud pulling at its legs, felt the ’Mech fighting through the still, black water that rose to its knees. In the darkness, it would be easyto slip, to overbalance and drive his machine into the muck.

The swamp’s canopy shut out Gunzburg’s night sky, the stars blocked by tangled branches of cypress and giant tupelo, juniper and black gum.

Something moved in Yamada’s peripheral vision.

He pivoted, bringing his right arm down, lining up on—

A faint blue radiance. A glowing mist rising off the swamp’s stagnant water.

He eased his finger off his primary trigger.

Deep in the muddy heart of the swamp, rotting vegetable matter decomposed into methane and hydrogen sulfide. Sometimes small amounts of this swamp gas self-ignited, giving birth to ephemeral will-o’-wisps. And sometimes it didn’t ignite and vast pockets of the stinking, stuffy gas built up. It would only take the softest kiss of a laser to ignite such a pocket of swamp gas, sending a pillar of molten orange flame surging up into the darkness. Alerting the Wolves to his position.

Slowly, carefully, he resumed his patrol.

He was supposed to hold the left flank of the Second Bear Regulars. His Atlas had the punch to stop an assault in its tracks until reserves could be moved up to bolster any weak spots in the line.

The 304th Assault Cluster had engaged the Third Wolf Lancers just outside Stortalar City. The 304th would pin the Snarling Wolves in place while the Second Bear Regulars cut through the swamp—emerging in the Wolf rear. The plan’s effectiveness would be somewhat limited by the Clans’ peculiar sense of honor, but no metal worked between hammer and anvil could hope to escape deformation, even if the smith adhered to the rigid dictates of Zellbrigen.

Of course, in order for all that to work, the Second had to make it out of the swamp. And Yamada assumed the Wolf commander could read a map as well as he could.

Whatever was out there was lost in the backscatter of tightly-bunched trees and masked by the swamp’s sauna-hot temperatures. Even the rumble of an approaching ’Mech would be swallowed by mud and water.

Yamada pivoted ninety degrees from the main axis of Bear advance and stopped.

He sweated as he waited, holding his breath. Blood sang in his wrists and roared in his ears. A thrill ran through him like an electric shock, and he shivered as it passed.

And then he heard the echo of Hall’s voice. You came to us because you are a warrior.

This is not who I am, he thought. And then: Isn’t it?

There.

The faint whisper of a magnetic anomaly slipped across his screen. Something big, but moving slowly. He still couldn’t see. The Bears were moving southwest through the swamp, but the signal was east-southeast. It couldn’t be an ally—unless it was an ally who’d gotten very badly lost.

Yamada’s hand tightened on his trigger.

An enemy machine was out there somewhere. He had a threat axis, but he still didn’t know number or range and his first shot would reveal his position.

Yamada thought furiously.

The Wolves wouldn’t send a single ’Mech to challenge the Bear advance. Iie, this would be a striker lance. He shook his head. A striker star. Five light, fast machines sent to probe the swamps. A big enough force to take advantage of confusion to slow the Bears, a fast enough force to escape afterwards.

He couldn’t report in to Hall. The swamp’s strange conditions made all but line-of-sight comms impossible. He would have to handle this himself.

The MAD signal grew stronger. Yamada felt something stir in his gut. He could almost convince himself it was real. Almost. He scanned the near-perfect darkness. Nothing.

About one zero five and . . . a thousand meters.

And . . . was that another one?

The AS-7K’s long-range missiles, Gauss rifle, and extended-range lasers gave it the capability of hitting from long range. If he bloodied the Wolves’ noses before they could set themselves for an attack, he might stampede them into a retreat.

It was what a warrior would do.

You are a warrior.

But was he? When he’d lived in the Combine, he had forfeited all that he was—his freedom, his family, his honor—because he believed in peace. He had refused to defend his home. How could he draw blood for a monster like Christer Hall?

The first MAD signal was seven hundred meters out. Nearly in range.

Tai-i Cahill had argued that there were times a good man had to take the field of battle to defend the innocent against evil. But there was no good here, no innocence. There was nothing but evil here, two armies addicted to blood beating up on each other for the sheer joy of it.

The second MAD signal was firming up and now there was a third.

