BattleTech - LE5866

NO WARNING

A thick bolt of energy streaked upward to impact the damaged fighter.

"Warner," Graves gasped over the radio. "Get clear! It's a flak trap down there! Get back and warn!"

Warner rolled hard out of his turn, winding through a series of evasive maneuvers to throw off his enemy's aim. Another PPC discharge lashed out at him, missing the wildly jinking fighter by less than a meter.

A DropShip, Warner thought, they have to be protecting a DropShip. A DropShip meant 'Mechs. And 'Mechs meant an invasion. He thumbed the comlink switch on his control column, opening the broadband communication channel to warn the base what was coming.

Before he could utter a sound, a corkscrewing volley of missiles clawed his fighter from the sky.

The invasion had begun. . . .

About the Author

Thomas S. Gressman lives with his wife, Brenda, in the foothills of Western Pennsylvania.

When not writing science fiction, he divides his time between leathercrafting, Civil War and Medieval historical reenactment, Irish folk music, and a worship-music ministry.

The Dying Time is his sixth book. His previous works include the Operation Serpent books of FASA's Twilight of the Clans series, and Dagger Point, in the BattleTech Line.

His fifth novel, Operation Sierra-75, set in the Vor: The Maelstrom line, has been made available as an e-book through Time Warner's i-publish.

BattleTech - LE5866

LE5866

THE DYING TIME

Thomas S. Gressman

BattleTech - LE5866

ROC

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

London WC2R ORL, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, January 2002 10 987654321

Copyright © FASA Corporation, 2002 All rights reserved

Series Editor: Donna Ippolito

Cover art: Fred Gambino

Mechanical Drawings: FASA Art Department

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

MECHWARRIOR, FASA, and the distictive MECHWARRIOR and FASA logos are trademarks of the FASA Corporation, 1100 W. Cermack, Suite B305, Chicago, IL 60608.

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

BattleTech - LE5866

This book is gratefully dedicated to Donna Ippolito.

Donna, you've done an awful lot of work behind the scenes, to make this book, and many others better than I could have done myself. Through your prompting, questions, and suggestions, you've helped make me a better writer.

Thank you for your efforts, your dedication, and your friendship.

BattleTech - LE5866

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks once again to all those who have contributed their time, encouragement and expertise to the creation of this story. Particular thanks to Donna Ippolito, for her support, guidance and useful suggestions. Thanks and a tip of the hat to Chris Hartford, whose background information on the Gray Death Legion was so useful in the creation of this story. Any errors in these pages are mine, alone.

A special acknowledgment to the real founder of the Gray Death Legion, Bill Keith. Had you not created them, I couldn't have had the fun of writing about them.

Once again, thanks to Brenda, for putting up with me as I labored over this book.

And as always, my thanks to You, Lord, for the abilities you've given me and the opportunity to exercise them once again.

BattleTech - LE5866

Prologue

Royal Palace Avalon City, New Avalon

Crucis March

Federated Suns

16 April 3065

General of the Armies of the Lyran Alliance, Nondi Steiner watched her niece as the younger woman keyed a few notes into the noteputer sitting atop her desk.

Katrina's movements had an odd, jerky quality, the effects of the "real-time" HPG link the women were using to communicate.

Behind the desk, virtually ignored by the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman seated there, a broad window gave an excellent and inspiring view of Avalon City, capital of the planet and of the Federated Suns. There, in the northern climes of New Avalon, winter's grip was slackening at last. Much of the snow had melted from the rooftops, and patches of grass could be seen on the palace lawns.

Katrina Steiner-Davion, ruler of the Lyran Alliance and the Federated Commonwealth as a whole, was the most recent occupant of the office, lifted her eyes from the datastorage unit, turning her ice-blue gaze on her aunt, holding Nondi's unremarkable brown eyes for a moment before she spoke again.

"Now then, General," Katrina said in a most formal tone, "what of the Skye Province?"

This was the portion of the daily briefing Nondi had been dreading. Of late, Katrina's moods had been subject to strange, violent swings. As likely as not, the rapid changes in temper were due to the ups and downs of the civil war against Katrina's brother, Victor. Still, as a member of the Archon's cabinet, and as General of the Armies, Nondi owed Katrina the truth.

It was the increasing unrest in the historically fractious Skye Province that had prompted Katrina to make the long trip home from New Avalon. Ever conscious of public opinion, she thought it was time for a personal appearance on Tharkad. In the face of a growing wave of rebellion in the Skye region, she thought her presence on the Lyran throne-world would assure her people of the Archon's concern for the totality of her realm, not just the portion comprising the Federated Suns.

"The Isle of Skye is, as it has always been, a powder keg with a lit fuse," Nondi said, reading from her own noteputer. "Most of the nobles in Skye are aware of your reasons for moving troops into Skye. Most feel it is acceptable, if not particularly prudent, given that your brother is seemingly poised for an attack from Thorin."

"Most?" Katrina asked incisively.

"Yes, Archon, most." Nondi wondered if the sharply spoken question was the first dark cloud of a coming storm. "There are those who feel the measures you have taken to ensure the security of your realm as a whole were little more than an attempt to extend your control over the province as a whole."

Katrina didn't respond immediately. She leaned back against the leather-covered padding of the big chair, her fingers steepled in front of her. Nondi could have recited by heart the steps Katrina had ordered to make sure the Skye Province remained in her hands. She had moved a number of military units, both LAAF and mercenary, into the region. She had also ordered several worlds closed to all interstellar traffic in order to preserve the secrecy of the Alliance's war preparations.

Most of the big interstellar JumpShips servicing the area had been called into military service under a little-used clause in the Lyran Constitution. As a result, military traffic into and within the Skye Province had increased, while civilian shipping had been severely disrupted. Though steps had been taken to ensure that food, medicines, and the like still got where they needed to go, smaller, less important worlds were beginning to experience shortages of essential goods.

That, in turn, had resulted in protests and demonstrations and a rekindled flame of Skye separatism. The smoldering fires of rebellion had caused Katrina to dispatch agents of Lohengrin and the Molehunters, the Lyran anti-terrorist and internal security agencies, to the region. There were even dark rumors that Loki, the shadowy Lyran terrorist organization, had been sent to Skye to eliminate those who opposed Katrina.

"I suppose we know who has been the most vocal critic of my policies?" Katrina said at last.

"There are several who have been quite outspoken regarding their dissatisfaction, Archon." Nondi kept her tone as neutral as possible. A sharp glance from Katrina told her she could equivocate no longer, so she spoke quickly and to the point. "Yes, Archon, there is one whose voice has been raised above all others."

"Robert," Katrina said in a quiet, even voice.

"Yes, Archon, Duke Robert Kelswa-Steiner. He has long been an advocate for independence for the so-called Isle of Skye. It seems Duke Robert has seized upon the military buildup in the province and its attendant increase in security measures as more fodder for his speeches. He has been quite outspoken in opposing nearly every measure you've taken, stopping just short of calling for open rebellion. Not that his 'restraint' is making any difference. Already there have been a dozen relatively minor incidents between our forces and the citizens of the Skye Province. The movement grows with every speech he makes."

Katrina banged her fist down against the desktop. "Will no one rid me of this troublesome Duke?" she fairly howled.

"Archon—" Nondi began.

"No, General, this meeting is over. Leave me." Katrina's voice had risen another notch in pitch.

"As you wish, Archon," Nondi replied, as the Archon severed the connection. Slipping from the communications center as quietly as possible, she was met by Colonel Chris Wyndham, her aide.

"Anything new today, General?" Wyndham asked.

"No, Colonel," Nondi answered. She walked on in silence for a few paces, then changed her mind. "No, wait, there is something new. I want you to contact General Alicia Savinson immediately. Tell her I have an arrest order for her."

"Yes, General," Wyndham said, and Nondi was sure he'd have contacted the head of the Lyran Intelligence corps even before she reached her office. "Can I tell her who the warrant is for?"

"Yes, tell her to arrest Duke Robert Kelswa-Steiner, on charges of sedition and fomenting rebellion against Katrina Steiner-Davion, his liege lord and lawful ruler of the Isle of Skye. He is a filthy traitor who has forfeited his rights as a lord of the realm."

BattleTech - LE5866

1

Dunkeld, Glengarry

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

22 May 3065

"Keep on him! Make him fight!" Grayson Death Carlyle bellowed over the ear-torturing whine of the armed hover jeep's lift fans. The driver nodded his understanding and whipped the small ground-effect vehicle into a skidding right turn. A grimy brick wall rushed at the jeep's side as the driver fought to bring it back under control. Grayson flinched, feeling the jeep lurch beneath him. The driver wrestled the vehicle back into the middle of the alleyway and floored the accelerator. A puddle flashed into a dirty gray mist under the wash of the screaming fans. At the next intersection, the driver careened through a left turn, this one better controlled than the last.

A burst of heavy machine-gun fire echoed along the empty streets, followed by the sharp crack of a laser firing. Under all the racket, Gray could hear the rapid thud of a BattleMech's running feet.

A few blocks along, he signaled his driver, and the man at the jeep's controls hauled the vehicle into a tight left turn. This time, the hovercraft ricocheted off a parked ground car, leaving a streak of drab brown-green paint on the blue bodywork of the civilian vehicle. When the jeep darted back onto the main street they had left only a few seconds earlier, Grayson saw their quarry. Tall, hunched over, looking like a predatory yet flightless bird, the twenty-ton Locust stood in the middle of the street, menacing another hover weapons-carrier. A stroke of manmade lightning reached out to batter the scout 'Mech's armor.

A light 'Mech not intended to stand up to that sort of punishment, the Locust staggered. Over the din of battle, Grayson could hear the shriek of overstressed gyros laboring to keep the 'Mech on its spindly legs. In the heat of battle, the enemy Mech Warrior had either missed the jeep's skidding arrival or had opted to first deal with the more dangerous opponent, the hover vehicle carrying the deadly particle projection cannon. Either way, it was a mistake that would cost him.

Hunkering down behind the jeep's thirteen-millimeter machine gun, Gray settled the weapon's crude iron sights over the Locust's back and mashed his thumbs down on the butterfly-shaped trigger. The massive gun spoke in a thuddering roar, spitting fire at the enemy. Forty-three-gram armor-piercing bullets ripped into the 'Mech's relatively thin rear armor, shattering the reinforced steel and blasting the Locust's whip antenna from its mounting.

Grayson was sure it had to be getting hellishly hot in that cockpit. BattleMechs, the ten-meter-tall masters of the thirty-first-century battlefield, boasted more armor and firepower than a battalion of twentieth-century tanks. But they also had an enemy they carried around in their hip-pockets: the waste heat produced by their weapons and the fusion plant that drove them. Temperatures in the cockpit of an embattled 'Mech could reach as much as 49 degrees Celsius, enough to cook off ammunition or kill the pilot through heat exhaustion. The Locust had been pushing hard all during the running fight and surely must be close to overheat-triggered shutdown.

Reacting to the rear attack, the 'Mech backed into the mouth of an alleyway. That would let it keep both enemies in its front quarter, with its laser and heavy machine guns. Gray's driver slid the jeep forward even without being told, maintaining contact with the retreating 'Mech. The hover PPC-carriers got there first, but a long, chattering burst of machine-gun fire sent them skittering for cover, leaving two soldiers dead in the street behind them. Grayson's jeep lurched to a halt as the driver, reluctant to brave the killing zone of the alley mouth, threw the drive fans into reverse.

Grayson jumped from the vehicle and edged his way toward the intersection. Risking a peek around the corner, he saw that the Locust had backed itself into a cul de sac. The air shimmered around the scout 'Mech's stubby body as its heat sinks struggled to bring its internal temperature under control.

"Have you got an Inferno launcher?" Gray asked a hatchet-faced infantry sergeant.

"Sure. Shoulder-fired job. Back in the carrier," the noncom growled.

"Get it."

The sergeant dashed back to the jeep, returning with a heavy, twin-tubed, short-range missile launcher. The tips of stubby missiles jutting from the launcher's business end bore the telltale red markings of Inferno rounds. Unlike armor-piercing missiles, which detonated on impact with a 'Mech's hide, Inferno rounds were triggered by a proximity fuse. They showered a target with a volatile mixture of napthalene palmitate and white phosphorus, which clung to the target with nightmarish tenacity. Though Inferno rounds did little physical damage to the 'Mech, they increased the machine's internal temperature past survivable limits. When hit with Inferno rounds, pilots had been known to eject from otherwise serviceable 'Mechs rather than be roasted alive.

Taking advantage of a burst of covering fire, Grayson darted into the alleyway.

"Hold it right there, warrior!" he bellowed. "One twitch of those weapons and you're cooked! Scan me to see if I'm bluffing!"

For a long moment, the armored Goliath seemed to glare angrily down at the missile-armed David before it.

"You might kill me, but you'll fry," Gray called again. "One round of Willie-Pete is a nasty way to go."

"All right," came the pilot's reply, made gravelly by the dry heat of the cockpit and the Locust's external loudspeakers. "I'm coming out."

A sharp hiss-pop sounded from the 'Mech's belly as the pilot broke the cockpit's hatch seal. A length of chain ladder spilled out, jiggling to a stop a half-meter from the ground. As the Mech Warrior clambered down the steel rungs, it was immediately apparent that the Locust's pilot was a woman.

* * *

A sharp, flat click jolted Grayson awake. Sitting at his side was that same female Mech Warrior, the woman who had shared his life for the past forty-one years.

"You're awake," she said, smiling down at him.

"Where . . . ?" he croaked, his voice ragged, as though he'd caught a lungful of smoke.

Lori Kalmar-Carlyle laid gentle fingers across his lips.

"You're in the sickbay," she said with the faintest hint of a quaver in her voice.

"Yeah, sickbay," Grayson answered, his voice becoming stronger, but containing an uneven note that was the mirror of her own. The room came into focus. The pastel green walls hung with cheerful prints of flowers and sunsets belonged to the critical-care section of the Gray Death Legion's base hospital on Glengarry. A rack of machines hummed and beeped and whirred through their normal monitoring routines.

"I was dreaming," he said.

Lori smiled slightly. "Of Trellwan. I know. You were muttering in your sleep. You were dreaming of the day we met."

Grayson didn't reply. Though his initial meeting with Lori had been over the sights of an Inferno launcher, he had come first to respect her, then to love her deeply. That love had grown into a relationship that had lasted a lifetime and had produced a son.

"Yeah," he repeated.

"Hello, Dad," came a voice from just outside his field of view. It took a concentrated effort to turn his head far enough to see the face that was a handsome combination of Lori's and his own.

"Hello, Alex," Gray murmured. "Typical Carlyle luck. You made it just in time."

"Nonsense," Alex said with a smile. "I got leave and decided to come and see my folks. There was no luck involved."

"Alex, I've been a warrior for far too long to kid myself," Grayson told his son flatly. "I know what the docs are saying. I haven't got much time left, and you wanted to see your old man one more time before he dies."

A shadow fell across Alexander Carlyle's thin face at hearing his father speak the truth in so plain a fashion.

"Don't worry too much, son," Gray said. "It's been a good life. I've had everything that any man could ask for. I've got no right to complain."

Even as he spoke, Gray felt an odd, writhing pain deep in his abdomen, one even the morphine-analog being fed into his left arm could not completely mask. Forty-odd years of a warrior's life and all the privations that went along with it had taken their toll on his body. And now that toll was catching up with him. Despite all the advances of modern medicine, nothing could be done to halt the attack of what was still one of mankind's greatest foes. The medics figured that Gray had, in a way, been responsible for his own illness. Exposure to radiation from damaged reactors, PPC discharges, and the like had probably contributed to the rapid, silent killer that was eating his body alive.

Over Alex's shoulder, Grayson could see the room's wide window. Ostensibly, the sunlight was good for a patient's morale, but, in this case, there was no sunlight. A cold front had settled over the city of Dunkeld, bringing with it thick gray clouds and driving rain. Sitting next to that window, dressed in the gray fatigues of the Legion, was another of the outfit's old warriors.

"Davis, how's the Legion?" Grayson asked.

"Dinna worry aboot that right now, lad," Davis McCall's New Caledonian burr came out, as it always did in times of stress. "You let us worry aboot th' Legion, and you worry about getting' some rest."

"I'll have plenty of time to rest soon, Davis," Grayson said in a level tone, despite the feeling of heavy weariness in his breast. "How are they?"

"They're doin' as well as can be expected, considerin' that their chief is lyin' in a hospital bed," McCall said matter-of-factly. "Aye, half o' them are standin' outside in that rain, waitin't' hear how you're doin'."

Grayson and Lori had built the Gray Death Legion, one of the Inner Sphere's elite mercenary warrior regiments, from nothing. Though operational command of the Gray Death had long since passed to Lori and it had been nearly a decade since Grayson had piloted a 'Mech, he was still the Legion's "Old Man." His men counted standing in a cold, driving rain a small price to pay as they waited to learn the fate of the founder, heart, and soul of the Gray Death Legion.

"Get them out of the rain," Grayson said. "I don't want any of—" He broke off as a fit of coughing wracked his body. When it passed, he continued, "I don't want any of them getting pneumonia on my account."

Lori brushed the sandy blond hair, now thickly streaked with white, from his forehead. "They'll be all right, Gray. You just rest."

Grayson looked up at her with a momentary flash of irritation. Before he could speak, the door latch clicked as someone entered the room.

Another of those bloody-damn doctors coming to poke and prod him again, he guessed, and his sickbed irritation with Lori turned to a hot flare of anger with the medical staff, whose solicitous efforts had become a major nuisance. Well, not this time, not while his family was here.

Grayson tried to push himself up on his elbows, the better to confront the intruder. But the strength to do so just wasn't to be found. He felt the anger well up inside him as the man he guessed to be a doctor or medtech stepped quietly around the bed to stand opposite where Lori sat on one edge.

The indignation drained away when Grayson saw the gray fatigues of a Legion Mech Warrior instead of the uniform of the med staff. Looking down on him was the craggy, ruddy face of Charles Bear, another of the Legion's veterans. Bear, a Delaware Indian and the Legion's only Terran native, had, like McCall, been one of the outfit's first members. Unlike McCall, Bear had elected to retire from the Gray Death Legion back in 3055. A year later, he came out of retirement to aid the Legion in its fight against the Fourth Skye Guards during the Second Skye Rebellion. In the years since, Grayson had seen the old warrior only twice. Once when the Legion celebrated Alexander's graduation from the Nagelring academy, and again a few months ago at the military funeral for Hassan Ali Khalid.

"It is good to see you, old friend," Bear said, laying his hand on Grayson's shoulder.

"Is it time?" Gray asked, smiling up into Bear's dark, solemn eyes. Bear had told him he would see Grayson once more in this lifetime.

"Not yet, Sachem, but soon," Bear said quietly.

Lori slid off the bed and crossed to the window. Resting her hands on the narrow sill, she stared out at the dull gray sky.

"It's okay, love," Gray said softly. "It comes to all of us."

"I know." Her voice was thick and husky. Grayson knew she was fighting to hold back the flood of emotion that threatened to sweep her away. "I just never thought it would come so soon."

Again, Gray tried to sit up. He longed to take her in his arms just one more time, and in that embrace both find and give comfort. But the disease had robbed him of the strength to perform so simple, yet so important a task.

Alex stepped behind his mother and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned to face him, her face stained with tears, and melted into her son's arms. Gray nodded to himself, and closed his eyes.

All of a sudden, he was so very tired. Perhaps, he told himself, now he would rest for a little while.

* * *

Not long after that, the monitors that had been so dutifully beeping out the rhythms of Grayson Carlyle's life stopped.

For a long moment, no one in the room moved or spoke. Charles Bear broke the spell. He nodded solemnly, rose from his chair, and left the room without speaking to anyone.

As though that was the signal, McCall set his hands on Lori and Alex's shoulders, leaving them there briefly as though he could impart his strength to them through touch alone. Then, he turned also, and with a stride that bespoke iron Highland courage in the face of great sorrow, he went to inform the rest of the Gray Death Legion that its founder and chief had passed away. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Alexander and Lori alone with their grief.

2

Dunkeld, Glengarry

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

25 May 3065

"Colonel?" Lori looked up sharply at the young man who stood in the doorway to her office in the Legion's Dunkeld compound. He wore the unit's gray uniform as though he were still getting used to the idea he was in the military, let alone part of one of the most famous mercenary units in the Inner Sphere. In his hands, he clutched a thick wedge of black plastic, which Lori recognized as an electronic message pad. The odd-shaped star disc on the pad's housing told Lori it had come from Glengarry's hyperpulse generator station. Operated by ComStar, the age-old communications bureau, HPG units used roughly the same hyperspace technology as starship jump drives to transmit messages between the stars.

"Bring it here, Private," Lori said softly. In days past, the youngster's nervousness might have brought a smile to her lips and earned him a few encouraging words. But, with Grayson's death only two days in the past, Lori hadn't much encouragement to offer. Only the daily routines of running the Legion kept her from sinking into a brooding depression. Even the comforting presence of her son had been taken from her. Alex had suddenly been recalled to Tharkad, the duty station where he served with House Steiner's Second Royal Guards.

Grayson had always been more than a little suspicious of that assignment. Even though he was Baron Glengarry and most nobles of the Lyran Alliance would have killed to have their only child assigned to such a distinguished post, Gray had expressed an old distrust of cushy, prestigious assignments. The Legion had once fought against elements of House Steiner's military machine back in 3057. Though Archon Katrina had accepted the Legion's subsequent oath of allegiance, Gray often wondered in private if Katrina actually subscribed to the age-old proverb that advised one to hold your friends close, and your enemies closer. His casual paranoia on this point had infected Lori to the point where she had been surprised when Alexander's commander, Leutnant-General Richard Regis II, had allowed him a few days' leave to visit his dying father.

Alex's recall order had arrived on just such a message pad as the young private now held out to her.

"Colonel McCall signed for it, but he says it's encrypted," the youth said, passing her the device. For a moment, he hovered uncertainly on the far side of Lori's formica-topped, green steel desk. She looked up, forced a thin smile, and dismissed him.

The message pad resembled the standard noteputer used by a wide range of people, from university students to military personnel and government planners. This had one additional feature that most noteputers did not, a small numeric key-pad in the upper left-hand corner. Until Lori punched in a specific string of numbers, the pad would remain "locked." Some messages were encrypted in such a way that entering the wrong access code for the second or third time would delete the message from the pad's memory. Lori had even heard about specially "doctored" message pads that would completely reformat the unit's hard drive or explode.

For a moment, Lori frowned at the device, knowing it probably held a set of operational orders for the Gray Death Legion. At least they could have given her a few days, she thought as she set the electronic pad on the desk. Using the tip of her left forefinger, she carefully tapped in the Legion's access code. Up until now, that string of seven digits had been known only to Grayson and herself. She supposed she'd have to give the code to Davis McCall, in case anything happened to her.

When Lori hit the Enter key, the unit flared to life. The dull yellow-gray screen flickered, then resolved into the image of the pentagon-backed, mailed-fist insignia of the Lyran Alliance Armed Forces.

Lori scrolled down through the obligatory formal greetings from Hauptmann-General Rainer Poulin, the Skye theater commanding officer, and Hauptmann-General Almida Zee, the Alliance's Mercenary Troops Liaison officer. Much to her credit, Zee, a former member of the Eridani Light Horse, included a personal message of sympathy to Lori and the Legion on Grayson's death.

Lori merely skimmed the formal and personal messages, having read enough of those over the past few days. She gave her close attention to the rest of the document. Couched in the language of the military bureaucracy was the simple order:

"Given the mounting tensions in the Isle of Skye, and the civil war between those units loyal to the Archon and those following her disaffected brother Victor, the Gray Death Legion is to upgrade its readiness status. The Legion will take ship no later than 30 May and execute a hyper-space jump into the Hesperus system. There, the Legion will occupy the military base at Maria's Elegy on Hesperus II, from which base they will aid in the active defense of the planet, most especially of the Defiance Industries factory complex in the Myoo Highlands."

The document went on at length, including quite a bit of boilerplate setting the amount the Alliance was willing to pay the mercenary unit for its deployment, outlining salvage rights, transportation allowances, and so forth. It simply meant that the Gray Death Legion was going into combat.

Appended to the contract was a rundown of the units with which the Legion would be working. There were two main-line Regimental Combat Teams on planet, the Fifteenth and Thirty-sixth Lyran Guards. Lori didn't know much about either unit in recent years, except that both were firmly in the camp of Katrina Steiner-Davion. Had the loyalty of either unit been questionable, the Archon would surely have rotated them off Hesperus long before now. Had either declared for Victor, effectively placing Hesperus and the critical Defiance Industries complex in his hands, the Legion, and indeed the Alliance as a whole, would be facing a completely different situation. Knowing good intelligence was as useful as a full company of assault 'Mechs, Lori made a mental note to pull down whatever new data she could get on the Fifteenth and the Thirty-sixth Guards.

She took her personal noteputer from a desk drawer. Uncoiling a set of cables, she connected the message pad to the 'puter and downloaded the deployment order. Then, with a few more taps on the pad's console, she erased the message.

Putting the now-blank message pad aside, she punched a control built into her desk's flat formica top.

"Yes, Colonel?" her orderly answered from his office just outside her own.

"Mick, please call all the battalion commanders for a meeting. I'd like to see them in the conference room in one hour."

"Right away, ma'am."

Shutting off the comm unit, she sat back in her chair and stared at the off-white acoustic tile ceiling of her office. She had taken the Legion into battle before, even leading them through full-scale operational exercises in conjunction with the regular Lyran Alliance Armed Forces. But there had always been Grayson's comforting, guiding presence at her back. Now, with his passing, she had nothing to fall back on. Lori knew the feeling was an illusion, a fantasy born of loss and grief. Davis McCall was still there, as was Julio Vargas, commander of the Death Eagles, the Legion's fighter wing, and Tom Leone, the hulking infantry major who was the core of the Legion's Armored Infantry contingent. Each was an expert in his own field, and each would give Lori the benefit of wise counsel, but none of them would ever be Grayson Carlyle.

* * *

"Lieutenant-Colonel McCall, what is our current status?" Lori asked, yielding the floor to her executive officer. Like all good commanders, she knew the Gray Death Legion TO&E down to the platoon level. But, like all good commanders, she allowed her subordinates to do their jobs.

"Well Colonel, as y'know, we've got two full battalions of BattleMechs, havin' fleshed out th' Assassins."

Lori shifted a bit uncomfortably at Second Battalion's nickname. Known as "Hassan's Assassins" after Hassan Ali Khalid, the unit's long-time commander, the battalion had been the first to experience the death of a veteran commander when Khalid died back in late December. The battalion voted to keep the name in honor of the man who had led them for so long.

If McCall noticed her discomfort, he gave no sign of it, but continued his briefing.

"All of our 'Mechs are either new models or have been retrofitted with 'foundtech' gear. The same goes for the aerospace wing." McCall used the Legion slang for the new technological devices that had been developed over the past thirty or so years, thanks in great part to the Legion's discovery of an ancient Star League memory core during its early days. "Foundtech" was the Gray Death's tongue-in-cheek answer to the term "lostech," the more common term for such rediscovered technology.

"Major Leone's infantry battalion is now fully equipped with power armor. He's been pushing them through their paces pretty hard lately. He says 'they'll do'. An' for Tommy Leone, that's high praise indeed."

"What about the armored battalion?" Lori asked, glancing toward a slim, dark-haired woman slouched against the briefing room's back wall.

"The Cats are ready to go, if that's what you mean, Colonel," Major Megan Powers said, maintaining her slouch. "I've got one full company of armored scouts who know their jobs well enough for me. I could use two more. We've finally got Second Company converted over to all hover tanks. Third is still a hodgepodge of wheels and tracks. But we'll be ready when the balloon goes up."

Megan pulled herself into a straighter stance. "It is about to go, isn't it? That's why you called this meeting, right?"

Lori smiled for the first time in days. If there was one thing that would never change, it was the irascible Megan Powers.

"That's right, Meg. The orders just came down from theater command. We've been assigned to Hesperus II."

A low murmur ran through the small knot of Legion officers. Everyone in the room understood the significance of the orders. As the civil war ran its course through what had once been a united Federated Commonwealth, any facility capable of producing BattleMechs and their various vital components had become a primary target. War, they all knew, was as much a matter of logistics as it was a matter of strategy and tactics.

The Lyran Alliance had two major 'Mech production facilities. One of those, Coventry Metal Works on the planet of the same name, had already fallen to Victor Davion. The other was the sprawling, city-sized Defiance Industries factory complex on Hesperus II, and the smaller, though no less important, Doering Electronics manufacturing installation also on that world. Though Victor had yet to threaten Hesperus directly, everyone knew the Alliance's remaining major war producer was at risk.

Hesperus II lay within the borders of the politically unstable region of the Lyran Alliance known as the Isle of Skye. With the Alliance's attention focused elsewhere, the Skye Separatist faction had used the opportunity to initiate yet another rebellious bid for independence. Given the importance of Hesperus II to both the Alliance and the Skye rebels, the Archon was reinforcing the planet's defenses by reassigning the Gray Death Legion.

"We're going to have to get the Legion together in one tearing hurry," Lori continued as the low rumble of commentary subsided. "We're to ship out in five days, and we'll make all haste for Hesperus. When we get there, we'll move into the base at Maria's Elegy and aid in the defense of the planet."

Lori waited until the note-taking officers caught up with her before she continued.

"Dan, I'll be calling pretty heavily on you once we arrive. You've got a more intimate knowledge of the area around the capitol and the Defiance plant than any of us. Consider yourself part of the strategic planning staff on this one."

The man to whom Lori addressed her remarks was one of the younger officers to wear the Legion gray. In his late thirties, Daniel Brewer was slim, ebon-skinned, and affected the somewhat archaic twin braids of a Lyran Mech Warrior framing his face. He also wore the captain's bars pinned to his collar with an air of quiet self-assurance.

None of that was surprising, as Brewer was not just another Legionnaire. He was also the Duke of Hesperus, and a nephew by marriage to General of the Armies Nondi Steiner. Brewer had once been the nominal Chief Executive Officer of Defiance-Hesperus. That was before the Gray Death's last visit to Hesperus, back in 3057. Then, Brewer and the Defiance Self-Protection Force had fought the Legion, with Brewer almost single-handedly breaching their defenses. Following that operation, Brewer had been "enlisted" in the Gray Death Legion by Archon Katrina.

"I'll give you what help I can, Colonel," Brewer said in his characteristically low tone.

"Colonel," McCall put in, "have we got anything resemblin' an intelligence report? Any idea what the sassanach might be throwin' at us?"

"Not yet, Davis." Lori smiled at McCall's use of the Gaelic term "sassanach." Originally a corruption of the word Saxon, the ancient Scots of Terra had applied it to the English during their wars for independence, and later to any outsider, especially an enemy. "We've got to figure that they'll hit us pretty hard, though. Defiance-Hesperus is pretty important to the Alliance, and to the Skye Separatists, and to Prince Victor. So we have to expect that they'll hit the planet with at least three regiments, maybe more."

Lori paused again, putting her thoughts in order for what she had to say next.

"I want you to understand, people, that there is more to the mission than a simple military deployment. Remember, the Gray Death Legion has been on Hesperus before. That time, we were the invaders. Two of the units we fought are still on planet—the Fifteenth Lyran Guards and the Defiance Self-Protection Force. We are going to have to assume there will be at least some bad blood over our last visit to the place. Therefore, I will expect all Legion personnel to conduct themselves with the utmost professionalism and tact. I know diplomacy isn't a skill much required for piloting a BattleMech, but it is one we'd better pick up on the fly."

Again, Lori waited until her thoughts caught up with her.

"The worst part of this mission isn't going to be the fighting or our relations with the regular Lyran forces on planet. The worst part will be that aspect of internal Lyran politics that made this deployment necessary—the Skye Separatist Movement.

"We can't forget the nightmare the Eridani Light Horse faced on Milos, when they tried to liberate a people who did not want to be liberated. With the Isle of Skye in open rebellion against the Alliance, I'm doubly unsure of the reception the Legion is going to get. And that leads us to a broader question. What if the general population of Hesperus decided they'd rather be free from the Alliance? What does the Legion do then?"

"Colonel, the way I see it, we are under contract to the Lyran Alliance, to the Archon," Julio Vargas said quietly. "I would have to say that we fulfill our contract within the limits of the guidelines set forth by the Mercenary Bonding Commission and the Ares Conventions. So long as our defending Hesperus against any invasion force does not violate those laws, we must do our utmost to keep the Alliance from losing that world."

"I agree, Julio," Lori said. "I guess it falls to me to make the decision, doesn't it? So, here's how we play it. The Skye Separatists have abandoned the political process in favor of armed rebellion against a lawful ruler. Therefore, as mercenaries contracted by the Lyran state, we are bound to do everything in our power to make sure Hesperus remains in the hands of the Lyran Alliance, short of violating either the bonding commission codes or the Ares Conventions.

"All right. Anything else?" Lori asked the question only because Grayson had drilled into her head the idea that there was always one more thing to cover. When no one spoke, she nodded. "Very well, go brief your people. We've got a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in if we're going to be ready to ship out in five days."

3

Union-Class DropShip Durant

Nadir Jump Point, Hesperus System

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

14 June 3065

Lori gripped the back of the Captain's acceleration couch hard as an odd feeling of vertigo drained away and the swirling colored lights faded from her vision. The illusory phosphorescence was a direct result of the effects of hyperspace jump travel on the human body. Some people were more susceptible to Transit Disorientation Syndrome, or jump-sickness, as it was more commonly called. Those unfortunate folks often found themselves experiencing blinding headaches, severe nausea, and other unpleasant physical side effects caused by the eldritch forces necessary to instantly transport a massive JumpShip and its attendant DropShips across thirty light-years of space. She was glad of the magnetic boots commonly worn by spacers. Despite all of mankind's advances in space travel, artificial gravity was still in the realm of science fiction.

Beside her, Davis McCall seemed to be even less affected than she was.

"Right on time, right on target," the DropShip's pilot said in a calm, almost bored, tone. "Those Steiner navy boys really know their jobs. I'll give them that."

The Durant, a Union-class DropShip named for Grayson's father, along with two more of the Legion's nine DropShips, was mated to the Invader-class JumpShip Invidious. Not far off, two more Invaders, carrying the balance of the Legion's DropShips, floated against the velvet blackness of space.

Following the man's gaze, Lori looked toward the ship's main viewscreen, where the other Legion starships were rendered in a wire-frame schematic. But they were not alone. Standing off at only a few hundred kilometers was the broad, twin-hulled bulk of a WarShip. Nearly a kilometer long, the massive WarShip dwarfed the Invidious by comparison. Her forward structure bristled with weapon ports of every type and description.

"That's the Simon Davion," Lori said in mild surprise. "I had no idea she was anywhere in the area."

McCall pulled himself across the small bridge to hang in the air before the display. Unlike his chief, he disliked the magnetic boots, preferring to move through the free-fall environment of a ship in space unhindered by the clumsy footgear. He pulled himself along hand-over-hand, using stanchions welded to the ship's overhead and bulkheads for that precise purpose. Some younger, less experienced, personnel moved about the ship by kicking off any convenient surface and "flying." Usually that mode of travel only lasted until the "airborne" crewman or passenger collided violently with someone traveling by one of the more "conventional" means.

"It makes sense, though," McCall said, peering at the hand-long image of the cruiser. "Hesperus is awful important to th' Alliance. If the rebels are really headin' this way—an' we've got no good reason to suspect otherwise— it makes sense that th' Archon would want one of her best WarShips here to meet 'em when they come."

Gazing at the bulk of the huge battle cruiser drove home to Lori the enormity of the situation in which the Legion found itself. Though technically still a mercenary unit, the Legion was also somewhat beholden to the Lyran Alliance. Not only did Archon Katrina still hold their contract but she had made Grayson Baron Glengarry, a noble of the Alliance. That meant the Legion, Baron Glengarry's personal troops, were also part of the Alliance Armed Forces. It was a delicate line to walk for all concerned.

The civil war that had torn apart the Federated Commonwealth added a new layer to the complications. Archon Katrina, Prince Victor's younger sister, was far more politically astute than her brother. A long and unpleasant series of accusations, innuendo, and political maneuvers had served to first estrange, then divide the two oldest children of the late Hanse Davion and Melissa Steiner. When Melissa died, the victim of an assassin's bomb, Katrina allowed a series of rumors to leak out suggesting that Victor was responsible for his mother's murder. She then walked off with the Lyran half of the Federated Commonwealth without so much as firing a shot.

A few years later, Victor went off to war against the Smoke Jaguars, leaving his younger sister Yvonne as Regent of the Federated Commonwealth. Some said the move was a calculated insult to Katrina. Others believed that Victor feared for the welfare of his realm under Katrina's hand. Whatever his intent, by the time he returned from his victory in Clan space, Katrina had seized upon the opportunity to claim the throne of the Federated Suns, ousting Yvonne as Regent in the process.

Unwilling to sit by and watch the domain his parents fought to establish and preserve torn apart, Victor tried to pressure Katrina through political means to relinquish the throne. It was only after the assassination of his brother Arthur three years back that Victor donned the uniform of the Federated Suns and led his troops into Katrina's territory in a bid to oust his sister and reunite the sundered realms.

In the twenty years since the formation of the Federated Commonwealth, many units from both the Federated Suns and the Lyran Commonwealth had been assigned to new duty stations. Numerous Davion troops had been posted to Steiner worlds, and vice versa, in an effort to more fully integrate the formerly separate militaries. As tensions mounted, Katrina issued a "come home" order to the loyal Steiner troops. Many obeyed; some did not. Meanwhile, Davion troops stationed within the Alliance remained in place.

When the mounting tensions erupted into open hostilities, the result was a chaotic situation where there were no front lines, no rear areas, and units that had occupied the same worlds in peace suddenly found themselves pitted against one another in battle. Victor, ever the soldier to Katrina's politician, fought a series of battles down through the Alliance, eventually seizing Coventry, one of the realm's primary sources of BattleMechs. At the same time, Katrina had made a substantial strategic and political gain by destroying the First Davion Guards on New Avalon, when those troops tried to challenge her power on the capital world of the Federated Suns. Thus far, Victor had not moved directly against Hesperus. As events fell out, he didn't have to.

Robert Kelswa-Steiner, a cousin by marriage to the Archon and the leader of the troublesome Skye separatist movement, had chosen that moment to launch another bid for independence for the Isle of Skye. Like all armies, the Skye rebels needed arms. That placed Hesperus directly in the path of the Separatists, exponentially increasing the risk to the planet, the Isle of Skye, and the Lyran Commonwealth as a whole.

As it happened, the sudden flare-up of rebellion in Skye served to aid Prince Victor. Katrina must pull troops away from the struggle with her brother in order to suppress the rebellion. If not, the risk that the Star League might step in with peacekeepers was real. Lori remembered well what had happened in the St. Ives Compact, when Sun-Tzu Liao, acting under the auspices of his position as First Lord of the Star League, used peacekeepers to regain lost worlds in that tiny state.

The huge WarShip hanging motionless in space only a few thousand kilometers away was a graphic reminder of the dire situation into which the Gray Death Legion had been thrust.

"Colonel, Captain Murad is on the line," Lori heard the DropShip captain say, bringing her back to the here and now.

"She says we'll be free to uncouple and start our burn insystem as soon as she finishes orienting the Invidious. She estimates she'll be ready to cut us loose in about an hour."

Lori turned to face the spacer. "Very well, George," she said. "Please convey my compliments to Captain Murad. Thank her for the ride."

* * *

Though Captain Hester Murad's estimate had proved correct, it was still more than a week before the Durant touched down on the tarmac at Maria's Elegy. The vagaries of space travel in the thirty-first century were such that transport JumpShips devoted the bulk of their structure to the gigantic Kearny-Fuchida jump drives and to cargo space. Little room was given to fuel or reaction mass for maneuvering drives. At most, the average JumpShip had enough fuel to operate station-keeping thrusters as it hung above the system's sun, recharging its engines by means of a massive solar energy collector commonly called a jump sail. WarShips like the Simon Davion did boast huge maneuvering drives and vast reserves of fuel to power them, but even they had to rely on DropShips for anyone wanting to make the trip from space to a planet's surface. It took just over two hundred hours for the Legion to make the long trip from the jump point to the spaceport at Maria's Elegy.

Lori stood on the lower level of the Durant's cavernous 'Mech bay. In the dim light provided by the bay's fluorescent strips, she could see the mottled gray bulk of the modified VTR-9K Victor BattleMech that had until recently been Grayson's. With its enhanced command, control, and communications gear, it was the Legion's command 'Mech. Now it was hers. Beside it stood McCall's boxy Highlander, its barrel chest sporting the image of an ancient Scots warrior wielding a pike, with the legend "Bannockburn" painted beneath. Beyond those two were more 'Mechs, and the rest were housed in the bays of the Legion's other DropShips.

As the thundering roar of the Durant's engines died, Lori thumbed a large green button set into one of the bay's outer bulkheads. A high, shrill whine hissed through the bay as a small, man-sized hatch slid upward on well-oiled runners. Light flooded into the bay, momentarily forcing Lori to screw her eyes shut. As her eyes adjusted, she got her first look at Maria's Elegy in almost ten years.

Little about the spaceport had changed. Some of the systems had been upgraded, making communications masts and radar domes smaller or unnecessary. The main terminal building had been remodeled and enlarged, but that seemed to be the extent of the changes. At the edge of the Durant's assigned landing bay sat a pair of hover jeeps.

A small knot of men clad in dark gray-green uniforms stood next to the jeeps, looking up at the DropShip. Lori and McCall strode down the ramp and approached the welcoming committee. As they drew near the group, Lori saw that two of them, one man and one woman, sported the T-shaped triple-diamond insignia of a Lyran Alliance Leutnant-General.

"You must be Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle. Welcome to Hesperus II," a woman with gray-shot black hair said, raising her hand in a salute, then extending it to Lori. "Leutnant-General Gina Ciampa, Fifteenth Lyran Guards." Lori noted that Ciampa pronounced her rank with the hard, guttural Teutonic accent of one raised in the upper circles of Lyran society.

Her research into her Lyran counterparts suggested that Ciampa was a competent, professional soldier. Because psychological profiles on Lyran officers were highly classified, Lori was unable, for security reasons, to get a complete dossier. She just had to hope that Ciampa's loyalty to the Alliance would outweigh any personal animosity she might feel toward the Gray Death Legion and its past history on Hesperus II.

Ciampa gestured to the man at her side.

"This is Leutnant-General Peter Zambos," she said. "He's got the Thirty-sixth Guards."

The bearded blond Lyran officer gave Lori a rather cold once-over before fixing her with a blank, level stare. For a moment, Lori struggled to find a reason for Zambos' seeming hostility. Then it came to her. According to the briefings she'd received concerning this mission, Zambos was something of a martinet, who held strictly to the letter of the regulations. The glare he was bending on Lori and her staff made it clear that he was a Leutnant-General, while Lori was a mere Colonel, and a mercenary officer at that. According to the regulations, she owed him the first salute.

Not wishing to start an argument her first day on planet, Lori touched the backs of her fingers to her forehead in the palm-outward salute used by the Star League Defense Force and by the Gray Death Legion, which had adopted many of the SLDF's traditions. For several seconds, Zambos remained motionless, his dark eyes locked on Lori's, then he returned the salute, using the palm-down gesture favored by the Lyran Alliance Armed Forces. He held it for a brief second, then snapped his hand down sharply.

Lori's digging had provided even less information on Zambos. Unlike Ciampa, who was a product of the Sanglamore Military Academy, Zambos had graduated from the less prestigious, more practically minded Buena War College. Though he was accounted a good officer, some considered him to be brash, opinionated, and self-centered.

"Welcome to Hesperus, Colonel," he said, and Lori caught the fleeting pause before Zambos uttered her title. Clearly, the man had little use for her. Lori wondered if it was due to a general dislike for paid soldiers or some kind of personal grudge against her or the Gray Death Legion.

"Yes, welcome," Ciampa repeated. "We'd both like to extend our sympathy to you and to your troops. I wish we could have met under different circumstances or that the Alliance could have given you a little more time before shipping you out here. But we don't have that luxury right now."

"Oh?" Lori turned away from the still-glaring Zambos to meet Ciampa's level, open gaze. "We were told the rebels hadn't yet begun to move against Hesperus. Has the situation changed?"

"Not yet, but we expect that to change soon. They've already begun an offensive on Freedom, and the Separatists have never had any trouble recruiting troops. The Free Skye movement has become awfully popular, especially since the Archon split from the Federated Commonwealth. I guess the Separatists figure that if the Alliance can secede from the F-C, then Skye can secede from the Alliance.

"They've got plenty of men," Ciampa repeated. "It's materiel they're a bit short of. A number of native Skye units, like the Fourteenth Skye Rangers, have defected en masse. They've got their BattleMechs, fighters, and whatnot, but those few regiments aren't going to be able to force the Archon to give the Isle of Skye its freedom, not against the might of the Alliance Armed Forces. They're going to need to raise local troops, militias almost, to support the main-line combat units. Neither the defector main-line troops nor the militias are going to be able to operate for long without a significant source for 'Mechs and replacement parts, so where does that leave Hesperus?"

"Right in the middle of the biggest bull's eye in the Alliance," Lori answered.

Ciampa laughed bitterly in reply. "That's right," she said. "And, that's why the Archon moved the Legion to Hesperus. The rebels are coming, sure enough, and we want to be ready to meet them when they do. Hesperus is especially important now, since Victor seized Coventry. We're the last major BattleMech production facility still in Lyran hands."

Another man clad in a dark green uniform stepped away from the knot of officers clustered around the jeeps. Slim, with coal-black hair and a thick, almost handlebar mustache, he moved with an easy, springy step that bespoke youth and vigor.

"Colonel Carlyle?" he said, his words spoken in a deep drawl that stretched the name out into "Cah-lyle."

"I'm Major James Goree. I'm in charge of the Defiance Self-Protection Force."

"Good afternoon, Major," Lori said, returning the man's salute and shaking his hand, as Alliance protocol dictated. Despite Goree's lanky frame, the handshake spoke of a quiet strength. He held Lori's hand for a moment, then released it cleanly.

"Colonel, I've already made it clear to General Ciampa and General Zambos, and I'd like to make it clear to you." Goree's tone was friendly, with a shadow of formality which, combined with the drawl, gave him an air of old-time gentility that seemed almost quaint in the modern surroundings of the spaceport. "It is your job to defend Hesperus II against any invaders. It is my job to defend the Defiance Industries plant. I understand that your contract allows you to draw from our stockpiles for repairs and reloads. However, that does not give you carte blanche, and it does not give you, or these officers"—he nodded toward the Lyran generals—"the authority to commandeer my people to bolster your own strength. My orders come from the board of directors of Defiance Hesperus, not from Tharkad, and not from the Gray Death Legion."

Lori cocked her head, looking closely at the young man who had obviously shot his bolt and was now waiting for her response.

"Very well, Major," she said quietly. "We can play it your way if you like. Can I ask you a question, though?"

"You may."

"How long have you been with the DSPF?"

"I was here the last time your unit was on Hesperus, if that's what you mean, Colonel," Goree said evenly. "I was part of the Protection Force. I lost my first 'Mech to you people."

"I see." Lori's tone was as neutral as Goree's.

"That's right, Colonel," Goree continued. "I fought you back in fifty-seven. So did a lot of my people. I hope you will understand why we're not keen on seeing the Gray Death Legion again."

"Does that include me, Major?" boomed a voice from the back of Lori's entourage.

Recognizing the speaker, Lori did not turn to see who spoke. Goree looked confused for a moment, but his expression quickly changed to one of quiet respect.

"No, sir, that does not necessarily include you," Goree said, giving the speaker a crisp salute.

"At ease, Major," Daniel Brewer said. "I understand how my presence here, with the Gray Death Legion, puts you in an awkward situation. On one hand, you've got your orders from the board; on the other hand, you've got the CEO of Defiance Hesperus serving with the same mercenary company that attacked your post just a few years back.

"With the Colonel's permission?" Brewer asked, deferring to Lori, who nodded her assent. "Let me make it easy for you, Major. I may be the Duke of Hesperus, I may be the Chief Executive Officer of Defiance Hesperus, but I am also a captain, a company commander in the Gray Death Legion. I will not throw my weight around and overrule the board unless I feel it is absolutely necessary for the security of both DefHesp and the planet's population as a whole."

"May I speak freely, sir?" Goree asked with stiff formality.

Lori watched closely the man who was at once her subordinate in the Legion and her superior in the class-conscious Lyran society. She knew what Goree's formal request meant. He was about to say something that neither she nor Brewer would like. She had been trying not to worry too much about all the complicated undercurrents involved in the Legion's posting to Hesperus II, but maybe they were going to raise their ugly heads on their own.

Brewer stroked one of his braids. "You may speak freely."

"Sir, a goodly number of my men have expressed a certain, shall we say, displeasure, where you are concerned," Goree said in a flat voice, which suggested to Lori that he had rehearsed this portion of his speech until he knew it by rote. "They feel, and I cannot say that I disagree with them, sir, that you have abandoned your responsibilities to both the company and to Hesperus by signing on with the Gray Death Legion. Sir, some even feel that makes you a traitor, sir. I myself do not hold quite so strong a view, but I do feel that your presence here might cause some tension between the Protection Force and the Legion. For that reason, sir, I feel it might be best if you downplayed either your role as a Legionnaire or as CEO of DefHesp. I am afraid sir, that if you try to maintain both, most especially if my men perceive that you are using your position in the company to unduly aid the mercenaries, there may be a bit of trouble within the Protection Force."

"Well," Brewer said, chuckling slightly, "I did give you permission to speak, didn't I? Now, understand me, Major. I have not, up to this date, used my position or my authority to unfairly benefit either myself or the Gray Death Legion. Both I and the Legion believe that merit, not personal influence, should determine reward. I will not try to interfere with the day-to-day operation of your Protection Force. I will not involve myself in the provision of repair and replacement materials. Those are covered in the Legion's contract with the Alliance.

"However, that does not mean I will allow you, the board, or the members of the Protection Force to balk at carrying out their part of those same contracts. And, Major, if push comes to shove, I will exert my authority as CEO of Defiance Hesperus, for the good of the company, and for the good of the population of this world, even if that means terminating your employment with the company. Is that clear, Major Goree?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly clear," Goree said. His tone and posture suggested that, though he understood and believed Brewer's words, he would never agree with such an action.

"Well, let's just make sure it never comes to that, shall we?" Lori said, laying a hand on Brewer's arm. "Now, gentlemen, if there is nothing further to discuss, I suggest we see to getting the Legion disembarked and billeted. We've got a planet to defend."

BattleTech - LE5866

4

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

15 June 3065

As the hover jeep crested a small rise, the road Lori had been following broke out of the thick coniferous forest. She eased to a stop and stepped out of the vehicle. A second identical vehicle coasted to a halt a few meters away. Before her was a broad, pan-shaped valley bordered to the south and east by the next ridge of the Myoo Mountains. A few kilometers to the north ran an off-white, arrow-straight ribbon of steel and ferrocrete stretching from a gap cut and blasted through the mountains straight into the rocky face of the eastern ridge.

Reaching back into the jeep, Lori retrieved a pair of electronic binoculars that she put to her eyes. Touching a control on the device's housing, she set the viewers to four power and scanned the valley. Aside from the occasional scrubby bush swaying in the gentle breeze, there wasn't much movement. Swinging to her left and kicking up the magnification, Lori examined the pale linear structure. From a distance of four kilometers, according to the binoculars' range-finder function, the details of the high-speed maglev rail line were easy to pick out. She could easily see the black line of the "rails" along which the train ran.

Using magnetic levitation, a variant of the principle used to power her Victor's gauss rifle, the train didn't actually run along the "tracks." It floated above them. Lacking the friction of wheels against steel rails or of axles against wheel bearings, the levitating train was capable of speeds in excess of one hundred fifty kilometers per hour.

Swinging the binoculars and feeling the slight drag of the unit's gyroscopic stabilizing device, she followed the tracks to where they intersected with the mountain.

There, she could make out a squat ferrocrete bunker painted gray, green, and brown. It was barely visible. Set back in the rock face above the bunker, sheltered by a thick stone overhang, were a pair of thick doors constructed of the same durallex hardened steel used in her Victor's armored skin. The doors, like the bunker, were difficult to see, since they were cunningly painted to mimic the mountainside that surrounded them. Deep shadows cast by the late morning sun helped conceal the northwest-facing doors from view.

Beyond those doors lay the huge Defiance Hesperus industrial plant. Lori had passed through them once before. Then she had been an aggressor. This time, it had fallen to her to defend those huge portals and the underground factory beyond.

From her vantage point, the external facade of the Defiance plant had changed little. A few more out buildings had been constructed, but not much more. Lori knew there had to have been changes that were not readily visible. Advances in weapon and sensor technology would most certainly have prompted Major Goree and the DSPF to upgrade the factory's defensive systems. That was part of the reason she and her officers were on their way to the plant, to review the changes to those systems. The visit was both a courtesy call—though how much courtesy they'd receive at Goree's hands was a matter for speculation—and a professional inspection. The Legion officers wanted to know what they could expect from the complex's defense grid, in case it might become necessary to use the factory as a base of operations.

A wave of sadness surged in Lori's heart. The last time she'd looked at the entrance to the Defiance factory complex, Grayson was still alive. Everything about this mission seemed timed to remind her of the loss she had suffered and had yet to fully mourn.

"Well, Colonel, are we aye gonna stand here takin' in the sights, or are we going t' move down there and pay our respects?"

Lori started a bit at the soft words in her ear. It seemed almost as though McCall had read her heart, and through that simple question sought to return her to solid emotional ground.

"We're going in, Davis," she said, lowering the binoculars and returning them to their synthetic case. "Nothing seems to have changed, does it?"

"No, lass, it doesn't," McCall answered.

Lori shrugged as she stepped back into the jeep and engaged the drive fans. Though she certainly rated a driver as the commanding officer of the Legion, she had allowed herself the simple pleasure of personally driving the hover jeep. Davis McCall and Captain Daniel Brewer occupied the vehicle's passenger seats. The second vehicle carried Major Rae Houk, Second Battalion's commanding officer, along with Majors Thomas Leone and Megan Powers.

Though some of them had been inside the hollowed-out mountain before, none had enjoyed the luxury of more than a passing observation of the facility's inner workings. Captain Brewer had arranged for the tour. Though familiarity with the inner workings of the plant was not absolutely essential to the defense of Hesperus, Brewer had been able to convince the board of directors that granting the Legion's officers a tour of the facility was the prudent thing to do.

So far, Brewer seemed to be handling the job of juggling his responsibilities to the Legion and his position as CEO of Defiance Hesperus easily enough. Granted, it had only been twenty-four hours. For now, Lori would reserve judgment until she saw how the young man performed under further pressure.

It had taken nearly four hours to make the trip from Maria's Elegy by hover jeep. Lori knew from the briefings supplied by the Alliance that it took the maglev just over an hour to reach the plant, owing to the train's higher speed and the straighter path it traveled. By comparison, the road through the mountains was full of turns and switchbacks, effectively doubling the distance a ground or hover car had to travel. And, because of the treacherous curves, the speed at which ground traffic could travel was severely limited.

As she pulled the ground-effect vehicle to a stop outside the bunker, a guard dressed in the same dark green fatigues Major Goree had worn the day before stepped into the middle of the road. A Gunther MP 20 submachine gun hung from a sling looped over the man's right shoulder. His right hand grasped the weapon's firing grip, though his forefinger lay alongside the trigger guard. Lori had no doubts as to the man's ability to instantly bring the weapon into deadly play, should the situation warrant it.

"Identification?" he rapped out.

Lori handed a small leather case to the guard, who accepted it with his left hand and stepped back from the jeep before opening it to scan the identity documents contained therein. Lori was impressed but not surprised by the level of professionalism the guard displayed. By taking the proffered documents with his left hand, he was able to keep positive control of his weapon, maintaining his ability to hose down the hover jeep and its occupants with thirty heavy eleven-millimeter slugs if any aggressive moves were made. Stepping away from the jeep before giving the identification cards his divided attention provided him with a stand-off space between the vehicle's occupants and himself, should any hostilities arise.

The guard closed the ID case with a snap and stepped back up to the jeep.

"Identification," he said again.

"I just gave you my identification," Lori snapped.

"Yes, you did, Colonel Carlyle," the guard said in a neutral tone. "And I know Mister Brewer by sight. I do not, however, know the rest of these gentlemen, and I cannot allow you to pass until I see their ID."

Lori caught a flicker of motion from the corner of her eye. Turning her attention away from the guard, she looked at the passenger side of the jeep, where two more men in DSPF green, one of them bearing a heavy Thorvald and Koch automatic shotgun, had taken up position. In the jeep's rear-view mirror, she saw that a fourth guard had stepped in behind the other jeep. This man had a TK assault rifle, with an under-barrel grenade launcher, aimed negligently at the vehicle's rear bumper. It was clear that they would not be gaining entrance to the plant or leaving until they had produced the identification the first guard had demanded.

The rest of the officers passed their identification to Lori, who in turn gave them to the guard. Lori glanced in the mirror again just as Tom Leone, who was at the second jeep's controls, also handed over a trio of ID cards.

It took only a few moments for the guards to peruse the documents, return them to their owners, and wave the jeeps through the checkpoint. The Legion officers were directed to follow a white line painted on the tarmac.

"That was a wee bit unfriendly," McCall said. "Ye'd think they were nae happy to see us."

"They probably weren't," Lori said. "Don't forget that the last time they saw a Legionnaire, it was over the wrong end of a gun."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Colonel," Brewer said from the back seat. "That's been the standard security procedure here since long before I was born. When you've been attacked as many times as DefHesp has been, you tend to develop a healthy case of paranoia where security is concerned."

"Och, aye," McCall grunted, but it was hard to tell what he meant by it.

"It's true, sir," Brewer insisted. "That's why the guard said 'where you need to go,' not 'to visitor parking' or anything like that. We don't have visitors out here. Most of our workers, including management, even some of the board members, live out here. It's a rare thing for someone not directly associated with the company to be allowed inside."

Lori considered Brewer's words in the light of the Legion's having once been that force attacking the heavily defended factory complex. Perhaps Goree and other members of the DSPF had good reason to mistrust the mercenaries. It would fall to her to win Goree's trust. Grayson always had a knack for dealing with unfriendly people, which she seemed to lack. She sighed a silent regret that more of his charm had not rubbed off on her.

The prescribed white line came to an end on a broad expanse of macadam that anywhere else would have been called a parking lot. Here the pavement lacked any of the lines or divisions that would mark such an area. A massive durallex door, emblazoned with the number two, loomed above the parking area. Lori wondered to herself if she and her officers had been sent to this specific gate on purpose. The last a Legionnaire had seen Gate Two was during a bloody battle of attrition fought back in '57.

A small knot of men wearing a mixture of civilian clothing and DSPF uniforms awaited them. Lori pulled the jeep to a stop and climbed out as Major Goree and one of the civilians approached.

"Colonel Carlyle, welcome to Defiance Hesperus," Goree said in a carefully neutral tone. "This is Mister Samuel Quinn, one of our production managers. If you and your officers will follow him, he will give you the cook's tour."

* * *

For the next hour and a half, the Legionnaires were escorted through the subterranean factory complex. The size of some cities, the plant boasted smelting, forging, and casting facilities, electronics and machine shops, powder mills and heavy manufacturing installations of every type and description. Though any tour of the factory could only skim the surface of the colossal operation, Lori was awed by the sheer enormity of it all.

Again, little about the factory and its day-to-day operations had changed. Quinn had at first been reluctant to show his visitors much of the complex's defense systems, but eventually acceded to Lori's requests.

"This is incredible," Lori said as she surveyed the local battery-director's station for an Arrow IV missile system. The guided missiles could be locked on to a target by Target Acquisition Gear mounted in one of the DSPF's BattleMechs or armored vehicles. According to Quinn, the battery and all those like it had enough area-saturation and precision-guided munitions to fight a major engagement without running out.

"Are the rest of the weapon stations like this?" Rae Houk asked.

"Pretty much," Quinn admitted after a moment's hesitation. Lori surmised he was loath to give away too much information about the defense grid's capabilities. "We've got Artemis guided long-and short-range missile batteries, laser and particle cannon installations, autocannon turrets, all tied into a central command and control network. Each emplacement can be controlled locally or through a hierarchy of sector officers, right up to the central control room, if warranted. The systems are guided using all the latest sensor, tracking, and fire-control systems. Each weapon and sensor emplacement is well-protected in hardened pillboxes, and is amply supplied with ammunition and multiple redundant back-up power sources. You'd just about need a WarShip to make a significant dent in the grid.

"We've also beefed up our regular security measures a bit," Quinn continued. "We've increased the number and frequency of regular security patrols, and instituted a number of security checks at every entry and exit point. That was Major Goree's idea. He pointed out that the face of warfare is changing, that special and covert operations are becoming more common. We've got to protect ourselves from sabotage as well as an attacking military force."

Lori declined to comment on Quinn's grandiose assessment of the Defiance defense grid. Then again, given what they'd seen of the installations, she was not eager to test her beliefs.

As the group turned to leave the weapon station, a sharp beep interrupted Quinn's lecture. Pulling a small black comm unit from his pocket, he held the device up to his ear, cupping his free hand over the other to shut out the noise of the factory.

"Colonel Carlyle, we've just received a message from Maria's Elegy," Quinn said at last, returning the unit to his pocket. "Leutnant-General Ciampa wants you to contact her right away."

"Why?"

"They didn't say, Colonel." Quinn shrugged. "Or at least they didn't tell me. There is a comm unit in the battery-director's control booth. Enter code 775 to get an outside line."

Lori slipped back inside the installation. It took a few moments of arguing with the operator before the man would consent to leave her alone in his booth, and then he only agreed after extracting Lori's promise that she wouldn't touch anything except the comm. She bit her tongue in an effort to hold her exasperation in check. Would anyone on this planet put aside the past and give the Legion the trust this mission would require?

"This is Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle," she said when the command center at Maria's Elegy came online. "Put me through to General Ciampa."

"Carlyle," Ciampa said with no preamble. "How soon can you get back here? We may be seeing the beginning of this thing. Our space-based early warning system has picked up an IR spike at a pirate point out on the rim."

"We can be back there in a couple of hours, less if you send air transport for us. Have you sent any aerospace assets out to check?"

"Colonel, that's part of the reason you were brought here." Ciampa's voice tightened. "Neither the Fifteenth nor the Thirty-sixth has any aerospace assets."

"Dammit," Lori spat, her knuckles whitening on the handset. That was a clumsy mistake. How the hell could she have forgotten that important detail? Coming to Hesperus had stirred up so many old memories that she was finding it hard to keep from being distracted. She knew her grief had its place, but somehow she had to keep it from interfering with the life-and-death decisions that were part of her job.

"All right, General, we're on our way back. What about that chopper?"

"I'll make the call. It will be there within the hour," Ciampa said, and then was gone.

For a moment, Lori glared at the handset as though the inoffensive black plastic instrument was somehow personally responsible for the situation into which the Legion had been dumped. She dropped the unit back into its cradle and started for the control booth's door. Then she turned back to the comm unit again and punched in the access code, followed by the number for the Gray Death Legion's billet at the spaceport. In a few moments, the duty officer answered.

"Lieutenant, get me Wing Commander Vargas," Lori said abruptly, cutting the man off in mid-greeting.

More minutes crawled by before Vargas came on the line.

"Julio, we might have a problem."

"I heard," Vargas said quickly. "I have First Squadron standing by aboard one of our DropShips. All I need is your permission to launch."

Lori permitted herself a quiet sigh of relief. She should have known that Vargas, one of her most capable subordinates, would have taken steps to prepare his unit for battle at the slightest hint of trouble. By leaving the unit's aerospace fighters aboard their DropShips, Vargas had made sure the fighters could be carried out toward the point of the suspected arrival. The savings in fuel and pilot fatigue were enormous.

"Very well, Julio. Launch as soon as you're ready. Just out and back. Two fighters and one Union are no match for any kind of invasion fleet. And keep me posted on what you find."

"As you say, Colonel, I will keep you informed," Vargas said. "I will see you when I return."

Lori dropped the handset back into its cradle, this time more gently than before. While her supposed allies seemed prepared to throw every possible obstacle in her way, at least she could count on her own people to conduct themselves with the highest degree of professionalism. Thank god Ciampa was playing things cool, putting aside any personal animosities or resentment in the interests of her duty to the Alliance. Lori stepped from the booth and smiled at the operator.

Ignoring the man's poisonous look, she waved her officers toward her.

"Mister Quinn, I'm sorry, but we're going to have to cut this tour short," Lori told the Defiance representative. "I've been called back to Maria's Elegy as soon as we can get there. General Ciampa will be sending a helicopter for us. Do you think you can find someone to drive our jeeps back for us?"

To his credit, Quinn did not ask questions, but agreed immediately to recruit a couple of drivers for her. Even more to his credit, he excused himself, standing a few meters off while Lori briefed the Legion officers on the situation that had arisen.

"We've got to return to Maria's Elegy as soon as possible," she half-shouted over the clangor of the factory. "It will take Julio some time to reach the pirate point, so let's put that time to good use. I want every Legionnaire ready to mount up on a moment's notice, in case this is the real thing."

She turned and waved to their erstwhile guide.

"Mr. Quinn, will you please show us the quickest way out of the complex?"

"Of course, Colonel. This way. I'll take you to the helipad."

Quinn motioned Lori and the others into the pair of electrically powered carts they had been using during their tour of the facility. Taking the controls of the leading runabout himself, Quinn set off through the vast maze of men and machinery that was the Defiance plant. It took almost three-quarters of an hour for Quinn to deliver the Legionnaires to the facility's helipad.

No sooner had the vehicles emerged into the brilliant, late afternoon sun than a low, rumbling drone crept up on the edges of their hearing. Lori looked in the direction of the sound. Off to the northwest, about two hundred meters off the deck, she spotted the boxy, dark gray shape of a Karnov UR transport VTOL. While often classified as a helicopter, the Vertical Take-Off and Landing craft was more accurately a tilt-rotored airplane, capable of carrying up to six metric tons of cargo in its belly.

The VTOL flared out, cutting its speed to almost nothing, as the rotors on its wingtips pivoted upward to compensate for the lift that vanished as its speed dropped below that at which the wings would stall. It touched down almost in the center of the landing area, and even before it had come to a complete stop, Lori and her officers were sprinting toward the big transport. In less than two minutes, they were aboard, strapped in, and back in the air.

During the brief flight back to the spaceport, Lori refused to speculate on the nature of the mysterious IR contact. One of the lessons she had learned from Grayson was never to formulate a plan based on partial information. Instead, she directed her subordinates to make sure their units were in top fighting trim for the coming battle.

"Are you sure this is the attack?" Daniel Brewer asked.

"I'd be surprised if it wasn't," Meg Powers put in before Lori could answer. "Who else would come in at a pirate point? A law-abiding merchant?"

"Meg's right," Lori cut in. "If this isn't the invasion itself, it's probably a scouting mission in advance of the main attack force. Either way, we can't take the risk and assume it's some peaceable JumpShip that happened to phase in out along the rim rather than at one of the standard jump-points."

"Sorry, Colonel, I guess I asked a fool question," Brewer said.

"No, Captain, you didn't ask a fool question. That was a legitimate concern I might have expressed myself, thirty years ago." Lori glanced over at Davis McCall, who grinned back knowingly. "The secret is for young officers to ask questions and to learn from the answers."

"Aye, lad," McCall added. "We all had to go through the learnin' process, same as you."

The discussion shifted once more to the logistics of keeping the Gray Death Legion in the field and in battle-ready condition. As McCall began laying out the rather mundane issues of food and ammunition supplies, his words rang in Lori's mind.

We all had to go through the learning process.

Well, it looked like she was still learning, she thought ruefully, even after all her years in the field. This time it was the art of command, and it was a subject she could not afford to fail.

BattleTech - LE5866

5

Interplanetary Space, Hesperus System

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

16 June 3065

At a high-G burn, equal to one and a half times that of Terra, the Legion DropShip made a fast run from Hesperus II toward the so-called pirate point out on the system's rim. Most of the ship's crew, veteran spacers to a man, were able to go about their assigned tasks with little difficulty. The fighter crews were even less affected by the higher than normal G loading caused by the high-speed run. Their high-performance aerospace fighters were capable of far more Gs than a DropShip could ever hope to pull. Union-Class transports were capable of even higher Gs, but the humans aboard the spherical spacecraft would not be able to function for long under those conditions. Still, the need for reasonable haste was genuine.

Jumping in to nonstandard points was a hazardous undertaking, and not one commonly practiced by civilian captains. Even military JumpShips tried to avoid entering a system along rim points. Only when speed and surprise were necessary would an interstellar craft risk damage to its relatively fragile Kearny-Fuchida drives by entering a system in such a manner. The slang term of "pirate point" bore witness to how effective the use of a nonstandard jump point could be in achieving surprise. Only desperate or dangerous men used them. Given the value of Hesperus II, specifically the Defiance factory complex, any armed force arriving via a nonstandard jump point would qualify under both categories.

Even considering the high-speed run, it took the Legion ship nearly twenty hours to make the trip from Hesperus II to the point where the planetary defense sensors detected the infrared flare of an incoming JumpShip.

Wing Commander Julio Vargas stood before the Durant's primary view screen and studied the electronic chart of the area. He was puzzled. According to the DropShip's sensors, they were right on top of the spot where the IR flare was detected, and yet, the only craft in the area were those belonging to the Gray Death Legion.

Turning to the Durant's Captain, Vargas instructed him to make contact with Legion Command back on Hesperus II.

"I do not know what to tell you, Colonel," Vargas said, once communication had been established. "If we are to believe the sensor operators, we are exactly where they say they saw incoming JumpShips, only there is no sign of any. I suppose it is possible that the inbounds were WarShips that moved off station as quickly as they arrived. But the defense sensors would have been able to track something so large, even all the way out here. It is equally possible that whatever jumped in here used lithium-fusion batteries to make a double-jump out again, and that the sensor operators just missed the exit flare. If that is the case, they may have had enough time to launch their DropShips. And if that is the case, then we could have a full regiment of BattleMechs lying doggo out here, just waiting for the right moment to pay us a surprise visit."

Vargas had to wait nearly five minutes before Lori's answer came through. Even with all the technological advances made by man over the past three thousand years, scientists had yet to come up with a method of instantaneous communications between ships in space and ground stations, let alone between star systems. Even the relatively tiny distances between a planet and a ship on the system's rim required a span of several minutes to transmit a message and receive a reply. Given the time lag, military commanders, ship captains, and the like tended to word their messages carefully, trying to cover every possible angle of the issue at hand.

When Lori's answer came through, it was what Vargas had expected.

"Julio, General Ciampa is convinced that her sensor operators' readings were correct. Until we're sure, we've got to assume they picked up something. I want you to launch fighters and quarter and search the area. Hold back half of your squadron to act as a MigCAP in case the searchers run into trouble."

Though the old Russian firm of Mikoyan-Gurevich had gone out of business centuries before, the term MigCAP, for a Combat Aerospace Patrol designed to provide cover for another operation, remained in the military lexicon.

"Si, Colonel, that is precisely what I have prepared to do," Vargas answered. "It will take several hours to comb just this sector. How far do you want us to expand our search?"

"Just that sector will do, Julio," Lori said. "While you conduct your search, I'll check with the sensor techs and see what else they might have come up with."

* * *

As she severed the connection with the faraway DropShip, Lori turned to face Generals Ciampa and Zambos, the latter of whom had just arrived from Maldon, the Thirty-sixth's garrison post on the far side of the planet.

"Well, any ideas or comments?" she asked.

Ciampa shook her head. "None. That is, nothing new anyway. All I can figure is that the sensors might have picked up some kind of ghost image. That, or there really was a JumpShip, and it's gone outsystem already. Whether it released DropShips or not remains to be seen. I can't help but wonder why, though. If there really was a ship, it could have carried, what, nine DropShips max? That's assuming it was a Monolith, and there just aren't many of that class around. I doubt the Separatists have more than a handful of them. They certainly wouldn't risk sending one on an in-and-out mission like this, would they?"

Lori shrugged slightly. "I don't know. It's too hard to figure out rebels of any stripe. They're so desperate for their independence that they're often willing to take the most extreme gambles to obtain it. At least, that's what I've seen in the times the Legion has fought alongside various rebel troops."

Just then, an odd shiver ran along Lori's spine. How long ago it seemed that the newly minted Gray Death Legion had taken up arms in the jungles of Verthandi to aid the native freedom fighters against their Kurita masters. She shook off the strange, fey misgiving, and turned to Peter Zambos, who had remained silent during the exchange, but whose fidgety stance proclaimed to one and all that he had something to say.

"Yes, Colonel Carlyle, I have something to add," he said in a low growl, once more emphasizing Lori's rank. "I'd like to know why you feel you should take charge of this operation. Leutnant-General Ciampa and I both outrank you. We are both House officers, whereas you are just a mercenary."

"She is also Baroness Glengarry," Ciampa reminded him.

"There is that," Zambos snorted. "I don't think an honorary title has much bearing here, does it? What does matter here is that this mercenary is giving orders to House troops. That goes against all Lyran doctrine and tradition."

Lori took a moment to force a lid on her rising temper. She was glad that Davis McCall had elected to oversee the preparations of the regiment rather than accompanying her to the command center. Had the big, bluff Caledonian warrior been present, Zambos might well be on his way to the infirmary even now. When she was ready to speak, Lori found she didn't have to.

"Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle—and it's about time you and everyone else on this planet started getting her name right—was not giving commands to House troops," Gina Ciampa said. "She was giving orders to her own aerospace assets. Or have you forgotten, General, that neither your Thirty-sixth nor my Fifteenth Guards have any aerospace units?"

"I haven't forgotten anything, General Ciampa," Zambos hissed. "But it seems that you have forgotten why your Fifteenth Guards have no aerospace fighter wing. The Gray Death Legion wiped them out the last time these mercenary rats were on Hesperus."

"I haven't forgotten, General," Ciampa shot back. "But that was nine years ago, and nine years is a long time to hold a grudge. If that is not sufficient for you, allow me to say this. We have a larger duty to the Alliance. That duty is to defend Hesperus II against all those whom the Archon designates as our enemy. As of this moment, the Archon has designated the Skye Separatists and the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns as our enemies. She has declared the Gray Death Legion to be our friends. I will grant you that the events of '57 are not so easily put away as an outdated manual. I will admit it was a struggle for me to do so when I first learned that the Gray Death Legion was being assigned to Hesperus. But, I did it, and so must you. We must make every effort to override our personal feelings in favor of our duty to the Alliance. If you cannot do that, General, then I suggest you re-evaluate your commitment to the Lyran state.

"Now, General Zambos, I do not intend to stand here and bandy words with you while an invasion force possibly sneaks in on our flank. Have you got anything useful to add to this discussion or not?"

Zambos glared angrily first at Ciampa, then at Lori. "I guess not," he grumbled.

"Humph," Ciampa snorted, turning to Lori. "What do you suggest, Colonel?"

"I'd suggest we proceed as before," Lori answered, not a little confused. If she were going to pick either of the Lyran officers to hold a grudge against her and the Gray Death Legion, it would have been Ciampa. So far as she knew, Zambos hadn't even been on Hesperus II when the Legion fought against the Alliance troops here almost a decade ago.

"Let's see what Commander Vargas turns up in his search, though I have the feeling he isn't going to find much. Meanwhile, I'd suggest we pull the Simon Davion off station at the nadir point and have her move insystem. From her current position, it would take her a lot longer to reach our phantom contact than it would take any invaders to reach Hesperus II. If nothing else, we might call on her for naval-support fire, if need be."

* * *

"I am sorry, Colonel," Vargas apologized a few hours later. "As instructed, we quartered and searched the area. We even pushed into the adjoining sectors, but we still found nothing. No JumpShips, no DropShips, no fighters, nothing. Whatever happened out here was over before we left the planet. I suppose it could have been a quick in-and-out insertion. We don't have the sensors to detect the kind of residual energy traces that might leave. Unless you want to divert the Simon Davion out here—she's got the right kind of gear for this job—I think we're finished here."

Lori couldn't help a small sigh. "Very well, Julio. Come on back. I know you did your best," she said.

"If you wish, my squadron can remain on station a little while longer, Colonel. We might get lucky, though I doubt it. Space is an awful lot of nothing to search for a couple of relatively tiny DropShips, or a couple of even smaller fighters."

"No, Julio, you've done everything there is to do short of spending the next year out there searching every hectare of this system. If there was an intruder, he was here for a reason, and I suppose we'll find out what that is soon enough. Come on home."

"Well, Colonel, now what?" Ciampa asked in a neutral tone.

"Now we upgrade our alert status, and then we wait," Lori answered. "I don't quite know what else to do. We know the rebels will hit Hesperus soon enough. All we can do is make ourselves as ready for them as possible.

"I might also suggest that we have the sensor techs run a full battery of diagnostics on the early-warning system. Maybe we just ran into some kind of glitch or even operator error. In any event, we need to be sure we can rely on the system one hundred percent. The next time it says we've got an incoming JumpShip, let's be sure that's correct. We don't want to be hunting for the Flying Dutchman."

* * *

"Looks like the Legion's fighters are leaving, Colonel," the sensor operator said. "See there? The IR traces are definitely settling in on an insystem vector."

Colonel Francisco de Argall leaned over the bald technician's shoulder to examine the sensor display. Having only a passing familiarity with the device, he was forced to take the word of the tech.

"All of them?" he asked.

"Looks like." The tech gave an odd, jerky nod. "Hard to say for certain. It's a limitation of the passive gear. If you want me to go active, I can do that. Get you a better count. Thing is, I go active and the bad guys are almost certain to spot us."

De Argall straightened up. Cupping his chin in his left hand and his left elbow in his right palm, he thought for a moment.

"No. No active scans," he said arriving at a decision. "Our orders are to slip in undetected. That's why we risked such a fast insertion. If they haven't spotted us yet, we'll let them go on their way without attracting attention to ourselves."

De Argall turned to a thin-faced officer standing at a nearby computer display. "Any idea who they are?"

"Yes, sir," Leutnant-Colonel Don Nix replied, reading from the display. "Radio intercepts suggest that the bogies were elements of the Gray Death Legion. The ground controller kept referring to the aerospace commander as 'Julio.' According to the warbook, the Gray Death Legion aerospace wing, the Death Eagles, is under Wing Commander Julio Vargas."

De Argall resumed stroking his chin, a habit he'd fallen into when thinking. "That's not good, Don," he said. "We knew the Legion was probably going to remain loyal to Katrina. And we figured they would get involved in this business sooner or later. But I did not expect them to be sent to Hesperus. I would have thought their . . . ah . . . history with this world would have dictated they be sent elsewhere."

De Argall stroked his chin for a few moments longer.

"No matter. We must proceed as planned. We really don't have any other choice. Pilot, set your course for Hesperus V Gamma. Ahead dead slow."

"Aye sir, Hesperus V Gamma, ahead dead slow," the DropShip helmsman repeated, confirming the order.

De Argall tromped across the bridge deck toward the lift shaft, his magnetic boots making the process slow and deliberate. As the lift carried him down three decks to the one that held his quarters, he mentally reviewed his orders.

The regiment under his command, the Twenty-second Skye Rangers, had been one of the units to heed the Archon's call to "come home," though they'd really never left the old Lyran Commonwealth. Despite their allegiance to the new Lyran Alliance, the Twenty-second remained, at heart, an Isle of Skye unit. It hadn't taken very long for the regiment to jump ship when Duke Robert Kelswa-Steiner initiated the latest bid for independence for Skye.

Like most officers, de Argall knew that the key to the rebellion lay not in military power, but in political capital. The Separatists didn't necessarily have to win the war; they just had to not lose. They simply had to keep the Alliance tied up in a war of attrition until the Archon sued for peace. The price of that peace would be autonomy for the Isle of Skye.

Of course, fighting such a war was costly in terms of lives and materiel. The first category would have to be handled by Kelswa-Steiner and the rest of the Free Skye politicians. The latter bill fell to the rebel army to fill. The means of filling that bill lay in the Defiance Industries facility on Hesperus II.

Taking the planet with the massive underground factory would not be easy. Direct frontal assault had been tried and had failed more than a dozen times. Duke Robert's plan called for something more subtle. The Twenty-second Skye Rangers had been marched aboard three huge Overlord-Class DropShips and been ferried into the Hesperus system mated to the Invader-Class JumpShip Macbeth. Their orders were simple, in theory, but would require careful timing to carry out.

Once insystem, the Rangers were to make an extreme low-speed run to one of the large, rocky moons orbiting the Hesperus system's fifth, outermost planet. There, the unit would go to ground and wait for the furor that had attended their arrival to die down. Once the search activity ceased, the Rangers would leave Hesperus V Gamma and make another slow run into Hesperus III. Again the unit would go to ground and await the arrival of the main invasion fleet.

Once the primary attack force, under Leutnant-General William Harrison von Frisch, arrived, and the defenders scrambled to meet them, the Twenty-second Rangers would dart out of their hiding place and launch a lighting strike against Hesperus II. De Argall's objective was not the Defiance Industries complex, but the spaceport at Maria's Elegy. If his Rangers could seize the port, with its heavy surface-to-air and surface-to-space defenses, the rest of the fleet could land at the port without having to risk a combat drop against a defended world. A parallel objective was the hyperpulse generator station at the spaceport. If the HPG station could be captured, or at least isolated, the defenders would be unable to call for reinforcements.

No communications could be sent to or from the infiltrating Rangers. There was too much risk of interception. De Argall thought the plan somewhat baroque but likely to succeed because of sheer daring, if nothing else. Audacity often won battles where weapons could not.

The only thing about the scheme that did not sit well with him was the lack of information Skye command was able or willing to give him. He knew Hesperus was supposed to be defended by the Fifteenth and Thirty-sixth Lyran Guards, both good, solid mainline combat units in their own right. Not a single intelligence briefing he had seen even suggested that the Gray Death Legion might be on Hesperus II, and the presence of the mercenary combined-arms regiment shifted the balance of power back in the favor of the Lyran defenders.

In retrospect, De Argall thought the move made good sense. The Legion was a famed combat unit, with an astounding track record. Their loyalty to the Alliance seemed solid enough. With regular House units at a premium, and given the uncertainty of their loyalty in the face of the Skye rebellion, the Archon had been wise to take advantage of the well-trained, well-equipped mercenaries. With no means of communication, de Argall had no way to warn the rebels of the increased enemy presence on Hesperus.

He knew, of course, that his own Twenty-second Skye Rangers were part of the invasion force, but he didn't know what other Skye or anti-Katrina units would be coming in with the main body. To a certain degree, he understood the theory behind the secrecy. It was a case of what you don't know, you cannot give away. If he and his men were detected and captured, interrogation would be next to useless. They knew the approximate date of the attack, but they had no information on the size or composition of the main invasion fleet.

If the Rangers were discovered before the invasion fleet arrived, they were to boost immediately for Hesperus II and engage the defenders. One regiment against three was almost certain suicide, but by sacrificing themselves as dearly as possible, the Rangers would hope to weaken the defenders enough for the remaining Skye troops to succeed.

De Argall also knew that the invasion of Hesperus was going to usher in a new, hopefully limited, tactic. The Separatist fleet would be coming in with at least a couple of WarShips. That was good, since intelligence said the cruiser Simon Davion had been assigned to protect the vital system. Combat vessels would be needed to deal with that monster. But there was a secondary purpose to the presence of the armed starships. Any transport JumpShips insystem were to be captured or destroyed, thus preventing the defenders from escaping or sending the interstellar craft for help once the HPG station had been captured.

Attacking JumpShips was a rarity in modern warfare. Even the crusade against Clan Smoke Jaguar had seen only a handful of transports taken under fire. Engaging, much less destroying, JumpShips was considered by almost everyone in the Inner Sphere to be an act of criminal barbarism. But Hesperus II had been deemed a prize of the highest importance.

The entire operation was a gamble, but the prize was worth the risk—independence for Skye.

6

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

22 June 3065

"Come on, Boxer Three. Close it up," Captain Daniel Brewer said, with a mild note of reproof in his voice. Roger Karn, the young Mech Warrior piloting the Apollo assigned to the fire lance of Brewer's company, had been dragging his mechanical feet all day. Brewer wasn't sure why the younger man had been off his game during this patrol. Normally, Karn was squarely on the ball, but something seemed to be affecting the man's performance. Brewer made a mental note to speak with him once the patrol was finished.

Brewer's company had drawn patrol duty the day after the odd "false alarm" was sounded by the planet's early-warning system. That had been six days ago, and nothing more had happened since. The Colonel had ordained that Legion operations continue as scheduled, though with a heightened state of readiness.

There was something else plaguing Brewer, though he couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the onset of summer, which had brought with it an unexpected warm front. The unusual weather pattern had raised the daytime temperatures to more than thirty degrees centigrade, almost unheard of on the usually cool planet. The uncommon heat, coupled with the completely normal, oppressive humidity, had caused Brewer to consider cutting his thick braids. The style had once been fashionable with Lyran warrior-nobles, but the mode had long since passed. Brewer still wore them, partly as a link to the past, and partly because he liked the look. Several attractive young ladies also seemed to find his braids most appealing. But in the heat of a BattleMech's cockpit, the heavy braids were almost as bad as a head scarf.

But that wasn't really it, he told himself. There was something more, something beyond the war, and the rebellion, and the bloody heat. Or perhaps beneath it.

Then it came to him, the uncomfortable thought that had been like a splinter in his mind.

Daniel Brewer had joined the Gray Death Legion immediately after the mercenary unit's last trip to Hesperus II. Then, he had been on the other side, actually fighting against the Gray Death. He had "signed up" at the Archon's insistence, as a sort of peace offering, much in the same way Grayson Carlyle had been appointed Baron of Glengarry.

Over the years, he had continued to act as the Chief Executive Officer of DefHesp and to fulfill his role as the Duke of Hesperus. But in spite of those ties, Brewer had noticed a shift in his primary loyalties. Though he still felt the weight of his responsibilities to Defiance and to Hesperus, he felt his first duty lay with the Gray Death Legion. Now that Grayson Carlyle was gone, Brewer wondered what would become of the Legion, and what would be his role in it? Even more, would he be able to divide his own heart and mind enough to judge impartially between the Legion and DefHesp, should matters be put to the test? He knew that some members of the Board of Directors had been less than pleased when he signed on with the Gray Death. Major Goree, who had a non-voting seat on the board as head of the Defiance Self-Protection Force, had certainly not hesitated to express his displeasure. Would some of the voting Directors try to use that against him to have him removed as CEO? So far, no one had exhibited any such tendencies, but Brewer knew that such actions were part and parcel of the corporate world.

With a sigh, he forced down his misgivings and turned his attention back to his command. Boxer Three's Apollo had finally regained its position in the patrol formation, and the company continued its patrol.

Moving through the rugged Myoo Mountains was difficult, sometimes dangerous. Loose, rocky soil safe enough for a man to walk across might suddenly shift beneath the multi-ton weight of a BattleMech. The resulting fall could tear a mechanical limb from its socket or even injure or kill the Mech Warrior. Brewer knew that his company, second in the battalion still known as Hassan's Assassins, was up to the challenge, and he thought the opportunity to practice mountain operations in a 'Mech would prove valuable for the future.

The operation was not just a security patrol, but a field-readiness exercise. The men and women of Brewer's company would be expected to live in the field during the week-long patrol. Brewer didn't mind that. As a young man, he had spent quite a bit of time camping and hiking in the rocky uplands. Being cooped up for ten to twelve hours a day in the stuffy cockpit of a BattleMech didn't bother him either. What he really hated about these long-range patrols was the pre-packaged field rations.

The packages were labeled "Meal—Ready-to-Eat," though the common joke was that they were none of the three. Other witticisms held that the initials actually stood for "Meals Rejected by Everyone." To Brewer, the bland meals were as tasty as the cardboard and plastic containers they came in. And the dull gray-brown or orange-red food hardly looked appetizing.

The patrol sweep had taken the company first north out of Maria's Elegy along the Caran River toward the Doering Electronics plant, then west into the mountains. Now, they were on their final leg. Their preplanned route would take them through the Myoo Highlands, where they would pass within a few kilometers of the Defiance Industries complex. Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle wanted everyone in the Legion to get a look at the area around the plant, since the facility would be the primary target of an invasion force.

As Brewer guided his company through a narrow cut in the mountains, the broad plateau on which the facility was situated came into view.

"Attention to orders," he called over the company's general-use frequency. "When we move down out of these hills, I want a standard wedge deployment. Cheng, that means recon lance has the point. Fire and command lances will take left and right trailing flank. Let's try to make it clean this time. I don't want lance leaders having to tell their people where they need to be. Everyone clear on that?"

"Yes, sir," said Sergeant Joseph Cheng, fire lance's veteran commander.

Susan Levy, commander of the reconnaissance lance, was far less formal, answering with a cheerful, "You got it, Boss."

"Okay then. Let's move out."

Brewer saw Levy's HM-1 Hitman wave its manlike right arm, motioning the rest of recon lance, codenamed Shepherd, forward. More than most 'Mechs, the thirty-ton Hitman had an inhuman appearance. The machine's left forearm was swollen and misshapen, a trio of medium lasers sprouting from where the hand should have been. A pair of downward-curving horns projected from its head, giving the 'Mech the appearance of a gigantic minotaur. Brewer knew those horns were not mere decorations, but housed the emitters and receiving antenna for the Hitman's sophisticated electronics package. An almost perfect recon 'Mech, the HM-1 mounted a Beagle Active Probe mated to Target Acquisition Gear. A Guardian Electronics Counter-Measures unit helped mask its presence from enemy eyes.

As the recon lance reached the plateau, they began to fan out, putting at least one hundred fifty meters between each 'Mech and its nearest partner. Fire lance, codenamed Boxer, went next, fanning out to the left, but keeping a narrower interval to maintain the ability to concentrate their fire if need be. Brewer was happy to see that Karn was right where he should be. He wondered if Sergeant Chou had taken a quick moment to ream out the younger man.

"Command lance, move out," Brewer called when their turn came to go. His lance went by the call sign Doberman, completing the dog motif imposed upon them by Major Devin, the battalion's commander. The first to move was Sergeant V. K. Kaufman's Hoplite. Brewer moved his Champion into formation just to Kaufman's left, near the center of the company formation. Lucy Sal and Dale Ross deployed their Dervish and Grim Reaper out on the right flank, completing the so-called Iron Triangle formation.

It took a bit of doing to keep the formation together as they moved, but again, half the point of the exercise was to give the Legionnaires experience in a time of relative peace. That way, they could do their jobs without having to fret over the details when the shooting started.

Without warning, a sharp tone sounded in Brewer's headphones. A red discrete bearing the word "radar" flared to life on the Champion's center control panel.

"Boss, we're being scanned!" Susan Levy cried. "My whole board is lit up—radar, ladar, MAD, active IR, everything. And I'm detecting fire-control sensors too. Oh, frak!"

"Levy, what is it?" Brewer demanded. There was no reply. Instead, a high-pitched hissing squeal blanketed the comm channel.

"Does anyone have a visual on Shepherd One?" he called to the rest of his company. "Can anybody see if she's still up?"

"Doberman One . . . Four ... vis ... act with Shepherd . . . orders, sir?" The message was so broken by the interference that Brewer could not tell who had spoken, let alone what the gist of the message had been.

Brewer pushed his control sticks forward, bringing his birdlike 'Mech into a jerky trot. He aimed the Champion's blunt nose toward recon lance's last known position. In his viewscreen, he saw the rest of command lance accelerate to keep pace with their commander. He could only hope that fire lance, nearly a kilometer to the northwest, had spotted the movement and would follow his lead.

At a speed of nearly eighty kilometers per hour, it took only a few minutes to close ranks with recon lance. As he crested a small rise, he spotted all four BattleMechs, intact and standing still in the shelter of a small copse of scrub oak trees. The whine in his headset grew louder, becoming all-consuming the closer he got. It began to blanket his sensors, even affecting those that provided the images on his viewscreen.

As Levy had reported, discretes for every kind of sensor used on the modern battlefield lit up on his control panel.

Even more disturbing was the THREAT warning that flashed into existence on his heads up display. Someone had just designated his Champion with either a Streak missile or Artemis Fire-Control System. He prayed that the threat warning was not the result of a TAG spotter. If it was, the next thing he experienced might well be the shattering impact of a massive Arrow IV missile strike.

But no missiles rained down on the Legion positions. Instead, the squeal of electronic jamming faded a bit, and a familiar, drawling voice spoke in his ear.

"Attention, intruding BattleMechs. You are approaching the Defiance Industries Security Zone. Leave the area immediately or you will be taken under fire."

"Major Goree, this is Captain Daniel Brewer. Shut down your fire-control and your ECM systems. We are Gray Death Legion 'Mechs here on a routing patrol. Scan us. Our IFF signature will tell you who we are."

"Intruding BattleMechs, I know what your Identify Friend and Foe systems tell us, but you know as well as I do that those systems can be compromised." Goree's answer was flat and emotionless. "I suggest you leave the area immediately."

"Major Goree, shut down your targeting and tracking systems. That is an order!" Brewer screamed into his communicator as though volume alone would cut through the electronic clutter. There was no reply. Brewer switched to the frequency set aside for communicating with the Defiance Self-Protection Force, and repeated his message. Again, only the noise of ECM and ECCM jamming.

Movement caught Brewer's eye. He looked up and spotted a Gunslinger marching deliberately toward his position. Its camouflage had been so cunningly painted that the barrel-chested assault 'Mech had been invisible to the naked eye, while its position had been masked by the heavy electronic jamming.

Flanking the big machine were other assault-class 'Mechs, a Banshee and an Atlas, both of which were probably built right there on Hesperus in the Defiance factory. The fourth was a design Brewer had never seen outside of BattleTechnology magazine and intelligence briefings. Squat-legged and low to the ground, resembling some great, metallic, predatory beast, a BGS-1T Barghest lumbered along on all fours. Paired lasers and a monstrous LB 20-X autocannon sprouted from the quadruped 'Mech's back. Brewer could see other 'Mechs moving toward his command, though he could not identify the types.

A flash of smoke and flame lit the chest of one of the advancing 'Mechs, and a single smoke contrail leaped across the plateau to impact upon Roger Karn's Apollo. There was no explosion, no shattering of armor.

Had to be a NARC beacon, Brewer reasoned, deducing that the single missile had attached a missile homing beacon to the torso of Karn's 'Mech. That would fit in with Goree's trying to scare them off.

"Hold fire, hold fire, Dog Company. Weapons are tight. Hold your fire!" Anger rising in his voice, Brewer shouted into his communicator, praying that the warriors under his command would hear and obey. He switched channels and tried again to raise Goree.

"Goddamit, Major, you stand down, or by God, you'll find yourself in more hurt than you ever imagined possible."

Static was his only answer.

Waving the Champion's stubby, winglike arms, Brewer attracted Sergeant Kaufman's attention. As best he could, considering the jamming blanketing the Legion's communication bands, he signaled his subordinate that the company should withdraw. Kaufman signaled his understanding after only a few moments of gesticulating back and forth. Then the veteran sergeant passed the signal along the lines. Slowly, the Legion 'Mechs began to back away. No one seemed willing to turn his or her back to the Defiance Self Protection Force 'Mechs, almost as though each Legionnaire present feared being shot from behind should they do so.

As they withdrew, the ECM jamming began to fade, eventually lifting altogether.