There was no problem the Clans did not use violence to solve. Kerensky’s children were even more bloodthirsty than the samurais of the Combine.

First target at 650 meters. He could see it now, a boxy shape backlit by the soft blue radiance of swamp gas.

They were moving in front of him left-to-right, so that he was catching an oblique view of their right sides. They didn’t see him. His machine’s power was banked and it was hidden in the shadow of a large cypress. It would be the easiest thing to reach out and smash this star.

But would it be the right thing?

He could let them walk right by him, take himself out of this pointless little war.

Yamada studied the lead ’Mech, his dark-adapted eyes picking out a bubble canopy on a blocky torso backed by massive triangular shoulders. A Phantom. Fast, yes, but not a light. A medium. Just how much firepower was he facing here?

Something on the massive machine’s back shifted.

An Elemental.

So, infantry and ’Mechs. Enough firepower to hold up the Bear advance and maybe, just maybe, tilt the scales for the Wolves.

If he did nothing.

He watched the Phantom stalk away from him on its massive legs. Number two was coming up.

He gritted his teeth. He was trained in the art of war. He couldn’t, just couldn’t do nothing, just let this happen. He just couldn’t.

He tied Gauss and lasers into his primary triggers, switching missiles to secondary. He dropped his reticule over the Phantom’s dark shadow. It instantly flashed gold.

Then Yamada roused his sleeping reactor.

The medium ’Mech stutter-stepped, pivoting quickly—or as quickly as the murky water surrounding its legs would allow. No doubt the Phantom pilot had seen the thermal spike like an emerald fire blooming on his IR display.

Too late.

Yamada pulled into his primary triggers and the Dragon’s Fire Gauss smashed into the Phantom’s triangular side, sending shards of Composite A-2 raining into the swamp. His large lasers cut into the light ’Mech’s exposed flesh, burning through bundles of myomer.

And then he split his shot, sending a flight of LRMs hurtling toward the second ’Mech. They flashed toward Number Two’s ungainly silhouette, each of them a bright orange flare in the night. They hit fast, rippling across broad shoulders and a spherical cockpit. A Pouncer.

Another medium.

For a heartbeat the actinic flash of warheads made night into day. And he saw what he was up against. A second Phantom. A Grendel. And kuso, something heavier.

A Linebacker.

Elementals scrambled down from their rides, bracing themselves in chest-deep water, making ready to launch their SRMs.

The Atlas was a fearsome beast and he’d just gotten in the first punch, but they outweighed him better than two to one.

And by splitting his shot, he’d just violated the rules of Zellbrigen, meaning all five machines were welcome to attack him at once.

It looked like all his moral quandaries were about to be resolved by Clan Wolf.

The low-slung Linebacker took a step, turning its blocky body to face him. The OmniMech was 65 tons of mean. The twin Streak packs in its right and left arms identified this as a Linebacker-D. Plenty of missiles and a pair of medium lasers up front and it was fast enough to run circles around his Atlas—even in a swamp.

All along their line of advance, Wolf machines were turning through the water to line up their shots. Yamada would take two, maybe three of them with him—but there was no way he would survive that fight.

For a second, he watched the dim blue light of swamp gas shimmer across the Linebacker’s black canopy.

For that second, Yamada was certain of his doom.

And then the brutal rattle of a massive autocannon ripped through the swamp, pounding the Wolf machine’s forward-thrust cockpit. Six short-range missiles worked their way down the Linebacker’s left leg and jeweled beams of energy sliced into it.

Yamada glanced down at his rear monitor.

He saw a BattleMech backlit by its own terrible fury, illuminated by the exhaust of its missiles and ruby fire of its lasers. It was a massive machine, every bit as big and powerful as his Atlas, its cockpit shaped like the head of the gargantuan ursid it had been named for, the fingers of its hands backed by long, sharp titanium claws. It was a Kodiak.

Hall.

The Linebacker stumbled backwards, off-balance. It fired its lasers and missiles, but missed the Kodiak left.

For a second the Wolves froze, caught between two monsters. A moment ago they had been a pack hunting big prey. Now their edge had been considerably reduced. If someone didn’t back off this was going to be a bloodbath. And no one was going to back off.