"Captain, they shot at me!" Karn sounded near tears.

"Steady, boy. It was just a NARC pod." Brewer bit back his anger and tried to speak soothingly. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, he had the time to ascertain that the missile fired at Karn's Apollo had indeed been one of the magnetic missile-homing beacons. Such pods were only dangerous if the enemy actually fired "war-shots" at a target to which a NARC pod had been affixed. In that case, the beacon would attract any missile equipped with a NARC seeker-head. Brewer knew the effect could be devastating.

Despite his words, he didn't feel the calm he was trying to impart to his warriors. His heart was burning with a barely controlled rage at Major Goree, who had locked fire-control sensors onto friendly BattleMechs. Perhaps the man had felt justified in his zeal to protect his post; perhaps he had been obeying the directives of the Defiance Industries Board of Directors. But, by God, there was no reason to engage in such a dangerous game of brinksmanship with friendly forces.

Of course, as an officer of the Gray Death Legion, Brewer was obligated to report the incident to Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle, who would handle the situation. But as the CEO of Defiance Hesperus, he would have words to say directly to Major James Goree.

BattleTech - LE5866

7

Gray Death Legion Compound

Maria's Elegy, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

22 June 3065

Captain Daniel Brewer slammed back his Champion's cockpit hatch and pulled himself from the machine's control cabin. He yanked off his cooling vest and angrily threw the bulky garment into the arms of his chief technician.

"Captain, I . . ." the man began to say, but Brewer spun on his heel and stalked away down the 'Mech gantry catwalk. Though it had taken nearly a full five hours for his company to return to Maria's Elegy from the Myoo Highlands, his anger still burned hot. Ignoring everyone and everything around him, he headed straight for the Legion's command center. He stopped only once, in the 'Mech bay locker room—just long enough to pull a dark gray jumpsuit on over his Mech Warrior shorts and to replace his boots with a pair of scuffed running shoes.

When he reached the office set aside for the Legion's commanding officer, he knocked once, loudly, and without waiting for permission to enter, he jerked the door open and passed inside.

"Colonel, I know you probably heard by now but I—."

Brewer almost choked as he finally realized who was in the Colonel's office. Aside from his CO and Davis McCall, there were two others present, Stanislau Stevens, the president of the Defiance Hesperus board of directors, and Major James Goree.

"Yes, I've heard, Captain," Lori said sharply. "But why don't you tell me your side of things? Then we'll try to sort this thing out."

Brewer forced himself to get his temper under control enough to explain what had happened to his command outside the Defiance complex.

"Well, Colonel, I don't know what these gentlemen told you, but from the Legion perspective, here is how it went down. As ordered, I moved my company down into the Myoo Highlands, intending to take them on a close pass-by of the Defiance complex. As ordered, I intended to allow my men the opportunity to familiarize themselves with the area, since the accepted conventional wisdom says we will be engaged there by the enemy when he comes. As my unit approached the area around the complex, Sergeant Levy advised me that she had been scanned and then painted by fire-control sensors."

Brewer continued his narrative, making sure to stress the fact that he had attempted to contact Goree to confirm the identity of his company. He especially highlighted Goree's refusal to accept either the IFF or verbal identification of the Legion 'Mechs.

"That's when they fired a NARC beacon at Private Roger Karn's Apollo. I don't know if Karn immediately realized that it was 'only' a NARC pod, or if he froze at being taken under fire from what he thought was a friendly force, or if he was merely waiting to hear the weapons-free command." Brewer started to wind down his story. "In any event, that was when I began to pass the word along the lines, by means of visible hand and arm signals, that we should withdraw. I honestly believe, Colonel, that if we had stayed there for another five minutes, maybe less, we would have been involved in a shooting war with the DSPF."

"Well, Major," Lori said to Goree, without commenting on Brewer's report, "how does that square with your version of events?"

"I can obviously not comment on what was going through Captain Brewer's mind during the incident,"

Goree said. "All I can say is that the captain has the meat of the matter correct. Though, from my standpoint, the reasons behind the details are somewhat different.

"It has always been company policy of Defiance Hesperus that no unknown military units be allowed to approach to within less than eight hundred meters of the factory complex without being challenged and warned off. In the past, this challenge and warning have come in the form of first a hard scan, then a weapon lock, and then a verbal warning. Captain Brewer surely must have been aware of these regulations, given his position within DefHesp."

"Yes, Captain, I am aware of the regulations," Brewer spat. "I am also aware that the regulations state the DSPF commander on-scene has discretionary authority to implement or to suspend those regulations as the situation warrants."

"Captain Brewer, I am glad to see that you remember the company regulations so well," Goree said dryly. "As DSPF commander on scene, I did exercise discretionary authority. I choose to follow the regulations and warn your people away from the complex. Surely, Captain, you can understand my decision, especially given the history between the Gray Death Legion and Defiance Hesperus?

"Now, I understand your side of the issue, Captain, but unless you elect to exercise your power as the CEO of DefHesp and have me replaced, my decision and my orders will stand. And, Captain, I'd have to suspect that the board of directors might have something to say if you try to fire me.

"Major," Lori put in, "need I remind you that the Gray Death Legion is under contract to the Lyran Alliance and that we are here at the Archon's express order?"

"No, Colonel Carlyle. You don't need to remind me of that. But it doesn't change anything." Goree seemed even less impressed with Lori's admonition. "Y'all can send an HPG message to the LAAF Quartermaster Corps and speak directly with General Lisa Steiner if you want. You can send a message straight to the Archon for all I care. The Defiance Self-Protection Force is not part of the Lyran Alliance Armed Forces, and as such is not subject to military regulation, review, or oversight. I don't give a damn if you get Nondi Steiner and the whole Alliance army in here. If they get too close to my fences, I'll still lock 'em up on fire-control."

"Now listen here, Mister Goree . . ." Brewer growled, in a tone that suggested he was not speaking as a captain of the Gray Death Legion but as the Chief Executive Officer of Defiance Industries on Hesperus. Lori waved him to silence before he could begin warming to his theme once more.

"Laddie, are ye sure of what it is yer doin'?" McCall said, also ignoring Lori's attempts to silence him. "Are ye sure yer' wantin' to be takin' that sorta attitude with th' Legion?"

He gave the Defiance security man a narrow, black look. "I ken ye've got a first-rate unit out there at yer factory, and they're equipped wi' all th' latest technology yer corporation can provide. But they're only what? Battalion strength? If anyone comes in here with more than a troop o' Star Scouts, they'll aye wipe out yer little army and burn yer factory to th' ground—again."

"Davis!" Lori yelled, finally getting her subordinate to hold his tongue.

Goree bristled. "Lieutenant Colonel, you just sit back here in Maria's Elegy and refuse to protect DefHesp when the invasion comes. Then I'll sit back and watch as your careers go straight to hell." His attitude of bored calm had finally broken at McCall's implied threat. "Maybe I should lodge a few complaints of my own. Maybe I should send a message to Hautpmann-General Rainer Poulin. I think the Skye Province Theater Commander might be interested in what you just said. I know Almida Zee certainly would be."

"Major, you are certainly free to send those messages, if you like," Lori said in a conciliatory tone Brewer had never heard her use. "I certainly can't stop you. You realize the Legion will defend itself in a Bonding Commission court as tenaciously as we do on the battlefield. The legal fight may well continue long after we both are gone, and to what end?

"I'll tell you what, Major, let's try things this way. You want an eight-hundred-meter buffer zone around your complex? I'll make it one full klick. But if your people lock up my 'Mechs again, I may not have time to give the 'weapons free.'"

"Remember, Major Goree, the Gray Death Legion is onplanet to help protect your facility, the same as the DSPF is. We need to work together on this one, and designating my 'Mechs with fire-control sensors is not exactly conducive to a spirit of cooperation."

Goree nodded silently, evidently satisfied with Lori's offer. He stood and made to leave. As his hand closed on the doorknob, he paused and spoke over his shoulder. "It's all well and good, Colonel Carlyle, to say that you're here to protect us. But, until the bullets start flying, and you and your people stand between us and the invaders instead of siding with them, I'll reserve my judgment. I've seen mercenaries turn their coats a few too many times in the past to be comfortable with your assertions."

Without another word, Goree settled his flat-brimmed black hat on his head, pulling the brim down over his eyes, and left the room.

Much to Brewer's surprise, Lori snatched up an empty coffee cup and made to hurl it at the closed door. In the split second it took her to cock her arm back for the throw, he saw her visage change ever so slightly. The anger was still there, but it had been tamed. She slammed the heavy porcelain vessel back onto her desk.

"I don't know how Gray did it all those years, having to put up with jackass officers like that!" she snapped, not looking at either McCall or himself. She tried to continue, but her voice caught in her throat with a sound like a half-strangled hiccup. Like a blind woman, she groped behind her for her chair and collapsed heavily into it. For a moment she sat still, gazing off into the middle distance as if viewing a scene only she could see. Then her resolve broke, and she buried her face in her hands. Brewer could see her shoulders tense as she fought back the tears.

His own anger melted away at the sight of her. She was no longer his commanding officer, but a woman who'd only recently lost her husband and who'd been thrust into this impossible situation with no time to mourn.

He felt McCall's heavy hand fall on his shoulder and turn him away, ushering him out of the room. The big Caledonian officer followed closely, closing the door behind them and leaving Lori alone with her grief.

8

Southwestern Quadrant, Hesperus III

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

23 June 3065

"Graves, you see that?" Leutnant Petar Warner called to his flight leader, staring intently at his fighter's sensor console.

"See what?" First Leutnant Ari Graves called back.

"My MAD scans just jumped halfway off the scale," Warner said. "Then it flicked back to nothing. It was almost like we flew right over something big and metallic." Warner pulled his Seydlitz into a tight turn, swinging the light aero-fighter back across the airless badlands marring the southwestern quadrant of Hesperus III.

"C'mon, Warner, get back in formation," Graves said. "It was probably a hiccup in your sensors. We haven't got enough fuel in these kites to go flat-hatting around chasing down every stray MAD trace."

"I don't think this is a stray trace. It was big. Big enough almost to be a DropShip," Warner argued. The fighter's O/P 3000 electronics package was usually pretty reliable. If the Magnetic Anomaly Detector said he had overflown a big metal object, Warner was inclined to take the machine's word for it. At the same time, Graves was right. If the Seydlitz had one major fault, it was the limited amount of fuel the fighter carried. Primarily designed for fast in-and-out raids, the SYD-21 was an old design, dating back to the original Star League. As newer technologies had been developed and newer class fighters began rolling off production lines, the older machines were sent back to second-echelon troops, like the Twelfth Hesperus Militia, of which Graves and Warner were a part.

"One pass, Leutnant, then we'll get on with the sweep."

"All right, Warner. One pass and that's it," Graves agreed reluctantly.

Warner stood his boxy fighter on its starboard wing and dropped toward the surface of the planet. Graves, taking the trailing position behind his wingman, followed him down.

As Warner twisted his ship upright again, he looked steadily at the MAD display. For a second, nothing more than a background trace showed up on the device's screen. Then, as the Seydlitz flashed over a narrow canyon, the instrument, which had been showing nothing more than a background level of magnetism, spiked sharply upward.

"MADman, MADman!" Warner cried excitedly, vindicated by the narrow zigzag of light across the black display.

"You were right, Warner," Graves admitted. "There is something pretty big down there. Pull back up to operational altitude, and let's call this in."

* * *

"That's it, sir," the tech said, lightly touching the sensor screen with his finger tip. "They made one high-altitude pass, rolled back in, and made a low-level pass. Now it looks like they're climbing out again."

"Did they spot us?" Tension gave Colonel De Argall's voice a harsh edge.

"Can't say for certain, Colonel," the tech replied. "Only one fighter overflew our position. It all depends on how good that net really is."

De Argall considered the implications of having the enemy fly directly over the narrow canyon in which his regiment's DropShips had landed. In theory, the high-tech "ghillie nets" that his 'Mechs had strung up over the grounded spacecraft should keep them well hidden. The infrared suppressive fabric would mask any heat radiating from the ships' hulls. The drab colors and irregular patterns of the net would serve to make visual detection of the ships more difficult. Tiny ECM units built into the fabric would confuse radar return images, giving the impression of a jumbled, rocky canyon floor rather than a cluster of grounded DropShips beneath an expanse of camouflage netting. The only worry had been if any patrol that did stumble upon their hidden landing zone passed directly over their heads with a Magnetic Anomaly Detector running. The nets were wonderful technology, in theory. In practice the concealing properties of the nets sometimes failed. De Argall had never fully trusted the nets. That was why he insisted that a twenty-four-hour watch be kept on the sensor displays. He had also ordered that at least one lance from each battalion be kept ready to deploy against an enemy force, should one present itself. It looked like the need for an alert force was being thrust upon him despite the precautions he had taken.

"Yup, they've seen us, Colonel," the tech said abruptly. "I'm getting coded traffic from the fighters. They're probably calling in our position."

"Weapons officer, engage the fighters. Notify the other ships to hold their fire until ordered to engage. They may not have spotted all of us. No point in tipping our hand to the enemy."

* * *

"SAM! SAM! SAM!" Warner bellowed as he spotted the contrails of what seemed to be a hundred missiles streaking up toward Graves' Seydlitz. Half of the missiles streaked past his fighter, but the remainder did not. The light aerospace craft was engulfed in a red-orange fireball. When the explosion dissipated, the Seydlitz was still there, looking as though it would fall to pieces any second, but still flying, and still under control.

"Warner," Graves gasped over the radio. "Get clear, they've got a flak trap down there. Get back and warn . . ."

A thick bolt of energy streaked upward to impact with the damaged fighter. The lightning-bright stream of charged particles split the Seydlitz in two. Graves did not eject. As the halves of Graves' Seydlitz fell toward the surface, Petar Warner stomped hard on his rudder pedal, slewing the fighter around in a bid for a high-speed run back to the safety of his unit's base. Struggling against the G forces created by the tight turn, Warner sent out a message that the militia patrol flight was under heavy attack. Rolling out of the turn, Warner began a series of evasive maneuvers, hoping to throw off his enemy's aim.

Another PPC discharge lashed out at him, missing the wildly jinking fighter by less than a meter. He was bracketed on the other side by paired streams of tracers that seemed to originate from the same spot as the PPC discharge.

A DropShip, Warner figured, struggling to avoid the ground fire. It had to be a DropShip. And a DropShip meant 'Mechs, and 'Mechs mean an invasion.

He thumbed the switch on his control column, opening a broadband communication channel.

Before he could utter a sound, a corkscrewing volley of missiles clawed his fighter from the sky.

* * *

"Splash Two," the weapons officer said from his console on the other side of the grounded DropShip's bridge.

"Did either of the fighters get a message off before they were destroyed?" de Argall demanded.

"I don't think so, sir," the sensor operator responded. "I think number two was trying to broadband a distress cry or something, but I don't think he had the time."

"This isn't good, Don," de Argall said to his exec. "If the Lyrans know we're here, this operation may be over before it starts."

"So what do we do?" Nix asked.

"We've got two options. Stay and brazen it out, hoping the Lyrans didn't spot us. Or, we displace to Alternate One."

"Are you certain they spotted us?" Nix scowled, an expression de Argall had come to recognize as one of thoughtfulness rather than displeasure on the part of his executive officer.

"I'm afraid I am, Don," de Argall said. "That coded traffic pretty much cinches it for me. Also, we can't be sure that those two fighters were alone. Granted, we have ground sensors out, but you and I both know those things can be unreliable. We didn't spot those two fighters until they were right on top of us. If they come against us in strength, we may not have any more warning than we did this time. I'd rather not jeopardize the ships and the mission."

"If I may, Colonel, I suggest we displace."

"I agree," de Argall said. "It's going to be risky, but we don't have much choice right now. We can't take the chance that the Lyrans know we're here. If we make a clean displacement, they'll waste time and resources looking for us."

"What if they spot us while we're displacing?" Nix asked.

De Argall shrugged. "Depends on the size of the force they send after us. If it's small enough to destroy without losing any of the ships, we'll engage them and then make a run for Hesperus II. And we'll start raising Cain with the defenders, as ordered. If they spot us, and it's too strong a force for us to destroy, we'll find a place to ground on Hesperus III and make life miserable for the enemy here.

"Either way, I doubt any of us are going to survive the fight. If we're lucky, we'll take a good number of those people with us. If we're very lucky, they might think that we were the sole invasion force and drop their guard just in time for the main body to arrive."

De Argall sighed heavily.

"How long to get the nets down and stowed?" he asked Nix. "For all the good they did us, I've half a mind to leave the bloody things here."

* * *

Lori reviewed the printed copy of the report filed by Hauptmann Leo Moos, the Twelfth Militia's commanding officer. There was little more to the document than she could have gleaned from a newsfax about the incident. Two SYD-21 Seydlitz aerospace fighters, on routine short-range patrol over the southwestern quadrant of Hesperus III, had gone down. Neither pilot had given any indication of distress prior to dropping off radar. The Twelfth's communication center had received part of a coded FLASH message, but the transmission had been interrupted before more than a few words came through.

She lowered the pages and looked at the vidcom unit that was part of the computer terminal built into her desk. He was a slight, fair-haired man with several small scars across his cheeks and forehead. Lori knew from the text of the report that Moos had spent several hours flying his F-90 Stingray fighter back and forth along the intended flight path of his missing ships. To her mind, such concern for the men under his command made him a good officer. Unlike either Major Goree or General Zambos, Moos seemed to have no problem with the Legion's presence on Hesperus, and less trouble asking for their aid.

"It seems, Hauptmann, that you've done everything that could be done," Lori said, laying the report aside. "What is it you want the Legion to do for you?"

"Colonel, if you could loan us a couple of your fighters and pilots, I'd like to widen the search. Graves was an experienced man, but Warner was still a little green. I suppose it is possible they wandered off course. I just don't have the resources to conduct an extensive search. My men have been down for just about eight hours now. Their survival packs have enough air for twenty-four. They haven't got a lot of time left."

"Why did you wait so long before coming to us?"

"I have nothing personal against you or the Legion, Colonel. I believe in trying to clean up my own mess before going to anyone else."

Lori smiled with the simple pleasure of finding another Lyran officer who didn't seem to hate her and the Legion for their actions in 3057.

Moos continued as though he hadn't noticed. "I would have looked silly coming to ask you to send a couple of fighter lances all the way out here only to find that my men had pranged their ships along their planned flight path. But now, things are different. My men are either way off course, or they're down in one of the narrow canyons in the badlands. Either way, I haven't got the manpower or the ships to mount an intensive search. If I have any hope at all of finding my men before they run out of air, it lies with the Legion."

Lori nodded gravely. "Just a moment, Colonel," she said, muting the comm unit's audio pickups.

"What do you think, Julio?" When the report of the missing pilots had come across her desk, Lori had summoned the Legion's wing commander. Vargas sat backward in a ladder-backed chair, straddling the seat.

"I think we should help, Colonel." Vargas scratched his right ear as he spoke. "Militia or not, no pilot deserves to go out that way."

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it," Lori snapped.

"Si, Colonel, I know it." Vargas said contritely. "I can take a couple of lances out there and help with the search. Maybe Major Powers might want to take some of her scouts out too. If those canyons are as narrow as they look on the maps, it will be rough getting fighters in and out safely. If those pilots are down in one of them, we're going to have the devil's own time rescuing them."

Lori switched the comm unit back on and said, "All right, Hauptmann, we're sending some help. I'll send you two fighter lances and a platoon of my armored scouts."

"Good enough, Colonel," Moos said, clearly relieved at the promise of help. "And thank you."

"I just pray we can find your men in time, Hauptmann." With that, Lori severed the connection.

"Well, Colonel, if you'll contact Major Powers, I'll get my boys ready to fly," Vargas said, getting to his feet.

"Not you, Julio," Lori said, bringing him up short.

"What?"

"I said, not you. Give this one to Captain Staedler." Lori held up her hand to forestall any argument. "She can handle the search. I need you and the rest of the Legion brass right here."

Vargas sighed. "Si, Colonel," he said finally. He had apparently been prepared to argue the point, but had decided against it.

As Vargas left the office, Lori tapped her intercom.

"Mick, have the battalion commanders meet me in the briefing room in fifteen minutes."

"Right away, Colonel," her orderly replied.

"And please get hold of Major Powers. I've got a job for her."

* * *

The sound of a DropShip passing overhead, the roar of its powerful engines barely muted by the building's structure, briefly drowned out all other sounds in the briefing room. The big spacecraft carried four of the Legion's fighters and one squad of infantry scouts, the latter outfitted with the light, highly mobile powered armor the mercenary company developed for the purpose of long-range reconnaissance.

When the deep rushing sound faded, Lori picked up her train of thought.

"So that's all we know," she said, concluding her briefing on the events of the past twenty-four hours.

"What concerns me, Colonel, is the fact that we've had two unexplained and seemingly unrelated aerospace incidents in the past week," Major Thomas Devin said, leaning back in his chair. Devin had taken command of First Battalion, First 'Mech Regiment, only a few years ago, when Andrei Denniken retired.

"I'm a bit concerned about that too, Colonel," Rae Houk admitted. Like Devin, Houk was a Legion veteran who rose to command as a replacement for a senior officer. In her case, it was not retirement that opened up a command slot but the death of Hassan Ali Khalid.

"So am I," Lori said. "It may be a coincidence, but I somehow doubt it. It's all a little too coincidental. We'll let Captain Staedler and Lieutenant M'Dahlla conduct their search before we do anything too radical. For now, though, I'm going to up the Legion's readiness status—again. As of now, consider that we are on condition yellow."

"Colonel, are you sure that's wise?" Houk asked. "If we ratchet up our alert status, we may be letting ourselves in for some problems. I mean, things have been pretty intense ever since Goree's boys nearly provoked a 'friendly fire' incident."

"Friendly fire, isn't," Devin muttered quietly, eliciting a chuckle from the Legion officers.

"Maybe not, Tom," Houk continued. "But if we go kicking up our status, and we get into a close-contact situation with the DSPF, or with one of the Lyran units, our boys may be wound so tight that we go over the edge into a real shooting incident."

"There's somethin' else t' consider, Colonel," McCall said. "I never expected t' hear m'self say this. Maybe it's old age creepin' up on me. But if we go on yellow alert, we're going t' be rotatin' pilots in and out of their cockpits by companies, every four to six hours. That kind of schedule is hard t' keep up. Ye ken what I'm sayin'. Th' taut bow loses its strength."

Houk laughed. "Davis, I thought you were a Presbyterian, and here you are quoting Buddha."

"Och, weel," McCall said, allowing his New Caledonian accent freedom to run. "That lad may have been a sassanach, a foreigner, but he had a rare grasp o' things fer a' that."

"I take your point, Davis," Lori said, chuckling slightly. "And yours too, Rae. So here's my decision: the Legion will go to condition yellow, but only for seventy-two hours. After that, if there are no major incidents, we'll scale things back a bit. If things stay quiet for a week, we'll go back to green.

"Just remember people, the rebels are coming to Hesperus. It's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when. And when they do get here, I want us to be ready to meet them."

Lori looked around at her officers. "Any questions? No? Okay, that's it then. Dismissed."

As the meeting broke up, the Legion officers drifted out in singles, pairs, and trios, each heading off to attend to his or her appointed duties. Within moments, Lori was left alone in the briefing room, praying that she had made the right decision.

BattleTech - LE5866

9

Badlands, Hesperus III

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

25 June 3065

Captain Carla Staedler eased her upgraded CSR-V12 Corsair aerospace fighter into a gentle bank to port. She'd seen something glittering in the shadows of a deep canyon. She wanted another look.

Swooping in low over the surface of Hesperus Ill's badlands, she put her fighter on a course parallel with the narrow canyon. With a flick of the control column, she half-rolled the Corsair to get a better view of the ground. Almost immediately, Staedler caught a glimpse of the odd, silver-white gleam that had attracted her attention. Whatever it was, it definitely seemed to have been man-made. Rolling the Corsair upright, she checked the fighter's sensors. It was too difficult to tell against the background count of the mineral-rich planet, but it seemed that there was something metallic lying on the ground at the bottom of the canyon.

"Goshawk One to Phobos, I have a possible contact at grid six-niner-eight-five-three-alpha. Definitely metallic. My sensors indicate it masses around fifteen tons. It could be what's left of one of those fighters. I can't tell. The contact is at the bottom of one of those damn canyons. We're going to have to use the scouts to check this one out."

"Phobos to Goshawk One," came the reply. "We're on our way. ETA your position, ten minutes."

Staedler acknowledged the message as she brought her fighter around for another low pass over the site. Again, the metallic shine caught her eye. In that instant, she made a decision.

"Goshawk Two, remain on station to guide Phobos in if they need it," she called to her wingman. "I'm going to land and see if I can figure out what that is down there."

"That isn't part of our mission profile, Captain," Warrant Officer Anson Towsley reminded her. "We're supposed to search from the air and guide the scouts in if we see something."

"I know that, Towsley," Staedler barked. "But there might be a pilot down there."

"Yeah, and if you try to land in that canyon, there might be two pilots down there. Maybe two dead pilots down there," Towsley shot back.

"I'm going in," Staedler repeated, ignoring her wingman.

Rolling the Corsair through a tight turn, she brought the fighter into line with the narrow canyon. With a deft touch on the stick and pedals, she let the craft drift down toward the deep gash in the earth. Had the operation taken place on Hesperus II, such an approach to landing would have been difficult. The Corsair, with its relatively tiny wings, had a stall speed of one hundred fifty kilometers per hour. Here on Hesperus III, with its nearly nonexistent atmosphere, the Corsair was relying on brute strength to keep itself airborne, making a low-speed approach nearly impossible.

Staedler flew on pure instinct, her eyes never still, constantly flicking between the air-speed indicator and altimeter to the tips of the fighter's narrow wings. She gentled the big GM 200 engines as much as she dared. Even so, the walls of the ground rushed up at her at an alarmingly fast rate, seeming to narrow before her.

"No good," she said, hauling back on the stick and shoving the throttle forward.

"Boss, you okay?" Towsley asked anxiously.

"I'm fine," she said. "That canyon is too narrow for this kite. We're going to have to wait for the scouts."

* * *

A few minutes later, the Phobos, one of the Legion's first Union-class DropShips, swept in low across the badlands, touching down one hundred meters from the spot where Captain Staedler had landed her fighter.

Making certain her suit was sealed against the near-vacuum outside, Staedler popped her canopy and slipped from the Corsair's cockpit. As her feet touched the gritty, tan soil, a small door slid open on the DropShip's hull. One by one, several soldiers swarmed down the ladder and dropped from the hatchway. The first of them, a man nearly the size of a Clan Elemental, sauntered toward Staedler's fighter. His face was masked by the closed faceplate of his light scout armor, but she knew only one individual of that size in the Gray Death armored scouts: Lieutenant M'Dahlla of the first scout platoon.

"Good to see you, Captain," the giant boomed over the short-range communicator mounted in his helmet. "I thought you were supposed to stay airborne and guide us in, not try to make the rescue yourself. Or did you propose to cheat us out of earning our pay?"

"Not a chance, Lieutenant," Staedler said, taking M'Dahlla's extended hand. "I like flying too much, and your job is too easy for a skilled operator like me. It would be a step down."

The scout laughed, a deep rolling sound, and laid a mechanical hand on Staedler's shoulder. "Really, Captain, you should not have risked trying to land in the canyon. That was foolish. You should have waited for us to arrive."

Staedler took no offense. Not only was M'Dahlla right; he genuinely cared for everyone in the Legion. His concern made her a bit uncomfortable. She realized she did not know if M'Dahlla was his first or last name, or even if he had another name. She had never heard anyone call him anything other than M'Dahlla.

"Now shall we go and see what we can see?" he asked, again patting her on the shoulder.

Despite the mass of the powered armor encasing his body, M'Dahlla moved as lightly and gracefully as Staedler did in her pressurized flight suit. As they reached the edge of the canyon, he knelt down, leaning over the rim and bracing himself with his hands. For some time, he gazed into the shadowed depths.

Staedler guessed he was cycling through the various sensors mounted in the scout armor's helmet, trying to get a good look at what lay in the canyon below. Again, she experienced a faint twinge of envy. The only sensors she had to rely on once she climbed out of her fighter's cockpit were a set of "Eyeballs, Mk I," as the soldier's humor referred to one's organs of sight. In the modern combat environment, a warrior's eyes were the least sophisticated viewing device available, and the most critical. If a soldier did not use his eyes—to look around, to observe, to read the displays provided by the electronic sensors—he was not only blind, he was probably dead, and just didn't know it yet.

"Hard to say, Captain," M'Dahlla said, straightening up at last. "Looks like we are going to have to go down there. Have you seen anything resembling a trail or any indication that this canyon opens out onto level ground anywhere?"

"No, Lieutenant. Nothing."

"Ah, well, it looks like we jump."

"Jump?" Staedler echoed in surprise. "Into this, with no clear idea what the floor of this canyon is like? Isn't that going to be a little dangerous?"

"Much like your attempt to land?" M'Dahlla asked mildly. "Do not worry, Captain. We will be fine."

* * *

The eight-man platoon formed up on the edge of the canyon and, at a signal from their commander, leapt off into the void. Staedler, along with a few members of the Phobos' crew, rushed to the precipice to watch as the flare of jump packs lit the darkening sky. The camouflaged battle armor became harder to discern as the scouts dropped smoothly into the canyon. The dim glow of the jump packs helped the watchers on the rim track the descending soldiers.

Then, the flares died out.

"We are down and safe," M'Dahlla's voice broke from Staedler's communicator. "You can stop worrying about us, Captain."

"What about the wreck?" she asked anxiously.

"We are about fifty meters off. From here, it does look like a crashed aerospace fighter." M'Dahlla was silent for a few moments. Then, "It does appear to be a fighter, though it is in bad shape."

"Can you tell what brought it down?" Staedler asked.

"No, Captain, I cannot. The ship is not intact. It seems to have broken up sometime before impact. I see one section, which may be its engine, lying about twenty meters to the north. This section seems to be the bulk of the fuselage. I cannot see the cockpit. Just a moment . . . Yes, Captain I have some numbers for you. They must be the ship's registration. Are you ready to copy?"

"Hang on a minute." Staedler activated her gauntlet-mounted personal data unit, then said, "Go ahead."

"The number is partial. It reads: seven-tango-whiskey-mike-two." M'Dahlla repeated the alphanumeric string twice more.

"Stand by, Lieutenant." Tapping a control stud on the data unit's keypad, Staedler's heart fell at the information displayed on the tiny screen.

"That's one of our missing fighters," she said. "The pilot's name is First Leutnant Ari Graves. Is there any sign of him? Or of the other ship?"

"I am sorry, Captain. I can see nothing of the pilot or of the other fighter." M'Dahlla's voice was sad. "I will divide my platoon into squads, and we will search along this canyon in both directions. I will contact you if we find anything."

It was only minutes before he spoke again.

"Once again, I am sorry, Captain, but we have found the pilot. He is dead. It appears that he died upon impact with the ground. He is still strapped into his seat, although it looks as if he did try to eject. The upper handles have been pulled, but apparently the seat did not fire."

"Dammit!" Staedler cursed. Though Graves had not been a member of the Legion, he was a fellow pilot, one of a band of brothers extending back well over a millennium to the days when men first took to the skies to do battle in fighters of wood and canvas. For a man to die because of something so stupid as an ejection-seat failure was a tragedy greater even than the loss of a valuable, irreplaceable life.

Staedler asked the scout if he could determine what had happened to the fighter.

"Not a clue, Captain. I am looking at a wreck in three large pieces, with many smaller ones scattered across several hundred meters. Even if it were intact, I am not an engineer or a crash investigator. I could be looking right at the cause and not recognize it."

"Can you see the flight data and cockpit voice recorders? They'll be fluorescent, orange metal boxes about eighteen centimeters by ten. If you can find them, they may hold some clues as to what happened here."

"We will look for them, Captain, but we should not spend too much time in the search. There is still one missing fighter out there somewhere. That pilot may still be alive."

As it turned out, M'Dahlla's scouts located both recording devices, but they never found Petar Warner's fighter. On the return trip back to Hesperus II, the mood aboard the Phobos was solemn.

* * *

"I'm sorry Colonel, General," Staedler said wearily. Lori and Hauptmann-General Ciampa had been waiting on the spaceport tarmac for her. "We couldn't find the second fighter. There are too many narrow canyons, ravines, and such. Maybe if we had twice as many people, twice as much time, and half as much area to cover, we would have been able to track him down."

"I'm sure you did everything humanly possible, Captain," Ciampa said in a neutral tone. "Thank you."

"We did find the flight leader's voice and data recorders," Staedler said quickly. "We'll send them over to your command center for analysis. Maybe they'll tell us why the fighters went down."

"Again, Captain, thank you." With that, Ciampa turned away.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Staedler said plaintively. "We tried. I don't know what more we could have done, short of dropping the scouts into every one of those damnable canyons."

"And I'm sure Lieutenant M'Dahlla and Major Powers would agree with that decision, Captain. You're right. There was little else to be done. I hate leaving people behind as much as you do. And I know that's why you violated orders and tried to land in that canyon yourself."

The sudden swerve in the conversation caught Staedler off guard.

The colonel's expression was stern. "Don't worry, Carla, I'm not going to bust you—this time. But, if you ever try something like that again, if you ever endanger one of my fighters, not to mention the pilot inside it, by disregarding orders, I'll bounce you out. Do you understand, Captain?"

"Yes, Colonel," Staedler answered, relieved to get off so lightly. "So, what do we do now?"

"Well, for the moment, I want you to get yourself a good meal and some sack time," her commander said. "In the meantime, I have a few calls to make."

* * *

"Thank you for the warning, Colonel," Major Goree drawled into his end of the line. "Now what do y'all intend to do about this?"

"Major, perhaps you didn't hear me," Lori said, surprised at the Defiance officer's nonchalant reception of her report. "I just told you that two Hesperus Militia fighters have gone down. One is missing, and it looks as if the other may have been shot down. I strongly suspect that there is a hostile force present in the Hesperus system. What they are waiting for, I have no idea, but I'm almost positive that they're out there."

"I heard you the first time, Colonel," Goree said. "But, being as how your Gray Death Legion is the only unit insystem with aerospace assets, I repeat, what do you intend to do about it? Until your phantom enemy grounds and launches an attack, there isn't much I can do, now is there?"

"Major why are you being so pig-headed about this?" Lori snapped.

"I'm not being pig-headed, Colonel, I'm being practical. We don't have any aerospace assets beyond the antiaircraft batteries built into our defense grid. You say there is an enemy in system? Fine. Your 'Death Eagles' are going to have to deal with them in space. When the enemy does ground, and when they do attack the Defiance complex, then me and my boys will get involved. Until then, I believe it is your problem, Colonel."

Before Lori could spit back the rejoinder that was forming on her lips, Goree cut the connection.

"Nice sort o' fella, is he no'?" McCall commented. He had been sitting on the corner of Lori's desk during her conversation with Goree. "And not t' take his side o' things, Colonel, but what are we plannin' to do?"

"What can we do, Davis? Like he said, we're the only ones on this rock with aerospace assets, unless you count the Simon Davion—and they've got their own orders to attend to. I think our only option is to maintain the yellow alert indefinitely. Get hold of Julio and tell him I want a twenty-four-hour Barrier Combat Air Patrol at least over Maria's Elegy and the Defiance plant. I know it's going to put a strain on our pilots, but a BARCAP will give us a little bit of lead time when the attack does finally happen."

McCall nodded and stood up to leave Lori's office. She kept her expression neutral, but in her heart she couldn't help wishing for the hundredth time that day that Grayson had not left her and the Legion to deal with this mess on their own.

BattleTech - LE5866

10

Gray Death Legion Compound

Maria's Elegy, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

28 June 3065

The sound of running feet echoed in the corridor beyond Lori's office. She looked up from the hardcopy report she'd been reading just in time to see her door burst open. Mick Cornwell, her orderly, stood framed in the portal.

"Colonel, a report from the comm center. They just picked up one helluva big IR flare." Cornwell paused to catch his breath. "This time, it's the real thing. They figure at least one big JumpShip, maybe more."

Lori dropped the report. Whatever had downed the militia fighters was now unimportant. She brushed past the young man and headed for the building's front door. Outside, she found Davis McCall and Julio Vargas clambering into a hover jeep. She slid into the front passenger seat and slapped the driver on the shoulder.

"Let's go. Comm center."

The young man engaged the air-cushion vehicle's drive and sped off across the tarmac. Lori hung on grimly as the driver careened around the corner of a 'Mech bay, swerving to avoid hitting a parked Drillson heavy hover tank.

"Take it easy, lad," McCall bellowed from the back seat.

"Yer no in a race, an' there's no prize if ye don't get us there in one piece."

The driver nodded and cut the jeep's speed slightly. Shortly after that, he brought the vehicle skidding to a halt. Lori jumped out, thankful to have solid ground beneath her feet again. Followed by her officers, she darted inside the port's main communications center and ran down a hallway.

Near the end of that corridor, two guards wearing the dark blue and green fatigues of a Lyran infantryman barred their way. Lori flashed her ID at them, eliciting a nod from the young, fresh-faced corporal who seemed to be in charge. As she passed inside the secure communications center control room, she noted the fear in the young man's eyes.

"Thanks, Corporal," she said, pausing for a moment. "You're doing a good job."

"Th . . . thank you, Colonel," the guard stammered. The aura of fear diminished, replaced by a nascent look of confidence.

Lori clapped him on the shoulder and stepped inside the darkened room. "General Ciampa?" she called above the low hum of the voices of the technicians gathered in the room.

A woman wearing the black-ribbed jumper and four I fetching bars of a Chief Warrant Officer came up to greet her. "The general's not here," she said. "I'm Chief Sellars, in charge of this station. General Ciampa is out of position. She's gone into town for the day. We're still trying to reach her."

"Where is Colonel Brennan?" Lori asked, naming Ciampa's second-in-command.

"Don't know, Colonel," Sellars admitted. "I haven't seen her either. We've managed to contact General Zambos at his command center in Maldon. I told him what we've got. He's getting his troops ready for the invasion."

Lori nodded. Zambos' duty station was all the way on thee other side of Hesperus II at Maldon, a huge mining installation owned by Defiance Industries. If the invaders stuck to the pattern, the mines would be left alone in favor of an attack on the main Defiance complex. But Lyran command had decided—rightly so, in Lori's opinion—that they could not rely on the Skye rebels to be predictable.

So, Zambos' Thirty-sixth Lyran Guards had been moved to Maldon shortly after the Legion's arrival.

"Is this the invasion, Chief?" Lori asked.

"If it isn't, this is the most through-system traffic I've ever seen at one time," Sellars replied, gesturing toward a holographic representation of the Defiance system. "We first picked up the IR flare here at the nadir point. Then, as the thermal radiation began to fade, we were able to discern at least three starships."

As she spoke, various icons in the holographic display lit up briefly.

"It's really too far to tell, but if I had to guess, I'd say at least one of them is a WarShip."

"WarShips?" Lori's thoughts were brought up by the Warrant Officer's calmly spoken words.

Sellars nodded. "Yes, Colonel, WarShips. When the Separatists rebelled, several ships' crews mutinied, some en masse. The Alliance lost at least two Fojr-class corvettes. And there are rumors that Victor Davion is lending the rebels aid and technical support. I wouldn't put it past him to be giving them WarShips as well. I've already contacted the Simon Davion and given her an intercept vector."

"Intercept vector?" Vargas exclaimed. "Are all the ships moving insystem?"

"Not yet." Sellars pointed to a wedge-shaped scarlet symbol. "But I'm almost certain this is a WarShip of around two hundred fifty thousand tons. That makes it something like a corvette or a destroyer. It could also be a fully loaded Monolith Class JumpShip, but I don't think so. This other one might be another corvette. We just can't get a solid reading on it. Either way, we're in one helluva lot of trouble."

11

Bridge, LAS Simon Davion

Zenith Jump Point

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

28 June 3065

Several hundred thousand kilometers away from the communication center control room at Maria's Elegy, on the bridge of the Avalon-class cruiser LAS Simon Davion, two other officers had just come to the same conclusion about the uninvited visitors to the Hesperus system.

Leutnant-Kommodore Dieter Bern turned to his executive officer, with a look of grim determination. "Looks like this is it, Speer."

"Ja, Herr Kommodore," Kaptain Geron Speer said. "Long-range scans suggest both leading vessels are Fox class corvettes."

"Wonderful," Bern said under his breath. He had heard rumors that a number of the small, agile WarShips had been seized by their mutinous crews and turned over to the Skye rebels. Individually, the tough little Foxes would have been no match for the Simon Davion. Together, the heavily armed corvettes would be able to dance around his cruiser and pick her apart. To make things worse, both rebel crews were all veteran spacers. "How long until we know for certain?"

"Fifteen minutes, sir. Maybe ten, if we really push the engines."

Bern considered his options. Although the Simon Davion was the pinnacle of modern ship design, she was still mostly untested. She had performed admirably during her space trials and shakedown cruise. But even those rigorous days of testing and retesting had been conducted under peaceful conditions. They just could not compare to the stresses of combat.

"All right," he said at last. "Take us to flank speed. If we can reach the invaders before they reach Hesperus II, perhaps we can drive them off before they drop, or at least cut their numbers back somewhat." He looked over toward his communications officer. "Comm, notify General Ciampa that we are moving to engage the invaders."

"Kommodore, General Ciampa is not in command at Maria's Elegy," the young officer replied. "I have been advised that neither she nor Colonel Brennan is on the base. Command has been assumed by the most senior officer present, Colonel Lori Kalmar-Carlyle of the Gray Death Legion."

"You mean Hesperus is in the hands of a mercenary?" Speer barked. "A mercenary who has invaded this planet herself once before?"

"So it seems, Kaptain," Bern said, "but I suppose there are worse choices than the Gray Death Legion to defend Hesperus."

Even as he finished speaking, Bern felt the steel deck vibrate beneath his feet. A low thrum, more felt than heard, rang through the ship as the big maneuvering drives devoured an increased flow of fuel, converting the complex chemicals into flame, heat, and thrust. While it couldn't be said that the Simon Davion surged ahead, the acceleration was nevertheless perceptible to a spacer's keen perception.

Bern divided his attention between the ship's clock, the holographic image of the Hesperus system before him, and the constant stream of reports and requests coming his way.

"Kommodore, two of the vessels have begun moving toward us on an intercept course," a sensor tech reported.

"How long until contact?"

"At the current rate of closure? Six minutes."

"Very well. Sound General Quarters."

No sooner had Bern given the order than a loud klaxon sounded throughout the ship. The fluorescent lighting strips set into the Simon Davion's overhead flickered. When they came back on, the diffused white light had been replaced by an unearthly blue glow.

In theory, the blue lights were intended to help technicians and sensor operators read their instruments more easily. The eerie lighting had the additional effect of telling all aboard that the ship had gone to battle stations.

"Kommodore, the ship is cleared for action. All stations report manned and ready," Speer said crisply. "Shall I launch fighters?"

"Not yet, Kaptain. Let's allow them to get a bit closer."

"What do you intend to do, sir?"

"All we can do is try to prevent the enemy from flanking us and concentrate our fire on the smaller target," Bern said.

As if on cue, the sensor tech sang out, "Second vessel now appears to be a destroyer, possibly of the Whirlwind Class."

"Distance to target?" Bern asked.

"Distance to lead target now five hundred kilometers. Distance to trailing target is seven hundred kilometers. Both targets now positively identified as Fox-class corvettes. The warbook says number one is the Indefatigable. Number two is designated the Illustrious."

"Weapons officer, prepare a full spread of Killer Whales," Bern ordered. "Get them ready to launch, but do not lock them on target until I give the word. Then I want those missiles out of the tubes in record time."

Deep in the bowels of the WarShip, four huge rotary magazines turned ponderously on their spindles. Each stopped as a fat-bodied antiship missile came into line with the AR-10 launch tubes. Officially designated as ASM-420, the big ship-killer had come to be known by the nickname Killer Whale, for its size and its lethal, explosive bite.

"Killer Whales in tubes one through four, ready for launch," the weapons officer confirmed.

"Range to trailing target?"

"Range to trailing target, now five hundred twenty kilometers," came the reply. "Lead target now four hundred fifty kilometers. Lead target is now within extreme range."

Bern acknowledged the data with a curt, "Very well."

"Detecting fire-control radar. Lead target is attempting to lock missiles."

"Acknowledged," Bern said. "Helmsman, maintain course and speed."

"They are locking missiles," Speer said, his voice tight with excitement and fear. "If we hold this course and speed, they will be in optimum firing range in two minutes."

"Thank you, Herr Speer."

"Kommodore, we should lock our missiles as well."

"Not yet."

"Launch detection!" the sensor operator shouted, with a tinge of panic. "Lead target has launched missiles."

"How many?"

"Two, I think. Yes, two missiles. They have acquired and are homing."

"Point-defense online," Bern ordered calmly. "Helmsman, on my command, come to heading two-nine-zero, mark four-five."

Bern watched as two narrow threads of red stretched across the main viewscreen toward the Simon Davion.

"Missile impact in twenty seconds," the sensor operator called. "Fifteen seconds . . . ten . . ."

"Helmsman, now!" This time there was none of the easy calm that had characterized Bern's previous commands. "Weapons officer, lock up the trailing target. Be ready to fire on my command."

The helmsman hauled the Simon Davion's control yoke hard to the left and pulled it back into his chest. As gracefully as a vessel massing over three-quarters of a million tons could manage, the cruiser swung away from her original course, turning through seventy degrees to the left and climbing away at forty-five. Bern could see the helmsman struggling against the artificial resistance built into the ship's controls. The resistance had been a feature of spaceship controls from the days of the original Star League as a means of feedback, letting the helmsman know that he was turning the ship.

The sensor operator's voice climbed half an octave as he chanted the word, "Impact."

There was no impact. Antiship missiles had the longest reach of any naval weapon, but at a distance of nearly five hundred kilometers, it was next to impossible to hit a target, especially one taking evasive maneuvers. The missiles slid past the Simon Davion's tail, missing by more than a dozen kilometers.

"Ease your helm," Bern called to the helmsman. "Come right zero-four-five degrees. Weapons officer, lock up the trailing target for a missile strike. Forward gauss and PPC batteries target the leading vessel. Fire on my command."

"Coming right through zero-four-five, sir," Speer said.

"Helm amidships."

"Missiles locked on trailing vessel," the weapons officer said.

"Weapons stand by." Bern gazed steadily at the two tiny holographic images of the enemy vessels. For several seconds, he remained motionless, watching the miniature ships as the battle unfolded.

"Missiles away."

The huge WarShip trembled slightly as four fifty-ton Killer Whale antiship missiles blasted free of their launch tubes. Even as the tubes' outer doors were cycling closed, the huge rotary launchers were moving to bring the next missile into firing position.

"Missiles away, sir," the weapons officer said, repeating an age-old litany dating from the days when men first hunted each other aboard tiny diesel-electric submarines. "Missiles one, two, three, and four have left the tubes and are running hot and straight."

"Forward batteries, fire," Bern rapped out.

This time, there was no perceptible effect on the ship when the monstrous naval gauss rifles and particle projection cannons clustered in the Simon Davion's nose unleashed their lethal payloads. To someone outside the vessel, the only visible sign would have been a flat white flash illuminating the outer surface of two gun blisters where the big mass-driver cannons were located. The PPC discharges were by far more spectacular. Twinned strokes of man-made lightning ripped through space to savage the nose of the approaching Indefatigable. At almost the same instant, a pair of nickel-iron slugs, each nearly the size of a small ground car, smashed into the Fox-class corvette's thimble-shaped nose, just forward of one of her primary sensor arrays. A second later, there came a pair of bright flashes on the holographic display as two of the Killer Whale missiles detonated against the Illustrious's hide. Though hardly insignificant, the damage inflicted by the big antiship missiles was not enough to penetrate the corvette's tough skin.

The Indefatigable looked to be falling off to starboard, but Bern knew better. The nimble corvette was maneuvering to bring the greater weight of its broadside guns to bear.

Ordinarily, he might have been tempted to follow it. Alone, the Simon Davion outclassed either of her opponents. But being outnumbered two to one was never a good thing.

"Helm, make for the Illustrious. Weapons Officer, weapons are free. Fire on the Indefatigable as your guns bear. Give me four more Killer Whales as soon as the tubes are reloaded."

"Whales up, sir," the weapons officer said.

"Launch!" the sensor operator yelled. "Multiple launches from both ships!"

"Helm hard to port! Down twenty!" Bern shouted.

The Simon Davion's deck pitched forward and to the left as the helmsman slammed the control yoke hard over and forward. The big WarShip responded, but slowly, painfully slowly. At least eight missiles smashed into the Simon Davion's nose and port side.

For all her mass, the cruiser shuddered as armor was blasted from her hull. Bern staggered, catching himself against the back of his command chair. Kaptain Speer was thrown off his feet and landed on his hands and knees with a yelp of pain. When he stood up, he was cradling his broken left wrist in his right hand.

"Get to sick bay, Herr Speer," Bern ordered.

"With all due respect, Herr Kommodore, I will remain at my post," Speer replied, while a bridge crewman wrapped an air splint around his wrist. "I can do you more good here than I can in sick bay."

"More incoming!" the sensor operator called, cutting short any further argument. This time the impacts were less shattering. More conventional, though no less dangerous, naval autocannon and laser fire clawed at the big WarShip's skin.

"Lock the missiles onto the Illustrious and fire as soon as you have the solutions," Bern called to his chief gunnery officer.

"Target locked. Missiles away."

"Helm, reverse your turn. Cut between them."

Speer, his eyes somewhat glazed with pain, goggled at his commander.

"It's a gamble, Speer," Bern said, "but if we break their line and swing around under the Illustrious's stern, we might be able to put her out of action before the Indefatigable rounds on us."

"That's a helluva gamble, sir."

"I know, but it's our best bet. Otherwise they'll keep dancing around us, concentrating their fire on one section of our hull and chewing us to pieces."

He turned to the thick-set woman with graying black hair and gave a command. "Launch the fighters. Tell them to try to keep the Indefatigable off us until we take out the Illustrious."

"Aye sir," the woman responded. She adjusted the lip-mike suspended on a wire-thin boom from her ear piece and said, "Launch all fighters. Target the Indefatigable."

Almost immediately, the holodisplay depicted the launch of the first four of the twelve fighters housed in the Simon Davion's hangar bays.

Leutnant-Kommodore Dieter Bern could do little except watch for the next several minutes as the battle raged around him. His officers and crew were among the best the Lyran Alliance had to offer, and they could do their jobs without interference from the Simon Davion's commanding officer.

As the battle cruiser passed between the rebel WarShips, she savaged the Indefatigable's starboard aft quarter and the Illustrious's starboard fo'c'stle. But she took a beating in return.

Damage-control reports began to trickle in to the bridge. Most of the harm had been superficial, though a lucky hit from a Barracuda missile launched by the Indefatigable had destroyed two of the Simon Davion's DropShip docking collars.

"Kommodore, the Indefatigable has launched her own fighters," the sensor operator said.

"I see them," Bern snapped back. "Air Officer, have second squadron fall back to cover the Simon Davion. First squadron is to press the attack on the Indefatigable."

A glance at the holodisplay showed Bern that he had passed between the enemy vessels, and that both were trying to turn to follow him.

"Helm, hard to starboard. Come around under the Illustrious's stern. All starboard batteries, concentrate firepower on her port quarter."

As the Simon Davion and the Illustrious passed each other at less than thirty kilometers distance, each poured heavy broadside fire into the other. But the greater weight of the Simon Davion's fire told the tale. By the time she completed her dash for the enemy's portside stern quarter, the Illustrious had been torn open like a ration can. Flames fed by atmosphere bleeding through shattered bulkheads flared through rents in her armored skin. Another savage broadside broke the destroyer's back and wrecked her drives. The ship began collapsing in on herself.

"Kommodore, they are launching lifeboats," the sensor operator cried. "It looks like they are abandoning her."

Bern ignored the report. If the Simon Davion survived the battle, there would be plenty of time to come back and pick up the tiny, brick-shaped vessels crowded with survivors. Otherwise, the rebels would have to look after their own people.

He looked at the holodisplay. The Indefatigable hadn't done as he had expected. Rather than rounding on the Simon Davion and giving chase, the Fox-class corvette had described only a quarter-circle and was even now "crossing the T" directly behind the battle cruiser. Heavy naval autocannon pounded away at the Simon's backside while lasers stabbed deep into the craters left by the exploding shells. A Barracuda antiship missile blasted armor to glittering shrapnel. Still the Simon Davion stood the test.

"Kommodore, I'm picking up a number of DropShips launching from the Indefatigable," the sensor operator said.

"Show me," Bern ordered.

Immediately, the image in the holodisplay zoomed in to depict a handful of spherical vessels streaking away from the corvette's docking collars.

"I don't believe this. Those are assault ships. They intend to board us!" Bern breathed in shock. "Air Officer, have the fighters target those ships. Herr Speer, tell the Marines to prepare to repel boarders."

In the miniature world of the holodisplay, Bern saw a dozen fighters sweep across the Simon Davion's spine to meet the enemy assault craft. But a wave of rebel fighters swooped on the Lyran aerofighters like hunting hawks. Two of the Simon Davion's fighters died under the attack. A third, trying to dodge the fire from the onrushing rebels, pancaked into the cruiser's side. Point-defense lasers and missile launchers swatted down a Separatist Hellcat. One of the black-painted assault craft exploded in a yellow-orange fireball. Another spun away, out of control. The rest bore down on the Simon Davion like avenging angels. All the while the Indefatigable continued to hammer away at the Simon Davion's stern.

"Helmsman, pull her up hard," Bern ordered, hoping to get his ship away from the enemy's line of fire.

The big ship rose until she had pulled up through ninety degrees.

"Now come hard to starboard. Cross over on top of him and roll her ninety degrees to port."

The helmsman wrestled with the controls, which, pushed to their force-feedback limits, were pushing back.

The Simon Davion groaned as her spine was twisted by the violent maneuvers better suited to a fighter than a capital ship. As she came out of her spiraling turn, Bern noticed that the Indefatigable's guns had fallen silent.

"Kommodore," Speer said, "I have reports from all sections. The rebels have grappled and are forcing their way aboard."

The rapid crack of gunfire sounded in the corridor beyond the bridge. Bern dashed back to his command chair and snatched a bulky Mauser and Gray flechette pistol from a compartment built into its right armrest. Before he could yank back the charging handle, the bridge doors fell from their mountings with a ringing boom. Smoke and the stink of burnt explosives drifted into the bridge, followed closely by a pair of dark metallic orbs. An ear-shattering bang drove a spike of pain into Kommodore Bern's head, while an incandescent flash assaulted his eyes.

Deafened by the first explosion, Bern did not immediately hear the hollow pop of the second grenade bursting, but he did feel the effects. A foul, pungent odor reached his nostrils, causing him to gasp. In so doing, he drew the incapacitating gas deep into his lungs. The effect was immediate. He began to choke and gasp. The flechette pistol fluttered from his fingers as Bern dropped to his knees. His stomach heaved, and he vomited the remains of his breakfast onto the deck.

As he fought to control his stomach, Bern looked up to see a tall man clad in a Marine combat suit standing over him. The bore of the shotgun he held pointed at Bern's head carried the silent demand.

Bern nodded, unable to speak, and collapsed on the deck.

BattleTech - LE5866

12

Twenty-second Skye Rangers Landing Zone,

Hesperus III

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

28 June 3065

Colonel Francisco de Argyll watched the mission clock, bolted to a bulkhead on the Twenty-second Skye Rangers' command DropShip, tick down to zero.

"That's it, Don," he said quietly to his exec. "Boost."

Nix relayed the order to the DropShip's captain. A few seconds later, the big Overlord-class 'Mech-hauler shook and groaned as the big engines buried deep within her hull fought to overcome Hesperus III's gravity. About a kilometer to either side of the boosting ship, two more egg-shaped vessels began to rise on pillars of fire and smoke.

"Captain," de Argall called across the bridge, "as soon as we're spaceborne, turn us inbound to Hesperus II. Put us on course for our alternate landing zone. And send the signal advising the main body of my decision."

"Aye, Colonel," the spacer acknowledged.

"The alternate, Colonel?" Nix asked.

"Yes. I'm sure that they're prepared for us," de Argall said. "The local militia might not be too clever, but we've got to assume that the Gray Death Legion is. Even if that bastard Carlyle isn't in command anymore, his wife is just as much a veteran. She's going to figure that there is a hostile force insystem and put her troops on full alert. That means the aerospace defenses at Maria's Elegy are going to be primed and ready to fire at the first hint of an incoming DropShip.

"If we divert to the alternate landing zone, we won't have to run that gauntlet. All we'll have to face is the Legion's fighter wing. They might be good, but the most they can do is harass us on the way down. I really doubt they'll be able to stop three Overlords, don't you?"

"I agree, Colonel," Nix said, "but I'm a little worried about the damage they'll do on the way down."

"So am I, Don, but we have to risk it." De Argall gave a slight shrug. "And the risk of diverting to the alternate LZ is less than we'd face if we went in against a forewarned, emplaced enemy at the spaceport. At least this way, we should be able to ground and start raising Cain before the main body arrives. With luck, we'll be able to draw the defenders away from Maria's Elegy and the Defiance plant."

"What about the aerospace defenses?" Nix insisted. "They'll be intact when the main force comes in."

"True, but they'll know that, won't they? General von Frisch can divert or follow the plan as he pleases." De Argall smiled grimly as another thought occurred to him. "And don't forget. If the main body makes it insystem past the Simon Davion, they'll be bringing in at least one WarShip. I think that makes the odds a bit more even, don't you?"

"Colonel, we've got fighters closing on our position, coming in at zero-five-five, mark one-three-five," the sensor operator reported.

"How many?" De Argall looked at the DropShip's tactical display, easily picking out the tiny red dagger icons that represented the approaching attack craft.

"I'd say at least twelve, Colonel," the sensor operator called back. "Mixed weight classes. Looks like they sent up a full wing."

"Launch our fighters," de Argall said to the ship's captain. "Try to keep the enemy away from the DropShips. Our weapons are free."

"Very well, Colonel," the spacer replied. "Gunnery officer, weapons are free to engage the enemy. Flight ops, launch fighters."

The DropShip personnel had been anticipating the commands. A deep, ringing sound vibrated through the huge, ninety-seven-hundred-ton vessel as a full squadron of fighters rocketed out of their launch bays. Immediately, six tiny blue daggers joined the trio of elongated, U-shaped icons representing the Skye Ranger DropShips. An instant later, another dozen fighter icons flickered into existence, six around each of the other two DropShips. Without hesitation, the fighters joined formation and streaked off on an intercept course with the inbound red force.

"Captain, attacking fighters now at three-two-five kilometers," the sensor operator called out.

"Leading attackers targeted," the gunnery officer added. "Engaging now."

Along the Overlord's flanks, a pair of weapon ports snapped open and vomited fire as two volleys of long-range missiles streaked off into space. On the viewscreen, the effect of the missiles was less than impressive. The thin, broken line showing the projectiles' track passed the Ranger interceptors. A second later, the missiles intersected with two of the foremost red daggers, and the tracking lines winked out.

De Argall knew that the reality of the situation was far more devastating, as forty High-Explosive Armor-Piercing missiles guided by sophisticated Artemis fire-control systems smashed into his missiles. He could imagine the silent fiery blossoms engulfing the targets, but he had no illusions that the inbounds would be destroyed or deterred by those HEAP volleys. On the viewscreen, the Gray Death Legion fighters bore in on the invaders.

* * *

Wing Commander Julio Vargas flicked his SL-15 Slayer heavy fighter into a barrel roll. The nagging tone indicating a targeting lock died. Ahead of him, visible only as targeting discretes on his HUD, he saw the enemy's fighter wing bearing down. He used a thumb control on his fighter's control stick to designate the nearest fighter. His war-hook program identified it as a sixty-ton Stingray, one of the workhorse fighters of the Lyran military.

The two fighters were almost evenly matched in terms of speed and maneuverability, though the Slayer had heavier armor and greater firepower. The Stingray did have advantages: a Sunspot particle projection cannon mounted in its nose and a pair of large lasers set into its forward-swept wings. Those weapons gave the Stingray the ability to hit at longer distances than the relatively short-range medium lasers and Zeus 56 Type 10 autocannon carried by the Slayer. The rebel pilot made his knowledge of his fighter's superior attack-range clear as he laced Vargas' right wing with laser fire, while the man-made lightning of a PPC bolt flickered across the void to smash into the Slayer's tail.

But that was the only unanswered attack Vargas would allow the enemy. He flipped his fighter into another barrel roll, this one in the opposite direction. Coming out of the high-G maneuver, he toggled his controls to bring his Slayer into line with the enemy ship. A tap of his right thumb sent a stream of cannon shells ripping into the Stingray's nose. A quintet of medium lasers clawed blackened furrows into its fuselage, one tracing a line of carbon and melted armor up across the cockpit faring.

The rebel pilot jinked, throwing his fighter into a wing-over, then rolling into a split-S. At a combined speed of four thousand kilometers per hour, the fighters flashed past one another and diverged.

Vargas fought the instinct to pitch up into an Immelmann turn and pursue the Slayer. He knew his primary targets had to be the Overlord-class DropShips. It was a difficult decision to make. Left to their own devices, the rebel fighters would swing around on his squadron's tail and begin hammering the Legion fighters to pieces. At the same time, the DropShips' heavy guns would be exacting a serious toll on the defending fighters. Still there was little choice in the matter. The attacking 'Mech-haulers had to be engaged and damaged—destroyed if possible.

The Slayer bore in hard on the nearest DropShip, trying to close range as quickly as possible. Taking on a massive, heavily armed spacecraft was a tricky business. The vessels had tough hides and few vulnerable spots. Lasers, PPC fire, and missiles reached out to swat at the inbound Legion fighters. One flight of missiles peppered the Slayer but did little more than burn the dark gray paint and knock a few chips off the warbird's tough hide.

Glancing at his displays, Vargas saw that his wingman, Lieutenant Patrick Garrity, was right behind him.

"Come on, Pat," Vargas called. "Let's hit them where it counts."

Vargas hauled back on the stick, pulling the Slayer up into a spiraling climb along the Overlord's ovoid flank. As the fighter flashed past the transport's squared-off stern, Vargas eased out of the roll and nosed over, aiming his fighter at the center of the ship's engineering section. Coming in directly behind a DropShip was one way to attack it where it was most vulnerable. The rear armor, though massive when compared to that of a relatively tiny aerospace fighter, was generally thinner and the weapons less powerful. Still, the incredible energies put out by a DropShip's drives could burn an attack craft to a cinder if the pilot chose the wrong moment to fire up his engines.

Vargas braved the possibility of instant extinction and dove on the DropShip's stern. His autocannon and lasers hammered away at the vessel's armor but accomplished nothing. As he pulled away from the ship, Garrity repeated the attack, again with little effect. It would take more than one pass by a couple of fighters to significantly inconvenience the armored monster.

A pair of laser beams from the gun emplacements on the DropShip's stern punched holes in the Slayer's starboard vertical stabilizer, while a PPC blast savaged the fighter's nose. Vargas had been so intent on attacking the DropShip that he'd wandered into a crossfire. Looking up, he saw a battle-scarred Stingray bearing down on him.

The Legion's chief fighter pilot whipped the big, delta-winged fighter into a tight bank to the left, turning away from the DropShip's laser fire. He hoped the enemy gunners had read all the textbooks instructing a fighter to turn into an antiaircraft battery's fire, because most gun crews could not reverse their tracking quickly enough. The gunners must have been anticipating a textbook evasive maneuver because their next shots ripped through empty space half a kilometer behind the Slayer.

The Stingray pilot was not fooled, however. He rolled his agile craft onto Vargas' tail and blasted a long, smoking gouge in the fighter's body, just forward of its rear-facing laser mount. Vargas lined up the aft gun and let fly with a single bolt of amplified light energy before going into a snap-roll, followed by a tight weaving turn. The Stingray hung onto his tail as though tethered by a cable.

"Pat, how about some help?"

"Sorry, sir," Garrity replied. The breathlessness in his voice suggested he was straining against increased G forces caused by maneuvering at high speed. "He's got friends, and they want to play too."

Vargas tagged the Stingray with another hit from the aft laser, then kicked the pedal rudder left hard. The stars and planets outside his cockpit canopy suddenly exchanged places as the Slayer yawed suddenly to port. Vargas held the stick absolutely still as he fought the centrifugal forces that slammed him against the side of his cockpit. He pulled the throttle back to neutral and gritted his teeth against the G forces tearing at his consciousness.

He again stomped on the rudder pedals, this time snapping the big fighter out of its flat spin, leaving the ship flying backward through the vacuum of space. Unlike fighters operating in atmosphere, those in free-fall were able to perform such maneuvers if the pilot were skilled enough and lucky enough to carry it off.

The Stingray was directly in front of the Slayer's nose, less than ten kilometers away. Forcing himself to think backward to compensate for the reversed motion of his ship, Vargas lined up his sights on the Stingray's narrow silhouette. His fingers caressed the controls, and a hellstorm of laser and cannon fire poured into the enemy ship.

The Stingray shuddered and went into a lazy roll to starboard. Vargas flipped the Slayer end-for-end to bring her back into a normal flight profile. Looping back around to engage the battered F-90, he saw there was no need for further attacks. The Stingray's cockpit was gone, its canopy blasted open by cannon shells. Vargas didn't know if the pilot had managed to eject. At the moment, he didn't have time to search for the enemy flier.

Pulling around, he spotted Garrity's fighter. Though sorely abused by the rebel ships, it was still in operation. Vargas dove on the enemy ships, forcing them to break away from the Legion fighter to avoid his attack.

In the momentary respite his dive afforded him, Vargas looked around. The DropShips were over two hundred kilometers away, their lead increasing by the second. Most of the Legion's fighters were still in the battle, but then so were most of the rebels.

Then he saw it.

"Legion One, this is Eagle One," he radioed. "We are not able to stop the DropShips. They are still inbound. I say again, the DropShips are still inbound. And Colonel, I don't think they're headed for the spaceport. It looks like the enemy is headed south and west of the port. I don't even think they intend to ground at the Defiance plant."

"Legion One to Eagle One," Lori's voice said in his ear. "Ground tracking stations confirm inbounds' heading. Any chance you can shadow them and let us know where they land?"

A trip-hammer explosion rocked Vargas' fighter as a pair of Chippewa fighters moved to engage him and his mate.

"Negative, Legion One," Vargas said, as he whipped the Slayer into a series of evasive maneuvers. He felt leaden disappointment. This was the first time he had so utterly failed his commander. "We are outnumbered and outgunned. If we try to follow the DropShips, we'll lose the whole wing."

"Very well, Eagle One," Lori said flatly. Vargas imagined he could hear a tone of reproach in the simple words. "Break off and return to base. No sense wasting any more lives. I'm sure we'll catch up with them on the ground."

* * *

"Colonel, they're breaking off!"

"Yes!" de Argall crowed. He hadn't needed the sensor operator's joyous call. He'd seen the Gray Death Legion's fighter wing turn away from his DropShips.

"Communications Officer, prepare to send a zip-squeal message to General von Frisch. Advise him that we are heading for the alternate landing zone and will execute Plan Bravo upon grounding."

As the youth manning the communications console acknowledged the order and began to ready the compressed-burst transmission, de Argall allowed himself a grin of pleasure. Diverting to the alternate landing zone would change the tenor of the campaign, but beating the Gray Death Legion's aerospace wing was a good omen. The Skye Rangers had a fighting chance to seize Hesperus II. With the fall of that vital world, the entire Isle of Skye would gain its freedom.

13

Melrose Valley, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

28 June 3065

The green-spoked wheel of his targeting reticle floated across the HUD as Francisco de Argall lined up his Thug's right-hand-mounted PPC on a big, prefabricated sheet-metal barn. For an instant or so, he held his fire, feeling a momentary twinge of guilt at the idea of using the assault 'Mech's incredible firepower to destroy a civilian target. Pushing the emotion back into the box he had constructed for it in his mind, he squeezed the trigger.

The coruscating bolt of azure fire ripped through the barn's thin, pressed aluminum wall. For an instant, it seemed that the charged particles had no more effect on the barn than to leave a slagged hole the size of a man's torso in their wake. Then de Argall caught sight of a few thin wisps of black smoke drifting out of the ragged wound in the building's side. Soon, the THG-IIE's infrared sensors began to glow as the crops stored inside, ignited by the PPC blast, began to burn. He sent another stroke of artificial lightning into the barn before turning away.

Across the broad, flat valley, he saw at least a score of thick columns of black smoke. Each marked a pyre similar to the one he'd just ignited. This was Plan Bravo, which called for the Twenty-second Rangers to ground here in Melrose Valley, the center of Hesperus II's primary farming area, and begin tearing up everything in sight. Eventually, the Gray Death Legion and the regular Lyran troops onplanet would have to come out to stop the destruction of the planet's main source of food. The hope was to draw the planet's defenders away from Maria's Elegy and the nearby Defiance plant at about the time the incoming Fourth Skye Rangers would arrive at Hesperus II.

It was a risky scheme, but then, everything about Duke Robert's plan to seize Hesperus II and the rest of the Isle of Skye was risky. The likely payoff, freedom for region, was worth the gamble.

Many of the warriors under de Argall's command subscribed to a "liberty at any cost" attitude when it came to the rebellion. To some degree, he agreed with them. Destroying a few farms in the Melrose Valley was intended as a ruse, a ploy to draw the defenders of Hesperus away from their base of operations. De Argall knew it would take more than a few hours to seriously endanger the entire valley's food supply. It was up to him to convince the Legion and the regular LAAF troops that he and his men would not stop destroying farms and crops until the defenders came out to meet them.

"Colonel, this is Owl Six. We've got company." The message came from one of the reconnaissance lances de Argall had deployed along the valley. The recon elements would give the Rangers some warning when the defenders finally massed to oppose them.

"Go ahead, Owl Six," de Argall said. "What have you got?"

"Stand by." The reply was broken by the harsh chatter of machine-gun fire.

"Local miliz, Colonel," the scout said, using the slang term for planetary militias. "Mostly some light and medium Mechs, a couple of tanks, and a whole bunch of infantry. Nothing too heavy, but a bit much for just us to take on. We could use some help."

De Argall looked at the electronic map programmed into one of the Thug's secondary multiple-function displays. Owl Six was just a few kilometers east of his position.

"Hold them as best you can, Owl Six," he said. "Help is on the way."

Switching his communicator over to the channel reserved for the regimental command lance, he sent a new message.

"Command Lance, form up on me. We're going miliz-hunting."

As his lance-mates acknowledged the order, de Argall pushed the control sticks forward, setting his Thug off in a rolling trot toward the embattled recon lance. As the ugly, almost simian-looking 'Mech loped across the valley, its broad, flat feet kicked deep gouges in the fertile black soil. A pang of regret pricked his conscience. Every barn burned, every field trampled was an injury done to the farmers of the region for which the new Skye government would have to reckon. But such were the costs of a war for independence.

As the command lance crested a low hillock, he caught sight of the skirmish between his recon lance and the local volunteer troops. The miliz were pressing the scout element hard. De Argall could tell that the superior numbers would soon take their toll on the lightly armed and armored recon 'Mechs unless he and his command lance moved to prevent it.

Bringing his Thug's sights to rest on the slab-sided profile of a militia Enforcer, de Argall stroked the triggers and sent a pair of PPC blasts into the enemy 'Mech. The temperature in the cockpit spiked upward as the power-hungry weapons spat their deadly bolts at the lighter machine. For several minutes, it was hard to breathe the overheated air until the high-efficiency heat sinks in the 'Mech's legs and lower torso bled away enough of the waste heat generated by the Tiegart PPCs.

The Enforcer staggered under the hideous impact of the charged-particle stream. More than a ton of armor had been melted away or blasted off by the star-hot blast. But the miliz pilot was obviously a veteran. The medium 'Mech took a long, gliding step to the side, getting its feet back under it. For a moment, the machine stood still, its posture suggesting that of a man searching for something he could not quite see. Like a pistol-fighter aiming his weapon, the Enforcer extended its left arm, and a lance of energy snapped from the extended-range large laser in its hand. The beam was only visible as a bright blue thread where it intersected the thin smoke drifting across the battlefield.

The effect on the Thug's armor was far more palpable. A deep, smoking pit was burned into the hunch-shouldered assault 'Mech's right knee by the laser's invisible touch.

Further reinforcing the illusion of a pistoleer, the Enforcer retracted its left arm while extending its right. Flame gouted from the business end of the dual-purpose autocannon. Submunitions showered de Argall's 'Mech, chipping armor across its chest and left side.

Ton for ton, the Enforcer had given as good as it got. But de Argall was not willing to settle for an even exchange. He selected the Thug's secondary weapon system, a pair of relatively heat-efficient, six-tube Bical short-range missile racks. At the touch of a firing stud, a dozen missiles rained down on the Enforcer. When the smoke and flame of the detonating warheads dissipated, de Argall could easily see the damage he had wrought on the enemy machine. All of the armor was gone from the gangly 'Mech's left leg. Reddish-gray strands of myomer, the artificial muscles that gave a 'Mech its strength and mobility, hung in tatters from the wound, and de Argall could see cracks in the Enforcer's metal leg bones.

Another hit and you're finished, he said silently, carefully aiming his right-hand PPC at the Enforcer's mangled leg. The miliz pilot must have known it, too. Before de Argall could fire, the Enforcer raised its arms in a gesture of surrender. Almost simultaneously, the heat signature representing the Magna 250 extra-light fusion plant in the enemy Mech's chest began to fade as the pilot powered down his machine.

Accepting the surrender, de Argall set off in search of new prey, but found none. The arrival of his assault 'Mech-equipped command lance had broken the militia's back, as well as their will to fight. What few combat machines remained to them were streaming northeastward toward the imagined safety of the Myoo Mountains.

Well, they would be safe there, de Argall thought. So long as they didn't come back down and try to take him on again.

* * *

"Colonel, we have confirmed contact with the enemy," Chief Sellars said, cupping her hand over the in-ear comm unit she was wearing. "They're out in the Melrose Valley, burning crops and destroying barns."

Lori frowned. "It doesn't make sense. They wouldn't drop out in Melrose if they were intent on capturing the planet. They'd hit Maria's Elegy, wouldn't they? Or Defiance, or even Doering? Why would they drop into the planet's biggest farming area?"

Realization followed quickly. "Unless they're trying to draw us away from the spaceport." She nodded to herself. "Chief, keep trying to track down General Ciampa. And send a message to General Zambos. Tell him to expect the main invasion force at any hour. I'll send my Second Battalion out to Melrose. Also, contact Major Goree. Tell him we've got a confirmed hostile force onplanet. I suspect he knows already, but tell him anyway."

The blood drained from Sellars' dark face, and she gripped the back of a chair to keep from falling.

"Chief? Are you all right?" Lori asked, taking the woman by the elbow and helping her into the seat.

"We just lost contact with the Simon Davion," Sellars said. "Her last transmission indicated that the rebels were trying to board her. I'm afraid she's been captured."

"Chief, we're getting something on the distress band," a tech cried out.

"Let me hear it."

Sellars leaned forward in the chair, one hand pressed over her ear. Then she sat up and motioned to the tech to cut off the feed.

"That's enough," she said.

"What is it?" Lori asked. "More rebels?"

"No. Nothing so clean," Sellars whispered. "The Simon Davion must be in the enemy's hands. She just turned her guns on the Carolyn, a Defiance Industries JumpShip. Her engines are out, and she's losing station-keeping. Her captain has ordered her abandoned and is calling for rescue."

"They hit a civilian JumpShip?" McCall said, stunned. "Colonel, the Invidious . . ."

Lori was half a beat ahead of him. She snatched up a communications headset, ordering the technicians to establish contact with the Gray Death Legion's JumpShip.

"Captain Murad, get the Invidious out of this system!" she screamed as soon as the starship commander came on line. Lori knew shouting did little good, but this time she just couldn't help it. The message would take nearly ten minutes to make the long journey out to the Invidious's berth at the zenith jump point.

"Too late, Colonel," Murad said, when her reply came in almost twenty minutes later. Her face was tight with anger and pain. "Right after they shot up the Carolyn, those bastards turned their guns on us. The Invidious is finished. Her K-F drive core is nothing but a pile of junk, and her back is broken. I'm ordering her abandoned and scuttled. I've also ordered the other Legion JumpShips to surrender rather than be destroyed. I doubt there's any chance of us getting picked up by friendlies, so I guess I'll see you when the war is over."

Lori slammed her fist into the console, swearing.

"Lieutenant Colonel McCall," she growled between clenched teeth, "tell Major Houk to move Second Battalion aboard the DropShips. Send Captain Radcliffe's First Armored Infantry Company with them. I want them to go out to Melrose and pound those Separatist bastards into the ground. And I want their commander's head on a pike."

BattleTech - LE5866

14

Melrose Valley, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

28 June 3065

Rae Houk moved her Gallowglas down the ramp from the Jedburgh's 'Mech bay. As she stepped from the reinforced steel runway, she gazed sorrowfully at the columns of thick black smoke rising from the floor of the Melrose Valley to join the heavy black clouds being blown up from the south. Having grown up in a farming region like this one, she could easily imagine the fear, loss, and impotent rage the valley farmers must have been feeling at that moment. Nor were the irony and stupidity of the Separatists' actions lost on her. Under the banner of liberating the oppressed, the first thing the Skye rebels did upon dropping onto Hesperus was to attack farmlands, endangering civilian lives and destroying civilian property.

"Legion One, this is Assassin One. We're on the ground and moving in on the enemy positions," she said quietly, as though fearing the invaders might overhear and discern the Legion's plans. Of course, there was no such concern in Rae Houk's mind. Speaking softly had always been her way.

"Captain Radcliffe, form up your troops behind our center," she ordered the armored infantry commander. "Spy One, take the point. Let's move out."

As her battalion spread out in a kilometer-wide wedge formation, four light 'Mechs from First Company's recon lance dashed off to take the lead.

Everywhere she looked were signs of wanton destruction. Barns had been reduced to smoldering ruins; fields had been ripped and trampled by the steel feet of the invading BattleMechs. Only the farm houses themselves remained untouched by the rebels, who apparently had enough sense to leave the people alone. An odd greenish-yellow light suffused the pathetic scene.

A hollow, crackling boom echoed along the valley, accompanied by an electric flash. No weapons fire was responsible. The thunder and lightning were the product of the gathering storm. Raindrops began to spatter against the Gallowglas's cockpit. A glance at a secondary display told her that the temperature outside had dropped to twenty-four degrees centigrade, cooling off by eight degrees in the past fifteen minutes.

"All units, looks like the weather's closing in on us," she said. "The cold rain will help our heat dissipation, but it's going to make the footing treacherous."

Another rumble of thunder echoed along the valley, and the clouds opened, pouring out thick gray sheets of rain. Then a sharper crackle, almost blanketed by the white noise of the pounding raindrops, sounded out of the storm.

"Assassin One, this is Spy One-one. Contact! We have contact with the enemy. Estimate regimental strength. The warbook says they're the Twenty-second Skye Rangers." The scout followed his report with a string of numbers giving the location of the contact.

"Spy One, pull back," Houk ordered. "The battalion is on the way. Let's get 'em, Assassins."

Pushing her heavy 'Mech into a trot, Houk angled a bit to the west, toward the coordinates given her by the scouts. The sound of another rattling burst of light autocannon fire cut through the dripping air, but she thought the heavy downpour might actually work to her battalion's advantage. Though every BattleMech on the field boasted a wide array of sensors, every Mech Warrior piloting those machines depended first on his own eyes, then upon the electronic imagers. The pouring rain would diminish the 'Mechs' heat signatures, while the dim light would serve to mask the gray-painted Legion machines from the enemy's sight.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. In one swift, smooth motion, she brought the long-barreled extended-range PPC in her 'Mech's right arm up to cover the ghostly contact. She snapped the weapon off target when she recognized the extra-long legs and squat gray torso of a Legion Mongoose.

"Major, am I glad to see you," the recon 'Mech's pilot gasped, skidding to a halt in the thick, slippery mud.

"Where is Sergeant Crown?" Houk demanded.

"About half a klick east, I think," the scout answered. "The rebels haven't pushed us too hard. The sarge is maintaining contact, and they keep potting at us. I think they're afraid we aren't alone out here."

"Assassins, hold position," Houk ordered her battalion. "Sergeant Crown, come in."

"Yeah, Major?"

"Have you got a good fix on the enemy's position?"

"Well, sorta," Crown said. "I know where their front lines are anyway."

"Upload it to me."

In a few seconds, the data gathered by the battalion scouts was transferred to Houk's computer via a secure laser commlink.

"Assassin One to all Assassins, the enemy is to our right front. We are going to execute a battalion right wheel and hit them where we find them. That's the best I can do in this soup." She paused long enough for her orders to be passed from company commanders down through the ranks. "All right, move out."

The battalion still known as Hassan's Assassins began a pivoting turn to the east. It took only a few minutes for the first sounds of battle to start echoing along the rain-soaked valley.

Houk held the battalion together, haranguing her company commanders to keep the unit in tight formation. Out of the gloom came the dark blue shape of an enemy 'Mech. With little time to react, Houk let off a snap-shot from her PPC. The enemy machine, a Bushwacker, staggered as the particle stream ate into its right shoulder.

Despite losing most of the armor protecting that vulnerable joint, the tough little 'Mech spun to face Houk's Gallowglas. The air split with the deep-throated chatter of autocannon fire and the snap of a laser discharge. The armor-piecing shells stitched a line of destruction across the Gallowglas's right breast, barely missing the twinned over-and-under Sunglow large lasers mounted there. The laser cut half a ton of armor from the 'Mech's left thigh.

Trying to close the range, Houk stepped forward even as the Bushwacker danced away. She knew he was trying to increase the distance enough to bring his long-range missiles into play. It was a touchy business. If the Bushwacker moved too far off, he and Houk would lose each other in the bucketing rain. But he had to know that the Gallowglas's high-tech ER PPC—unlike the Bushwacker's LRMs or older-type PPCs—had no minimum range. She could practically climb right into the cockpit with her enemy and still be able to hit him with her most savage weapon.

The rebel machine had an edge in speed, and his 'Mech's birdlike construction gave him a lower center of gravity, thus a bit more maneuverability under the poor conditions. The Bushwacker managed to gain a few dozen meters on Houk. Spinning on its back-canted legs, the low-slung 'Mech cut loose with a volley of laser and missile fire. The impact rocked the Gallowglas, forcing Houk to work feverishly at her controls to keep the tall machine upright. Regaining her balance, she hammered the Bushwacker with a blast from her PPC, with follow-up shots from the paired Quasar pulse lasers in the 'Mech's left wrist.

Heat flooded into her cockpit as the core-temperature gauge shot up into the amber band. Fortunately, the Gallowglas relied solely upon energy weapons, so there was no ammunition to cook off. But the computer could still SCRAM the engine, shutting it down before it could suffer a catastrophic overheat. An insistent tone in her ears warned of that possibility. Houk slapped the manual override.

The Bushwacker had been badly mauled in the last exchange of fire. Most of the armor on its right leg had been torn away, and a deep crater, still glowing faintly, marred its back. The rebel MechWarrior was neither a hero nor a fool, however. He pulled his 'Mech into a tight turn and bolted off into the rain and mist.

For a moment, Houk considered pursuing the damaged machine. But she knew that destroying one 'Mech wouldn't make a difference in the campaign. She had to damage as many as possible, in order to put a drain on the invaders' store of reserves and spare parts. She allowed the Bushwacker to escape and went off in search of other prey.

The other prey found her first.

A blast of laser fire ripped up her 'Mech's right side and flashed the water-logged ground into muddy steam. A pair of missiles burned so close past her Gallowglas's head that she would later swear she could read "Made on Coventry" stenciled on the rockets' fins.

Houk spun, sliding in the mud to face a rebel Grasshopper. She speared the heavy 'Mech with a blast from her PPC. Not wanting to risk a shutdown, she peppered the lanky 'Mech with only one of her pulse lasers. The Grasshopper absorbed both hits and struck back with lasers and missiles.

For several minutes, the two traded blows. Houk scored a telling hit when her large lasers burned through the Grasshopper's right elbow. The enemy 'Mech's forearm dropped into the thick black mud and lay there hissing as the cold goop evaporated against the hot metal of the laser wound and the medium laser mounted in the wrist.

But the rebel warrior would not be panicked as easily as the Bushwacker pilot had been. A brilliant blue lance of energy flashed from its Sunbeam extended-range large laser to carve a section of armor away from the Gallowglas's belly. Houk tried to turn her relatively undamaged right side to her enemy.

Something smashed against her 'Mech's head, jostling her around inside the cockpit like a die in a gambler's cup. The taste of blood filled her mouth as her teeth lacerated the inside of the cheek. A shiver ran along her spine as a cold, damp wind chilled her skin.

The sudden draft sent a second shudder through Rae Houk's body, this one born of fear. She looked up to see a crack as wide as her hand was long in the wall of her cockpit. Half of the electronic displays around her were dead. Whatever had hit the 'Mech's head had destroyed the Gallowglas's sensors and come close to killing her. Another hit like that, and the Assassins would be looking for a new commander.

Reacting purely on instinct, she pulled back on the 'Mech's control sticks and stomped hard on the pedals controlling the powerful jump jets set into the machine's back and legs. Dark gray steam boiled up around her as the Gallowglas shot skyward. Ordinarily, controlling a jumping 'Mech took a delicate touch on the controls. This time she had to wrestle the sticks as though they were the paws of an angry bear.

When the 'Mech touched down ninety meters to the rear of her battalion's lines, Houk felt its right knee buckle. The big machine reeled as the treacherous, greasy black mud betrayed her footing. The Gallowglas stumbled, falling to one knee. It took every bit of piloting skill she could muster to get the abused 'Mech back to its feet.

"Rae, you're all busted up," Radcliffe called. "I can see straight through into your cockpit. You can't do any more good here. Fall back to the DropShip."

Houk's first instinct was to protest an infantry captain giving orders to a 'Mech battalion commander, but she knew Radcliffe was right.

"Elias, take command of the battalion," she called to her second. "Keep up the pressure on the rebels, but don't waste any lives. I'm going to fall back to the Jedburgh and see if I can call in an air strike."

Feeling like she was abandoning her comrades, Houk found the short trip back to the DropShip particularly lonely. She didn't stop, however, until she and her Gallowglas reached the interior of the Jedburgh's 'Mech bay. Without even powering it down or guiding it to its cubicle, she swarmed down the chain ladder she'd deployed a moment before. Still clad in only briefs, boots, and cooling vest, she ran for the bridge.

"Colonel, we're getting pounded out here," she told Lori. We need an air strike to drive the rebels back to their DropShips."

"How long can your people hold out there, Rae?" the colonel asked.

"It's a slugging match here, Colonel. The rebels have got us outnumbered and outgunned. If we get that air strike, we might be able to hold them or push them back. Otherwise, we'll have to fall back under the Jedburgh's guns. We're facing a full regiment here, Colonel. Even a DropShip won't be able to stand up to that kind of pounding for long. If we get pushed back, we'll have to leave the rebels in command of the field."

"Rae, the air strike is on its way," the colonel said, then hesitated.

Houk wondered if the enemy had begun jamming communications, but then the colonel's voice came in again. "I hate to do this to you, Major. Once the air strike commences, I want your unit to fall back to the Jedburgh and return to base. I have reason to believe that the enemy presence in Melrose is a diversion or a secondary force. I want your battalion back here so we can concentrate our strikes against the main invasion force when it arrives."

"Colonel, please confirm," Houk said, unwilling to admit defeat even in the face of three-to-one odds. "You want us to use the air strike as cover for a retreat."

The radio was silent for many seconds. When the colonel spoke again, there was steel in her voice.

"That is precisely what I am telling you, Major. Use the air strike as cover. Break off and withdraw back to Maria's Elegy."

* * *

Julio Vargas rolled his Slayer onto its port wing, straining his eyes, trying to see the ground. The winds, gusting to more than sixty kilometers per hour, drove the heavy, cold rain against his cockpit canopy like machine-gun bullets. Not so far below, the storm was reducing the battle-scarred soil of Melrose Valley into a sea of mud, though he could not see it. The cloud cover was ten-tenths overcast and seemed to, have no lower limit. If not for the Slayer's sophisticated avionics, he would be in real danger of flying the big delta-winged fighter straight into the ground.

Though he could not see the ground with his eyes, the, Slayer's computer could, through its sensor array. Three large, metallic shapes gleamed a dull red in his Magnetic Anomaly Detector. Several smaller but still sizable masses surrounded the larger targets. The cold downpour reduced the infrared signatures until his thermal imager could barely pick them out. But Vargas' senses, trained and honed by years in the cockpit, allowed him to translate what he saw on the multifunction displays. The large contacts were the enemy's DropShips, while the smaller ones were his 'Mechs. A score of kilometers to the north was a similar, though smaller, set of contacts. That was where the Legion's Second Battalion was limping back aboard the Jedburgh.

Abruptly, the enemy revealed that their sensors could see him, too. A pair of laser beams snapped past his fighter's newly patched left wing, while a brace of missiles traced fiery trails all around him.

Vargas put the Slayer into a snap-roll to the right, climbing away from the ground targets. At the top of his loop, he inverted his fighter and pushed it over into a dive. As the red smear of a DropShip swam into the center of his MAD display, Vargas tapped a control stud with his left forefinger. Instantly, the fighter's HUD held a new set of icons. Vargas selected the big magnetic signature to the far left of the cluster as his target. A pale green square snapped into existence around the target, indicating that the Slayer's computer had acquired the DropShip. A targeting reticle, complete with a long "impact line" stretching from the gun sight to the fighter's airplane-shaped velocity vector icon, floated across the holographic sight. Vargas manhandled his fighter against the gusting winds, "caging" the vector discrete inside the target box, and "flying" the reticle along the impact line until the dot in the center of the reticle crossed directly over the combined heading and target icons.

The fighter jerked as the computer's automatic bombing software kicked three five-hundred-kilogram bombs away from the racks under the Slayer's wings and fuselage. Free of the extra weight, Vargas shoved his throttle forward and hauled back on the stick, pulling the Slayer out of its dive. Vargas barely heard the trio of flat bangs over the roar of his engine, and the bright white flash of detonating warheads was all but swallowed up by the heavy rain. He knew the effect on the ground would be more dramatic as the free-fall, general-purpose, high-explosive bombs scattered hot shrapnel around the enemy's landing zone. With any kind of luck, at least one of those bombs had actually hit the DropShip. Though one five-hundred-kilo bomb was not enough to destroy a DropShip, it would be a serious inconvenience to the enemy.

In reprisal, the enemy fired again. This time, a stroke of PPC lightning shattered the repair plates in his fighter's left wing. The armor patch, still bearing its ugly, red-brown primer, was a legacy of the Death Eagles' fight against the incoming Skye Rangers. Once more, the armor had been blasted away, possibly by the same gunner who'd caused the damage in the first place. There was, to the Legion's wing commander, a certain ironic symmetry to the thing.

As Vargas rolled out of his zoom-climb, he looked around to see the balance of his squadron following him one by one through the attack run on the enemy landing zone. Further north, visible only as blips on a radar screen, Second Squadron was treating the enemy's lead elements to a series of strafing runs.

The whole mission had been laid on so as to allow the Legion's Second BattleMech Battalion to safely break contact with the Rangers, fall back to their DropShip, and return to the legion's base at Maria's Elegy. So far, things were working out according to plan, though Vargas had the uncomfortable feeling that he probably wouldn't be able to say as much in the days and weeks to come.

BattleTech - LE5866

15

Gray Death Legion Compound

Maria's Elegy, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

28 June 3065

Major Rae Houk yanked off her cooling vest and threw it onto the floor of her Gallowglas's cockpit in disgust. She treated her neurohelmet with a bit more care, only because the sensitive nature of the bulky unit had been drilled into her when she was a raw recruit serving with the Free Worlds League's Sirian Lancers.

As she pushed the helmet into the storage recess above and behind her command couch, she caught sight of her reflection in the reflective visor. Houk was secure enough to admit she had never been a particularly beautiful woman. She had her father's large, rough features, while her dark olive skin was a legacy from her mother's side of the family. On top of genetics, the privations of nearly two decades of living with too little sleep, poor food, exposure to the elements, and all that went along with military life had further coarsened her appearance.

But it was neither parentage nor a hard life that made the plain visage reflected in the tough, perspex less attractive than usual, even considering the distortion caused by the visor's curved face. It was the anger and shame playing across her features that made her seem ugly in her own eyes. Anger at having her battalion pulled out of the Melrose Valley, leaving the enemy in command of the field. Anger at the Legion's CO for having sent the Assassins into that battle, knowing they were going to be outnumbered. Anger at the Lyran officers who had not been at their posts to send their own troops out after the invading rebels. And anger even at Grayson Carlyle, who had died before his time, leaving the Legion to shift for itself.

The shame had almost the identical sources. Houk was ashamed that her battalion could not stand toe-to-toe with the Skye forces and give as good as they got. She was ashamed of having to be pulled out of the firefight and rescued by Wing Commander Vargas and his fly-boys. She was ashamed of being angry at Lori, and even more chagrined because of her anger at Grayson.

For a few minutes, she leaned against the wall of her cockpit, trying to master the destructive emotions boiling in her guts. She knew her troops were probably feeling the same things, and that she, as their commander, had no right to express those feelings, not in front of her subordinates at least. As the commander of Hassan's Assassins, she had to paste a look of confident pride on her face and congratulate her soldiers on a battle well-fought, even if both she and they knew otherwise.

Mastering herself, Houk gave the red-handled lever above the ingress-egress hatch a pull. Hydraulics whined as the portal slid open, and she clambered out onto the gantry next to the Gallowglas's head. Standing in a little knot at the end of the 'Mech-bay catwalk were two of her three company commanders. The missing man, Captain Louis Weatherby, had stayed behind in Melrose Valley, along with the ruins of his Grim Reaper. Weatherby had died commanding the rearguard covering the battalion's withdrawal.

"Well, Major?" Edmond Caine said, his tone an open challenge.

"Well, what, Captain?"

"What are you going to say to Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle? And what are we going to say to our men?"

Houk came to a stop in front of the ever-pugnacious Captain "What I say to the Colonel is between the Colonel and me. Complaints go uphill, Captain, and you know that."

The forced calm she had summoned up in her cockpit vanished under the low smolder of her subordinate's gaze. She felt the fire grow in her own eyes. "As to the Assassins, they're not your men, Captain, they're the Gray Death Legion's men, Second Battalion's men. That makes them my men. If you feel you have to tell them something, tell them I'll talk to them after I talk to the Colonel.

"Meanwhile, it is up to you and Elias to keep the men from losing what morale they've got left. In case you haven't noticed, Captain, we've taken some casualties. I want you and Captain Whitlocke to go visit the men in sickbay and see how they're doing. I'll tell Lieutenant Strieger-Pouls that he's in command of Fourth Company now. After that, you and Whitlocke will have to help bring him up to speed. Then, all four of us will have to work on getting the battalion back into battle-ready condition. If that means warriors have to get down in the 'Mech-drek with the technicians, well, then, be prepared to get your fingernails dirty.

"That is all, gentlemen," she snapped, and headed for the stairs down to the 'Mech hangar's main floor.