They were Clan.

Yamada used their moment of indecision well. He pounded the Phantom with everything he had, ignoring the Pouncer. Under the weight of Yamada’s alpha strike the medium machine shuddered—a sure sign that its gyroscope had been damaged.

But it didn’t go down.

Yamada punched his comms toggle, pulling up the Star Colonel’s command freq. “You were watching me.” He pounded the Phantom with another Gauss slug.

“I was not certain you would attack the Wolves.” Hall ripped into the Linebacker with another volley.

Yamada snorted. “I thought you knew I was a warrior.”

“I knew it,” answered Hall. “But you seemed somewhat less certain.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yamada saw the Grendel and the second Phantom coming to the aide of the Linebacker.

“Hall, stay on the Linebacker. It’s the only way out of this.”

“Of course,” Hall snarled. “I have not abandoned my honor.”

Missiles and lasers slashed out from the two Wolf machines.

Just as the Kodiak crouched.

And jumped.

The Kodiak rose high on twin flares that lit the swamp with a brilliant glow. Water flashed to steam as the great bear rose, a cloud of water vapor laced with golden flame rolling across the water in a wicked wave-front that rushed out from the Kodiak’s position.

An explosion went up behind the Grendel, blue fire this time, a pocket of methane catching, ignited by a stray tendril of plasma. The Wolf machine actually flinched, echoing the surprise of its pilot.

And then the Kodiak came down.

A hundred tons of BattleMech came down hard in a couple meters of black water. The swamp exploded, a tsunami battering the Wolf machines and swamping a couple Elementals, sweeping over them like they were nothing.

Hall had come down in a crouch, absorbing the brutal landing in his machine’s legs. He came up firing, his ultracannon sending shells toward the Linebacker’s canopy in a relentless stream of heavy metal.

The Linebacker answered with fire of its own, splashing ruby fire across the Kodiak’s chest armor and smashing flight after flight of Streaks into the great bear.

But Hall just kept coming, never breaking fire from the Wolf cockpit.

Until the Linebacker’s canopy shattered in an explosion of sparkling ferroglass.

Yamada marked the exact moment when the Wolf warrior died. The Linebacker’s right arm jerked up and then the ’Mech pitched forward, submerging the mangled cockpit and the body within.

The whole thing hadn’t taken fifteen seconds.

Faced with such extravagant violence, Inner Sphere troops would have broken and run.

But these troops were Clan.

The Grendel and the second Phantom took up the fight, pouring fire into the wounded Kodiak. The Phantom’s Streaks shattered the bear’s chest armor, the Grendel’s LB 10-X abraded it until a haze of gritty particles wreathed the assault ’Mech, and their lasers burned through composite.

Bones glinted dull silver beneath the machine’s failing armor.

Of course, Yamada had problems of his own. He traded fire with the first Phantom, trying to keep the stutter-stepping medium between him and the Pouncer so he didn’t have to fight two machines at once. The water limited the Pouncer’s speed advantage, but it didn’t eliminate it. Pretty soon it was going to work its way around its brother and then Yamada was going to have to face a nearly fresh opponent.

Hall was not even going to last that long.

The Kodiak hopped deftly back on its jump jets, but its tormentors never broke attack, not even as the great bear soared backwards into the air.

“You cannot hold,” snapped Yamada.

Hall’s situation was desperate, but his voice had lost none of its venom. “What do you care, man of peace?” He held the Grendel off with a furious assault from his autocannon.

And then the rapid-fire rattle suddenly cut out.

Jam. The Kodiak had just lost its autocannon.

There was no time to think, only to act. In some deep part of Yamada, brutal instincts took over.

He shifted right, lining up his hip Gauss and coring the first Phantom with one shot. The ’Mech convulsed and then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, obviously the victim of a shattered gyroscope.

Yamada lumbered towards the Pouncer, a hundred tons of angry BattleMech rushing headlong into a storm of laser fire, spending his armor in one last desperate charge.

Yamada did not answer the Pouncer’s attack. Instead, he saved his fury for Hall’s attackers, slicing into the Phantom with his extended-range large lasers, smashing the Grendel with his LRMs. It was enough to stop the Wolves in their tracks, enough delay for Hall to take careful aim with his battery of lasers.