As she descended the steel steps, Houk forced herself to regain the tenuous calm she'd had when she'd exited her Mech. She knew it wouldn't do her any good to go before Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle angry and breathing fire. By the time she reached Lori's office, she was in full control of her emotions. She paused outside the door, ran her hands through her coarse, spiky black hair to smooth it down, and knocked three times.

"Come in, Major," Lori called.

Dang, how did she do that? Houk wondered as she pushed the door open.

"I asked the OOD to call me when you arrived," Lori explained, smiling softly. "He said you marched your 'Mech into the repair bay, chewed out your subordinates on the pantry catwalk, and stormed out of the hangar. I figured you were on your way to see me."

"Then the Colonel knows what I wanted to see her about."

"Yes, I do, Rae." Lori's smile faded. "You're honked off about getting pulled out of Melrose. Hell, you're probably mad that we sent the Assassins out there in the first place. Well, I don't like it any better than you do. It was a bad call on my part to commit less than my total force. And the only way I could counteract a bad call was to make another bad call and pull you out."

"So, what do we do now, Colonel?" Houk asked.

Lori waved Houk into a chair. "Julio tells me that the air strikes drove the rebels back to their DropShips. We're going to keep them under surveillance as best we can, given the crummy weather. We finally managed to track down General Ciampa, and she has rejoined her troops. She made arrangements to relieve the Death Eagles with a rotating series of Boomerang spotter planes. They can stay on station a lot longer than our fighters can, which means we'll get a little advance warning when the rebels out in Melrose make their next move.

"On the down side, there is at least one more full regiment of troops on their way insystem. I think we can count on them coming straight into Maria's Elegy and DefHesp, and possibly both, if there are enough of them. To make matters worse, the Separatists have at least two WarShips backing them up now.

"Two?" Houk asked, puzzled. "I thought they came in with two and lost one fighting the Simon Davion."

"They did, but they somehow managed to capture the Simon Davion. Now it looks like the rebel Fox is holding position at the zenith jump point, while the Simon moves insystem with their ground troops.

"And to make matters worse, our own JumpShips were also captured by the rebels. That means we're stuck here until this business is concluded."

Lori leaned her elbows on her desk and fixed Houk with a stare. "In the meantime, Major, how bad off is your battalion?"

"Not too bad, considering," Houk said. "Three men killed, five wounded, and two missing. One of the KIAs was Lou Weatherby. I'd like your permission to move Lieutenant Diggsby Strieger-Pouls up into the command slot."

"Granted," Lori said.

"As to my hardware, we lost two 'Mechs, nonrecoverable. One of those was Weatherby's Grim Reaper. We also lost a Bombardier from First Company. I've got one light and one medium 'Mech that are going to need a lot of work, but I think they can be patched together into something not too embarrassing.

"Otherwise, there's not too much wrong with the outfit that a good night's sleep and a good hot meal wouldn't cure."

"Okay, we'll get right on it." Lori tapped a few notes into her desktop computer. "Anything else?"

"No, Colonel, that about covers it."

"Very well." Lori's expression softened. "Go get some sleep, Rae. You're exhausted."

"Yes ma'am." Houk smiled suddenly, then saluted and turned for the door. Just as her hand was closing on the knob, Lori called out again.

"Oh, Major, that was a good piece of soldiering you did this afternoon. Please don't let it grind on you that you got pushed back today. This was just the first skirmish. After this, things are going to get a lot tougher, and I want all my officers in the best shape possible."

* * *

After Rae Houk left her office, Lori leaned back in her chair and stared out at the darkening sky. It was obvious that this night was going to be particularly black. Masked by the gathering clouds, the setting sun was little more than a diffuse glow in the sky. The storm system that had drenched Melrose Valley hadn't burned itself out as the meteorological office had predicted. Instead, it had quartered and ridden up along the Myoo Mountains. It was now closing on Maria's Elegy.

She spun her chair and reached across her desk to activate her comm unit.

"Meg?" she said, reaching the leader of the Gray Death armored scouts detachment. "I really hate to do this to you, but I'm going to ask you to activate your scouts. It looks like it's really going to get nasty out tonight, and I'm thinking the remotes and passive sensors aren't going to be much good to us. I think we're going to need some Model 0 Mark I's on the perimeter."

"You expecting trouble, Colonel?" Major Powers asked.

"Not as such," Lori said. "If I were expecting trouble, I'd have the whole regiment standing to all night long. But if I was the rebel commander, I wouldn't miss an opportunity to sneak some raiders onto the enemy base under the cover of this storm."

"Yeah, it does look like it's shaping up to be sapper weather, doesn't it?" Powers said. She knew as well as Lori that foul weather tended to drive sentries under cover and to interfere with the sensitivity of remote sensors, thus giving saboteurs and raiders an edge in penetrating an enemy perimeter.

"Yes, it does. That's why I want some of your scouts out walking the perimeter tonight. They'll be reasonably well-protected from the weather by their armor, and they'll be able to adjust their suit sensors to fit the conditions. Not to mention that they'll be eyeballs on the scene."

Lori's earlier reference to Model 0 Mark I sensors referred to a trained observer's eyes, backed up by his intuition. Taken together, they would often allow a sentry to detect an enemy presence that mechanical or electronic surveillance devices might miss.

"I'll tell Tom Leone to put his boys on backup and have a company from Devin's Battalion on ready five," she added.

"Okay, boss, I'll get the scouts suited up and on sentry duty. I think we'll go one squad at a time, two-hour shifts," Powers said. "Good enough?"

"Good enough," Lori confirmed. Then she severed the connection. Another couple of taps on the vidcom put her in touch with Gina Ciampa's office on the other side of the spaceport.

"Any movement from the troops out in Melrose?" she asked after the exchange of a few brief courtesies.

"Not much," Ciampa said, "though the bloody cloud cover is making it hard for the Boomerangs to see much."

"General, I've been thinking," Lori said, fiddling with a writing stylus as she spoke. "The primary target on Hesperus II has always been the Defiance plant, right?"

"That's been the way of things, Colonel."

"Attackers have seldom gone after Maldon or Doering, or Melrose Valley, for that matter. And when they have attacked those sites, it has almost always been a diversion."

"What are you getting at, Colonel?"

"What I'm getting at, General, is this," Lori went on. "I want to pull in most of the planetary militias and form them into one battalion. We can use them to keep an eye on some of the secondary targets like Maldon and the valley region. That will free up our forces to oppose the invaders."

"It's a good plan, Colonel," Ciampa said. "With one minor glitch. I haven't got the authority to pull the Thirty-sixth Guards out of Maldon. Not unless the enemy was pressing us so hard that it was a matter of move them or lose the planet."

"General, if you don't move the Thirty-sixth, you might lose the planet," Lori argued. "Why not be proactive? Move Zambos' boys to Maria's Elegy. Let the miliz take care of the mine site."

"Colonel, my orders are very specific. The Thirty-sixth stays at Maldon. That's why the Gray Death Legion was brought out here, to help defend Maria's Elegy and the Defiance plant." Ciampa stuck to her guns. "The only way I can move Zambos' regiment would be to send a priority HPG to Hauptmann-General Ivan Steiner and get his permission to relocate the Twenty-sixth."

"Then send it, General," Lori said emphatically. "Because I'm telling you, as sure as sunrise, we're going to need the Thirty-sixth right here before this is over."

BattleTech - LE5866

16

Gray Death Legion Compound

Maria's Elegy, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

30 June 3065

The discordant blast of the alarm klaxon startled Wing Commander Julio Vargas out of a sound sleep. He rolled from his bunk, yanked on a set of gray coveralls and boots, and dashed from his room, snatching up his flight bag on the way.

"Attention! Attention!" the intercom loudspeakers blared. "Incoming DropShips! Incoming fighters. All personnel report to ready stations."

Vargas ran to the squat hexagonal building that served as the Legion's command post at the spaceport, dodging a jeep and two hover armored personnel carriers along the way.

"What is happening, Colonel?" he asked, catching sight of Lori.

"The primary sensor station says the rebels' main body has arrived," she answered without breaking her stride. Vargas had to sprint to catch up with her, and then take fast steps to remain at her side. Lori was a half a head taller than he was, and most of that height was in her legs. "They're settling into a geostationary orbit."

"Right over the Defiance plant," he said.

Lori nodded.

"How many?"

"Hard to tell. It could be as many as ten DropShips. We don't know how many fighters." Lori passed Vargas the electronic message pad she'd been holding. He quickly scanned the report displayed on the pad's liquid-crystal screen.

"Well, that's something anyway," he said, pointing to one line in the document. "At least that WarShip seems to be holding back some."

"Yes. It looks like they were just using her to escort their DropShips in system. I guess from here on out, things are going to be pretty conventional."

"What do you want me to do, Colonel?"

"Get your boys airborne right away," Lori said, without slowing her pace. "I know it's just one wing against all those DropShips, but you've got to slow them up, hurt them if you can. I'm sorry, Julio, but aside from the miliz, you're the only fighter wing we've got."

Vargas nodded grimly. "Si, Colonel. I understand." Giving Lori a formal salute, he jogged off in the direction he had come.

Sticking close alongside the building, Vargas came to the spot where his hover jeep was parked. He slid in behind the vehicle's controls and fired up the internal combustion engine. As the jeep rose on its cushion of air, he spun the wheel. He despised the vehicle's sluggish response, so unlike the crisp maneuverability of his fighter.

It was a short drive across the compound to the series of low, hemicylindrical hardened structures that housed the Legion's aerospace fighters. The men and women under his command had gathered in front of the hangar where his Slayer was parked. All had already donned their flight gear, complete with the chapslike G-suits. The heavy black garment was full of small, computer-controlled tubes and bladders that would fill with air during high-G maneuvers to lorce the pilot's blood out of his legs and lower torso, up into his chest and head where it belonged, thus preventing G-LOC, G-induced loss of consciousness.

Vargas skidded the jeep to a halt and killed the engine. Even before the vehicle had completely settled down onto its hull, he slipped from the driver's seat and darted into the hangar. Stepping behind a makeshift screen jury-rigged from heavy corrugated plastic sheeting, Vargas quickly changed out of his coveralls and into his flight suit. He had suffered ridicule about that screen in the past, but Julio Vargas had been raised in a strict, traditionalist Catholic home. Changing his clothing in front of the women of his squadron was something he would not do, even under the threat of an impending attack.

When he emerged again, fully clad in his flight and G suit, he briefed his pilots on the situation.

"It is going to be a hard fight," he said. "We will divide the wing into squadrons. First Squadron will press home the attack. We will concentrate our firepower on a single DropShip at a time. I think that will be the fastest way of destroying them. Once the ship is crippled, we will move on to the next."

He looked toward a taciturn black woman, who stood leaning against the curved wall of the shelter. "Second Squadron, under Captain Carroll, will be the air-to-air element. It will be your responsibility to keep the rebel fighters at bay while we shoot up their DropShips."

Amanda Carroll gave a jerky nod of acceptance.

"One more thing," Vargas said. "The enemy has been escorted insystem by an Avalon-class cruiser. As of this moment, the WarShip seems to be holding back. Once we get airborne, there is no telling whether she will get involved or not. If she does, it will most likely be to launch additional fighters or to employ her point-defense weapons against our fighters. In either case, I will make the decision whether we should continue our mission, counterattack the WarShip, or withdraw.

"I needn't remind you that the rest of the Legion, and the regular Lyran forces onplanet, are counting on us to hurt the enemy. If we can cause enough damage, our brothers and sisters on the ground will have a fighting chance. Press in hard, mark your targets, make me proud.

"That is all. Mount up."

As the Legion pilots broke and ran for their ships, Vargas pulled his helmet from his dark green flight bag and tossed the now-empty cordura nylon satchel into a corner of the hangar. He set the thick headpiece on his Slayer's left wing and started his walk-around. Everything was in the proper preflight condition, and there wasn't a red safety tag to be seen. His ground crew had preflighted the fighter and had removed the small warning flags.

Retrieving and donning his helmet, Vargas climbed up the narrow yellow and black steel ladder and swung his right leg over the cockpit fairing. He was careful to place his feet on the ejection seat's armrests, avoiding the control panels to either side of the seat. After dropping into the cockpit, he reached under the seat and pulled the last remaining red-tagged safety pin, the one preventing the Slayer's ejection system from arming. He carefully tucked the cotter key with its scarlet label into one breast pocket. With smooth, practiced movements, he activated the controls that brought the heavy aerospace combat ship to life. At his touch, the fighter's three primary multi-function displays flickered to life. Gauges immediately began to monitor the condition of his engines, fuel state, and weapons load.

He reached across his body with his right hand and depressed a shielded red stud. Immediately, a low-toned whine filled the cockpit, and the ship began to vibrate strongly. The noise spooled up in both pitch and volume as the Slayer's powerful Shinobi 320 engines gathered rpms until there came a noise like a shotgun going off in his ear. The engine caught and began to run on its own as Vargas pushed the throttles open, feeding fuel to the ravening steel beast behind him. The noise increased. He pulled the switch that dropped and locked the canopy. The sound level abated to a dull, throbbing hiss.

Following his crew chief's hand and arm signals, Vargas taxied the big fighter out onto the tarmac. From there, the air-traffic controllers in the spaceport tower took over. Vargas received clearance to launch almost immediately. He lolled the Slayer out onto the runway and stood hard on the brakes while he ran the engine up to its maximum revs. The ship squatted on its nose wheel, straining against the intakes, almost as though it was a living creature eager to get into the air.

He let the brakes off with a jerk, and the big, delta-winged fighter began to roll down the runway. The nose wheel came clear of the ground as Vargas kicked in the over-thrusters, causing the Slayer to lean into the air.

Climbing rapidly, Vargas moved to his wing assembly point, where he went into a slow counterclockwise orbit over Maria's Elegy. His wingman, Lieutenant Patrick Garrity, dropped into his accustomed place, off Vargas' left wing and half a kilometer behind. When the last gray fighter fell into formation, a Corsair flown by Ensign John Monty, the son of a retired Legion pilot, Vargas checked his instruments and called out a vector for the pilots under his command. The Death Eagles dropped quickly into formation and followed their commander in a fast, zooming climb toward the edges of space.

The dark blue of the morning sky quickly faded into a deep purple, then the velvet blackness of space as the fighters left the atmosphere. Vargas consulted the navigational information currently being displayed on the left-hand MFD. He corrected his course ten degrees to the right and signaled his squadrons to follow suit.

It took less than five minutes for the Death Eagles to catch sight of the enemy DropShips. At first, the big armored 'Mech-haulers resembled only a cluster of shooting stars. It became rapidly apparent that the tiny glittering dots were nothing so innocent or so beautiful.

The DropShips, mostly spheroid Unions and Overlords, with a few aerodyne Leopards in the mix, bore large swatches of roughly laid-on paint where the Lyran Alliance's mailed fist emblem had been obliterated. In its place, the rebels had painted the crudely rendered image of an ancient Scots warrior wielding a claymore. Alongside the almost cartoonish figure was the blue and green map-of-England crest of the Fourth Skye Regimental Combat Team.

"Here we go," Vargas said aloud. "First Squadron, target the closest Leopard. Second Squadron, give us cover."

The Death Eagles swooped down on their prey.

Vargas locked the brick-shaped Leopard Class DropShip in the center of his fighter's HUD. As he bore in, he watched the range indicators on the lead computing optical sight tick down. An IN RNG discrete flashed across the bottom of the heads up display. Vargas squeezed the trigger, and the fighter's Zeus 56 autocannon stitched a line of sparkling explosions across the target vessel's forward, portside 'Mech-bay door. His lasers ripped deep furrows in the transport's thick skin. Then he was past her. A jagged bolt of PPC fire slashed past the Slayer's belly, a parting shot from one of the Leopard's gunners. Vargas pulled his fighter up into a half loop, rolling out at the top. Below him, he saw a pair of Stukas whip around the DropShip, leaving her with serious damage to her port side.

A series of bright green darts pounded his fighter from above and behind. Vargas pitched out, dropping through a wing-over into a split S. When he rolled upright again, he saw an enemy Lucifer clinging to Garrity's tail.

"Hang on, Fox. I'm coming!" Vargas shouted to his wingman. "Break left when I tell you. All right, now!"

Garrity, whose dark auburn hair and sharp features had earned him the vulpine nickname, pushed his Shilone into a tight bank. The Lucifer tried to stay with him, but lacked the maneuverability of the Legion ship. Instead, the rebel found himself nose to nose with Vargas' Slayer.

The rebel pilot tried to turn away, but it was too late. Fire spat from the Slayer's guns, shredding armor and shearing the Lucifer's left wing from the fuselage.

The Slayer flashed past the enemy ship as the Lucifer went into an oddly slow and unbalanced barrel roll. Vargas half-twisted in his seat to watch the rebel fighter spiral away, out of control.

"Si madre" he yelled at the doomed enemy ship.

"First Squadron, sound off," he ordered as he brought the Slayer around. He had briefly lost contact with the rest of his pilots during his spoiling attack on the Lucifer.

"One-two, right here, boss, coming back onto your wing," Garrity called.

"Two-one and -two okay."

"Three flight okay." That was Carla Staedler.

"Four-two here," Ensign Keith Williams said sullenly.

"Where's Johnston?" Vargas asked sharply, already knowing the answer.

"Bob's gone, Commander," Williams answered dully.

"The Leo got him, but he took the DropShip with him."

"Very well," Vargas said, keeping his voice equally monotone. They couldn't afford to stop now to mourn their comrade's loss. "Reform, and let's get on with our jobs. Second Flight, you're on lead. Head for that big, fat Overlord at five-low. Come in under his stern, and let's see if we can chew him up some."

"We're all over him, boss," Lieutenant Saul Dietrich sang.

A moment later, Dietrich's Corsair was bearing down hard on the ship, blazing away with its powerful lasers. Dietrich pulled out seconds before he would have slammed into the Overlord's stern quarter. "Jaybird" Batsa followed his wing-man, making an identical attack, but breaking away to the left, where Dietrich had evaded to the right. Staedler and Towsley rolled in next, followed by Vargas and Garrity.

Even the concerted attack of six aerospace fighters had not breached the Overlord's thick armor. As the fighters swung around for another pass, a shout rang in Vargas' ears.

"Eagle One, this is Eagle Two. We've got trouble, Commander," Amanda Carroll said, the harshness in her voice the result of tension compounded by an old throat injury. "We've already got our hands full, and it looks as though the Cruiser is launching more fighters. In about two seconds we're going to be purely defensive here."

"Can you give us one more pass on the Overlord?" Vargas asked.

"Not a chance," Carroll gritted. "If we don't get some help up here, I'm going to lose the squadron."

"Dammit," Vargas spat. "First Squadron, form up on me. Let's go bail them out. Williams, fall in on my right wing, one klick back. We'll go with a three-ship element, staggered wedge formation."

The superbly trained pilots wasted no time. They dropped into formation, even as they angled off to join their comrades.

Vargas lined up his sights on the bizarre, lopsided shape of an RPR-100 Rapier fighter, and caressed the trigger. The Slayer quivered as his main gun spewed out a volley of armor-piercing high-explosive shells. The rebel fighter weathered the storm and flipped into a Shandel turn, climbing back to the left to meet its attacker. A few hundred meters away, a similar craft executed a near mirror-image wing-over, diving away to the left.

Vargas knew the rebels weren't trying to break contact, not in the first few seconds of the engagement. What they had just executed was called a defensive split. Under ordinary circumstances, his flight would have pursued one of the Rapiers, leaving the other free to maneuver against the attackers. But this time, as so often before, the commander of the Death Eagles had an ace up his sleeve.

"Pat, Williams, break low. Go after the wingman. I'll take the leader." The extra fighter in his element gave Vargas an element of surprise.

Vargas pulled his Slayer into a steep climb, cutting in the over-thrusters. Above and ahead of him, the Rapier pilot was reversing his turn. He reversed again, just as Vargas was maneuvering to follow the original course. The two ships fell into a pattern called a vertical rolling scissors. The Rapier was fractionally more agile than the Slayer, but not so much that he could easily evade Vargas. At the same time, the Slayer could not line up for a killing shot on the twisting enemy fighter.

Suddenly, the Rapier chopped his speed and flipped his fighter over onto its back. The off-balance-looking machine pushed over into a dive and lit off its thrusters. Vargas tried to follow the tight evasive maneuver, but before he could pull the Slayer around, the rebel pilot cut his engines back and executed a skidding end-for-end turn, almost identical to the one Vargas had used against the Separatist flyer a few days earlier. Instead of letting his fighter fly backward for a few minutes and hammering the pursuing Slayer, the Rapier's pilot once again engaged his thrusters and rocketed forward into a high-speed head-on pass.

Twin strokes of lightning flashed from the Rapier's paired particle cannons. The savage energy bolts ripped into the Slayer's nose and left wing. A flight of missiles hammered the Slayer's portside vertical stabilizer and cracked fuselage armor.

Julio Vargas was far from out of the fight. He again blasted the Rapier with all of his forward weapons, slagging away armor and leaving deep, carbon-blackened scores in the enemy's skin. He side-slipped his fighter, setting it off to one side of the Rapier's collision course. The fighter shook as the paired PPCs blasted into his ship.

As the enemy broke away, Vargas whipped his fighter into a tight, knife-edge turn, which he held through a complete three-hundred-sixty-degree circle. He rolled out on the Rapier's tail and fired. He heard the deep, musical hiss of the lasers firing, but for some reason, the autocannon did not fire. Vargas scanned the main weapons console. A small red bar was blinking calmly, proclaiming to the Legion pilot that the Zeus type 56 autocannon had been destroyed, probably in that last exchange of fire before the Rapier turned into the scissors.

The Rapier pilot came around for another pass. Vargas laced his enemy's uneven wings with his lasers, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the Rapier was able to pick his heavy armor to pieces.

Now it was Vargas' turn to dive away. He hoped the rebel pilot would be as eager for a kill as he had seemed to be so far. He prayed the other fighter would follow him through the dive.

"Pat!" Vargas yelled into his mike. "I've got a Rapier on my tail. I need you to scrape him off."

"Coming, Mother," Garrity quipped. "I've got you in sight. Level off and come hard right, and you'll bring him right to me."

Vargas kicked the right-rudder pedal and pushed his stick to starboard. He felt his G suit tighten against his legs as the air bladders inflated against the centrifugal force generated by a high-speed turn.

In that instant, the Rapier's PPCs found the Slayer once more.

The wedge-shaped fighter shook under the high-energy discharge. Warning lights flared on the control panel, telling of armor loss and the destruction of the aft-facing laser. Missiles widened and deepened the damage, clawing deep into the Slayer's guts to reduce its engine to a pile of wreckage.

"That's it. Eagle One is out of the fight. Carla, take the Squadron," Vargas called, locking the ring collar of his flight suit into the lower edge of his helmet to turn the garment into a vacuum-proof survival garment. He reached up to grab the yellow and black rings of the "face-blind" ejection handles.

"This is Eagle One-One requesting rescue. Eject, Eject, Eje-"

* * *

Carla Staedler watched in helpless horror as the Rapier dove in on Vargas' shattered fighter, its heavy Ranger autocannon walking a line of tracers up the Slayer's spine and straight into the fighter's cockpit.

17

Gray Death Legion Compound

Maria's Elegy Spaceport, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

30 June 3065

Lori stared at the communications console in dumbfounded shock. In an instant of time, the life of a man she'd known for almost forty years had been snuffed out.

"Colonel, we can't hold them," said Carla Staedler, her voice breaking from the speakers. "We've got to withdraw or we're going to lose the whole wing."

"Pull out, Captain," Lori ordered. "You can't do any more good up there. Save the rest of the wing. We're going to need it."

"Colonel," a sensor tech called. "We have established a track on the inbounds. Analysis indicates they are not on course for the Defiance complex. Course and speed suggest the inbounds are heading for the Caran River basin."

Lori looked questioningly at Gina Ciampa.

"Doering," Ciampa said. "They're headed for the Doering plant."

"General, if I may," Lori said, remembering Grayson's lectures on maintaining proper military protocol, especially when dealing with house troops. With a nod from Ciampa, Lori called up a map of the area north of Maria's Elegy.

The Caran River basin was a broad, relatively flat area about two hundred kilometers north of the spaceport. The river itself was a fairly deep and wide watercourse, flowing roughly north to south from an out-jutting spur of the Myoo Mountains, through Maria's Elegy and on toward the sea. The Doering Electronics factory was situated on the Caran's west bank.

"You leave one of your battalions here," Lori said. "The other two and my regiment will immediately head for the Caran basin. With luck, we can bounce our DropShips out to the Doering plant before the rebels get there. If we have time to dig in, they will need their superior numbers to root us out."

"And what about Defiance?" Ciampa asked. "What if the inbounds divert to the factory complex while we're flying out to Doering? And what if those troops out in Melrose Valley move against the plant while both of our outfits are pinned down in the Caran basin?"

"Then, General, we have to trust Major Goree's Self-Protection Force to hold the rebels while we divert ourselves." Lori shrugged. "Or we recall General Zambos and the Thirty-sixth from Maldon. No matter how we cut it, we're still going to have to cover this whole planet with only three BattleMech regiments."

Ciampa took a few minutes to digest Lori's analysis of the situation.

"Very well, Colonel. Here's how we'll play this. You take the Gray Death Legion, my Second 'Mech battalion, the Second Armored, and Second Infantry regiments. My adjutant, Colonel Brennan, will have field command of the Lyran troops, but you'll have operational command. I'll keep the rest of my outfit here in Maria's Elegy. We'll stay ready to respond as the situation develops. If the Separatists move against Defiance, we'll hop out there to stop them. If the thrust at Doering is the genuine article, then we'll be ready to back you up if need be."

"Fair enough, General," Lori said grimly. "One other thing. I suggest you get an HPG message off to Hauptmann-General Poulin. See if you can get him to send us some support."

"I've already taken care of that, Colonel," Ciampa said good-naturedly. "Just because we aren't mercenaries doesn't mean we're stupid."

"I never thought you were, General," Lori said lightly, then touched her fingertips to her forehead in a casual salute. "Now if you'll excuse me?" Not waiting for a reply, she ducked out of the communications center.

"Davis," she said to her second in command, "get the troops aboard the DropShips. We're going to war."

* * *

"Colonel—on your nine!"

Lori spun her Victor sharply to the left in response to Dallas MacKensie's warning cry. On instinct, she brought the assault 'Mech's right arm into line with the dark red metallic form of a Maelstrom closing with her at a lumbering run. The Dragon's Fire gauss rifle cracked, sending a basketball-sized sphere of nickel-iron streaking across the field to punch into the out-jutting torso of the enemy machine. Armor shattered under the impact. The Maelstrom staggered, but quickly regained its balance as it raised both its arms and let fly. A dazzling stream of charged particles ripped into the Victor's left arm, burning away a ton of hardened Durallex armor. Simultaneously, a laser beam sliced into the 'Mech's plastron, cutting dangerously close to the quartet of missile tubes in its left breast.

Lori recovered quickly and fed a volley of those missiles at the hunched-over enemy machine. The four-kilogram shaped-charge warheads detonated against the Maelstrom's tough hide, gouging divots in the Kellon Heavy armor. Lori fired the paired medium pulse lasers set into her Victor's much-abused left vambrace, and touched off the gauss rifle again for good measure. The pale green energy darts chewed into the enemy machine's legs, while the gauss rifle's hypersonic slug smashed into almost the same spot as the first shot.

The rebel pilot seemed to take no notice of the gaping hole in his 'Mech's center torso. Defiantly, he unleashed his PPC again, this time lacing the Victor's right leg.

The guy had courage, Lori thought. And tenacity. She had to admire him for that. Then again, he was fighting for his homeland against what he perceived as a foreign power. That often tended to make a man brave.

A sharp, warbling tone pierced Lori's ear, and a scarlet warning light flashed on her control panel. Someone, possibly the Maelstrom's pilot, had illuminated her Victor with Target Acquisition Gear.

Not waiting around to find out if the designator had been linked to an artillery or Arrow IV missile battery, Lori stomped on the pedals controlling her Victor's jump jets. Smoke and flame spilled out of the nozzles in her 'Mech's back and legs as the eighty-ton war machine rose into the air. The Maelstrom tried to track her with stuttering blasts from his pulse lasers, but was unable to score a hit. As Lori eased off on the jets, the warning tone fell silent. The TAG lock had been broken.

Feathering her jump jets, she brought the Victor back to the muddy banks of the Caran River. The Separatist 'Mech had turned to pursue her, but, before it could close with her, she hammered it again with laser and missile fire. The Maelstrom squatted back on its birdlike legs as the attack savaged its football-shaped body. With remarkable grace for a seventy-five-ton lump of metal and composites, the rebel machine turned away from Lori's Victor and loped off to the northwest, in the direction of the invaders' grounded DropShips.

Though her instincts told her to pursue, Lori knew there were other targets to contend with. The combined Legion and Lyran counterstrike force had arrived in the river basin only a few minutes before Skye Separatist DropShips burned their way across the sky above the Doering Electronics plant. The Fourth Skye Rangers had come in hot and hard, dropping two companies' worth of light and medium 'Mechs almost directly on top of the manufacturing center. Lori detailed the Lyran tank and infantry regiments under her nominal command to engage those forces, while she directed the full Gray Death Legion and the Fifteenth Lyran Guard Second 'Mech battalion against the invaders' main thrust.

The attackers grounded their DropShips on both sides of the Caran River, forcing Lori to further divide the units under her command. She sent the Lyran troops across the rain-swollen watercourse to engage the invaders there, while she led her mercenaries against the enemy forces on the west bank, where the Doering plant was located.

Scanning the Victor's damage display, Lori saw that the fight with the Maelstrom had left her 'Mech's left arm and right leg with dangerously thin armor. The rest of her armor was relatively intact.

The combined Lyran and mercenary force seized and held the upper hand early in the battle, killing several lighter enemy 'Mechs with concentrated firepower. But the Skye Rangers' greater numbers began to tell, and the advantage shifted to the invaders. Lori's troops had been pushed back almost to the chain-link fence surrounding the Doering manufacturing center before she was able to stabilize her lines. On the far side of the river, Colonel Nana Brennan was faring about the same. Her battalion had contained the invaders in their landing zone until a fighter strike had torn up her lines and killed her executive officer. In the confusion that ensued, the Lyran Guards were pushed southward several kilometers before Brennan could restore order.

Sweeping her eyes across the main viewscreen, Lori picked out a fresh target and settled the red cross hairs of her primary gun sight across the tall, humanoid machine's armored spine, keyed in her gauss rifle, and stroked the trigger.

She felt no compunction at shooting an enemy from behind. After all, as an old Terran gunfighter once said, "His back was to me."

The dense metal pellet collided with the enemy machine's left calf, and the armored giant turned to face its attacker. As it came around, Lori was startled at the almost human appearance of the 'Mech's faceplate. The short tube of a small laser jutting from the cooling fins beneath the slitted, horizontal viewscreen added to the illusion by giving the impression that the machine was smoking a cigar. Only one BattleMech in the Lyran arsenal had such an appearance, the HAl-O Hauptmann, an OmniMech.

Lori knew that the 'Mech had been developed by the Lyran Alliance a few years earlier in an attempt to create the same class of adaptable war machines as were fielded by the Clans. Still fairly rare, a few Hauptmanns had been sent to Skye Rangers units. How ironic that those units were now using the new model machines against the same Lyran Alliance that had designed them.

Lori knew from intelligence briefings that the Hauptmann OmniMech had three variants, but she wasn't sure which one this was. When a flat actinic glare lit the business end of a thick cylinder perched on the Hauptmann's right shoulder, and a silvery gray streak flashed past the Victor's head, Lori saw that she was facing the "A" variant. Armed with a gauss rifle and an array of lasers and short-range missiles, the 'Mech could strike effectively at any range, while its thick armor would give it the capacity to endure for a long time on a modern battlefield.

Lori aimed her Victor's full weapons complement at the rebel machine, then pressed the trigger. Streams of laser fire spattered against the Hauptmann's legs. An instant later, the heavy gauss slug delivered a stunning body-blow to the OmniMech's left side. The short-range missiles, by far the lowest-velocity weapon carried by her 'Mech, wreathed the Hauptmann's torso in smoke and flame, but did little more than chip its heavy armor.

The Lyran pilot was no rookie. Despite the barrage his machine had just taken, he returned Lori's fire without hesitation. Two ruby threads of laser energy speared the Victor's left leg, while a slug from the shoulder-mounted gauss rifle punched into its belly. As Lori fought the controls, struggling to keep her machine upright, she heard an urgent warble being generated by her Matabushi Sentinel sensor system. Then a red MSSL warning light started flashing on her 'Mech's center control panel. She looked up in time to see the Hauptmann slightly extend both arms and launch a dozen short-range missiles. Guided by the Hauptmann's Artemis Fire Control System, the missiles homed in on her battered Victor, the warheads bursting all around her. Some burrowed into the ground before exploding, throwing great clods of dirt into the air. Most found their targets, blasting away much of the armor remaining on the Victor's right arm and leg.

"I could use a little help here!" Lori yelled into her headset mike.

"On the way, Colonel," a voice replied. "Are you still mobile?"

"Affirmative," she answered.

"Great. Jump out of there backward, to your seven. Make it about a hundred meters."

Lori stomped on her jump jet control pedals, boosting the massive, eighty-ton assault 'Mech into the air. Hauling back on the control sticks, she steered the jet nozzles to propel her backward and to her left.

The Hauptmann pilot must have known the Victor's limited jump range, because he kicked his machine into a lumbering run, seemingly eager to finish off his opponent.

As Lori's Victor landed with a bone-jarring thud, she heard the deep, groaning squeal of metal stressing. The Hauptmann was almost five hundred meters away and closing fast. She brought her gauss rifle up, took careful aim, and fired. The slug bounced off the enemy's plastron, leaving a deep gouge in its wake. Instinctively, she waited for the weapon's breech to cycle another of the one-hundred-twenty-five-kilo spheres of nickel-iron into the firing chamber. Again, she took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.

The weapon failed to fire. Instead, it produced a hollow, buzzing thunk. There was no projectile to fire. The intense fighting had emptied Lori's gauss magazine, robbing her of her most effective weapon. She cued up her short-range missiles and watched the range to the target tick down until it entered the weapon's two-hundred-seventy-meter effective range.

"Where's that help?" she called. "You better get here quick."

A flight of missiles arced over her position to shower down upon the enemy 'Mech. The Hauptmann shifted its stance as the rebel at the controls turned his attention to the new foe. Before the enemy pilot could bring any of his weapons to bear, Lori heard the chattering roar of an autocannon and the hissing crack of gauss-rifle fire. Tracers stopped a few meters from their target, as proximity fuses detonated bursting charges. Submunitions battered every part of the Hauptmann, while the gauss rifle's solid shot blasted armor away from the 'Mech's left breast.

Lori searched the display for her rescuer, and caught sight of the elegant, birdlike form of a Clan Cauldron-Born alongside her. Its dark gray Legion paint job was hard to see in the waning light of the day, but she could make out the words "Faudgh an Bellagh" painted in gold lettering over a green field across the OmniMech's narrow body. There was only one such 'Mech in the Gray Death Legion.

The Gaelic slogan, meaning "Clear the way," was the motto of Major Thomas Devin.

Taking advantage of the Clan-designed and -built weapons, Devin savaged the Hauptmann with laser and missile fire. The rebel 'Mech replied with its gauss rifle. The slug broke armor on the Cauldron-Born's left leg, causing Devin to stutter-step in his deliberate advance. The enemy split his fire, using his extended-range lasers to again claw armor from Lori's Victor.

Both Legion 'Mechs turned their fire on the Hauptmann. Though the big assault 'Mech was tough, it could not stand up to that kind of a combined pounding. Its right leg snapped off above the backward-acting knee joint, and the proud war machine toppled. Even as it fell, Lori saw the bright flash as the pilot ejected from his crippled 'Mech.

"Thank you, Major," Lori said, panting from the heat of her cockpit and the stress of the moment. "How is the rest of the regiment faring?"

"Not too bad, Colonel," Devin said in his clipped St. Ives accent. "We've been pushed back onto the Doering factory grounds. The rebels keep pushing, but so far we've been able to hold them off. If they get organized instead of coming at us piecemeal, I don't think we'll be able to hold them."

"What about Colonel Brennan?" Lori asked. "Where are the Lyran guards?"

"To hell and gone," Devin spat. "Brennan tried to hold the buggers on her side of the river, but there were too many of them. The Guards fell back and got scattered. It will be morning before all of them find their way back home. The Separatists have pulled back and are probably reforming out there in the dark. When they get on track, they're going to try to do the same thing to us."

"Well, Major, let's get back to the Legion and see if there is any way we can prevent that."

* * *

"Legion One, this is Assassin One. We've got a breakthrough in our sector."

Lori looked at the map of the Doering Electronics complex and its environs displayed on a secondary monitor in her 'Mech's cockpit. The tiny blue triangles marking the Legion's second battalion were arrayed in two staggered lines along the Doering Electronic complex's northern perimeter. A spear of scarlet icons was now penetrating the line. It had taken the Skye Rangers some time to get "on track," as Major Devin would say. Then, just before midnight, they launched a new attack.

"Major Devin, get your battalion into the line to support Major Houk," Lori barked into her communicator. "Davis, we'll move the command company into the center of the complex and form a mobile reserve."

"Colonel, it's no good. They're coming at us in full strength," Houk yelled. "I don't think we can hold them."

"You've got to hold them, Major," Lori snapped. "Devin is on his way to support you. I'm moving—"

A triphammer series of explosions thundered into her cockpit, ending her message prematurely. Lori scanned her primary viewscreen, catching sight of four heavy BattleMechs moving in on her right. None of the humanoid war machines responded to her communication system's automatic Identify Friend or Foe interrogation. The enemy had somehow managed to flank the Legion's positions.

Lori slammed the control sticks hard over. In response, her Victor twisted at the waist. She jerked the triggers, snapping off a hasty volley at the attackers. Her lasers dug into the tough, armored hide of an enemy Black Knight, but the short-range missiles all fell short, scattering chunks of pavement across the 'Mech's feet. The Knight responded with a blast from its PPC that ripped away the last of the armor on her Victor's left arm. Lori heard the groan of overstressed metal as the endo-steel of the 'Mech's chassis all but collapsed under the particle beam's savage caress.

A Cataphract and an Orion stepped up beside the Black Knight, while the fourth 'Mech, all but invisible in the moonless night, hung back. Lori's computer rendered the machine as a Banshee, making it the heaviest enemy machine they had seen yet. Lori suspected that the Banshee might be the Skye Ranger command 'Mech.

Dallas MacKensie and the rest of the Legion's command lance closed ranks with her Victor and opened fire on the new arrivals, but they stood little chance against the armored monsters.

"Legion command, pull back," Lori called to them, though the order almost stuck in her throat. "All Gray Death units, fall back on the DropShips."

One by one, the Legion's company commanders registered their compliance with her orders. Each voice carried with it its own note of anger, reproach, or disgust. The Legion had lost battles before. This was something different. It was almost as though the Gray Death Legion was admitting defeat. To Lori's mind, it seemed that each bitter-toned acknowledgment was an accusation. This was her first big fight as the commander of the Gray Death Legion and she'd been found wanting. She'd let the Legion down and failed Grayson's memory.

Pushing those despairing thoughts into the back of her mind, she guided her badly damaged Victor away from the Doering plant, leaving it in the hands of the enemy.

BattleTech - LE5866

18

Gray Death Legion Compound

Maria's Elegy Space Port, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

01 July 3065

Lori sat in her office chair, leaning on the top of her desk with her chin cradled in her hands. The only source of light in the room was the digital clock on the wall. She stared at it as it clicked from 0329 to 0330.

Another minute of her life gone, she thought, feeling the first edges of despair touching her heart. She tried to tell herself again that the battle at the Doering plant was not the first engagement the Gray Death Legion had lost, nor was it likely to be the last. But here on Hesperus II, in the early morning hours of the first of July 3065, it felt like the world was beginning to wind down for her. Grayson, her husband of forty years, was gone. Before she had had time to properly mourn his passing, the Legion had been sent off to war. Then, Julio Vargas, that smiling, daredevil Spaniard, was taken from them. It seemed the Legion's phenomenal luck in battle was running out. Who would be next? McCall? Devin? Dan Brewer? Maybe she herself.

Lori felt the weight of the years pressing in on her. She had been a warrior all of her life, and a long, hard life it had been.

Yes, you have been a warrior all of your life, a voice in her head said. And a warrior doesn't sit in the dark and mope. Now, pull yourself together, go out there, and lead your troops.

The words and tone of the silent voice were so familiar that Lori shot from her chair, turning it over in the process. She slapped on the desk light, and glared around the office, as though she expected to see her husband standing in the corner, looking at her with that infectious, crooked grin.

But she was alone. Lori righted her chair and thought about dropping back into it. But the words kept echoing in her head, "Go out there and lead your troops."

She snapped off the desk lamp and made her way to the door in the dark. She would go out there and lead her troops. She'd lead as Grayson had always done, by example. Right now, the example her troops needed was one of a sensible commander, and a sensible commander would go try to get some rest.

The Legion would patch itself up and begin again in the morning, just as it always had done.

Lori made her way through the darkened corridors of the Legion officers' quarters until she reached her suite. Keying in the combination to her door, she slipped inside. Without turning on the lights, she passed into the bedroom. Pausing only long enough to remove her jacket and to pull off her boots, she threw herself onto her bunk. Almost at the same instant, the comm buzzed.

She sighed and sat up, slapping the answer stud.

"Yeah?" she mumbled. "And this had better be important."

"Colonel, I'm sorry to disturb you." It was Chief Sellars. "General Ciampa wanted you to know that it looks like the rebels in Melrose Valley are preparing to boost. We're getting real-time feeds from the Boomerangs. We've got heat blooms in the power plants of all of the enemy's DropShips. Yep, there they go. One, two, yeah, all of their DropShips are boosting."

"Where are they headed, Chief?" Lori asked.

"Don't know," Sellars answered.

"What about the force up at Doering?"

"Don't know," the chief sensor operator repeated. "We don't have sensor coverage of the Caran basin. We tried to over-fly the site, but the Separatists shot down the Boomerang. We sent out a few Skulkers, but they haven't reached the site yet."

"And the WarShip?"

"Holding position outside lunar orbit."

"Hmmm," Lori grunted. "All right, Chief. Please tell General Ciampa I'm on my way. I'll be there in about ten minutes."

* * *

In less time than she had predicted, Lori strode into the communications center. When she entered, Gina Ciampa was leaning over a map table, speaking animatedly over a comm. From Ciampa's agitated state, Lori silently bet that the person on the other end of the line was General Zambos.

"Wait one," Ciampa said into her lip mike. "Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle just walked in." She rounded to face Lori. "So, Colonel, what is your opinion?"

Lori studied the tracks plotted for the departing DropShips. All of the broken red lines seemed to be arching up and away from Hesperus II in the general direction of the Avalon-Class cruiser parked in geostationary orbit, just outside the orbit of the planet's sole moon.

"Still nothing on the Fourth Skye Rangers?" Lori asked, tapping the section of the electronic map representing the Caran River basin and the Doering Electronics factory.

"Nothing." Ciampa shook her head. "The Skulkers should arrive there within the hour. We'll know more then. Those scout cars carry about the same sensor packages as lhe Boomerangs, so our feed will be almost as good."

Lori frowned as she walked around the map table, tapping her front teeth with a stylus she had taken from her pocket. She completed two circuits before she spoke again.

"I don't think this was just a raid-in-force," she speculated aloud. "There were too many 'Mechs for that. Nobody pulls that kind of a raid with two full Regimental Combat Teams. Even if they did, these guys barely inflicted enough damage to slow down anybody's plans."

"What about your fighter wing, Colonel? Could you send some of your pilots out there to track the enemy's movement?"

"I could, General. The question is, should I?" Lori gave a single bitter laugh. "The Eagles are shot up pretty bad.

I doubt we could field five undamaged ships. We go chasing after their DropShips, and we're liable to lose the rest of the wing. I'd rather not risk that, General."

"I understand and appreciate your concern for your men," Ciampa said. "But we really need to know what the rebels are up to. If the Skye Rangers are displacing, we need to know where they're going, so we can be ready to meet them in case they're not leaving. We may risk a few of your pilots, but in the long run it will be a greater risk to all of us if we lose track of the enemy."

Lori gave Ciampa a cool look while she digested her words. Ciampa was right. The only way of knowing for sure what the Separatists were up to was to assign some of her pilots to fly reconnaissance.

"Very well, General," Lori said at last. "I'll arrange for a recon flight."

* * *

"Owl One to Legion One, we've just picked up the Rangers on our scanners," said Lieutenant Saul Dietrich, his voice crackling over the ear piece of the communications headset Lori wore over her left ear. "They are no longer outbound. The targets have assumed a GSO and are just sitting there. They have not deployed fighters. If I had to guess, Colonel, I'd say they were waiting for something."

"Confirmed," a technician sang out. "Sensor track indicates the rebels have left the atmosphere and have settled into a geosynchronous orbit."

"Lieutenant, can you remain onstation and keep us advised?" Lori asked.

"Yes, boss," Dietrich replied. "Either the bad guys haven't spotted us yet, or they don't care if we spy on 'em. Unless they launch fighters or try to get frisky with their DropShips, we should be able to remain onstation for . . ."

Dietrich paused, and Lori reasoned he was computing his fuel consumption versus the remaining fuel in his tanks.

"We can remain onstation for one-eight-zero minutes at present rate of fuel consumption," he said finally.

"Very well, Owl One. Remain onstation for one-four-zero minutes, then come back home," Lori ordered. "Maneuver at your discretion. If you think you can get us a better look without getting your tail shot off, that's fine, but do not place yourselves or your aircraft at risk. I'd be just as happy if the two of you stayed out of gunnery range."

"Don't worry about us, Legion One." Lori recognized the cheerful voice of Dietrich's wingman, Ensign Jason Batsa. "The first rule of being a mercenary is live to spend your paycheck."

"Roger that," Lori said flatly. Too many of her friends had died recently for her to appreciate that comment. She turned to Gina Ciampa.

"There you have it, General. Apparently the rebels are forming up to make another push."

"Yes, and God only knows where it's going to come down."

"We have three places that are likely," Lori countered. "I doubt they boosted just to turn around and hit Doering or Melrose again. That means they're going after Maldon, the Defiance complex, or Maria's Elegy."

"They haven't been behaving like a typical invasion force," Ciampa said as she studied the holographic plotting board. "They've hit two secondary targets."

"Strategic deception," Lori said, shrugging. "They know their battle plan and their timetable; we don't. They can strike when and where they please. We either have to keep our forces consolidated in one place and respond to their moves or try to be proactive and guess where they're going to hit next, which leaves the rest of the targets onplanet relatively unprotected. It's a good plan."

Ciampa gave a noncommittal grunt. "It's almost to be expected."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I know the Fourth Rangers' commander, Lieutenant-General William Harrison von Frisch. He was a year ahead of me at Sanglamore."

"I thought Sanglamore took only Isle of Skye natives," Lori said, staring at Ciampa.

"For the most part, they do. I'm a daughter of Skye. I was born on Alkaid and graduated from Sanglamore with honors in twenty-nine. Don't be suspicious of me, Colonel. I don't agree with what Duke Robert is trying to do. Like it or not, the Isle of Skye is part of the Lyran Alliance. We can't quit just because we feel like it."

Lori blinked in surprise at Ciampa's quietly impassioned statement, although she knew that such was the cost of any civil war. Men and women would be forced to turn their backs on home and family in order to follow the dictates of their conscience.

"You were saying about von Frisch?" she prompted, thinking to turn Ciampa away from what was obviously a painful subject.

Ciampa gazed through her for a moment, then returned to her theme.

"He's a maverick, always has been. I remember him mouthing off at one of the professors about the stale old we-always-did-it-this-way attitude of the Steiner officer corps. He was always in trouble for going his own way, but his record in field exercises was undeniable. He fought more like a Fedrat than a Lyran. I lost touch with him after he graduated, but I kept seeing his name on promotion and decoration rosters and kept hearing rumors that he was in trouble with the higher-ups.