For a long moment, the battle teetered on a knife-edge, ready to fall either way.

And then Yamada reached the Pouncer. Without bothering to even slow down he did the one thing Clan warriors almost never did in combat. He closed his ’Mech’s hand into a fist, pulled the arm back, and smashed it into the Pouncer’s cockpit.

The canopy shattered under the fearsome blow. The Pouncer went down like a rock.

That was too much for the Grendel and the remaining Phantom. These Wolves were brave warriors—but they were not suicidal. The last two ’Mechs retreated into the swamp, firing as they went.

The Kodiak took a couple steps in pursuit, but Yamada reached out and put his hand on the great bear’s shoulder. “Don’t, Star Colonel. They’ll destroy you.”

The bear’s chest armor had been scoured from its composite bones. It wouldn’t take many shots to smash the machine’s gyroscope, or worse, punch through the assault machine’s reactor shielding.

Hall sighed. “If you are ever to be a real Clanner, I will have to teach you not to use debased language.”

“You will never make me into a Clanner,” snarled Yamada.

“But I think I already have, quiaff?”

“Iie,” muttered Yamada.

“You are a warrior, Shintaro. Your heart may desire peace, but your soul yearns for fire and violence.”

Yamada wrestled with the truth of Hall’s words. No normal human being was born a killer, but killers could be made, oh yes. He’d seen it often enough. Men and women brutalized by war, desensitized to violence, their humanity drained out of them, until there was nothing left but the killing machine. Could that really be him? Had he fallen in love with death?

For a long moment, Yamada said nothing, seeking the answer in the quiet of the swamp. Nothing moved. Water whipped into a frenzy by the fury of battle now lapped gently at the legs of Yamada’s machine, disturbed only the gentle gloop of bubbles breaking the surface and popping. Gone were the ruby glow of lasers and the molten orange of exploding warheads. The cloak of darkness had settled back over the swamp. There was no light but for the blue nimbus of swamp gas wreathing Hall’s battered Kodiak.

Yamada looked out at the silent swamp and it told him the answer.

“Hai,” he said softly. “I have been twisted by war. I am no longer the cherry tree. I am merely an ornament of the wall.”

“So, finally you recognize the truth. You serve the God of War. And who worships that God more truly than the Clans?”

“Iie,” said Yamada. “I am a warrior, but I shall never be a Clanner.”

“I will not release you, Shintaro. Never again will you speak for the cause of peace. Only war is left to you.”

During Yamada’s long imprisonment, the cherry tree had kept him alive, had promised hope. But it was a symbol he no longer believed in. He stared into the inky darkness of the swamp and watched delicate blue fire dance on the still surface of the black water.

Suddenly he understood what he was meant to do.

“You cannot fight us, Shintaro,” said Hall. “You will either accept our ways—or die.”

“You are wrong,” said Yamada softly. “There is another way.”

The skepticism was heavy in Hall’s voice. “Oh? And what is that?”

Yamada jerked the Atlas’s right arm up. He did not aim at the great bear. He did not have to. He touched his trigger. There was a single flash of ruby fire and then the swamp gas surrounding Hall’s Kodiak went up like an inferno.

“I will fight the Clans from the inside,” Yamada whispered

Blue flame engulfed the great bear until it was no more than a shadow in the sudden inferno. The Kodiak staggered out of the fire, but the heat made the machine sluggish and scorched the bear’s myomer.

Over Yamada’s comm, Hall screamed and screamed.

It was a terrible sound that filled Yamada with horror.

And excitement.

Finally the screams stopped.

And then the great bear toppled forward, smashing into the swamp, launching a great shower into the darkness until the black water covered the ’Mech as if it had never been there.

Yamada did not care upon whom the Ghost Bears made war. Wolves, Falcons, Hell’s Horses, it didn’t matter. He would solve the Clan problem—one Trueborn warrior at a time.

And if any of his new brethren challenged him to a trial, they would find that he was not above slaughtering Ghost Bears. He would fight them all, using their own rules, and he would beat them.

He turned to return to the Bears’ formation. When he reached comms range, he spoke into his voice-activated mic. “MechWarrior Edward, the remnants of a Wolf force are retreating along zero nine four.”

“Where is Star Colonel Hall?” Edward demanded.

Yamada only thought for a moment. “He has fallen. His life was given . . .” A grim smile touched his lips. “. . . in the finest tradition of the Clans.”

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Randall N. Bills has served as the BattleTech line developer, continuity editor, art director, and a primary author/novelist for almost a decade, where he’s led the publication of over seventy-five products for that universe.

He also served as the MechWarrior: Dark Age continuity editor, working for WizKids to help in the creation of that original universe, including its thirty full-length novels. In addition he’s published fiction and game design in the Eclipse Phase, Shadowrun, Earthdawn, Crimson Skies and Vor: The Maelstrom universes.

As one of the primary founders of InMediaRes Productions, LLC, which launched the successful Internet publishing venture BattleCorps.com, Randall is a key component in the development of Catalyst Game Labs to publish exciting, dynamic universes and games.

Randall is the primary developer for a new alternate history, steampunk miniatures game, Leviathans. Check out his weekly blogs discussing the development of the game and its universe at www.monstersinthesky.com.

He lives in the Pacific Northwest with his beautiful wife Tara, and three busy children: Bryn Kevin, Ryana Nikol and Kenyon Aleksandr.

An interviewer once said of Dayle A. Dermatis, “She has so many pseudonyms, you’d think she was a spy!” A dabbler in several genres (and with several coauthors), she’s published novels with Virgin Books and about 90 short stories to date. She lives in southern California within scent of the ocean, and she and her husband spend their spare time following Styx around the country (and sometimes out of it), exploring the world on a motorcycle, renovating their 1911 Craftsman home, doing historic re-creation, and lounging in their hot tub. She loves music, cats, Wales, TV, faeries, laughter, and defying expectations. You can read more about Dayle and her pseudonyms at www.cyvarwydd.com.

Loren L. Coleman has been a novelist, game designer, and all-around literary hatchet man for over fourteen years. Regularly published since 1995, his first BattleTech novel, Double-Blind, hit the bookstores in 1997. In the last ten years he’s published over twenty novels, including nine for BattleTech and a trilogy to help re-launch the world of Conan. Counting up all short stories and game-related sourcebooks, he has well over two million words in print—most of them involving a media tie-in project of one type or another. Most recently Loren has edited two DAW anthologies as well as a six-series set of Young Adult work for Adventure Boys, Inc.

Loren is also one of the primary founders of InMediaRes Productions, LLC, which launched the successful Internet publishing venture BattleCorps.com, and is now developing Catalyst Game Labs to publish product based on the Shadowrun and BattleTech intellectual properties.

When he isn’t writing or launching new ventures, Loren plays Xbox games, collects far too many DVDs, and holds a black belt in traditional Tae Kwon Do. Currently he resides in Washington State with his wife Heather Joy, two sons Talon LaRon and Conner Rhys Monroe, and daughter Alexia Joy.

After spending 25 years building computers, Dan C. Duval is mostly retired on the Oregon coast. A gamer for more than 35 years, he still can’t seem to find enough time to lay out a wargame or enough time with his horses. The cats, on the other hand, are more insistent and they know where he sleeps.

Jason M. Hardy is a beloved storyteller, international peacemaker, and revered philosopher who always enjoys the opportunity to write his own bio. He is the author of the MechWarrior: Dark Age novels The Scorpion Jar, Principles of Desolation (with Randall N. Bills) and The Last Charge, along with the Shadowrun novel Drops of Corruption. He’s contributed a number of stories to the BattleCorps website and, with the editor’s indulgence, will continue to do so. He lives in Chicago with his wife and son.

Jeff Kautz was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. He began designing rules for miniatures games while in grade school, discovered BattleTech in 1984 and was instantly hooked for life. He spent 6 years in the Army as an infantryman which provided much of the inspiration to write his first full-length story, Dog Soldiers, which was later published by BattleCorps.

Jeff’s hobbies include miniatures games (BattleTech and Flames of War), playing bass guitar, and cheering on the Washington Capitals. Rock the Red!