"He was one of the first generals to hand over his resignation when Duke Robert declared Skye to be independent. Again, that's hardly surprising. And it's hardly surprising that Robert would pick him to lead the assault on Hesperus."

Lori pulled up a chair and sat back to digest what Ciampa had just told her. An unorthodox officer in command of the enemy forces would make predicting his next move difficult and would limit the defenders' options.

"Well, General," she said at last, "the Gray Death Legion has a reputation for being unpredictable too. Once we get von Frisch on the ground, we'll do everything we can to keep him guessing."

That drew a chuckle from Ciampa that was cut short by the voice of one of the communication techs.

"General, Colonel, we've got a sensor feed from Sage Five."

The officers jumped to their feet. Sage Five was the code name of the three-vehicle unit of Skulker Wheeled Scout Tanks that had been dispatched to the Caran River basin.

"Sage Five, this is Warrior One Actual," Ciampa said, adjusting her headset. "Where the hell have you been? We expected to hear from you over an hour ago."

"I know, Warrior One," the scout replied. "We got into position right on time, but we had to lay low for a while. We were just about to start sending you telemetry feeds when a couple of bad guys came and camped right on our doorstep. One was a Hermes. If we'd started sending, they'd have spotted us right away. We went into complete shutdown. Even then, we were afraid his Beagle probes would pick us up. They just now moved away enough for us to risk transmitting."

"Never mind that now," Ciampa cut him off. "Where are the rebels?"

"They've left a holding force at the Doering plant, and it looks like the rest of the enemy are boarding their DropShips. They can't be bugging out, or they'd all be leaving."

"How much of a holding force?" Lori asked.

"Looks like an armored regiment, maybe two regiments of infantry," the scout answered. "Stand by. Telemetry coming your way."

A technician pointed to a monitor where the data being fed to the communications center was displayed. The installation's powerful computers read the encrypted electronic signals and rendered a graphic, three-dimensional picture of the tactical situation. Lori didn't need to strain her eyes to pick out the image of a dozen or so armored vehicles parked inside the chain-link fence surrounding the Doering complex. At least two of those were Demolisher II heavy tanks. The smaller shapes of infantrymen moved among the tanks.

"Not good," Ciampa said. "It looks like they mean to hang on to the factory."

"Actually, the news isn't all that bad," Lori contradicted. "It's only bad if we plan on taking the factory away from them. As far as I'm concerned, they can have Doering, for now at least. What's good for us is the fact that they've weakened themselves a little without our having to fire a shot. One tank regiment and two regiments of PBIs may not seem like much when you compare them to what von Frisch has left, but every little bit helps. Once we beat the heavy assault forces, we can go back and mop up at Doering."

Ciampa snorted at Lori's use of the acronym for "Poor Bloody Infantry," knowing the Legion's reliance on ground-pounders who were specially trained and equipped for anti-Mech tactics.

"You may be right, Colonel," she said. "I hope you are." Then she spoke into her mike. "Sage One, continue your surveillance. Let us know the minute the enemy boosts. But do not put yourself at risk. If it looks like they've spotted you, pull stakes and run for cover."

"Wilco," the scout commander replied, signing off.

It was over an hour before any new information came into the comm center. When reports arrived, they heralded the next phase of the battle for Hesperus.

"Sage One to Warrior One, the bad guys just boosted. Tracking indicates that they're headed for geosynch. They're probably going to rendezvous with the rest of the rebels before they move on their next objective."

"Roger," a tech responded. "We've got them on our screens now. We'll take it from here."

"Sage One, what about the holding force?" Ciampa asked.

"Looks like the holding force is digging in."

"Very well. Hold position and maintain surveillance." Ciampa turned to Lori, who had been dozing in her chair. "Well, Colonel?"

"Whatever is going to happen next is about to happen," Lori said. The nap seemed to have left her more tired instead of rested.

"General!" the shout came from the woman manning the center's primary long-range scanners. The unit had been aimed into space to keep track of the WarShip lying doggo just outside Hesperus IPs orbit. Lori's fatigue vanished in a burst of adrenaline triggered by the tech's panic-tinged shout.

"What is it?" Ciampa demanded sharply.

"The WarShip is on the move. Sensors.indicate she is moving insystem."

Before either woman could respond, a third voice rang in Lori's ears.

"Legion One, this is Owl One, FLASH! The Simon Davion is underway and heading insystem. The DropShips are still onstation."

"Owl One, bug out," Lori barked. "We have the DropShips and the Simon on scanners. No sense in getting yourselves killed."

"We're long gone, boss." In her headset, Lori heard the powerful engines of Dietrich's fighter cut in. On the tracking board, the tiny blue daggers representing Owl Flight's Corsair aerospace fighters began moving away from the clustered red circles of the enemy DropShips. A number of scarlet daggers blinked into existence on the board as the rebel fighters gained enough separation from the ships to be detected by the planetside sensors. There was no string of alphanumerics attached to the enemy fighters because the rebel craft were too far away for identification.

"Owl Flight, you've got at least six fighters in pursuit," Lori said into her microphone.

"Thanks for the tip, Legion One," Dietrich said with a touch of sarcasm. "We can see them. They aren't gaining, and they aren't falling behind."

"Owl Flight, can you adjust your vector to bring them across the spaceport defenses?" Ciampa asked.

"That's what we're trying to do." The Legion pilot's voice was tight, with a raw edge. He sounded as if he was straining against the G forces generated by aerospace combat maneuvers. The scale of the tracking board was too small to show that.

The icons representing Owl Flight began to veer away from their original course, as Dietrich and Batsa vectored in toward Maria's Elegy.

Ciampa moved to the opposite end of the communication center, talking animatedly with a technician. Lori couldn't hear what was being said, but she had some idea. The plaque above the tech's station read Primary Weapon Control.

The tiny pointed crosses representing Legion fighters crept across the tracking board, slowly descending to twenty-five thousand meters. Their heading change had cost them some of their lead, but they were still outside the maximum effective range of the pursuing fighters. As she watched and prayed, silently urging her pilots to hurry, a wedge of amber light flashed across the tracking board. Her fighters were just crossing the boundary of the yellow fifty-degree arc. The rebel ships trailed them by less than a finger's width.

"Wait for it," she heard Ciampa mutter.

The attacking fighters crossed the verge of the wedge.

"Wait," Ciampa said.

Another twenty seconds ticked by.

"Now," the general said.

Across the spaceport from the command center, a set of massive doors set into a large hardened ferrocrete building swung open. For a moment, the air was filled with a high-pitched rumble, followed by quiet, then an earsplitting crack resounded across the spaceport as a megawatt pulse of laser energy ripped into the sky.

The lights dimmed in the comm center as the huge defensive laser drew power from the rest of the base.

"Miss," the weapons officer spat. "Charging for another shot. Those fighters are too small for the system to target accurately."

"Keep firing," Ciampa growled. "You might not hit the rebels, but you'll give them something to think about."

"Weapon on line. Firing." The tech thumped his fist against his console. "Dammit."

"How long until the missiles can be brought to bear?" Ciampa asked.

"We have a hard Artemis lock. It will be a few minutes until they enter missile range," the tech said, fiddling with his controls.

"General, it looks like the enemy is breaking off pursuit."

Ciampa turned to the sensor operator who had spoken. "Confirm it."

"Confirmed. General. The fighters are breaking off, but the DropShips have started an in-run. It looks like they're headed for the Defiance complex." The tech leaned in toward his display. "Wait one . . .oh, no."

"What?" Lori snapped.

"The Simon Davion. She is definitely moving insystem. I think she's going to pull into orbit."

19

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

01 July 3066

"Thank you, General. We'll be ready for them," Major Goree said. "But we need you to come and help us. If both rebel units are headed this way, I don't think the DSPF can hold them off alone."

Without waiting for Ciampa's reply, Goree switched off his comm unit. He looked at the two men seated across his desk, then spoke first to the man in civilian clothing.

"Mister Quinn, I think you had better shut down as many of the plant's facilities as you safely can. Seal up the ammunition bunkers, and get your people into the shelters."

Samuel Quinn, the Defiance facility's production manager, nodded, then got up to do as he was bid.

Goree addressed himself to the remaining man. "Pres, get the troops mounted up. If the Separatists are really on their way here, we don't have a whole lot of time. Get the defense grid powered up. We might not be able to knock any of their DropShips down, but we can seriously inconvenience them."

"Yessir," Captain Preston Minh responded, turning to leave.

"Wait a second, Pres." Goree stopped his executive officer. "Shut the door. There's something else General Ciampa told me. I didn't want Quinn to hear it, for fear of starting a panic."

"What is it, Jim?"

"Ciampa said the Separatists are moving a battlecruiser into orbit. We know this mountain is big enough to withstand any conventional weapon. I don't know if it can stand up to naval gunfire, especially anti-ship missiles. Detail a squad of infantrymen to help Quinn get everyone into the hardened shelters. Try to get them as deep as possible. But don't let word of this leak out, Pres, or we're liable to have a panic on our hands."

"Major, you're full of good news," Minh said sarcastically.

"I am that," Goree said, with a thin, humorless smile. "Get a move on, Captain. Our guests will be here soon."

As Minh left the Major's office, Goree got up and pulled a large nylon duffel bag from a wardrobe. Then he stepped into the hallway, out of habit slapping a wall-mounted switch, killing the lights. For a moment, the irony of his action tugged at the corners of his mouth. Here he was, about to go into a desperate battle against long odds in which incredible amounts of energy would be expended, and he was concerned about saving the company a few ergs worth of draw on its electrical generation system.

Goree walked quickly through the corridors toward the 'Mech hangar. He was now so familiar with the maze of passageways that he could walk them blindfolded. When he first arrived at DefHesp, he'd been overawed by the sheer enormity of the facility, with its cracking stations, fractionating towers, blast furnaces, smelters, and rows of warehouses. Now when he passed through the complex, he barely noticed them. That was not to say he was unmindful of the huge automated and manual fabrication systems. He was supremely aware of them. Indeed, protecting the underground complex had become Major James Goree's overwhelming reason for living.

As he entered the 'Mech hangar, Phil Bertrand, the head of his personal technical crew, hurried across the bay to meet him.

"Major, we just completed the diagnostics and pre-start sequences. Everything checks out fine. You've got a full load of ammunition, and you're ready to go."

Goree took the electronic note pad Bertrand was holding. With an elegant hand more suited to a scholar or poet than a warrior, Goree signed the status report without reading it. If Phil Bertrand said his 'Mech was ready to go, then it was ready.

Goree looked at the men and women standing around the bay. All of them were skilled warriors. Many had once been part of the armed forces of one Great House or another. A few were veterans of the war of annihilation against the Smoke Jaguars.

"They are coming, people," he said simply. "Let's mount up."

As the Mech Warriors of the Defiance Self-Protection Force scattered toward their BattleMechs, Goree headed for his GUN-1 ERD Gunslinger. The 'Mech was the product of a joint Davion/Kurita design team. Intended to cripple Clan 'Mechs at the stand-off ranges the genetically engineered Clan warriors seemed to favor, the Gunslinger mounted a pair of gauss rifles, one in each forearm. A half-dozen medium lasers, two of them pulse models, completed the assault armament.

Goree was as familiar with the 'Mech and its capabilities as he had been with his ex-wife, but unlike her, the big machine had never let him down. He sprinted up the steep metal stairs to the catwalk that ran shoulder-high to most of the 'Mechs in his battalion. When he reached the open ingress/egress hatch set into the back of his Gunslinger's head, he placed his duffel on the perforated steel decking and knelt beside it. He pulled a coverall from the bag and exchanged the MechWarrior combat suit for his normal clothing.

Like a cooling vest, the MCS helped counteract the effects of the waste heat generated by a 'Mech's fusion plant and weapons. Unlike the vests, the combat suits covered the whole of a warrior's body, increasing their effectiveness. They included a hardened armor vest and a special light combat neurohelmet, which could be sealed against a hostile atmosphere. With practiced fingers, he fastened the suit's armored plastron in place over his chest and shoved his civilian clothing into the duffel. He pulled the light combat neurohelmet from its padded compartment in the bag, lucked it under one arm, and ducked into the cockpit.

Then Goree dropped into his command couch and fastened the seat's five-point harness around him. He made sure his combat suit, with its all-important cooling tubes, was not pinched or constricted by the heavy nylon straps encircling his waist and crossing his body down from his shoulders and up between his legs. Once he was satisfied with the fit of the harness, he pulled the neurohelmet over his head and attached the control leads. For a moment, he experienced a flash of vertigo as the sensors in the helmet attuned the big gyrostabilizer in the 'Mech's belly to his own sense of balance.

"Enter password and security code now." The computer's synthesized voice was a neutral contralto.

"Password: Floodgate," he said clearly. Unlike many MechWarriors, Goree's password meant nothing to him personally. He had chosen it at random from a dictionary. "Security code: In good time."

"Password and security code accepted. Voiceprint match confirmed." The computer's tone never changed. "Welcome aboard, Major Goree."

Goree returned the greeting. He took hold of the control stick with his right hand. With his left, he flipped a switch on an overhead panel. A dull thump penetrated the thick armor covering the cockpit, an indication that the locking clamps that held the Gunslinger to the gantry had released.

"All Defenders, this is Seawall," he said into his helmet's integral microphone. "Move out according to the numbers. Form up just outside the hangar. It's time to earn our pay."

Two of the 'Mechs of his command company exited the hangar before Goree was cleared to leave. He guided the big 'Mech through the hangar door out into the open space beyond. Quickly, the 'Mechs of the Defiance Self-Protection Force fell into ranks behind him.

"Attention to orders," he said when the last 'Mech stepped into place. "We have a large force headed this way. On a 'Mech-for-'Mech basis, we outweigh and likely outgun most of them, but overall, they've got us completely outclassed. So, this is how we're going to handle it. We'll move down to our prepared emplacements, we'll fight from cover wherever possible, and we'll stay within range of the defense grid. If the enemy comes at us in force, and I expect he will, we will displace to our fallback positions, and then, if necessary, withdraw inside the factory itself. If you must withdraw, keep to the clear lanes. Do not stray into the minefields.

"I do hope it will not come to that. General Ciampa and Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle are mustering their forces to come and relieve us. We've got to hold the enemy back from our gates for as long as possible. If we're forced back into the mountain, they will lay siege to the gates and eventually batter them down. We've got the advantage if the fight goes inside the facility, but I'd rather avoid that sort of battle. The damage it would inflict on the plant is too great. Further, if the enemy troops are inside when Ciampa and the Legion arrive, they'll have to root the enemy out, just the same as the rebels would have to root us out.

"We must be tough today, people. Mark your targets. Make every shot count. That is all. Now, company commanders, move your troops into position."

A flurry of orders blanketed the communications net as the commanders of each of Goree's five companies barked out orders to the warriors under their leadership. Goree and the 'Mechs of his command company held back, giving the rest of his troops time to deploy to the improved fighting positions that had been prepared for this day. All around him, studding the sides of the mountain, were low camouflaged pillboxes, each housing a powerful laser, particle projector, autocannon, or missile launcher. Some of the bunkers contained Long Toms or Arrow IV launchers, heavy artillery units that could rain destruction down upon the invaders before the attackers could get close enough to hit back.

Even with all that firepower at his disposal, he wondered if he could hold until the combat units arrived from Maria's Elegy. It was less than an hour by DropShip, but Ciampa had told him that the rebels had moved the Simon Davion into position above Maria's Elegy. The presence of the capital ship would make transporting ground units by suborbital DropShip flights risky in the extreme. Therefore, it would take the relief force most of the day to traverse the rough Myoo Mountains. With luck, they would arrive in time to interrupt the Separatists' victory celebration.

"Major, we've got a feed from the spaceport," a technician said via the command net. "You should be able to see the inbound DropShips any second, coming in at one-five-eight degrees."

Goree touched a control, setting the magnification on his main viewscreen to its highest level. He twisted the Gunslinger's torso to the right, and within seconds, the 'Mech's sensitive targeting and tracking equipment picked up the relatively tiny black spots of the incoming DropShips.

"Command center, I have the inbounds on my scope," he called. "It looks like it's just DropShips. Have they launched their fighters yet?"

"Not yet, Major." The sensor operator sounded as perplexed as Goree felt. The larger, more powerful fixed sensor systems that were part of the Defiance Industries defense grid should have been able to detect such fighter craft had they been deployed. "They may be waiting until they're closer, to give their fighters less of an in-run to the target."

"Well, keep your eyes open," Goree said. "I want to know the minute they launch."

"You don't have to wait, Major. The lead ship just deployed its fighters. It looks like heavies, and they're inbound high and fast."

Goree relayed the warning to his troops and ordered the command center to switch the defense grid to its antiair role. He watched as the fighters appeared on his view-screen, first as tiny specks, then as miniature, aircraft-shaped blotches. In a matter of seconds, the spots resolved themselves into the flying-wing shape of Chippewa aerospace fighters.

The first pair flashed over the Self-Protection Force's dug-in 'Mechs, bypassing even the command lance before they rolled out. The lead Chippewa held its dive for a full five seconds before releasing a stick of bombs. The deadly packages of steel and high explosive slammed into the mountainside and blossomed into a gout of smoke and flame. From his position, Goree could not see what the attackers were aiming at, but he could guess. Their target was either one of the heavy artillery emplacements or a sensor radome. The second fighter made its run even before the smoke of the first bomb salvo had dissipated.

Missiles, laser, and autocannon fire reached up from the defense grid to claw at the rebels, but the swiftly darting fighters made difficult targets. Most of the attacks hit nothing but empty air.

Two more fighters swooped in, aiming for a different point on the mountainside. They weren't quite so lucky. The heavy ground fire swatted one Lucifer out of the sky and left the second with a badly perforated wing.

A warning tone screeched in Goree's ear. A small red square flicked on in the top-left corner of his viewscreen, bracketing what appeared to be a rebel Stuka aerofighter. Beneath the viewscreen glowed a threat light labeled TAG. The ship must have been one gained from House Davion during the time of the Federated Commonwealth. The big fighter was boring its way in on the command lance's position.

Goree called a warning to his lancemates even as he snapped the Gunslinger's twin gauss rifles into line with the attacking fighter. Both shots missed the relatively tiny, fast-moving target. Laser fire from the defense grid slashed at the Stuka's skinny fuselage. Missiles and particle bolts fired by the command lance also tore at the attacking ship. But still he came on. A new alarm sound joined and clashed with the first as the threat light labeled MSSL lit up.

The Stuka pulled up and away from the command lance, but left two streaks of fire arrowing in toward the DSPF commander's position. One of the big Arrow IV missiles smashed into the PPR-5S Salamander artillery 'Mech piloted by Livia Lassiter. The explosion drove the hunched machine back a step, blasting half the armor away from its chest. The second Arrow IV drove into the stony ground between the Salamander's feet, scattering shrapnel and bits of shattered rock for thirty meters around, and causing the staggering 'Mech to fall to one knee.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the air attack was over.

"All units, check in," Goree snapped.

"Alpha Company, checking in. We took some damage, but we're all still here."

"Bravo Company here, Major. They didn't touch us at all."

"Major, this is Lieutenant Nystrom, Charlie Company. Captain Harris is dead. His Nightsky took two Arrows square in the chest. They damn near cut him in half, sir."

"Take it easy, son," Goree said, hearing the unsteady note in Nystrom's voice. "How is the rest of C Company?"

"We're okay, I guess," Nystrom said, clearly trying to master himself. "We took a few hits, but the rest of us can still fight."

"Good man," Goree said. "Delta Company, report."

"Delta Company got banged around some, Major, but we're mostly intact."

"Good. Now, all commands, look sharp. The rebels are on the ground, and I don't think they're going to give us much time to recover from the air strike."

"You're right about that, sir," Nystrom yelled across the comm net. All traces of sorrow or fear were swallowed up in anger and the anticipation of battle. "Here they come."

Goree looked out across the plateau and spotted a broken line of 'Mechs carefully picking their way across the uneven ground.

"Command Center, we have 'Mechs on the ground," he said, catching some of Nystrom's excitement as he spoke. "Patch me through to the Fire Direction Center."

"FDC," were the next words he heard.

"Fire Mission," Goree told the officer controlling the defense system's artillery assets. "Grid: Lima-India-Five-Seven-Two-Niner. Target: BattleMechs moving in the open. Request spotting round."

"Confirming, Grid: Lima-India-Five-Seven-Two-Niner. 'Mechs in the open." There was a pause while the big Long Tom artillery pieces aligned themselves. "Spotting round on the way."

Goree heard the thump as the massive cannon spat out its projectile. Several seconds later, the shell landed one hundred meters in front of the advancing 'Mechs.

"Splash," he said, telling the Fire Direction Center he could see the shell impact. "You're short. Up fifty and fire for effect."

"On the way."

Again, the thump of the big gun shook the mountainside. Before the echoes of the blast could fade, a trio of similar reports roared out. The first projectile arrived right on target, bursting directly between two of the invaders' 'Mechs. One reeled and fell. The other took a stuttering step, recovered, and kept on coming. A split-second later, three dirty black-gray flowers bloomed over the battlefield, slightly in front of the advancing line. Under maximum magnification, Goree could see the sparkling flashes of submunitions exploding against armor as the shells burst, showering the enemy 'Mechs with smaller antiarmor bomblets.

A second volley of artillery shells boomed overhead. But the rebel commander was too smart to just stand in the open and take the fire. No sooner had his 'Mechs recovered from the pounding of the first barrage than they sped up their advance, heedless of the uneven ground. Goree called a correction in to the FDC, and a third set of shells dropped into the advancing ranks.

At almost the same time, a half-dozen bolts of azure fire, barely visible in the late-morning sun, lashed out at the attackers from his partially concealed 'Mechs. The Separatists hit back with PPC, laser, and missile fire, pausing only long enough to target the half-hidden DSPF machines.

"Take aim. Mark your targets," he called across the comm net.

Lasers and autocannon fire joined the charged-particle streams and antiarmor missiles.

"Major, do you want another volley?" the artillery officer asked over the command channel.

"Negative, the enemy are at 'danger close,'" Goree shot back.

"Can you give me a TAG paint for the Arrows?"

"Stand by." Goree switched to the general net. "Can anyone TAG any of those 'Mechs?"

"Charlie One-four, TAG, TAG, TAG."

"Fire Control, TAG one." Goree pressed a switch, relaying the targeting data to the Fire Direction Center.

Within a few seconds, four missiles screamed down into the enemy lines, blasting a rebel Vindicator to pieces.

"Seawall, this is Bravo One-One," Marty Cross bellowed. "We're about to get overrun here."

"All Defenders, this is Seawall," Goree yelled into his mike. "Pull back. Displace to your secondary positions."

Below his position, he saw roughly half of the surviving DSPF 'Mechs slip out of their revetments and dash across the open ground toward their fallback emplacements. A rebel fighter, a Stuka, possibly the same one that had attacked the command lance, rolled in on the withdrawing BattleMechs. Lasers tore up the ground as the big fighter flashed along the lines at less than a hundred meters above the battlefield.

A Defiance Centurion pitched headlong into the rocky soil, its left leg severed neatly at mid-thigh. A barrel-chested JagerMech and a stocky Bombardier stood their ground, blazing away at the attacking fighter, which was trailing a thin streamer of black smoke as it pulled up out of its strafing run. The Stuka's wingman, seemingly undaunted by the ground fire, followed his leader, making a point-attack with his missiles and autocannon against the JagerMech. The antiaircraft 'Mech took the withering fire, hitting back as best he could, as did the missile-armed Bombardier, but luck was against them this time. The Stuka escaped without serious damage.

Even as the big fighter climbed away from the battlefield, the rest of the defending 'Mechs bolted from their original fighting positions and made a mad dash for their fallback stations.

The enemy, seemingly emboldened by the withdrawal of the dug-in 'Mechs, leapt forward. For the most part, the Skye Rangers were keeping good order, but a few 'Mechs, mostly light, fast reconnaissance-types, pulled a bit ahead of their slower, more massive fellows.

A loud, flat bang echoed among the rocks, followed by a second, then a third. Geysers of rocky earth were flung into the air as heavy anti-vehicular mines detonated beneath the feet of the onrushing 'Mechs. When the smoke cleared, a Raven lay on the ground trying to get back to its feet, both of which had been blown off by the mine. A second 'Mech, a type Goree did not recognize, lay full length on the ground, twitching as though it were some living colossus that had been shot through the spine.

The sudden knowledge that they had blundered into a minefield caused the attacking 'Mechs to pause. The defenders used that hesitation against the rebels. Three more light and medium 'Mechs were smashed to the ground by accurate fire coming from the entrenched 'Mechs. The Defiance troops began to select their targets carefully, massing their fire by lance against a specific target. A fireball blossomed in the enemy ranks as a rebel 'Mech suffered a magazine explosion.

Then the invaders surged forward again. This time, the heavier 'Mechs led the way. More mines detonated under the feet of the attackers. A few were damaged, but not enough. They closed on the defenders, losing a few of their number in the process, but still they came on.

Goree brought up his powerful gauss rifles, dropping the targeting reticle over the center-mass of a slightly damaged Ranger Flashman. The basketball-sized nickel-iron slugs smashed into the stubby 'Mech's torso and left leg, shattering armor and cracking the enemy's metallic shin bone. The rebel must have spotted Goree's camouflaged Gunslinger, for he raised both arms and touched off the Radionic large lasers that replaced the 'Mech's hands. The radiation-intensified light beams ripped across the Gunslinger's breastplate, leaving deep, blackened scars on the 'Mech's belly and left side.

The enemy didn't get a chance for a follow-up shot. Three flights of twenty long-range missiles from Lassiter's Salamander completed the work Goree, along with some unknown Defiance MechWarrior, had begun. Armor-piercing warheads savaged every portion of the Flashman's body. Its left leg parted company with its body, and the machine toppled to the ground, snapping off its right arm at the shoulder as it tried to break its fall with that weakened limb.

Still, it was not enough. There were far too many rebel 'Mechs for the DSPF to destroy one at a time. Facing odds of better than six-to-one, Goree's valiant warriors could not hold out.

"All defenders, this is Seawall," he said, the words sour as bile in his mouth. "Recall, recall, recall. Pull back into the mountain. If we cannot hold them here, we'll make them shoot their way in and pick them off as they try to secure the factory."

Again, the Defiance 'Mechs began an orderly retreat into their mountain home. Goree sighed heavily. He had done his best. Now it was up to General Ciampa's Lyran Guards and the Gray Death Legion to save Defiance Hesperus from the hands of the enemy.

20

Gray Death Legion Compound

Maria's Elegy Spaceport

Hesperus II

Skye Province, Lyran Alliance

01 July 3065

"C'mon, Davis, get 'em moving," Lori bawled into her communicator. She stood on the corrugated and louvered roof of a massive boxcar, which was hitched to a powerful engine. Both floated a handspan above the ferrocrete and steel trackway of the Maria's Elegy/Defiance maglev rail line.

On the tarmac below her perch, Davis McCall was doing a little yelling of his own.

"Dammit man, can ye no follow directions?" He glared up at the towering form of a Legion Wraith, shouting into the small, short-range communicator he held before his lips. As always, when he was angry or in the grip of any other strong emotion, his Caledonian accent came out in full force. "Ah said the fifth car, can ye no count? Noo take that micklin' monster o' yours doon tae th' fifth bloody car and get aboard the bloody damn train!"

The Wraith's pilot somehow got his 'Mech to give an almost-human apologetic shrug. As the machine turned away, McCall turned to the next one in line, favoring the pilot with a blast of vituperation more fit for a Master Sergeant than a Lieutenant Colonel.

A husky man clad in civilian clothing called out to Lori as he pulled himself atop the freight car.

"What is it, Mister Cooper?"

"Well, Colonel, as I've been trying to tell you, this train isn't going to be able to carry all of your 'Mechs, and your tanks, and your infantry." Cooper removed the drab green baseball cap emblazoned with the Defiance Hesperus logo, and wiped his bald pate with a handkerchief. "The best you'll be able to cram aboard her is two 'Mech battalions and a couple companies of infantry. We can't haul anymore weight than that."

"What if we hook on another engine?" Lori asked.

"We can't couple on more engines. This maglev line was designed to carry a specific amount of weight. There is a margin of error built into the system, but we're already pushing that limit." Cooper stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and replaced his cap. "I've been the chief engineer on this line for the past twenty years, and you're going to have to take my word for it."

Lori nodded. "All right, Mister Cooper, I'll take your word for it. Get this thing ready to move. We're almost done loading."

"We're ready whenever you are, Colonel," Cooper said, and started forward, jumping across the gaps between the maglev rail cars.

"Davis, get the last of our Mechs aboard," she yelled to McCall. "And cram in as many of our infantrymen as you can. The Lyran Guards will have to wait until the next time around."

"Aye, Colonel," McCall shouted back. "And when might that be?"

"As soon as possible. That's all I can get out of Cooper," Lori said disgustedly. "He says there are safety margins built into the maglev system that just can't be tweaked, no matter how hard we push. From what I gather, Second Battalion will be thirty minutes behind the first."

"That's too long, Colonel," McCall said.

"I know that, Davis, but what are our alternatives? Use the DropShips and have that blasted battle cruiser up there burn them out of the sky?" Lori could not control her exasperation. "We're out of choices."

"Aye, and I hope Major Goree isn't."

* * *

Lori grabbed the back of the engineer's chair, steadying herself as the maglev train rocketed around a bend in the track. Had the Legion been aboard a normal train, the curve would have been noticeable but not inconvenient to the passengers. Aboard the maglev, which reached speeds in excess of one hundred fifty kilometers per hour, the centrifugal forces generated were enough to knock passengers off their feet if they weren't holding on to something.

Lori cursed as her right hip smacked into a bank of instruments running down the center of the magnetic-levitation engine's control deck. Cooper laughed softly at her swearing and at the reason for it. He had warned her about the dangers of pushing the safety margins on the maglev. But she had insisted, browbeating him into taking it beyond its normal operating speed to a dangerous velocity.

Recovering her balance, she looked at her watch. Cooper said it would take about forty-five minutes to make the direct, high-speed run from Maria's Elegy to the Defiance complex. If the engineer's estimates were accurate, they would be pulling into the giant manufacturing complex in less than fifteen minutes.

Cooper caught her checking the time. "We've got one more tunnel. Then we'll drop out of the mountains into the highlands. From there, it's about ten minutes to the factory."

"Right," Lori said, and pulled her communicator from her pocket. "Attention, all Legionnaires. We are about fifteen minutes out. You all know the drill. We'll stop the train short of the mountain and come in on the enemy's flanks. That's all I can tell you until we get some eyes-on assessment of the battlefield. Mount up, and good luck."

"No worries here, Colonel. I'll bring you to a nice gentle stop," Cooper promised with a smile.

"Thanks," Lori said. She clapped the engineer on the shoulder and headed for the narrow hatchway leading from the control deck back toward the freight cars.

"Fifteen minutes," she yelled at the Legionnaires gathered in the first car. The Mech Warriors responded by clambering up the chain ladders to their 'Mech cockpits.

A few infantrymen and technicians, along with a couple of train crewmen, remained on the floor of the freight car.

The cargo carrier was essentially a flatbed, with heavy, corrugated steel sides locked into place once their payload was loaded. Each car normally held two BattleMechs chained on their backs to the bed. Lori had managed to coerce the railyard workers into an alternate means of boarding the Legion 'Mechs. Every car held four 'Mechs, each in a kneeling position, fastened to the car by several sets of heavy chains. When the train arrived at the Defiance complex, the techs and crewmen would flip off the brake pawls of the "come-along" chain tensioners, and the 'Mechs could rise, free themselves of their chains, and join the fight.

Most of the soldiers in the next car were Tom Leone's armored infantrymen. They were jammed in so tightly Lori was tempted to scale the roof-access ladder next to the hatch and walk across the car on their armored shoulders. But the men jostled and pushed each other enough to clear a path for their commander. As she reached the far end of the car, she advised Major Leone of their imminent arrival.

"As soon as this thing stops," she told him, "I want your boys off the train. Establish a secure perimeter for us. If the enemy spots us, do your best to keep them at bay until the rest of the battalion gets activated."

"You got it, Colonel," Leone smiled.

Lori smiled back and ducked into the next car, where she repeated her order to Meg Powers. The third car held her Victor. Her technician took the bulky gray coveralls Lori wore over the dark gray body-stocking of her cooling suit, and passed across her combat neurohelmet. After fastening the lightweight, but awkward helmet in place, Lori started up the chain ladder to the Victor's cockpit.

* * *

MechWarrior Corporal Valdis Koll scanned his War Dog's sensors for enemy activity. It had been almost twenty minutes since the Defiance Self-Protection force 'Mechs had retreated inside the mountain factory complex, and his superiors in the Skye Rangers had yet to figure out what to do about the dug-in defenders.

Kofi's company had been deployed on the Fourth Rangers' right flank to help protect the Separatists' main body from any flanking attack. Koll was certain such an attack would come as soon as the regular Lyran forces and the Gray Death mercenaries could figure out a way to make the run to Defiance without the use of their DropShips. General Ciampa was no fool, and that bitch Carlyle was far too clever for her own good. To make matters worse, she had inherited most of her husband's infernal luck. Taken all together, it was a dangerous combination.

Then he spotted the train. The maglev cargo-hauler was headed straight for the Defiance complex, but there was something odd about it. The train was capable of over one hundred twenty kilometers per hour, but it seemed to be slowing. Koll locked his Garret 02j tracking system onto the high-speed transport, watching as the computer translated the impulses fed into it by his motion sensors, radar, and laser-rangefinders. The train's speed was rendered as a set of holographic numbers in the lower left corner of his HUD. One-twenty, one-ten, one hundred kilometers per hour. The train was definitely slowing, though it was still a dozen klicks from the mountain. That made no sense. Who would send a vulnerable maglev train into a battle?

He kicked up the magnification on his viewscreen and instantly recognized the squared-off, lopsided head of a Grasshopper BattleMech. The mottled light and dark gray paint job on the GHR-5Ts head was a bit more difficult to discern, but Koll realized immediately what it meant. The Gray Death Legion was trying to reinforce the Defiance Self-Protection Force by rail.

A grim smile curled his lips. Carlyle's luck in battle was about to change.

Koll brought the War Dog into a rolling, apelike run. The 'Mech took a bit of getting used to, both in terms of piloting and in appearance. Its small, egg-shaped body suspended between legs that appeared to go all the way up to its shoulders made it one of the ugliest 'Mechs on the modern battlefield. The legs made for a long, jolting stride, and the right arm supported half again as much armor as did the left, making for some tricky gyro-balancing. But once you learned how to handle the quirky 'Mech and ignore its odd appearance, the War Dog was an excellent fighting vehicle.

Koll raced across the plateau, hearing but ignoring the calls of his lancemates and the orders of his company commander to rejoin the formation.

"There's something I've got to check out," he said by way of explanation.

When he'd closed to within a half-kilometer of the maglev line, he pulled up in a skidding halt.

Quickly, he brought up the Grizzard gauss rifle mounted in his 'Mech's right arm and the large Blankenburg pulse laser set into the left. The targeting reticle drifted a bit on his HUD, but he quickly locked the weapons onto the target, the train's engine. With no hesitation, he fired.

* * *

A shudder raced through the maglev. Lori's Victor jumped and thrashed against the steel tie-downs, causing the chain ladder she was climbing to sway sharply. As the ladder slammed into the Victor's side, catching her fingers between the steel rungs and the 'Mech's armor, Lori heard the deep boom of an explosion. Again, the train shivered. Lori fought to hang on to the madly gyrating ladder.

There was a sickening crunch and the awful high-pitched shriek of metal being twisted and pulled asunder. One of the chains holding Dallas MacKensie's Trebuchet snapped, flailing around the compartment like a striking metal snake. It caught one of the Legion techs squarely across the back, whipsawing halfway through the man's body and hurling him to the deck in a bloody heap. The Trebuchet's left arm wrenched free and punched a hole in the thin metal side of the car.

There was another explosion, and more sounds of tearing, stressed metal. The railroad car pitched violently to the right. The combination of her bruised fingers and the unexpected sideways movement of the car broke her grasp on the ladder. Rather than falling straight to the bed of the car, Lori found herself flying through space, but only for a fraction of a second. Her brief flight was arrested by the ridged wall of the cargo carrier. Lori gasped in pain, and stars shot across her vision when her head bounced off the steel.

She slid down the wall as a terrible, high-pitched scream that could only have come from a human being echoed through the car. She looked up to see her Victor suspended in its chains above her. The last conscious thought she had was a hope that the giant assault BattleMech would not break free and crush her.

21

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

01 July 3065

A dull throbbing sighed in Daniel Brewer's ears as he lay on his back.

Whoever is making that noise, I wish they would stop, Brewer thought, wondering if the party last night had been worth the hangover. Then his aching, befuddled mind latched onto reality. He tried to open his eyes, but found they were glued shut by some thick, sticky fluid. He wiped the viscid matter from his eyes, and gazed at his fingers. They were coated with blood. He touched his head and found a long, jagged gash in his forehead. Startled, he pushed himself upright and immediately regretted it. He felt as though his head had been clamped in a vise. He grabbed an out-jutting metal bar to steady himself and waited for the nauseating dizziness to pass.

As his mind began to clear, Brewer remembered the colonel's order to mount up and prepare for battle, but there was little after that. He knew he had begun to climb up the chain ladder to his cockpit when something happened to the train. He looked up to see his Champion kneeling above him, still held in place by the heavy chains. To either side crouched a Hoplite and a Grim Reaper, the number two and three 'Mechs of his command lance, likewise secured to the rail car's deck.

Lying next to him, his left arm twisted around backward, was Gene Deloray, chief of his tech crew. Brewer pressed his fingers into Deloray's neck and felt the slow, steady throbbing of a carotid pulse. Dimly, Brewer became aware that others were moving about in the rail car.

"Captain," Dale Ross rasped, "what the hell happened?"

"I don't know, Dale. It almost felt like we hit something."

"Yeah, or something hit us."

A wave of cold realization swept over Brewer. Fighting the nausea, he pushed himself to his feet and headed for his 'Mech. As he approached the kneeling giant, he realized that the machine was leaning to its right. As a matter of fact, the whole car seemed to be listing.

"Dale, I'm going to get powered up. You check on Sergeant Kauffman and the techs. Once I'm ready to go, I'll need you to pop the chain locks. Can you do that?"

The MechWarrior nodded.

"Good," Brewer said as he climbed toward his cockpit. "If anyone else in the company is fit to fight, get them powered up and unhooked from this damn train. I'll find a rally point and try to get things organized." He stopped just long enough to pull himself into the Champion's cockpit.

"And send someone to find the Colonel and McCall," he tossed out as he slammed and dogged the hatch.

Running quickly through the startup sequence, he wondered if whatever had happened to the train had also damaged his 'Mech. The Champion came on line as readily as ever.

A touch of a button keyed in the 'Mech's external speakers and sound pick-ups.

"Dale, what's the scoop?" he asked.

"Better than I'd hoped for, though Deloray and Pe are hurt pretty bad." Ross picked his way through the debris littering the car floor as he spoke. "The sarge has a big gash in his leg, but he's patching it up now. Everyone else seems to be okay. I sent a couple of runners to try to find Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle and Colonel McCall."

"Good. If there are any fit techs, have them cut me loose, and then you get mounted up. I have a feeling we're about to walk right into the biggest firestorm this side of Huntress."

Even as Brewer spoke, he saw a couple of men and women dressed in gray coveralls begin to worry at the heavy locking devices holding the chains that secured his 'Mech. As the restraints gave way, he had to lunge for his controls to keep the Champion from toppling sideways off the rail car. Carefully, he pushed the big 'Mech to its feet and stepped away from the listing transport.

The sight that met his eyes was incredible. The maglev's engine was gone. In its place, a heap of twisted metal lay burning alongside the tracks. The first two freight cars were in a similar condition, though they were not afire. The rest of the cars had been derailed. Brewer could see bodies lying on the ground beside the wrecked train. He had no idea if those people were dead or merely unconscious. Two BattleMechs were also sprawled alongside the first car, looking like gigantic human casualties. Brewer knew the Colonel's 'Mech had been loaded into the third car. That cargo-carrier sat almost upright on the tracks, though the wreck had spun it around ninety degrees so that it rested across the rails. Here and there, armed men and a few BattleMechs were beginning to disembark from the train.

"Attention, all Legionnaires," he called over the Legion's general-use channel. "This is Captain Brewer. Until a superior officer can be found, I am taking command of the situation. All Legionnaires able to fight, form on my 'Mech."

"Cap, this is Kauffman, I've got most of the company mounted up. We'll be ready to go in a minute or two."

"Good to hear your voice, Sage," Brewer said to his company sergeant. "You said most?"

"Yes, sir. Warner is dead, and McNab has a broken back."

"Dammit!" Brewer spat. "All right, Sergeant, you take the company. Move them out a klick or so east. I don't know what caused the crash, if it was an accident or enemy action. Whichever it was, the Skye Rangers have to be aware of it, and they aren't going to pass up an opportunity to shoot up the Gray Death Legion while we try to recover. When they come up, you make the call whether you should hold or fight a delaying action. Whatever you do, Sage, you're going to have to buy us a long hour or two. Give us time to get things sorted out. I'll send you reinforcements as they pull themselves out of the wreck."

"You've got it, sir." Kauffman said confidently. "All right, boys and girls, let's move out: company wedge formation."

As the 'Mechs began to fall into place, Brewer wished Kauffman and the men and women under his command good luck.

"Thanks, boss, you too," Kauffman replied. "We'll see you when it's over."

As the 'Mechs of Second Company, First Battalion, moved off, Brewer started his Champion at a slow walk toward the front of the train. He peered as best he could into the wreckage of the colonel's car, but the twisted structure prevented him from seeing much. The Colonel's Victor and Dallas MacKensie's Trebuchet were still firmly anchored to the canted car deck. Paul Hansen's Bombardier had broken its restraints and toppled over sideways, tearing through the thin sheet metal sides. It lay half on and half off the car, with its right shoulder half-buried in the stony soil.

"Colonel Carlyle?" he called through his external speakers. "Colonel? Sergeant MacKensie? Anyone?"

"Who is that?" The Champion's sensitive external microphones picked up a voice outside his 'Mech.

Brewer felt a flash of excitement, believing for a moment that someone inside the car was alive and conscious. Then he realized that the call had come from his right, closer to the front of the train. He turned to see Major Leone and a handful of the armored infantry standing beside the wrecked car. Further along, more armored troopers were crawling out of the wreckage. Apparently the hard-suited troopers had been protected from the worst of the crash. Brewer even spotted a few of the light scout suits among the survivors.

"It's Dan Brewer, Major," he answered. "I've sent my company east to act as a screening force against the rebels should they come up. Sir, I can't see if the Colonel is alive or not. And I don't know where Colonel McCall is."

"Never mind that now, son," Leone said. This time, Brewer heard the words in his headphones. Leone must have switched on his communicator. "You take command of the Legion's 'Mech forces. My troopers and I will handle the rescue operation."

"Major, you're the ranking officer—"

Leone cut him off. "Captain, you're the only 'MechWarrior officer I've found. Now, if Major Devin, or Colonel McCall, or Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle can be found, then you can hand off the command. Until then, you're it. And in case you want to push the matter, Captain, that's an order."

Brewer backed off in the face of Leone's blistering retort.

"Very well, Major. In that case, as you get 'Mechs or any other combat unit free of the wreck, send them to me over ..." He paused, then pointed with one of his Champion's stubby arms. "Over by that little stand of brush."

"Will do, Captain." Leone turned and began directing his armored infantrymen through the rescue effort.

Brewer moved away and took up station near the patch of low, scrubby bushes he had chosen. In a few minutes, a quintet of 'Mechs—three of them wearing the cloaked-assassin emblem of the Second 'Mech Battalion, the other two showing the Death's Head insignia of the First— approached the rallying point. Each of the machines showed light damage from the train wreck.

"Listen up," Brewer said. "Second Company, First is out there about four klicks east. I want you to form an ad hoc reinforced lance and move in on their left. Keep your eyes open, and don't let any of the enemy get past you. I've put Sergeant Kauffman in charge of the line until an officer shows up. Any questions? No? Then get moving."

As the five BattleMechs headed off to do Brewer's bidding, the young captain heard the whistle and crack of weapons fire coming from the approximate position occupied by his company. For a moment he wrestled with the impulse to go and join his comrades. But he knew doing so meant abandoning his post.

"Captain, this is Kauffman," his company sergeant called. "We just got dropped into the kettle here. Estimate one battalion, maybe more, of mixed-weight BattleMechs headed your position. We have taken up position on the reverse slope of one of these little hillocks, and are attempting to slow the enemy. We cannot hold him. I repeat, we cannot hold him."

"Hang on, Sarge," Brewer sent back. "Help is on the way. You've got a reinforced, mixed lance coming in on your left. I'll send you more troops as they become available. Do whatever you think is best, Sergeant."

Twice more, small clusters of 'Mechs came to him for orders. He sent them to the combat area, each time praying that he had assessed the situation correctly.

Just as the second group set off, Brewer heard a loud, flat boom and saw a roiling cloud of black smoke curling up over the uneven, rolling hills of the Highlands. He wondered if it had been a rebel or a Legion machine.

As he watched the smoke dissipate in the light wind, Brewer saw another BattleMech moving slowly toward him.

"All right, trooper. Here's how we're going to play this," he said, turning to face the new arrival. He'd given the same speech a dozen times in the past fifteen minutes as Legionnaires filtered into the rally point from the wreck. "I don't care what company or lance you belong to. As of now, you go where I send you."

"Aye, lad. Where is it ye'd be havin' me go?"

"Colonel!" Brewer shouted, relieved that at least one of the Legion's senior officers had survived the crash. "Dang, sir, I'm glad to see you. Where have you been? Have you heard anything about Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle?"

"I'm all right, boy," McCall said. "Th' Bannockburn got tossed clear off th' bloody train." A burst of static interrupted McCall's narrative. ". . . ter I woke up from m' nap, it took me a coupla minutes t' find her, clear her hatch, and get her back on her feet.

"Noo, what's th' situation?"

"The situation is a bit confused, sir. I don't have a clear picture of what's happening out there. We've got about three companies on the line right now, but they're all mixed up. Everything we have out there is ad hoc except my company. Near as I can figure it, the Separatists are pushing our people hard. We're holding a line along the reverse slope of a couple of low hills about two klicks east-southeast of here. The line seems to be holding, but that won't last unless we can get a lot more 'Mechs into the fight pretty quick."

"Very well, lad. Ye've done well, considerin'," McCall said approvingly. "Noo, where is the Colonel?"

"Unknown, sir," Brewer admitted reluctantly, superstitiously feeling that if he said anything negative about Lori, she would not be found alive. "No one has heard anything from her since before the wreck. I've got some of the GDAIs looking for her and the rest of HQ company. But her car is in a precarious situation. At least, that's what Major Leone told me about ten minutes ago. I guess the car is stuck on about a forty-five degree list, but some of the structural members are jammed against the ground and against the car behind hers. Leone is afraid that if they go hacking around with their suit lasers, trying to cut their way in, or if one of the scouts bounces in on his jet-pack, they may upset whatever is keeping that car in place, and bring the whole thing crashing down on whoever is inside."

"Then we'll leave that operation in the hands of the infantry. They're better suited to it than we are." Again, McCall's words were squelched by static. ". . . ant you to take command of the battle line. I'll stay here and keep th' reinforcements comin'. Just see to it y' don't waste any o' them. If things get too bad, pull back, and we'll live t' fight another day."

"But Colonel, you're senior here. You should take command on the line and leave me here to play traffic cop."