He still resides in Baltimore with my wife, Katherine, daughter, Morgan and two dogs, Roxy and Taco.

Kevin Killiany has been the husband of Valerie for over a quarter of a century and for various shorter periods of time the father of Alethea, Anson, and Daya. Since the late nineteen-sixties, Kevin has been an actor, a drill rig operator, a photographer, a warehouse grunt, a community college instructor, a drywall hanger, a teacher of exceptional children, a community services case manager, a high-risk intervention counselor, and a paper boy. He is currently a writer, with stories published in a variety of universes—including Star Trek, Doctor Who, MechWarrior, and of course BattleTech. He is also an associate pastor of the Soul Saving Station in Wilmington, NC.

After experimenting with numerous occupations, Louisa M. Swann, a native Californian (ack! She admits it!) settled on writing as her long-term mental aberration. During her excessively loud oral dissertations (proven integral to her writing process, as evidenced by numerous short story sales to DAW, Pocketbook, and BattleCorps), husband and son shake their heads and mutter something about “the muse.” In the interests of survival, husband Jim acquired an 80-acre compound complete with coyotes, frogs, and screech owls to serve as nightly backup band for a raving writer’s rants. Interdimensional traveling provides fodder for the muse, allowing Louisa to discover wonderful new places like the BattleTech world and put them on her list of favorite places.

Victor Milán was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but has lived most of his life in New Mexico. Since he was twenty he’s made his living almost exclusively by writing. He’s also been a cowboy, semi-pro actor, artist, bouncer, computer tech, and Albuquerque’s most popular all-night progressive rock DJ.

A charter member of the Wild Cards mafia, Victor contributed stories to Busted Flush and the recently-released Suicide Kings. He’s written a number of other short stories as well.

Among the over 90 books to his credit are Science Fiction and Fantasy, including the award-winning The Cybernetic Samurai; historical novels, westerns, STAR TREK, D&D, BattleTech, and MechWarrior: Dark Age novels, plus a boatload of pseudonymous action/adventure series books. His latest is Paradox from the ROGUE ANGEL series.

He enjoys taijiquan, birding, dogs, cats, ferrets, guns, xeriscaping, square foot gardening, and walking or riding his recumbent tadpole tricycle through Albuquerque’s scenic North Valley. And, of course, he’s spent many hours indulging his lifelong passion for reading.

Please fall by his website, www.VictorMilan.com, check out his Sense of Adventure blog at www.VictorMilan.com/blog/, or follow him on Twitter at http://twitter.com/victormilan.

Steven Mohan, Jr. lives in Pueblo, Colorado with his wife and three children and—shockingly—no cats. When he is not writing he works as a manufacturing engineer.

He has sold more than twenty stories to BattleCorps, including the Jihad serial Isle of the Blessed. He appeared twice in Total Warfare, and has done work for several upcoming BattleTech sourcebooks.

His original fiction has appeared in Interzone, On Spec, Polyphony, Paradox, and several DAW original anthologies, among other places. His stories have won honorable mention in The Year’s Best Science Fiction and The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror and he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for his alternate history tale, A Monument More Lasting Than Brass.

Blaine Lee Pardoe is an author of science fiction and military history books. He has written numerous BattleTech/MechWarrior books and books on Count Felix von Luckner (The Cruise of the Sea Eagle) and Frank Luke Jr. (Terror of the Autumn Skies.)

Jason Schmetzer has been writing and editing fiction professionally for more than ten years, in both print and electronic markets. When not making things up, he is also an instructor in the English Department of a small college and holds an MFA in fiction writing (he didn’t make that part up). He lives in Indiana with his daughter and the menagerie of voices in his head.

Phaedra M. Weldon is the author of several BattleTech stories/novellas (available via www.battlecorps.com), including the continuing Sandoval Saga, En Passant and Epaulet Mate and the Isis Marik series, The Art of War.

Her other publications can be found in various DAW anthologies, as well as works in the Star Trek universe for Starfleet Corps of Engineers, and The Next Generation series, Slings and Arrows. She is also the author of the Zoë Martinique series from ACE Fantasy.

BATTLETECH ERAS

The BattleTech universe is a living, vibrant entity that grows each year as more sourcebooks and fiction are published. A dynamic universe, its setting and characters evolve over time within a highly detailed continuity framework, bringing everything to life in a way a static game universe cannot match.

To help quickly and easily convey the timeline of the BattleTech universe—and to allow a player to easily “plug in” a given novel or sourcebook—we’ve divided BattleTech into six major eras.

STAR LEAGUE (Present—2780)

Ian Cameron, ruler of the Terran Hegemony, concludes decades of tireless effort with the creation of the Star League, a political and military alliance between all Great Houses and the Hegemony. Star League armed forces immediately launch the Reunification War, forcing the Periphery realms to join. For the next two centuries, humanity experiences a golden age across the thousand light-years of human-occupied space known as the Inner Sphere. It also sees the creation of the most powerful military in human history.

(This era also covers the centuries before the founding of the Star League in 2571, most notably the Age of War.)

SUCCESSION WARS (2781—3049)

Every last member of First Lord Richard Cameron’s family is killed during a coup launched by Stefan Amaris. Following the thirteen-year war to unseat him, the rulers of each of the five Great Houses disband the Star League. General Aleksandr Kerensky departs with eighty percent of the Star League Defense Force beyond known space and the Inner Sphere collapses into centuries of warfare known as the Succession Wars that will eventually result in a massive loss of technology across most worlds.

CLAN INVASION (3050—3061)

A mysterious invading force strikes the coreward region of the Inner Sphere. The invaders, called the Clans, are descendants of Kerensky’s SLDF troops, forged into a society dedicated to becoming the greatest fighting force in history. With vastly superior technology and warriors, the Clans conquer world after world. Eventually this outside threat will forge a new Star League, something hundreds of years of warfare failed to accomplish. In addition, the Clans will act as a catalyst for a technological renaissance.

CIVIL WAR (3062—3067)

The Clan threat is eventually lessened with the complete destruction of a Clan. With that massive external threat apparently neutralized, internal conflicts explode around the Inner Sphere. House Liao conquers its former Commonality, the St. Ives Compact; a rebellion of military units belonging to House Kurita sparks a war with their powerful border enemy, Clan Ghost Bear; the fabulously powerful Federated Commonwealth of House Steiner and House Davion collapses into five long years of bitter civil war.

JIHAD (3067—3080)

Following the Federated Commonwealth Civil War, the leaders of the Great Houses meet and disband the new Star League, declaring it a sham. The pseudo-religious Word of Blake—a splinter group of ComStar, the protectors and controllers of interstellar communication— launch the Jihad: an interstellar war that will ultimately pit every faction against each other and even against themselves, as weapons of mass destruction are used for the first time in centuries while new and frightening technologies are likewise unleashed.

DARK AGE (3081+)

Under the guidance of Devlin Stone, the Republic of the Sphere is born at the heart of the Inner Sphere following the Jihad. One of the more extensive periods of peace begins to break out as the 32nd century dawns. The factions, to one degree or another, embrace disarmament and the massive armies of the Succession Wars begin to fade. However, in 3132 eighty percent of interstellar communications collapses, throwing the universe into chaos. Wars almost immediately erupt and the factions begin rebuilding their armies.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

FIRST STRIKE: BATTLECORPS ANTHOLOGY VOL 2

Cover art by Ed Cox Edited by Loren L. Coleman

©2010 The Topps Company, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Classic BattleTech, BattleTech, ’Mech, BattleMech and MechWarrior are registered trademarks and/or trademarks of The Topps Company, Inc., in the United States and/or other countries. Catalyst Game Labs and the Catalyst Game Labs logo are trademarks of InMediaRes Productions LLC. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the Copyright Owner, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

Published by Catalyst Game Labs,

an imprint of InMediaRes Productions, LLC

PMB 202 • 303 91st Ave NE • G701 • Lake Stevens, WA 98258

ISBN: 978-1-934857-81-6

http://www.classicbattletech.com

(official BattleTech web pages)

http://www.battlecorps.com

(BattleTech subscription fiction web pages)

http://www.CatalystGameLabs.com

(Catalyst Game Labs’ web pages)

http://www.battlecorps.com/catalog

(online ordering)