"Aye, ah should," McCall said reasonably. "But I canna. M' poor wee Bannockburn's had her commo gear shaken loose in th' wreck. I dinna trust it tae hold tegither under the stress o' battle. If I try t' take command o' the battleline, what happens if m' communicator goes out completely? Nae, lad, 'tis better if you go. Th' minute we find either Major Devin or Major Houk, I'll aye send 'em up t' relieve you. Assumin' they're fit for duty."

"Very well, sir," Brewer said. "Please keep me informed on the search for the colonel."

"Ah'll do that, lad. Dinna ye worry."

22

Myoo Highlands

Hesperus II

Skye Province, Lyran Alliance

01 July 3065

Brewer spun his Champion on its heel and started off at a low trot for the battlefield. The irony of the situation struck him. He had been feeding small units into the furnace of war just beyond the low, rolling hills. Now he had been tossed into the flames.

Following the deep gouges left in the rock soil by the feet of passing 'Mechs, Brewer moved parallel to the ruined maglev tracks for a short distance. The trail diverged. Most of the tracks angled off toward the south, while a smaller set of gouges, made by three or four 'Mechs at most, continued to follow the tracks. Someone in the Legion must have tried a flanking maneuver. He wondered if the impromptu tactic had succeeded.

Rather than running into an ambush set by his own troops, Brewer followed the Legion's main body, if it could be called that. There had been no rhyme or reason to the manner in which he had assigned 'Mechs to the battlefield, beyond the desperate need to get combat forces deployed between the invading Skye Rangers and the crippled Gray Death Legion.

As the Champion loped across the uneven rocky ground,

Brewer started to hear the whistle and crump of gunfire. Shrapnel, clods of dirt, and bits of stone blasted up by exploding warheads peppered his Mech's legs. The missiles had not been aimed at him. They were strays. Despite not being intended for him, the projectiles nearly found a mark.

Brewer angled away from the spot where the missiles had fallen, hoping that a follow-up volley would land in roughly the same place. As he ran the Champion up the short, steep slope, he felt the loose ground shift beneath his armored feet. He had to wrestle briefly with the controls in order to get the big machine back underneath him. His balance recovered, Brewer sprinted across the crest of the hill in order to minimize the time he would be silhouetted against the sky.

The scene in the broad, pan-shaped valley beyond the rise might have come straight from Dante's Inferno, had the poet lived in the thirty-first century. 'Mechs wearing the mottled gray camouflage of the Legion were intermixed with those in the red and black colors of the Skye Rangers. There was no semblance of order or of battle lines. 'Mechs fired at one another at point-blank range. They punched and kicked. Those armed with hatchets or improvised clubs bludgeoned their foes. Off to his left, a pair of warriors who had ejected from their ruined 'Mechs grappled with each other, kicking and gouging. Both were so covered in dust and blood that it was impossible to tell who belonged to which army.

One temporarily gained the upper hand by pounding his opponent's head against a rock. He rolled to his feet, groping for the pistol hanging at his side in a flapped holster. But his foe recovered, dragging a long combat knife from its sheath. As the latter surged forward, his blade scything upward, the former drew his weapon from its buttoned-down carrier. The dagger caught the pistoleer low in the belly. Pain or the shock of the wound caused the man to jerk the trigger, sending a bullet into his enemy's brain. The warriors collapsed across each other.

Brewer tore his eyes away from the horrific sight just in time to see an enemy War Dog blast the leg from a Legion Panther. Before the rebel could lift his weapons to finish off his helpless foe, Brewer unleashed his autocannon on the ungainly enemy 'Mech. Submunitions ripped into the War Dog's legs and belly. The Ranger shifted his aiming point and sent a flickering blast of laser fire into the Champion's torso.

Brewer shook off the damage and tried to lock his Harpoon short-range missiles onto the target. The discordant warble of the Artemis IV Fire Control System linked to the missile rack growled in his ears as the specialized infrared targeting unit struggled and failed to illuminate the War Dog.

That was when Brewer realized the other 'Mech must have an ECM suite. Dropping his reticle across the enemy machine, he triggered the missile rack. Even unguided, there was a good chance some of the half-dozen rockets would hit. A sharp buzzing report tore across the battlefield as bullets clawed most of the unguided missiles from the air. A single warhead struck the Separatist 'Mech in the left ankle.

"C'mon, you mercenary bastard," a taunting voice rang in his ears. "You're gonna have to do better than that."

The War Dog savaged the Champion with another blast of laser fire, this time adding the medium pulse lasers mounted in its right arm and chest. His 'Mech absorbed the attack. It seemed strange to Brewer that the War Dog had not yet brought his gauss rifle into play. Perhaps the weapon was either out of ammunition or had been damaged. Either way, he didn't want to risk taking a slug from the powerful railgun. He struck back at his tormentor with a blast of cannon fire, adding its medium-beam lasers to the mix.

"Ah, that's better," the jeering voice sang. The Skye Mech Warrior must have scanned the radio frequencies to find out which one the Legion was using. "But it's still not good enough. C'mon, man, hit me. You're going to have to kill me, or I'll burn you down just as surely as I blew up your train." Brewer knew that rants like this were common among warriors from the Isle of Skye, being a tradition of the Celtic warriors from which many claimed to be descended.

Brewer felt a chill. This was why the maglev had jumped the track. The War Dog's pilot had fired upon the vulernable transporter, destroying the engine. This was the man who had killed Marion Warner and crippled Fal McNab— the man who also might have killed Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle.

An icy finger trailed along Brewer's spine, despite the heat of the cockpit. Feeling oddly detached, he started forward at a fast, deliberate walk. He dropped the targeting reticle of his autocannon down over the War Dog's torso, squeezed, and held the trigger. A muzzle flare a meter long belched from the gun's maw as shells ripped into the enemy 'Mech. The cannon's breech thunked, locking open as the last cassette of cluster ammunition was expended. With a flip of a switch, Brewer charged the weapon with standard anti-armor rounds from the Champion's second ammunition bin.

From the corner of his eye, Brewer saw a Legion Hatchetman bound in behind the War Dog on jets of superheated reaction mass. Against Colonel Carlyle's orders, this 'Mech had retained the heavy axe-like club for which it was named. That meant it could only belong to Captain Brian Scully of the Legion's Third BattleMech Company. Scully swung the huge axe, striking the War Dog across the ball of its right shoulder. Armor crumpled under the terrible impact. The rebel 'Mech was driven to one knee. Before it could recover, another Legion 'Mech, a Hunchback, blew its left arm off in a hail of exploding cannon shells.

Apparently, the Skye Separatist's taunting admission had been heard by every active Gray Death warrior. Every 'Mech that was not engaged and any of those that could break away from their foes descended upon the unfortunate War Dog. Willie McBride's captured Thor-B Omni-Mech shouldered Brewer aside in its haste to close with the enemy. The powerful 'Mech, built with Clan technology, grabbed the War Dog's shot-riddled right arm and ripped it from its socket.

Distantly, Brewer heard a voice yelling in his ears.

"I said, cut it out, dammit!"

The voice was his own. Pushing Legion 'Mechs aside, he waded into the fray in an attempt to save the life of the War Dog's pilot. He was too late. By the time Brewer dragged McBride away from the rebel machine, it was nothing more than a smoldering pile of twisted metal.

For a few seconds, none of the Legion 'Mechs moved. Brewer felt a sick emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Killing an enemy in combat was the purpose of an army. But this was something different. This was savage butchery.

"Get back in the fight," he said, finding his voice at last. "Scully, you, Royce, and McBride flank out left. I'm going to go find the center of this mess and see if I can straighten things out."

Without waiting for Scully to respond, Brewer turned away, putting the grim reminder of what savagery every man is capable of behind him.

As he turned his 'Mech south, Brewer called up a tactical map of the battlefield on one Multi-Function Display. The map gave only the grossest representation of the battle, but it truly was the mess he had called it. The stunned Gray Death Legion had deployed along a broad, ragged front, and had engaged the enemy as the rebels came up, but there was no order to the formation whatever. Nor did there seem to be any logic to the pattern of the enemy's attacks. So far, every 'Mech they had encountered had been from the Fourth Skye Rangers, as evidenced by the map-of-Britain crest worn by those machines. But they seemed to be from at least three different companies.

The fighting had slipped into a lull following the destruction of the War Dog. Brewer wondered if the pilot had been a company or battalion commander. If so, he must not have been particularly well-liked by his troops, because the Rangers had fallen back, leaving his brutal death unavenged. Or perhaps he had been well-liked. It often happened that the fall of a beloved commander caused morale to collapse.

Whatever the case, Brewer was not going to allow the hiatus to slip by. Using the tactical map as a guide, he emplaced the troops available to him as best he could. He had no time to reform individual companies. There was no indication of when the rebels would return; however, he was certain they would return. Several of the units under his command were badly damaged. He ordered them to the rear, filling their places with fresh units coming up from the wreck site.

"Here they come!" was the cry that rang along the Legion's front.

Brewer spotted a mass of red and black war machines bearing down on the Gray Death lines. Without the benefit of tactical reconnaissance he would have to guess at their strength, but it seemed to him that the aggressor force was at least a full battalion, probably more.

"Stay calm," he said, opening the Legion's general-use channel. "Mark your targets. Don't be in a hurry. Wait for them to come into range."

He watched as the distance between the advancing rebels and the emplaced Gray Death Legion diminished.

"Stand by with LRMs."

The Separatists drew to within six hundred meters.

"LRMs . . . Fire!"

All along the line, missiles trailing fire and smoke leaped away from their launchers to fall among the enemy ranks. A second volley of missiles followed. The first azure strokes of PPC fire reached out to savage the onrushing enemy 'Mechs, followed by lasers and autocannon shells. But the damage was not enough to slow the enemy attack.

The Skye Rangers slashed into the scattered Legion formations. A lance of heavy 'Mechs smashed into the center of the lines, right where Brewer was standing. One of the rebel machines caromed off a Legion Dervish, flattening the lighter 'Mech. Brewer pumped a burst of high-explosive shells into the Exterminator before it could recover its balance. The Dervish came back up to its knees, and blasted the rebel's relatively thin dorsal armor with lasers and short-range missiles.

Caught in a crossfire, the Exterminator tried to back away, to bring both Legion 'Mechs into its front arc. But Brewer hung with him, circling around to his left, forcing the rebel to turn or have the powerful Champion move around his flank. The Dervish got to its feet and moved to encircle the enemy on the other side. The tall enemy machine split its fire, sending a rack of missiles into the Dervish, while it laced Brewer's Champion with bolts of coherent light from its medium lasers. Armor melted and ran under the fierce caress as the lasers carved a ton of fiber-reinforced steel away from the Legion 'Mech's skin.

Heat swept into the Champion's cockpit as Brewer loosed another flight of missiles and triggered his medium lasers at the same time. The Harpoons homed in on the Artemis system's infrared designator. Unlike the War Dog, the Exterminator had no ECM suite to protect it, but it did boast a Buzzsaw anti-missile machine gun. Two missiles were swatted out of the air by the nearly solid stream of thirteen-millimeter slugs. The rest got through to rip armor off the rebel's legs and belly.

At the same time, the Dervish hammered the heavy 'Mech with four flights of missiles, \vreathing the Exterminator in flame and smoke. When it cleared, the enemy 'Mech stood frozen in place, its back ripped open by the brutal assault it had suffered at the hands of the Legion Dervish. From his perspective, Brewer could see the dull silver-gray of the 'Mech's internal structure. Heat spilled from the open wound like blood from a severed artery. He guessed that the missiles had shredded the Exterminator's reactor shielding. The rebel 'Mech's head split open as the warrior punched out of his ruined machine. Making a cursory scan for the Separatist pilot, Brewer spotted the man steering his ram-air parachute toward the Skye lines.

"You okay, MechWarrior?" Brewer called to the Dervish pilot.

"Yessir," a woman's voice answered. "I'm good to go."

As Brewer turned back to the battle line to seek out a new target, his eyes widened in fear and awe. What he had taken to be a battalion had swelled until it seemed that a full regiment of BattleMechs and supporting infantry were bearing down on his thin, disorganized line.

"Colonel McCall, if you have anything left to send me, you'd better send it now," he bellowed over the command channel, "'cause the whole damn rebel army is about to land right on my head."

"Hold fast, lad," McCall answered breathlessly. "Devin and Houk are on their way. They've got aboot a company each in tow. They ought to be there any time noo."

"I'll hold on as long as I can," Brewer said. Concern over McCall's winded tone filled his mind. The Legion's exec was no youngster, and he had suffered a number of severe wounds over the course of his career. Was the stress of battle finally catching up with him?

The enemy gave him no more time to speculate. A lance of energy skewered his Champion through a gap opened in the fight with the Exterminator. He looked up to see a hunched-over BGS-1T Barghest loping across the battlefield toward his position.

A newer design, the quadruped 'Mech outweighed Brewer's badly abused Champion by ten full tons. Its powerful long-range lasers and massive Defiance Disintegrator Class Twenty dual-purpose autocannon gave it a definite edge in both long-range and close-quarters fighting. Ironically, the armored monster's big gun had been manufactured in the factory complex the Barghest' s pilot was attacking.

The Separatist warrior snapped off hastily aimed twin bursts of laser fire. One of the beams slashed across the Champion's faceplate, which turned black to protect Brewer's vision from the burst of light. Nonetheless, the amount of energy leaking through the nearly opaque shield was enough to painfully dazzle him.

As his eyes recovered, Brewer realized that nearly all of the armor protecting his cockpit had been burned away. Another hit from even the lightest 'Mech-mounted weapon was likely to kill him.

The other laser bolt inflicted even more telling damage as it tore into the Champion's left breast. The light energy punched deep into the 'Mech's innards. Brewer heard a loud, hollow pop as the laser blew one of his own lasers to shreds. The fragments of the exploding laser ricocheted around the Champion's torso, severing wires and rupturing the tube on its second medium laser.

Brewer unleashed his autocannon on the Barghest, but accomplished nothing beyond denting the 'Mech's thick armor. A flight of missiles blasted a few more shallow divots out of the doglike machine's forelegs. The rebel 'Mech came on, scorning the light damage inflicted by Brewer's weapons. When it had closed to within three hundred meters, the turret-like weapons mount swung around to present the gaping maw of its autocannon. Brewer slammed his battered Champion into a flat-out run.

A sharp crack rippled through the air, causing Brewer to flinch and jink his running 'Mech to the left. As he centered the controls, a whang echoed in the wake of the gunshot. Then it dawned on him that the report had not been that of an autocannnon, and that it had come from the wrong direction. He turned to see a pair of 'Mechs in Legion gray standing side by side, savaging the Barghest with missiles and gauss rifle slugs. He immediately recognized the pair as McCall's Highlander and Major Devin's captured Cauldron-Born.

"Are ye a'right there, laddie?" McCall's brogue was a most welcome sound in Brewer's ears. "Yer lookin' a wee bit worse fer the wear."

"I have taken some abuse, Colonel," Brewer said. "I'll be okay if we can convince these party-crashers to go home."

"Step back and catch yer breath a bit. We'll look after these sassanach fer ye."

Without another word, McCall turned his 'Mech's full fury against the enemy. The Barghest gave way under the combined fire of the Highlander and the Cauldron-Born, but other Ranger 'Mechs came up to take its place.

Brewer, despite the damage to his Champion, rejoined the fray, sniping at enemy 'Mechs and tanks with his autocannon and Artemis guided missiles. For a moment it seemed that, even with reinforcements, the Legion might be overwhelmed by the rising tide of Skye Rangers. Then a familiar voice broke from the communicators.

"Legion One, this is Seawall." The slow, broad accent could only belong to Major Goree. "I wonder if we might get an invite to this party."

"Join in, lad, and welcome," McCall sang out.

"Roger that, Legion Two." Brewer was not surprised that Goree recognized Colonel McCall's voice. "We've got them by the seven. Maybe together we can push them back to their DropShips."

Brewer felt a sudden surge of confidence. He targeted a rebel Kintaro with his last flight of missiles and let fly. The Harpoons peppered the chest and chimpanzee-like face of the enemy war machine, causing it to stumble and fall. Whether the pilot had been wounded or merely startled by the exploding warheads, Brewer couldn't say, but the long-legged 'Mech rose swiftly to its feet, only to be swatted again by a flight of long-range missiles from another Legionnaire.

"Skull Two-One-One is Winchester missiles, Winchester guns," Brewer called to his comrades, the code phrase "Winchester" signifying he was out of ammunition. "Skull Two-One-One is falling back on the train."

"Go ahead, lad. Yer no in any condition t' continue this fight. We'll carry it from here," McCall said.

As Brewer turned his war-torn Champion away from the battle, the Skye Rangers began doing the same. First, the Kintaro and a few other lighter machines that had suffered damage at the Legion's hands or the hands of the DSPF, pulled out of the enemy line. Then, some less damaged machines withdrew. Finally, the rebel lines collapsed under the two-pronged attack of the defenders of Hesperus II. Both the Gray Death Legion and the Defiance Self-Protection Force surged after the retreating enemy.

Brewer heard McCall's order to stop the pursuit as he was pulling his 'Mech to a stop beside the wrecked train.

"Gray Death Legion, this is Legion Two," McCall said. "Recall, recall, recall. Let 'em go, lads. They'll be back soon, and there's no sense in chasin' them under the guns o' their DropShips. Enough. We've done enough for one day."

BattleTech - LE5866

23

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

01 July 3065

Brewer pushed his bulky neurohelmet into the compartment above and behind his command couch, feeling as though that action had depleted the last of his strength. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with a kerchief pulled from his kit-bag, but he might have spared himself the effort. The Champion's cockpit was so stiflingly hot that new streams of sweat poured forth almost the instant the cloth passed over his skin.

That was one of the Champion's few flaws. Compared to a PPC, its Lubalin LB 10-X autocannon generated little waste heat for the amount of damage it inflicted, nor did its missile launcher or the individual medium and small lasers produce much thermal energy. No, the problem was in the 'Mech's heat sinks. The Champion carried only ten of the critical radiator-like devices, and those were the old "standard" models rather than the newer high-efficiency units. That meant that, in any long-running battle, weapons fire and the increased demand for power on the 'Mech's Vlar 300 power plant would result in an increased core temperature.

Reaching for the handle of his ingress/egress hatch, he told himself that maybe when this thing was over, he could get the sinks replaced with the new model. He smiled at the thought. After all, this was Hesperus. Maybe he should just take the Champion up to Defiance and have the tech boys at the plant swap them out for him. After all, what was the good of being a CEO if you didn't exercise a few prerogatives now and then?

Brewer pulled the handle. A long, hissing pop accompanied the opening of the hatch, as the pressures inside and outside the cockpit equalized. Though toxic chemical weapons had been outlawed by the Ares Conventions, such laws were not always observed, especially during a civil war, when old hatreds often overshadowed the maudlin "brother-against-brother" nonsense spouted by the media. Chemical agents had made a ghastly reappearance during Sun-Tzu Liao's bid to thrust the Capellan Confederation to preeminence. Thus it had become standard, though perhaps reactionary, practice to pressurize 'Mech cockpits to one hundred ten percent of a planet's normal atmosphere where such a move was practicable. The technique kept even the most insidious chemical weapons outside the cockpit, where they could do the pilot no harm.

As the hatch slid open, he took in the scene below. The fires that had been blazing in the ruins of the maglev train when he marched off to battle had been extinguished or had burned themselves out. Technicians, train crewmen, and Legion warriors moved like ants along the train, freeing those trapped by the wreckage and trying to salvage what gear they could. A large canopy made of several camouflaged tarps had been strung up near the tail end of the train. A white flag bearing the ancient symbol of a red cross marked the tarps as an aid station.

Brewer activated a control that should have dropped a chain ladder from its compartment beneath the hatch. When he did not hear the familiar rattle of steel on steel, Brewer looked down to see that the compartment, along with the armor that surrounded it, had been blown away during the fighting. Brewer leaned back inside the cockpit and picked up the communications headset. A tap of a control keyed in the 'Mech's external speakers.

"Hey, anybody down there got a ladder?"

A man in civilian clothing looked up at the Champion's open hatchway.

"A ladder? Anything to get me down from here?" Brewer repeated. "Mine's been shot away."

The man nodded and trotted off. In a few moments, he returned and flung a coil of heavy yellow nylon rope up to Brewer.

"The best I could find," he hollered.

"It'll do. Thanks."

The man waved and jogged off while Brewer took some moments to find a suitable piece of equipment to which he might secure the rope. He knelt and looked into the gash in the armor where his ladder used to be. Fortunately, one of the anchoring bolts and a few links of chain remained in the ruined compartment. Cautiously, so as not to overbalance and end up making the eight-meter trip to the ground without the benefit of the rope, he tied the line to the ring bolt that had supported his ladder. He hoped he had made a good knot. He tugged hard on the rope several times to make sure. He leaned as far down as he could and dropped his kit bag to the ground, tossing it back a bit so it would land under the 'Mech, where it would not impede his landing. Then, checking to make sure that no sharp metal edge was in contact with the line, he wriggled over the edge of his cockpit and started to climb down the rope. As his feet cleared the bottom of the Champion's out-thrust hull, his grip on the slippery nylon failed. The rope slipping through his hands peeled the skin from his palms.

He landed on his feet, but stumbled in the loose, rocky soil and fell forward, catching himself on his hands, causing further damage. Feeling embarrassed by the clumsy display, he got back to his feet, looking around. Fortunately, everyone seemed to be occupied with their own concerns.

Wiping his abused palms on the front of his cooling vest, Brewer caught up his kit bag. Swiftly he pulled off his cooling vest, donning a set of gray coveralls instead. He exchanged his boots for a pair of lightweight jogging shoes, then stuffed his combat gear into the bag and set off toward the canopy.

He'd only gone a hundred meters or so when Davis McCall's Highlander pulled into the Gray Death's impromptu lager. Brewer stopped and waited while the Legion's exec shut down his 'Mech and also climbed down to the ground.

"That was aye a good piece o' soldierin' ye did today, lad." McCall laid his hand on Brewer's shoulder. "It'll go on yer record."

"Thank you, Colonel," Brewer said, appreciating the rare compliment. He gestured to the wrecked train and the shot-up legion 'Mechs still straggling in from the battlefield. "Do we have any idea of the butcher's bill?"

"Not yet, lad.", McCall shook his head sadly. "Though I'm afraid it's gonna be high." He shook his head again, and sighed deeply. "Now, let's go see the colonel."

"The colonel?" Brewer exclaimed. "She's alive?"

"Aye, lad. She's alive," McCall said with a haggard smile. "Did ye nae know? She's alive, but she's hurt her back. We dinna ken how badly. They found her in the wreck out cold. The medics strapped her to a bit of siding with gaffer's tape, not havin' a backboard available. Doc Sweney says she's in good shape, but that's all I know right now."

Brewer felt some of his weariness lift at the news that Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle was alive. Grayson's death had been a major blow to the unit's morale. He wasn't sure the Legion could survive losing her as well. He mustered a tired smile, and suggested that he and McCall go find out how their commander was doing.

The aid station was a nightmarish scene, reminiscent of a long-gone age when men fought with muzzle-loading muskets, bayonets, and swords, rather than BattleMechs, lasers, and particle cannons. Wounded men and women lay on the ground, covered by blankets or field jackets. Wounds had been roughly dressed, some using strips of cloth torn from the casualty's own clothing. Mercifully, most of the wounded were unconscious, either from shock or from medication.

A short distance away, outside the tarps that sheltered the injured from Hesperus' blazing sun, lay a row of bodies shrouded in poncho liners. Brewer was surprised at the number of the huddled forms. Modern battles were far from bloodless, but powerful energy weapons and high-explosive warheads usually didn't leave much of a body to bury. The sight of the aid station, and the men and women who had been wounded in combat and injured by the train wreck, left Brewer feeling nauseous.

McCall tapped him on the arm and pointed toward the back of the aid station. Brewer followed his gesture and spotted Lori sitting up against the side of a packing crate, her forehead and cheek masked by an expanse of self-adhesive bandage. What could be seen of her face was pale. She held a black-cased noteputer in her hands.

As Brewer and McCall made their way to her, she caught sight of them and her face broke into a smile.

"I heard you both survived," she said, her voice a bit thick from painkillers. "But they won't tell me anything else. What happened? How is the unit?"

"Th' Legion's fine, lass," McCall said gently. "It's you who're pointin' south."

"Now, Davis, don't you start," she snapped, exhibiting sickbed temper. "My back just went out on me, that's all. Doc Sweney gave me some muscle relaxants and some painkillers. I'll be fine. Now what happened out there?"

McCall and Brewer exchanged glances, silently agreeing that McCall would speak.

"Well, Colonel, first thing off the mark, I want to put Captain Brewer here in for a commendation. He was aye one of th' first to recover after th' wreck. He got mounted up and threw out a screen t' keep th' sassanach away from us while we pulled ourselves tegither."

"Is that true, Captain?"

"Well, mostly true, Colonel," Brewer said. "I just did what I thought was best. Then when Colonel McCall relieved me, I went up to the main battle line as he ordered and helped direct our defense. They pushed us a couple of times, but we pushed back. That last time, I don't think we could have held them if it weren't for Major Goree."

"Yes, I heard." Lori tried to shove herself into a more upright position, wincing at the pain in her back.

"I came to about the time the DSPF got into the fight. I wanted to mount up and go out to play with you boys, but they had me duct-taped to that damn board, and the Doc wouldn't let them cut me loose."

"You're dang right I wouldn't," a tenor voice said behind them. Brewer recognized it as belonging to Doctor Gregg Sweney, the Legion's regimental surgeon. "You were in a train wreck, Colonel. Your back isn't broken, or sprained, or dislocated, and you can thank blind, dumb luck for that.

But I didn't know that then, did I? If I'd sent you off to battle with a cracked vertebrae or a dislocated disc or two, or ten, you might have ended up paralyzed. Or have you forgotten how rough a 'Mech's ride can be?"

"No, doctor, I haven't forgotten. How can I? You keep reminding me every fifteen minutes or so," Lori snapped. She turned back to her officers. "You both did a good job out there today, especially you, Captain. And you made the right decision not to pursue the Rangers back to their DropShips. Maybe if the Lyran Guards were here, or if we at least had the full Legion, things might have been different. As it was, getting too close to the DropShips would have been stupid, maybe even suicidal.

"And I suppose I owe Major Goree an apology."

"Y'all don't owe me anything, Colonel," Goree said coldly, stepping unexpectedly into the aid station. His face was still streaked with sweat from the heat of his cockpit, but his dark green coveralls were neat and clean. "If I did not join the fight when I did, the Separatists would have overrun your battle line, and probably the train as well. Then, they would have turned right around and attacked Defiance again. It was a matter of military expediency. We were both just doin' our jobs."

He looked squarely into Lori's eyes. "How are you, Colonel?"

"I've been better, Major," she said. "And I've been worse."

"I see." Goree's tone gave nothing away. "Are you going to be fit to lead your troops, or should I be talking to Mister McCall?"

"Give me a chance to x-ray her back and find out how bad she's hurt before you go shoving her back into the cockpit," Doc Sweney said harshly.

Lori ignored him. "I'm still in operational command of the Legion. Colonel McCall and my battalion commanders will have tactical control. So you may address your questions to me."

"Very well, Colonel. I was just wondering what your plans are now." Goree's tone was as brusque as ever. "Will you salvage your unit and return to Maria's Elegy, or do you intend to stay on here in the Highlands?"

"I've been thinking about that one myself, Major," Lori said. "I don't think we can defend both Maria's Elegy and Defiance. The distance between them is too great. With the maglev out of commission, it just got a little greater. As important as the planetary capital and the spaceport are, the Defiance complex is this planet's primary asset.

"What I'd like to do is recover what 'Mechs I can from the battlefield and from the wreck, move the Legion into the complex, and use it as a base of operations. General Ciampa can either stay in Maria's Elegy or move out here with us. I assume, Major, that your 'Mech facilities can handle another regiment or two?"

"My facilities? No. But the overall complex can handle a full brigade and then some," Goree answered, with a cold glance at Brewer. "And, I think the Board will agree to let you use the facilities."

Brewer caught the stress Goree placed on the word "board." It seemed that, for all Goree's help on the battlefield, the DSPF officer still hadn't much use for a CEO-turned-mercenary. He decided he was too tired to make an issue of Goree's prejudices, and let the matter pass with only an exasperated sigh for a comment.

"Good," Lori continued, ignoring the byplay between the officers. "We'll use the Defiance plant as a base of operations for this area. If the rebels go somewhere else, which I doubt, we'll figure something else out."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Colonel," McCall interjected. "I shouldn't need t' remind you of what happened to th' German army during the Second World War on Terra, when they allowed themselves t' get trapped in a factory complex."

"I know what happened at Stalingrad, Davis, but I have no intention of sitting back and waiting for the enemy to mass enough troops to grind us down. Nor do I intend to wait for the Rangers to launch their next attack. As soon as the Legion is all in one place and we finish our repairs, I plan on going on the offensive."

24

Defiance Industries Complex

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

01 July 3065

Over Doctor Sweney's objections, Lori pulled herself to her feet. A sharp lance of pain shot through the muscles of her back, and the world side-slipped and took on a reddish hue. She lashed out with her left hand, grabbing McCall by the front of his jumpsuit. The bluff Caledonian stepped forward, catching her under the arms, which set off a new wave of dizzying pain.

"That's it, Colonel! I'm taking you off combat status," Sweney barked.

In that instant, Lori's vision cleared. She glared at the Legion's chief medic. "No, Doctor, you are not," she growled. "I have far too much work to do. When this is over, if I'm still alive, you can take me off combat status, but until then, leave me alone."

"Colonel, if you go out to fight, you're going to end up paralyzed, maybe permanently."

"Understood."

"Colonel—"

"That will be all, Doctor," Lori blazed.

"Maybe ye should listen t' him, lass," McCall said mildly. "We can nae afford t' lose you."

"Leave me be, Davis." Lori shrugged off his arm, gritting her teeth as agony ran along her spine.

"Colonel, I can summon a hover jeep to take you to the factory," Goree offered quietly. "One of your men can pilot your Victor in for repairs once they get it free of the wreck. I guarantee you'll be more comfortable in our hospital than you'll be out here on the cold ground, waiting for them to cut your 'Mech out of the rubble."

"Major Goree . . ." Her voice trailed off like the hiss of an angry cat, and she felt her anger getting the better of her. She took a moment to get herself under control, but could still feel the anger burning inside her.

She gazed around the circle of officers, all of whom looked worried. "Major Goree, I appreciate your offer. I think I should accept it. Can you arrange for your technical people to come out here with some heavy equipment— 'Mech-recovery vehicles if possible—and help my technical crew with the recovery process?"

"Of course, Colonel." Goree executed a short, formal bow and stepped out of the shelter tent to contact his base.

"And once we get back to Defiance, I'll need an office to work from. And I'll need a secure landline connection to the spaceport at Maria's Elegy," Lori said, thinking out loud.

"After you're checked out by their docs," Sweney told her firmly.

For a second, her anger blazed again. She forced it back down, locking it away in a secure corner of her mind.

"All right, Doctor. I'll wait until the DefHesp pill-pushers have had a chance to poke and prod me."

Sweney nodded. "Good enough, Colonel."

"Davis, you and Dan stay here and get the recovery operation going. Have Devin and Houk move their troops over to the Defiance plant. One of Major Goree's officers will direct them?" The last was more a question aimed at the DSPF commander, who had just returned to the aid station.

Goree nodded. "Of course, and I've also called for ambulances for your wounded. We have a small but excellent hospital facility at the plant. Any serious cases can be airlifted to Maria's Elegy once they're more stable."

"Thank you, Major. We're indebted to you."

Goree just smiled politely.

"One question, Major Goree," Brewer said sharply. "Why this change in attitude? Before, you were almost ready to take on the Legion, regardless of the fact that I'm the company CEO and Duke of Hesperus. Now, you're the poster boy for helpful cooperation."

"That was before the Legion proved its intentions." Goree's tone was flat and unemotional. "The difference is that now I know they can be counted on to fight in our corner. It's nothing more or less than that."

* * *

It was several hours before Lori was given access to the office she'd asked for. In the meantime, the doctors gave her the good news that her back was neither broken nor sprained. The bad news was that she had a couple of cracked ribs as well as bruises from the base of her skull to her hips. The doctors told her she would be extremely sore for several days, but there had been no lasting damage.

She'd also been assigned an orderly, a slight young woman named Sarah Trotter, who Goree promised was a top-flight assistant. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but we can't get you a phone," Trotter was saying now. "When the Separatists took out the maglev, they also knocked out the land-lines because they were strung along the underside of the rail bed. We've got techs out working on the problem, but it may take several days to fix. Can you make do with wireless?"

"I guess I'll have to," Lori said with a shrug so painful that she immediately made a mental note to avoid doing that again until her back had healed. Trotter withdrew, saying she'd be just outside the office door should Lori require anything.

It took a minute or two for the call, which was essentially a long-range radio signal, to be bounced between relay stations, before someone at the other end finally picked up. Lori directed the operator to connect her to the Legion's compound. A moment later, Captain Joan Monti, her tank commander, was on the line.

"Joan, listen," Lori said, cutting off Monti's polite, concerned greeting. "I need you to get the Armored Battalion and the rest of the infantry mounted up and moved out here. We're setting up shop at the Defiance plant. We're going to need every available Legionnaire."

"Right away, Colonel," Monti said. "Does that mean what we heard about the maglev line getting cut and your guys getting all shot up is true?"

"Partially. The maglev line is out, and some of the Legion did get hurt, but for the most part, we're in good shape. We fought one honking battle up here earlier today. If we're going to continue operations, we're going to need the rest of the outfit."

"Yes ma'am. You want us to bring the DropShips out there?"

"No!" Lori said loudly. "Leave the ships on the tarmac. The Separatists have moved that captured WarShip insystem. I'm afraid she'll shoot down any non-rebel aerospace craft she sees leaving the planet. You're going to have to hump it overland."

"Okay, Colonel," Monti said in a strange tone, which Lori guessed was an overlay of apprehension at moving the balance of the Legion through the mountain passes. "It might take us a day or so, but we'll be on our way in a couple of hours."

"Good," Lori said, satisfied with the estimate. "Transfer me back to the switchboard. I need to make some more calls."

* * *

"We'll be on our way as soon as possible, Colonel," General Ciampa told Lori. "It may take a while, especially if you don't want us to use the DropShips. Don't forget that not using them also makes it impossible to recall Zambos' Thirty-sixth Guards from Maldon."

"I know that, General, but I don't think we should risk using the ships until we figure out how aggressive the rebels are planning to be with that WarShip. They've already disabled and captured our JumpShips. I'd rather not risk losing our DropShips and crews, too. And that goes for your Lyran troops as well."

"No we don't want to risk that," Ciampa said. "It will take a couple of days for us to get the whole Regimental Combat Team moved out to Defiance, but we'll make the move as quick as we can."

"One more thing, General," Lori said before breaking the connection. "If you haven't made that call we discussed, I think now would be the time to do it."

Lori knew that most units the size of those she was facing boasted sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment. It would be easy for the rebels to intercept the conversations she'd just had and act upon them. But short of sending one of the civilian passenger VTOLs belonging to Defiance Hesperus back to Maria's Elegy with written instructions, she had little choice.

Trusting the chopper to deliver the messages would be just as risky. The Skye Rangers had already proved that they were willing to fire upon civilian transports, even ones as vital as the maglev train. If they detected, intercepted, and destroyed the VTOL, not only would she lose the message, but she would lose the aircraft and its crew. There was also the chance of the VTOL being forced to land, resulting in the messages falling into the enemy's hands. As much as she hated the idea of sending a call for reinforcements over an unsecured communications link, she didn't see any other choice.

* * *

"Have you got all that?" Gina Ciampa asked, having gone personally to the small business office attached to the ComStar HPG station located at the northern end of the Maria's Elegy spaceport.

"Yes, General," the ComStar technician replied. "Priority One HPG message to Skye. Addressed to Hauptmann-General Rainer Poulin. Message reads, 'Hesperus II under heavy attack by Fourth and Twenty-second Skye Rangers. Request immediate reinforcements.' Signed Gina Ciampa, Leutnant-General, Fifteenth Lyran Guards. Message ends. Is that correct?"

"That is correct, Adept," Ciampa said, turning to leave. "Please make sure it goes out pronto."

* * *

A call for William von Frisch came in from the captain who'd been given the captured Lyran WarShip. "General, this is Kaptain Cerlenko," she said. "We've just picked up an electronic signal coming from the spaceport at Maria's Elegy."

The general looked at the map a technician had called up on the mobile HQ van's primary viewscreen. The graphic representation of the area of space around Hesperus II showed a small golden blip where the Simon Davion stood in geosynchronous orbit above the planetary capital. Fitted with the most advanced electronics available to the Federated Suns, the ultra-modern Avalon-class cruiser was easily able to detect ground-bound electronic emissions from space.

"Any idea what they are?" he demanded.

"Oh, we've got a real good idea what they are," Cerlenko said. "It's an HPG-carrier signal. It looks as though someone on the ground is getting ready to send out an HPG message."

"It's that bitch Carlyle," von Frisch spat. "Or Ciampa, or Zambos. They're trying to call for help.

"Can you shut it down, Kaptain?"

"Not from here, sir. Perhaps a commando team might, but we haven't got any commandos. The best we have is a couple dozen Marines. But even if we sent them to the surface, they'd never arrive in time."

"Then destroy the source," von Frisch said arrogantly.

"General, that's a ComStar facility down there."

"That it is, Kaptain," von Frisch spat back. "And that ComStar facility is about to call in reinforcements. I'd bet my life on it. And if that's what they're doing, then they're no longer neutral but are taking sides in this war. Destroy it. We'll settle with ComStar later, after the Isle of Skye is free."

"But General . . ."

"That is an order, Kaptain."

"Yessir."

* * *

Kaptain Elena Cerlenko stepped away from the communications console and looked across the Simon Davion's bridge. In one corner of her mind, she told herself they'd really have to rename the ship. Perhaps that honor would go to her crew. If so, she thought it would be a wonderful gesture to name her the Bartlett, after Private Roy Bartlett, the first of her Marines to board the cruiser during her capture, and the first to lose his life in the attempt.

"Helmsman, begin a spiral descent. Take us down to three hundred kilometers and park us right over the spaceport."

"Aye, Kaptain."

As the ship nosed down into a long, slow, spiraling dive toward the planet, Cerlenko spent the time studying the maps and radar images of the Maria's Elegy spaceport stored in the Simon Davion's computer banks. She wanted to make certain her fire-control systems could positively identify the ComStar HPG facility before she ordered her gunners to open fire.

The ComStar facility was a technically neutral site. As the organization's military also formed the heart of the Star League Defense Force, it had taken no official stance in the matter of the Skye rebellion. That was bad enough, though Cerlenko understood the necessity of stopping any military communication from leaving Hesperus II. She also knew the terrible risk in bringing her ship's guns to bear on a relatively tiny ground target. If her gunners' calculations were off by even a few degrees, the deadly barrage could hit a civilian area of the city. She decided that she would call von Frisch and tell him the target could not be clearly identified if there was even a chance of that happening. Let him clean up his own mess.

For a few moments, she even considered disobeying his order, but quickly realized that he was right. If Skye was ever to throw off the yoke of Steiner domination, risks would have to be taken. In that instant, she made the fateful decision to carry out William von Frisch's orders.

A few minutes later, the helmsman called out that they were in position.

"Helmsman, give me a slow roll to starboard, ninety degrees." She peered closely at the chart depicting the spaceport. "Gunnery Officer, bring your starboard antiship weapons to bear on Grid Whiskey-Romeo-Niner-Seven-One, by Alpha-Lima-Three-Zero-Six, and fire one broadside."

* * *

Gina Ciampa was walking across the spaceport tarmac with her aide, Colonel Nana Brennan, when the Chief Warrant Officer in charge of the spaceport sensor and communications station called on her portable comm unit.

"General Ciampa, this is Chief Sellars. The Simon has settled into a new orbit. It looks like a geosynch, about three hundred kilometers up." Sellars had been feeding her reports about the WarShip's movements for the past ten minutes. "Wait a minute . . . Holy Mary, Mother of God, we're picking up fire-control signals. I think they're about to start—"

A clap of thunder ended Sellars' message, followed by an incandescent beam of light shooting through the darkening sky. The laser bolt flashed from sky to earth in the northeast corner of the spaceport. Before Ciampa's stunned mind could begin to grasp what had happened, a second beam snapped into existence with an eye-hurting intensity. A second thunderclap shook the air, followed by a hollow boom. A ball of flame boiled into the air at the far end of the port, followed by a series of laser blasts slashing into the ground. What were they shooting at?

Realization dawned in an instant—the HPG station. Ciampa was sure no one could have survived the attack. The urgent request for reinforcements would not be sent.

"General, the cruiser has altered her course. She is now heading two-eight-five, true," Sellars said tensely. "That will bring them right over the spaceport. And we're still picking up fire-control sensors."

Before Ciampa could react, a laser blast tore into the empty building that until recently had been the primary barracks facility for the Gray Death Legion. The structure was blown apart, then set ablaze by the laser's fiery touch. Another blast gouged a strip out of the tarmac, leaving thick, oily smoke and dark greasy flames in its wake.

Not another second passed before Ciampa threw herself to the pavement and rolled under a ground jeep as an ear-splitting crack sounded. Half a second later, an Atlas assault 'Mech crumpled in on itself as the blast of a naval gauss rifle swatted it to the ground. More savage blasts followed, the ground shaking from the incredible energies being unleashed on the spaceport. A laser bolt smacked into the tarmac twenty meters from Ciampa's hiding place, sending ash and burning tar-based pavement showering down on her. Three Gray Death Legion fighters died in a fireball created by naval autocannon shells.

"What the hell is going on?" Brennan yelled over the cacophony of exploding ordnance and massive energy discharges.

A hunk of misshapen metal clanged off the hood of the ground jeep. Debris skittered across the hood, landing on the pavement not far from Ciampa's face. In one of those odd moments of clarity that sometimes occurred during combat, Ciampa realized that the pieces had once been an ammunition cassette for an autocannon.

"Naval bombardment," she screamed back. "Those bloody bastards are bombarding us."

No sooner had the words left her lips than the attack lifted. For long moments, Ciampa stayed where she was. Across the spaceport, an ammunition bunker had been struck, blanketing the base with both exploding and unexploded ordnance. Smoke from a burning fuel tank hung low in the sky, blotting out the sunset. Over the noise of the fires and detonating ordnance, she could hear the screams of the wounded and dying and the high, thin ululation of sirens.

Slowly, she got to her feet, then stood staring empty-eyed across the devastated spaceport. The battle for Hesperus had taken a new, ugly turn.

BattleTech - LE5866

25

Fourth Skye Rangers Landing Zone

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

02 July 3065

Leutnant-General William von Frisch leaned his elbows on the edge of the tiny desk in one corner of the mobile headquarters van. For long moments, he remained like that, his eyes shut, silently cradling his head in his hands. He was aware of the anxious glances cast his way by the command truck's crew, but they were not his primary concern right now. His worry was for the future of the rebellion, and for the reputation of the Isle of Skye once it gained its independence from the Lyran Alliance.

Kaptain Cerlenko's report troubled him deeply. He had expected a single, surgical attack on the ComStar installation at Maria's Elegy, not a wholesale naval bombardment of the spaceport. Such attacks were not the common order of the day, nor should they be. The destructive energy released by a WarShip's guns was greater than that of an entire 'Mech battalion, and was, on the whole, less accurate.

Though Cerlenko told him she had targeted the ComStar HPG station, he knew that the damage caused by the bombardment would not be limited to that building alone. If the WarShip's guns were off by even a fraction of a degree, it could endanger a civilian area of the city. Von Frisch had ordered the attack, and if even one shot went awry, the responsibility for it was his.

The surest way to reduce the political ramifications of the attack was plain. He had to win the fight for Hesperus.

One other aspect of Cerlenko's report troubled him. The Kaptain didn't know if her bombardment had destroyed the HPG station before any messages could be transmitted. If a message had gone out, though, von Frisch wasn't sure Katrina Steiner really had units to spare for reinforcing Hesperus. And even if she did, would she risk sending them? The event that had triggered the rebellion in the first place was the relocation of mainline combat units to worlds within the Isle of Skye. Would the Archon risk inciting additional worlds to revolt by sending more combat troops into Skye? For the sake of his command, von Frisch had to assume so.

Pulling himself up, he activated the computer terminal and quickly tapped in a carefully worded message that he saved onto a datachip. A second message followed, and was likewise copied to an offline storage device.

Then he called in his orderly with instructions. The young officer would rush the first chip to the captain of one of the Ranger DropShips, with orders that the man take the chip via a high-speed burn to the Sharuq, the JumpShip that had transported the Rangers to Hesperus. The Sharuq's captain would then jump immediately for the Skye system, taking the chip to Duke Robert's second in command, General John Dundee. Von Frisch made it clear that the Sharuq's captain was to deliver the chip directly into Dundee's hands.

Then he handed the second chip to his young aide. "This one goes to the Nomad's skipper," he said. "Tell him to run it up to the Simon Davion and place it directly into Kaptain Cerlenko's hands. Is that understood?"

"Yes, General," the lanky, tow-headed youth answered.

"Good. Now get moving."

Von Frisch sighed. Sending a message via DropShip might take longer, but it would be almost impossible for the enemy to intercept. The first message was to Skye Command, asking for reinforcements. The second instructed Kaptain Cerlenko to place the captured Simon Davion in orbit above Hesperus III. Both were precautions against reinforcements from the Lyran Alliance.

The message to Cerlenko held a slightly more dire set of instructions, however. He directed that she engage any JumpShip coming into the system via a pirate point, regardless of whether it was a WarShip or a transport. Military ships were to be destroyed. Civilian vessels were to be disabled and seized. Likewise, she was to destroy any DropShip launching from those JumpShips.

Like the attack on the HPG station, ordering the Simon Davion to attack all starship and spaceship traffic was a calculated risk. By destroying or capturing any vessel that entered the system, von Frisch hoped to convince Archon Katrina and Nondi Steiner that Hesperus was too expensive to hold on to.

He knew that might be a vain hope because of the importance of Defiance Industries. But it was a hope.

* * *

"Colonel, you need to see this." A technician wearing the green uniform of the Defiance Self-Protection Force passed a portable data unit to Lori. "One of your pickets recorded this and transmitted it back to us. It's less than five minutes old."

Lori pushed the playback stud set into the unit's casing as the tech retreated to stand near the door. She watched as the screen displayed a clear night sky. Suddenly, the star-filled heavens were illuminated by two bright streaks rising up from beyond the horizon.

"DropShips," McCall said, looking over her shoulder.

"DropShips," she confirmed. "But it looks like only two of them."

"Aye." Her exec's tone was speculative. "And why would only two o' the sassanach be leavin'? They're up t' something."

"Yes, and I intend to find out what." Lori waved the tech over to her, with orders to find Meg Powers and bring her here. Within ten minutes, the tall, dark-haired major joined them.

"I've got some night work for you," Lori said, handing the data unit to her scout officer. Powers watched the recording, then placed the device back on Lori's desk.

"You want me to see why only two DropShips boosted."

"That's right," Lori said. "The problem is that we have no hard intelligence as to exactly where the rebels landed. The Defiance scanners followed them down until they dropped into the ground clutter. We can give you a general idea where the bad guys are, but you'll have to scout around to locate their LZ. I need to know where they've gone to ground, how seriously they've been hurt, and whether they're in any shape to launch another attack on Defiance. And I need to know as soon as possible.

"This will be dangerous, Meg. If von Frisch has any sense, he's studied up on the Legion and knows about our scout platoons. He's likely to be prepared, so take all reasonable precautions. If you run into trouble, beat it out of there. The best report in the world isn't going to do us any good if there's no one left to deliver it."

Powers nodded absently. Lori knew she was already kilometers away, searching for the enemy's base of operations.

* * *

"El, take a look down there," Meg Powers whispered to Sergeant Elron David, her platoon sergeant. She kept her pointing hand close to her light scout armor's plastron. Though they had yet to see enemy soldiers, scout training said to keep your gestures small and close to your body, because the enemy didn't need to know what you knew.

Elron David followed his commander's gesture, his eyes widening behind his armored visor.

The scouts had tracked the retreating Skye Rangers northward for thirty kilometers after their departure from the Defiance factory complex. Till now, a blind man could have followed the ruts the Rangers had carved in the rocky turf of the Myoo Highlands. As the trail began to ascend the slopes of the next ridge, the ground cover changed from loose, stony earth to solid rock only thinly covered by soil, making the tracks more difficult to follow.

To meet the conditions, Meg Powers had divided her scout company into two platoons, with Lieutenant M'Dahlla in command of one and she of the other. The two units fanned out to search for the enemy's trail, and it wasn't long before her platoon located the enemy's tracks.

The path angled away to the east, running a few kilometers deeper into the mountains before leading to a broad, relatively flat alpine meadow. Powers' team slipped into the rocks along the trail like mechanical ghosts. Below them was laid out the entire enemy bivouac.

She activated the recording gear built into her suit, panning the sensors across the rebel encampment. She saw dozens of BattleMechs, most of them being serviced by mobile repair trucks, and at least a score of aerospace fighters. Of the enemy DropShips she saw not a trace, and every engine, be it a fighter, tank, or 'Mech, was shut down cold.

"Maybe they bounced their DropShips back to an alternate LZ," Elron David opined. "Maybe they're setting up a fallback position."

Powers nodded slowly. "Could be. I don't know what to make of it. If they boosted the rest of their ships, why didn't we see them? And if they didn't, where the hell are they?"

"Camouflaged? Back there among the rocks?" David pointed toward the far end of the meadow where the steep escarpments of the mountains came down. "If they strung up some of those big electronic ghillie nets, we might not be able to detect them. Or maybe they've got some kind of ECM."

"I don't know, El. It just doesn't feel right." Powers stared searchingly at the enemy camp, mulling over the odd disquietude she felt. There was something not right about the bivouac.

"Okay, El," she said, abandoning the attempt to figure out what was bothering her. "Let's flank out to the left and move along their perimeter. Maybe a new perspective will tell us something."

Moving carefully and quietly, the platoon slipped from shadow to shadow, dividing their attention equally between the rebel camp, their path through the rocks, and potential enemies. In this manner, they made a quarter-circuit of the landing zone before Powers signaled another halt.

"Still no sign of the DropShips," she murmured.

"No, and we'd best be getting back," David said. "We've got about two hours of darkness left, and there's no telling how long these fellas are going to wait before they kick off whatever plan they've cooked up overnight."

Powers looked at him with a sudden feeling of certainty.

"You feel it too?"

"Yeah. It's like they're about to start something."

Powers checked her chronometer. She wanted her scouts to be out of the area before dark.

"All right, let's pull back," she said. "We'll head for the spot where the trail swung east before we recall First Platoon. That'll give the enemy less chance of picking up our signal."

"Halt!"

Instinctively, the scouts froze.

"Identify yourselves."

The voice was coming from ahead of them and to the right. Moving as slowly and smoothly as she could, Powers lifted her heavy Thunderstroke gauss rifle out of its assault sling, pointed toward where she'd heard the picket's voice, and fired.

A sharp crack echoed among the rocks, followed by a yelp of pain.

"Second Platoon, break contact!" Powers bellowed across her company's general frequency. There was no need for-stealth. The enemy surely knew that her scouts were there. The general broadcast, which was automatically encrypted, was for First Platoon's benefit. At least they would know that Powers' team had engaged the Skye Rangers and would be pulling back.

"Escape and evade," she said. "Rally Point Tango."

She and David opened fire, blanketing the area where the sentry's voice had been heard with a fusillade of steel slugs intended to keep the enemy pinned down. When they withdrew, the next pair of scouts took up the suppressive fire. One of them was using the platoon's semi-portable machine gun. As Powers and David bounded past the third pair of armored scouts, Powers saw that one of them was preparing a directional antipersonnel mine. The other had a man-pack PPC aimed along their back trail.

Fifty meters distant from their original position, Powers and David stopped, slid into cover, and spun to face the way they'd just come. Two of her scouts dashed past them, moving another ten meters before likewise falling into defensive postures. In less than thirty seconds, the rest of the platoon had fallen back, and the night was quiet.

Powers strained her ears, expecting to hear the bang of the mine going off or the crack and rattle of enemy small-arms fire. What she heard instead was the loud whine-thump of a moving BattleMech.

"Dammit," she muttered. "They must have had a 'Mech on low-power standby and we didn't spot it."

The deep-throated chatter of a heavy machine gun ripped through the cool night air. Mangled bullets whined off rocks as the sentry Vulcan hosed down the area. By a stroke of good fortune, the 'Mech's burst touched none of the armored scouts. In response, a deep, crackling boom was followed by the jagged stroke of charged particles plowing into the cylindrical joint of the Vulcan's left hip.

The 'Mech took a stutter-step, probably more from surprise at being attacked by a heavy weapon than because of the minor damage done to his armor. As the pilot recovered his footing, the Legion scouts bounded away on their suit-mounted jump packs.

At the top of her arc, Powers flipped her visor over to thermal, and spotted the heat signatures of at least three more 'Mechs. She couldn't tell what model each individual machine was, but she figured that all were lighter recon-types.

Coming to earth again, she switched her viewer over to its light-amplification setting. A ghostly vista of green, white, and black stretched out before her. There was no immediate sign of the enemy 'Mechs, but that could change any minute. The rebels might be satisfied with driving them off, but Powers didn't want to risk it. If she ordered her men into a general withdrawal, it would let them move out of the enemy's zone of control more rapidly. But if the rebels were in pursuit, the odds were against her troops if 'Mechs caught them in the open.

"Second Platoon, keep your eyes open," she radioed to her team. "There are at least three more 'Mechs out there. If you see one, sing out. Everyone is free to displace or engage at his discretion, but let's not get hung up out here. We've got intel for the colonel, and it won't do her or us any good if we all get greased before we can get it back to her."

She switched comm channels and made direct contact with Lieutenant M'Dahlla. "Pull your people back to Rally Point Tango and execute Plan Whiskey," she instructed. "Just make sure your people know that Second Platoon will be moving back through their field of fire. Tell them not to grease any of us along with the bad guys."

"Affirmative," was the taciturn M'Dahlla's only reply.

"Second Platoon, displace one hundred meters back right."

The other scouts flitted off to the southwest. No sooner had they gone to ground than the spindly form of the Vulcan reappeared. Moving carefully among the rocks, its slow speed made it a perfect target.

"Okay, boys," Powers said. "We'll fire in volley. Aim at his head." She gave her men a few seconds to bring their guns to bear on the enemy 'Mech. "Ready. Fire."

Lasers snapped out at the Vulcan, the report of the infantry fire lost in the deeper boom of the platoon's M-PPC. Armor spalled away from the Vulcan's spherical cockpit, making the skinny 'Mech stagger drunkenly. The pilot quickly recovered and fired his machine gun into the area from which the man-made lightning had come. Even before the echoes of the chattering burst had faded, the Vulcan's right arm lifted, displaying the flared, blackened muzzle of its most fearsome antiinfantry weapon. Flame vomited from the handless wrist. A scream made of equal parts terror and agony beat against Meg Powers' ears as the flamer washed across the position occupied by one of her men.

"Hit him again!" she roared.

Again, the platoon's lasers reached out to claw at the Vulcan. This time, the man-portable particle cannon failed to speak, but its deadly work was done. The Skye 'Mech's left arm bore deep, blackened scars.

"And again!" Powers barked before the Vulcan could recover enough to turn its flamer on another of her scouts. A loud, rushing crackle sounded across the battlefield as the renewed attack ripped through the tissue-thin armor remaining on the Vulcan's left arm, severing myomer bundles and frying a vulnerable actuator package in its shoulder. The arm dropped to hang limp at the 'Mech's side.

"Fall back!" Powers yelled. "Fall back to the rally point."

The Vulcan's pilot declined to pursue the retreating scouts. But the rest of his lance came on, nipping at the Legionnaires' heels with laser and machine-gun fire.

The broken terrain made it an even race. The scouts in their jump-capable power suits could vault over large impediments, which their pursuers had to go around. Still, the 'Mechs were faster and their pilots were fresh, whereas the armored scouts had been on the move all night.

"Lieutenant M'Dahlla, are you in position?" Powers called.

"Yes, Major. We are ready," he replied.

"All right. We'll be coming through your ambush zone hell-bent-for-leather, with two 'Mechs behind us. Think you can scrape them off for us?"

"We are ready," M'Dahlla repeated.

Second Platoon dashed through the narrow pass designated as Rally Point One and went to ground. A few moments later, the ground began to tremble as their hunters approached. The lead 'Mech, a hunch-shouldered Watchman, stepped into the notch. He slowed, as though sensing an ambush, but it was too late.

Powers heard M'Dahlla shout, and eight armored scouts swarmed from their hiding places. Darting forward, the platoon clambered up the Watchman's legs. Powers saw a scout shove a bulky canvas bundle into the 'Mech's well-protected knee joint. Another trooper, bolder or more consumed with battle lust, clambered higher to lodge his satchel charge in the 'Mech's more vulnerable hip joint. A second later, both scouts bounded off. Their companions likewise scattered as the Watchman blazed away fruitlessly with its machine guns and lasers.

A flat bang echoed through the dark pass. Half a second later, a louder explosion dwarfed the first. Powers lifted her head to see the Watchman take one last step. Then its right leg parted company with its body, severed above the knee by the explosive charge.

As the medium 'Mech toppled onto its face, a second 'Mech entered the killing zone. Powers' scalp tightened when she saw its right arm swing up, revealing a Class 10 dual-purpose autocannon.

"Second Platoon, hit him!" she bellowed, bringing the sights of her gauss rifle up across the eye-like viewscreens of the enemy Enforcer. Lasers and slug-throwers alike hammered the 'Mech but inflicted little damage. One of First Platoon's troopers skidded to a halt, knelt, and set a bulky short-range missile launcher against his shoulder. The first of those deadly projectiles streaked away into the night.

Powers watched in horror as the Enforcer cocked its head while raising its left arm, with its powerful 'Mech-killing laser. She waited calmly as the SRM launcher's semiautomatic mechanism brought the second missile around to the firing position. Her trooper took careful aim and fired. So did the Enforcer. The rocket tore through the air, even as the laser snuffed out the life of him that launched it. Instead of bursting upon impact with the 'Mech's armor, the projectile split open a few meters before it struck, showering the Enforcer's legs with burning petrochemical fuel.

Ignoring the flames, the pilot hosed down the pass with a thundering burst of autocannon fire. Submunitions sparked and banged against the rocky sides and floor of the pass, and against the tinfoil armor of two armored scouts. Shrapnel and rock fragments filled the air, wounding more of her men.

Meg Powers took careful aim on the Enforcer's cockpit and fired as one of First Platoon's other troopers sprayed the already burning 'Mech with a man-pack flamer. A single bolt from the 'Mech's laser felled the flamer-man.

"Time to go!" she yelled, knowing there was nothing more they could do here. "Everybody pull out!"

As she scrambled from her hiding place in the lee of a large, flat rock, something hammered into her power suit's back, knocking her sprawling. The breath was driven from her lungs as her chest slammed against the inside of the scout armor's plastron.

As she lay there gasping for breath, she heard a loud, rippling explosion. She tried to get to her feet, but her suit would not respond. The low-light viewer she'd been using ever since Second Platoon had vacated their first position flickered and went out. Cursing, Powers tried again to bring the suit to its feet, but to no avail. Her scout armor was dead.

Suddenly she heard a sharp hiss and felt a cold breeze against her sweat-soaked skin.

"Major, are you all right?" Elron David asked.

"I think so, El," she answered, shrugging off her armor's inert carapace. Her subordinate must have tripped the suit's manual latches. As she pulled herself out of the disabled armor, a chill shook her limbs. The thick metal backpack that had once housed the scout armor's power cell, electronics suite, and infantry jump jet was a ruined tangle of metal. The smell of highly volatile fuel stung her nostrils. Whatever had knocked her to the ground had destroyed the suit's vital systems and ripped open the jump-pack's fuel cell. Only luck had kept that fuel from igniting and turning her into a living torch.

Of the Enforcer there was no sign other than a smoking hulk where the fifty-ton 'Mech had stood. Powers guessed that his profligate use of the heat-generating laser, combined with the effects of the flamer and inferno rounds, had caused the rebel's ammunition to cook off and destroy the 'Mech.

"El, take command," Powers said, looking up at her battle-armored sergeant. "I can't lead the company like this. I've got my survival pack. I'll call for pick-up and see you back at the base."

"Major, I can assign—"

"Sergeant, there are more rebels out there. You take command, and get the scouts home safe. The colonel needs the data you're carrying."

"Major—"

"That is an order, Sergeant!"

"Yes, sir." David saluted and was gone.

Meg Powers flipped open a metal case attached to her power suit's left hip. After shrugging into the pack's thin camouflaged coveralls and fastening a web belt with its holstered pistol around her waist, she activated her recovery beacon. The fist-sized device would continue to transmit a coded radio signal until she was picked up or its batteries ran out.

Following Legion doctrine, she performed one last operation before jogging off into the night. She knelt beside her ruined armor, placed a stubby cylinder over the ruined power-pack, and yanked a ring-pin free. Grabbing her survival pack, she hauled ass away from the downed power suit.

The incendiary grenade detonated with a harsh whoosh, igniting the spilled fuel.

She jogged a hundred miters in the general direction of the Legion base before going to ground. The rescue beacon would guide the rescuers to her, and it would be easier for them to home in on her position if she sat still. Crouching in the dark, she listened as the sounds of the battle grew fainter. The noises moving away to the south told her that Elron David was doing as she had ordered—attempting to return the scout company to the Legion HQ at the Defiance complex.

Then she heard the scuffing of a footstep in the loose, stony soil. She looked up and to her right to see a young woman clad only in a cooling vest, briefs, and moccasins standing over her. A holstered pistol rode on her left hip. The patch of the Twenty-second Skye Rangers sewn to the vest's front left no doubt as to the newcomer's identity. For a moment, the women stared at each other in surprise, each waiting to see what the other was going to do.

Then, as though on a signal, each clawed at her holster. Both weapons came free at the same moment. In a corner of her mind, Powers felt scorching pain rip up her left arm, followed by the stench of seared flesh. But her attention was focused on her pistol's luminous sights. As the front blade came up over the Ranger's chest, she squeezed the trigger rapidly three times. A trio of nine-millimeter slugs tore into the other woman's body, and she collapsed abruptly.

After making sure that her enemy was truly dead and recovering her laser pistol, Powers shoved back the collar of her jumpsuit to inspect her wound. The beam of amplified light had burned a neat pair of holes in the sleeve of the jumpsuit, leaving a shallow, charred gash in her upper arm. There was no blood, but the pain seared along her arm.

Zipping up the jumpsuit, Powers recovered her pack and slipped off into the darkness, praying that a Legion recovery team would find her before the Skye Rangers did.

26

Defiance Industries Complex

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

03 July 3065

"Colonel, your scouts are back," her new orderly reported.

Lori instantly dropped the hard copy reports she'd been reading, grateful to leave off perusing the butcher's bill from the train wreck and the battle that followed. Reading casualty reports was one of the most difficult jobs she had to perform. Only writing the letters that those reports generated was more painful.

It was a short walk from the office Defiance Industries had given her to the large 'Mech bay. As she stepped onto the surprisingly clean concrete floor, Lori saw Lieutenant M'Dahlla sitting back in a folding plastic chair, his face pinched with fatigue and streaked with sweat. His bullet-scarred scout armor, spattered with thin, sandy mud, lay on the floor beside him. Davis McCall, Tom Devin, and Major Goree stood close by. Their postures told Lori that they had been waiting for her.

When M'Dahlla spotted Lori, he put aside the plastic bottle of water from which he'd been drinking and got wearily to his feet.

"Colonel . . ."

"Sit down, Lieutenant," Lori said kindly.

"Thank you, Colonel," he sighed, dropping heavily into the chair. Sighing once more, he launched into his narrative. "We located the enemy bivouac about thirty klicks north, northeast of us. They are set up in a broad meadow right up against the foot of the next ridge. We counted at least three trails leading back from the meadow into the mountains. As nearly as we could tell, they have got two regiments of BattleMechs, plus about a brigade of support troops. We saw one full wing of aerospace fighters, but no DropShips."

"No DropShips?" Lori interrupted.

"No, Colonel. They may have moved them farther back into the mountains," M'Dahlla continued. "Or they may have sent them away, though it did not feel like either of those. I cannot quite put my finger on it. Major Powers took First Platoon—"

"Wait a minute," Lori cut in again. "Did you say Major Powers was with you?"

"Yes, Colonel, the major was with us. She always liked to get a firsthand look at things and ..."

"Well, if Major Powers was with you, why isn't she making this report?" Lori's voice froze in her throat, even as she spoke the words.

"We lost contact with her on the way out, Colonel." M'Dahlla's voice was quiet and even, but he appeared to shrink in on himself. "Lieutenant David was the last one to see her. He says she was in good shape and was going to activate her distress beacon as soon as she got clear of the combat zone. He says she ordered him to leave her, that she said the intel was more important than any one life.

"You know the Major, Colonel. You know what she was like. The job at hand always came first."

Lori felt her heart do a slow forward roll at the thought of another friend gone. Meg Powers was irascible, irritating at times, but she was a professional, and she did her job very well. Ordering a subordinate to leave her in order to ensure the timely delivery of an intelligence report would be just like her.

"Has anyone gone out to look for her?" Lori asked, turning to McCall. "Have we picked up her beacon?"

"As soon as we heard that Major Powers was on foot, and missing, we borrowed a couple of Major Goree's VTOLs," he said. "They were able t' make a couple passes over the area, but th' sassanach began gottin' at them almost as soon as the choppers started inta their search pattern. They weren't able t' pick up her beacon. It's startin' t' look as if Major Powers is either dead or a prisoner."

"I see," Lori said, steeling herself. "And where is that report?"

"It's bein' analyzed," McCall said. "We should have a clear strategic picture in an hour or so."

Lori turned to M'Dahlla. "Well done, Lieutenant. Please pass that along to your scouts. Until we determine Major Powers' status, you will be acting company commander. I'll move Captain Monti into battalion command."

Lori turned away from the exhausted scout. "Lieutenant-Colonel McCall, Major Goree, if you'll accompany me please?" She led them into the safety of her office, where she sagged against the edge of the desk.

"I'm getting too old for this."

"Aye, lass, we all are," McCall agreed. "But that gives us the advantage. 'Age and treachery' and a' that."

"Maybe so, Davis." Lori snorted at his use of the old adage which held that age and treachery will always win out over youth and enthusiasm. "But I'm all out of treacherous thoughts right now."

She stretched, easing the aching muscles in her neck. "Until the intel boys get done playing with the raw data, we have to go on instinct. What do we make of what M'Dahlla said?"

With a murmured apology, Goree reached across Lori's desk. "Well, Colonel, if I'm understanding your scout correctly, then I'd guess the Skye Rangers are about here." Tapping a few control pads, he called up a map of the Myoo Highlands on a wall-mounted viewscreen. A small red dot flashed the location where M'Dahlla said the Skye Rangers were to be found.

"If your man is correct, and I have no reason to assume otherwise, the Rangers are probably right here. Now, I know these mountains. They're riddled with trails, passes, and meadows. They're also full of box canyons, cul-de-sacs, and dead ends. So that makes me wonder if the rebels are getting some kind of local support. God knows, there are just as many Separatists on Hesperus as you'd find anywhere else in the province, except maybe on Skye itself."

"That may be so, lad," McCall said, stepping up to study the map. "But I still dinna see why the sassanach would put themselves inta a box like that in th' first place."

"The why of it is a concern," Lori said. "What really worries me is where are their DropShips? I suppose M'Dahlla could be right, that they may have diverted the ships to some alternate landing zone, but again, why?"

McCall stood before the map, studying it carefully. "Well, they made a feint twice before, once in Melrose, and once at Doering. Both times, we had t' leave them in possession of th' field, and they abandoned it, moving on to another place, where they launched another attack."

"Is that what you think is happening here?" Lori asked.

McCall shook his head almost sorrowfully. "Truthfully, lass, I dinna ken. But t' quote our lad M'Dahlla, that doesn't feel right."

"So what does feel right?" Goree asked.

"Well, I'm only guessin', y' understand. But were th' roles reversed, and th' Legion was sittin' oot there in th' hills with aboot even odds, but facin' a dug-in enemy, I ken what I'd be doin' wi' me DropShips. I'd have them boost and burn hard for my JumpShips, and I'd be sendin' some pretty strongly worded messages back to Skye askin' fer help t' crack this nut."

Lori nodded thoughtfully at McCall's assessment of the situation.

"But why boost their ships at all?" Goree wondered aloud. "Why not just send the message to the Simon Davion, and have them relay it back to their JumpShips?"

"The same reason I've got a couple of your repair crews out hunting for breaks in the land-line between here and Maria's Elegy," Lori said. "The same reason General Ciampa is sitting at the spaceport waiting for her regiment to dig itself out and get itself patched up, instead of being on the march."

She stood up and began passing in front of her desk. "Security. It's far too easy to intercept anything other than a hard-line signal, and the only reason that's hard anymore is the job takes a human to tap into the line and listen in. With electronic signals, like a radio message, there's just too much chance of interception. So, if the rebels wanted to shout for help and didn't want us to know about it, they'd have to hot-up their DropShips."

"That would only take one DropShip, or two at most," Goree said, pensively scratching his cheek with his right forefinger. "Where are the rest of their ships? They couldn't have boosted without us seeing them. Unless they stayed low, below our radar. If so, they could have dispersed their ships to alternate LZs. That's the only possibility, unless the Skye Rangers have come up with a way of making DropShips invisible."

"If they've done that, Major, we're in a lot more trouble than we think."

"So what do we do?"

"We wait for the intel to come back, then we hit the Rangers—hard." Lori's tired eyes took on a new light as she spoke of the coming battle. "We don't have enough strength to wipe them out here. We'll need Ciampa for that, and it's going to take a few days for her to get here. I propose we make a raid in force, concentrate on their fighters and their support structure. If we can kill or cripple some of their 'Mechs or heavy tanks, so much the better. But our primary goal is to clobber their fighters and to take out their repair and refit equipment. We'll burn or blow up whatever stores we can find, and destroy their repair facilities."

She shrugged lightly. "If we can't out-gun them, maybe we can outlast them.

"Meantime, Major Goree, I'd like to use your facilities here to effect repairs to my unit."

"I was about to make that offer," Goree said with a smile. "In fact, I'll go you one better. I will loan you whatever 'Mechs you need to replace any that have been destroyed or damaged past repair. Even better, I'll place myself and my battalion under your command for this fight."

"That is a most generous offer, Major, but why . . ."

"Why the change of heart, Colonel?" Goree smiled at her surprise. "It isn't really a change of heart. It's like I told you before. I'd start trusting the Legion once I was sure you could be trusted."

His smile broadened. "Besides, if I didn't offer, Captain Brewer would have changed his clothes, and CEO Brewer would have ordered me to help."

Lori smiled for what felt like the first time in months.

"Major, thank you for your offer. We will gladly accept the repairs and replacements, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline your unit's company on this raid. Not because I don't think they can fight, and not because I think we're any better soldiers than you. It's just that I'd rather have you hold the Self-Protection Force in reserve, right here at the Defiance complex, in case the Separatists manage to evade or eliminate the Legion."

"All right," Goree said, his voice heavy with reluctance. "I understand what you're saying. It's the best tactical option, but I have to say that I don't like being kept out of a fight."

"Don't worry," Lori said, turning her eyes toward the big map. "This war's not over yet."

BattleTech - LE5866

27

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

04 July 3065

Lori watched with rapidly eroding patience as a tiny blue dot crawled across the electronic map displayed on one of the Victor's secondary monitors. The electronic indicator marked the location of the recon lance attached to the Legion's headquarters company. Despite Lieutenant M'Dahlla's insistence that the armored scouts were ready to make another run at the encamped Skye Rangers, Lori insisted that the exhausted men and women of his company sit out this fight. That meant any pre-battle surveys would have to be done the "old-fashioned" way, using light, fast BattleMechs for the job.

"Buckskin, this is Roan," Lieutenant Christine Wellerman, recon lance leader said, using the call signs Lori had assigned before they left the Defiance plant. "Roan group is in position. Everything is as reported." Though she spoke quietly, her voice came clearly to Lori's ears, thanks to the sophisticated communications equipment built into Wellerman's captured Koshi-A OmniMech.

"Roan, Buckskin. Stay on station. Report any changes. We will advise before the bull runs."

Lori pressed a switch on her left-hand joystick, selecting the Legion's general-use radio frequency.

"Herd, this is Buckskin. Form up."

Immediately, the Gray Death Legion swung into action. In a few minutes, all company commanders had reported their readiness. Taking a deep breath, Lori gave the order to move out.

A slight push of the joysticks settled the Victor into a slow walk. To either side, the 'Mechs of her command lance kept pace. About three hundred meters ahead of her were the 'Mechs of First Battalion's Second and Third Companies. They were arrayed in two blocks, with Second Company in front of Third. First Company was detached, moving parallel to its comrades, a kilometer distant to the east. Elements of Second Battalion were drawn up on First Battalion's left in a mirror-image formation. Far out on the flanks, broken into two roughly equal forces, were the Legion's conventional armor and armored infantry forces. Surprisingly, given the rough, broken terrain, the detached wings of the Legion kept the rough formation as they closed on the enemy's position.

Minutes passed, and the distance shrank. Twice Lori had to change the scale of the electronic map as the icon representing the Legion threatened to merge with the scarlet marker of the Skye Rangers.

"Buckskin, this is Sorrel," Daniel Brewer said in her earpiece. "We have contact with the enemy. We are engaging." His level tone failed to completely mask the fear and anticipation felt by every soldier going into battle.

At a word from Lori, the advancing line came to a halt. From her position, she could see little of the fighting. Only the snap and thunder of gunfire and the occasional arcing contrails of missile volleys revealed the spot where the deadly contest was being waged.

She switched display modes, and the scrolling electronic map was replaced by a graphic tactical representation of the battle. Tiny blue icons stood against advancing red markers as the Legion and the Skye Rangers sought to annihilate one another. One scarlet triangle blinked out, followed by an azure pyramid. A 'Mech from each side had just died, and possibly the human being at the war machine's controls. Lori knew that damage was beginning to mount on both sides, but still she held her wings and reserves back from the battle.

Two more blue icons faded, and a third began to blink as a severely damaged 'Mech fell out of line, heading for the rear.

Now! It's time, her heart screamed. Her mind agreed.

"Sorrel, this is Buckskin. Pull back."

Immediately, the blue icons began moving back the way they had just come, giving up the ground they had won. The red enemy pursued. The volume of fire marking the battlefield increased in intensity.

Just a few hundred meters, Lori prayed. That was all she needed.

Then, the rebel 'Mechs stopped.

"Sorrel, what's happening?" she snapped into her mike.

For a few seconds there was no reply. When Brewer came on the line, his voice had a strained, breathless quality. "They aren't going for it. They've pulled up short. Stand by, One."

The line went silent for a few moments. When Brewer came back on, his voice was steadier. "They've broken contact, Colonel. The rebels are falling back on their bivouac."

"Dammit!" she howled.

"Do you want us to go back in?"

"Stand by, Sorrel."

For only the briefest moment or two, Lori mulled over the failure of her plan. She had intended that the Rangers pursue Brewer's retreating 'Mechs as the company withdrew. Then, once the rebels had overextended themselves, and had been drawn in against the heavier 'Mechs of the command company, the bulk of the Legion would swing around and hit the enemy in the flanks.

Either von Frisch had recognized the ploy and refused to be taken in, or he simply did not want to be pulled away from his base of operations. Whatever his thinking, his refusal to fall into her trap left Lori with two options. She could either concede that the raid in force had failed, withdraw from the field, and hope to launch an attack at some later date, or revise her plan on the fly and press the attack already underway.

"Herd, this is Buckskin," she said, arriving at a decision. "Reform. We're going to hit them again. This time nobody pulls back, nobody stops. We all go in." In a few precise phrases, she laid out her impromptu plan of attack.

"Now, any questions?"

"This is Palomino," the commander of a tank company called. "No questions, Buckskin, but I've got some good news. One of my hover tanks just picked up Major Powers. She's cold, hungry, and exhausted, but she's alive."

Lori sighed, feeling a portion of the burden lift from her shoulders. Finding Meg Powers alive was a small victory in itself.

"Very well, Palomino," she said with a slight chuckle of relief. "Tell off one of your light hover tanks and get her back to the base. Meanwhile, the rest of you, let's try this thing again. Form ranks."

Again, the Legion surged forward, aiming at the heart of the Rangers' camp. Again, the rebels came out to meet them.

"Contact!" Brewer shouted. "Sorrel has contact with the enemy and is engaging!" His voice was almost joyful in the wake of the previous failure.

"Lean into them!" Lori shouted back. "Keep the pressure on."

The din of battle filled the air, as the headquarters company rolled forward. Lori spared no glance for her map-display now. Only the tactical situation held any significance.

A Grand Dragon sent a fan of missiles ripping through the air, only a few meters above her head. She targeted the 'Mech and fired, staving in its metallic ribs with a gauss slug.

Undeterred, the Separatist warrior struck back with PPC and laser fire that ate away at the armor on her Victor's chest and ribs. Lori traded blow for blow, punching through the weakened armor with a flight of short-range missiles, and ripping armor from the beast's legs with twin blasts from her pulse lasers.

Leigh Cooper, warrior number four in the HQ lance, stepped up alongside the Victor, beams of amplified light snapping from her Exterminator's wrists. The Grand Dragon rocked back on its heels, recovered, and began to withdraw from the fight, its armor gouged and torn by the assault it had just suffered.

"Let him go, Leigh," Lori said, but not before Cooper savaged the rebel once more with a flight of long-range missiles. The Grand Dragon shuddered under the fiery onslaught and measured its length in the stony soil of the meadow. As she rushed by, Lori saw the dazed pilot drag himself from the disabled 'Mech's cockpit. In a futile act of defiance, the rebel pulled himself to his feet and peppered her Victor with small-caliber pistol rounds. A few dozen meters down the line, she saw McCall's Highlander lower its shoulder to bowl over an enemy Wraith.

"Herd, this is Buckskin," Lori panted as her heat sinks labored to bleed away the heat generated by her weapons. "Break, break, break."

Immediately the foremost elements of the Gray Death Legion divided in two, and flowed around the Skye 'Mechs that had marched out to oppose them. The supporting ranks stepped into their places, raining shells and missiles onto the enemy machines. The companies far out on the Legion's wings extended their lines deep into the rebel bivouac before turning to hammer the partially encircled enemy.

"Buckskin, this is Sorrel," Brewer called. "We're running the bypass, but I'm not sure the Rangers are falling for this one, either. If they don't, we're going to be in a world of hurt."

Lori consulted the electronic map. Indeed, many of the rebel units had not turned to follow the encircling Legion 'Mechs. One cluster of red icons, about a reinforced company's worth, seenled to be massing for a counter-charge against Major Devin's flank.

Cursing, she yelled an alert to Devin, but could do no more.

"Colonel, look out!"

Lori never learned who shouted the warning, for in that very instant something collided with her Victor in a loud, ringing crash. The eighty-ton assault 'Mech was knocked sprawling on its face. Lori's neurohelmeted head bounced off the heads up display. Stars shot across her vision, and her ears were filled with a throbbing rush of sound.

With limbs suddenly as unresponsive as house cats, she tried to get the Victor's arms under it. The pulsing roar in her ears rose in pitch and cadence as a gray haze swam across her vision. Dimly, she was aware that the green silhouette on her Mech Status Display had taken on large patches of amber, proclaiming damage to those sections of her armor. A loud stuttering roar, followed by the harsh electrical crackling of a PPC discharge tortured her ears despite the noise-attenuation systems built into both the neurohelmet and her 'Mech's cockpit. Again, something struck her 'Mech a heavy blow, this time across the backs of both legs. Again, she was hurled forward against the straps of her restraint harness as the Victor was once more knocked to the ground.

"Colonel? Colonel?" a distant voice called in her ears. "Colonel, are you all right?"

Lori shook the cobwebs out of her head, and took stock of her situation. She was hanging face down from her safety harness, but seemed to be uninjured. Her MSD showed moderate damage to her Victor's head and left shoulder, and light damage to both lower legs, but all of its systems seemed to be operational. Still, she could not bring the big machine to its feet.

"Colonel!" the voice yelled again, this time much closer. She was finally able to distinguish it as belonging to Dallas MacKensie.

"I'm all right, Mac," she said. "Just please stop yelling."

"Hang on a second, Colonel. That Skye bugger has got you pinned."

"What?"

The only immediate reply was a short, "All together now," followed by heavy metallic scraping.

"Okay, Colonel, you're free," MacKensie said.

Lori tried again to get the Victor upright, and succeeded with only a modest amount of effort.

As she regained her bearings, she saw the burned-out carcass of an enemy Starslayer lying on its back at her feet. Its cockpit had been crushed by a blow of horrific force.

"That son-of-a-buck jumped on you, Colonel," MacKensie explained. "Just jumped right over our lines and landed on you with both feet. He was about to back-shoot you when we brought him down. When he dropped, he fell across your legs and kept you pinned. We had to roll him off."

Lori looked around to see three watchful Legion 'Mechs, besides MacKensie's Trebuchet, standing close by. One was Captain Brian Scully's Hatchetman. In that moment, Lori was grateful that the ex-Lyran warrior had chosen to ignore Grayson's order to discard melee weapons in favor of more armor or ranged weapons.

"Thanks, people. There will be something special in your paychecks this month," she said with weary humor. "Now, let's get back to it."

She checked the map display again, mindful of what had happened the last time she took her mind off the ebb and flow of the battle around her. She saw that her carefully crafted plan, interrupted by the Rangers' reluctance to follow her withdrawing 'Mechs, had fallen completely apart. In just those few minutes, the battle had degenerated into a street fight between two armed mobs. Both armies were so intermixed that the Legion no longer enjoyed the all-too-fleeting advantage of enfilading fire that the flank moves had given them. Only Scully's Third Company and the command lance remained lightly engaged.

"Form your company up on the command lance," Lori said to Scully. "We're going to push through this mess and do what we came here for."

In moments, the small task force was driving into the heart of the melee. A Whitworth and a Tempest stood together to bar their way, but a heavy volley of fire reduced both 'Mechs to scrap, but not before they had destroyed a Commando from Scully's combat lance. Penetrating deeper into the Rangers' bivouac, the Legion 'Mechs broke clear of the main battle area. A few Skye Rangers turned away from the fighting to oppose them.

"Scully, hold them back," Lori directed. "Command lance, start tearing this place apart."

As Scully's company moved to intercept the pursuing rebels, Lori turned and aimed her pulse lasers at a slab-sided truck with a "cherry-picker" sprouting from its back. In seconds, the repair vehicle was in flames. She turned and served a second, similar vehicle the same.

At the same time, MacKensie poured laser fire into a parked ammunition carrier, adding to the fireworks display by setting off a tanker truck loaded with highly volatile aviation fuel. Paul Hansen and Leigh Cooper walked along a line of parked aerospace fighters, methodically hammering each attack craft into smoking rubble.

A squad of infantrymen dashed from the shelter of a tracked armored personnel carrier. One dropped to his knees and slammed a brace of short-range missiles into the Victor's chest. The others raced forward. Lori saw a green canvas bag clutched in the hands of the leader.

She took a long step backward and sprayed the group with darts of energy from her pulse lasers. The foot soldiers died under the megajoule caress of the lasers, their knee-capping satchel charge falling harmlessly from the sergeant's lifeless hands. To ensure that no further close infantry assaults occurred, Lori blasted the APC with her gauss rifle, punching a head-sized hole through the transport-passenger section. A burst from her pulse lasers set the vehicle ablaze.

"Buckskin, this is Pinto," McCall yelled. "The sassanach are startin't' gain th' upper hand here. I think it's aye time to go."

"All right, Pinto," Lori called back. "Pull 'em out. Herd, this is Buckskin. Your signal is Bridle. Pull out, and head back to base."

As the Legion 'Mechs slipped away from the field, the rebels drew back into their encampment, perhaps fearing another trap.

More likely, they were just as tired as she was, Lori decided as the last Legion 'Mech withdrew from the meadow.

BattleTech - LE5866

28

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

05 July 3065

Lori stopped in the wide doorway to the main floor of the 'Mech hangar that housed the Gray Death Legion. She leaned wearily against the steel dooijamb, watching the Legion's technical crews, augmented by volunteer workers from Defiance Industries, crawling around on scaffolds and gantries as they serviced or repaired the Gray Death's battered 'Mechs.

She avoided looking at the handful of empty 'Mech bays scattered throughout the hangar. Each of the seven vacant stalls represented a wrecked machine and a dead or wounded warrior. The losses to her tank and infantry battalions were not so graphically illustrated, though they were more severe. Her mechanized and jump infantry platoons had lost more than a quarter of their two hundred thirty men. The tankers came off a bit better, though not by much. The worst damage had befallen the Gray Death armored infantry. The dozen men taken out of action represented a third of the GDAI's strength.

Far in the distance, she heard the sound of the massive durallex steel doors of the 'Mech hangar sliding open on their runners. Looking toward the far end of the hangar, she saw a cluster of blue and white 'Mechs enter the facility. Leading the group was a BNC-5S Banshee. The assault 'Mech's face, normally a grinning mask of death due to the contours of its faceplate, had been painted to resemble the hideous visage of an angry ghost. Only one such machine existed in the Fifteenth's Table of Organization and Equipment, the one piloted by Leutnant-General Gina Ciampa.

"It's about time," Lori said to herself. There were many in the Gray Death Legion who shared that sentiment, and who were less reserved in expressing it. Those people, warriors and technicians alike, had begun to complain that Ciampa's troops were sitting back at Maria's Elegy—fat, dumb and happy—while the Gray Death Legion beat its brains out against three full regiments of Skye Rangers. Few seemed willing to remember that the Guards had been heavily engaged by the Rangers at Doering. They likewise failed to mention the hammering the Lyran troops had taken when the Separatists turned the Simon Davion's guns on the spaceport.

Lori remained where she was and watched as the 'Mechs of the Fifteenth Lyran Guards made their way into the hangar. A low, orange-painted truck with a lighted sign reading "Follow me" led the way. The Guard 'Mechs were dusty, but the layers of grit could not disguise the fact that a number of the machines had places where their paint jobs did not quite match. In those spots, areas of the blue and white colorings were brighter, unfaded by the sun and rain. Lori recognized the patches for what they were, scars of earlier battles and of the bombardment. Many of the Legion's 'Mechs sported similar markings.

She counted a total of sixty-eight 'Mechs as they filed into the hangar. Only a few were light models. Most of the lighter machines had been destroyed, along with a goodly portion of the Fifteenth's conventional armor.

As the armored doors began closing behind the last Guard 'Mech, Lori commandeered one of the small electric carts used to negotiate the kilometers of passageways, manufacturing spaces, and living areas of the underground factory complex. Putting the vehicle into gear, she headed off in the direction the Lyran troops had gone. She rounded a corner a bit too fast, causing the cart's tires to chirp in protest. Though she had used the carts during the Legion's previous visit to Defiance, she was still unused to the powerful motors possessed by the relatively tiny vehicles.

By the time she reached the section of the hangar assigned to the Lyran Guards, Gina Ciampa had backed her 'Mech into a repair gantry and had climbed out onto the Banshee's left shoulder. She was leaning against the 'Mech's cheek, pulling off her thin felt slippers.

"It's good to see you, General," Lori shouted up from the hangar floor, forcing herself not to add "at last" to her greeting.

Ciampa replaced her slippers with a pair of heavy black combat boots and grinned down at Lori.

"We're glad to be here, Colonel. I'm just sorry we couldn't have made it sooner. It's a long hike overland. I gather you've been having a pretty tough go of it."

"That's putting it mildly, General," Lori said with a touch of bitterness. "And it's going to get worse."

Ciampa climbed down the steel ladder from the ingress/egress catwalk to the floor of the 'Mech hangar before continuing the conversation. As she strode across the bay floor, Lori saw the strain of the last few days on Ciampa's face. New lines seemed to radiate out from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and the old ones seemed deeper, more pronounced. Lori could have sworn that the general had more gray in her hair than the last time they spoke, less than a week before.

My God, I hope I don't look that bad, she thought.

"You said things might be getting worse," Ciampa said. "How so?"

Lori explained how the Legion scouts had been unable to locate the enemy DropShips and her fears that the missing vessels suggested the Separatists had sent them to fetch help.

"I'm afraid you might be right, Colonel. One of the last things the ground sensors picked up before those muck-eaters blew the monitoring stations all to hell was a DropShip, probably a Leopard, burning hard for the zenith jump point."

Lori mulled over what Ciampa had just told her. Though she had suspected the rebels had sent for reinforcements, she'd nursed the hope that all of the Ranger DropShips had been dispatched to some remote alternate landing zone in the hopes of preventing their capture or destruction by the Gray Death Legion.

"If the ground-side sensors are out and the monitoring station has been blown away, what kind of early-warning system do we have in place?" Lori asked.

"None," Ciampa said. "The Separatists could come in here with half the Star League Defense Force, and we might not know about it until their DropShips were already in the atmosphere."

"Any idea what kind of a timetable we're looking at?" Lori asked. "How soon we might expect reinforcements to arrive, ours or theirs?"

"Six weeks ago, I'd have been able to give you a pretty accurate guess," Ciampa said with a bitter laugh. "Now? I haven't got a clue. Things have been so screwed up by both the rebellion and by Prince Victor's war of aggression, that I don't have any idea where the nearest friendly units are stationed, or where any units who have turned their coats for Skye might be. I don't even know if there are any more rebel units. For all I know, Kelswa-Steiner and Dundee have committed all of their forces to this one operation. That would be too risky for my blood, but history shows that, in a rebellion like this one where you've got a numerically and technologically inferior rebel force, fortune does often favor the brave."

Ciampa sighed and thrust her hands into the pockets of her fatigues. "And that leads us to the question of what do we do now?"

"Well, the first thing we do," Lori said, escorting Ciampa to the waiting cart, "is not discuss it out here on the hangar floor. There are too many prying ears."

"You don't think there are spies among our own people, do you?" Ciampa asked, looking around suspiciously.

Lori waited until they were seated and the cart was in motion before answering.

"Among the Legion? No, not a chance. All of our people are loyal. I can't speak for your troops. That's got to be your call. What concerns me are the civilians. All of the workers and most of the supervisors, even the low-level managers, are Skye natives. A few of the Board members are Skye-born and bred too. How many Defiance employees are secretly rooting for the Separatists?"

"Does that extend to your own Captain Brewer?"

"No," Lori snapped with a fatigue-induced flash of temper. "Dan is as loyal as McCall, or Powers, or any other Legionnaire. No, it's the lower-level people I'm questioning."

"Colonel, you've got a nasty, suspicious mind there," Ciampa said without insult in her voice.

"Occupational hazard," Lori said wearily. "Haven't you heard the old mercenary's adage? Somewhere, sometime, there will be an employer who teaches you the meaning of the word paranoia."

"Has the Archon ever given you reason to be paranoid?" It was Ciampa's turn to bristle.

"No," Lori said flatly, making the conscious decision not to be drawn into an argument. "We've only ever really had one employer who tried to rake us over the coals, and that was a long time ago. But you don't survive as a mercenary unless you have a healthy sense of self-preservation."

Lori refused to discuss her plans for defending the Defiance complex and Hesperus until they reached her office.

"How do you know this place is secure?" Ciampa asked.

Lori pulled a small black box from the top desk drawer.

"Bug detector," she said, switching on the unit. "And I had Major Powers sweep the place as soon as we took up residency. If you think I'm paranoid, you ought to talk to Meg. She suspects everyone until they've proven themselves trustworthy. According to my little friend here, we're still the only ones listening. So, General, what do we do now?"

Ciampa dropped into the chair Lori offered her and sat back to think for a moment. "Well, the way I see it, we have two options: one, fort up and hope our reinforcements arrive before the rebels'. If that happens, we can run the enemy to ground in short order. If the Separatists get help first, then we're trapped here. We can call Zambos in from Maldon, but I'd rather not do that unless we have to. I don't want to give the rebels that kind of undefended target. Remember what they did to the Doering plant."

"I remember," Lori said quietly.

"Our second option is to combine our strength and launch an all-out assault on the Rangers. If we win, we can pull back to the mountain for repairs and wait for reinforcements to arrive. That takes us back to our first consideration. Whose reserves will get here first?"

"That's just about the way I read it, General, with one additional question. Was our call for help sent before the rebels blew up the HPG station?"

Ciampa shook her head. "I don't know. The station was totaled. Everybody inside was killed. There were a few ComStar personnel away from the installation when the attack came, but they couldn't say for certain if the message got through."

Lori sighed. "In that event, we have to assume a worst-case scenario. We have to assume that the Separatists have fresh troops on the way, and that Theater Command has no idea what we're facing here."

"So what do we do then? Fort up?"

"No," Lori answered. "I've never liked being in a cage. I propose we take the fight to the Skye Rangers while we have the chance. We know where they are. I have a scout platoon keeping tabs on them. If we pull back, and 'fort up' as you say, we'll lose contact with them. The rebels will be free to maneuver around the planet, shooting up secondary targets until we're forced to go after them. If that happens, we'll be fighting on ground of the enemy's choosing.

"In addition," Lori continued, "if we allow the Rangers to break contact now and go after them later, the strategic situation would allow the enemy to strike at Defiance while we're trying to track them down."

"So what do you propose we do?"

"What I propose, General, is risky. We'll leave your Lyran Guards here at Defiance. Like you said, it's a long march from Maria's Elegy. Your troops are tired. You'll stay here and bolster Major Goree's defenses. I'm going to take the Legion on a night march to the east through the mountains and see if we can come in on the enemy's flank. If we can take them by surprise at night, we might be able to hurt them enough to put them on the defensive. Then, once your people are ready to go again, we'll trade places. Your Guards can harry the Rangers into the ground."

"Not a bad plan, Colonel," Ciampa allowed. "Not bad at all. Still, I hate the idea of putting your people on the firing line again. If I'm not mistaken, they've been fighting almost constantly since you arrived at Defiance. Why not wait a few days and launch a combined assault on the Rangers? Or let my Guards make the flank attack?"

"I thought about that too, General," Lori said. "'Mech for 'Mech, your Guards are heavier and in better condition than the Legion."

"But?"

"But if I'm not mistaken, you are primarily a main line-of-battle unit. You haven't got a whole lot of experience in this kind of operation, nor does your TO&E allow you the kind of operational flexibility necessary for such a mission." Lori spoke as diplomatically as she could, reinforcing her position with a thin, polite smile. "I mean no offense, General. I just think the Legion is more adept at being sneaky and underhanded."

For a moment, Ciampa stared at Lori, who wondered if Ciampa was going to simply command her to allow the Fifteenth Lyran Guards to make the flank march. She knew Ciampa had a reputation for micromanaging battles or even whole campaigns. She hoped the other woman would see the sense in allowing the Legion to do the job for which it was most suited—guerrilla tactics.

"Very well, Colonel." Ciampa's neutral tone gave away nothing of her thoughts. "We'll play this one your way."

Lori smiled, but didn't show that she was relieved. "Thank you, General. Now, if I might ask one thing of you. It is entirely possible that when we hit the Rangers, we may flush them out of their bivouac toward you. If we do, you might want to have some of your lighter, faster elements standing by to take up the pursuit."

"I was already planning on that, Colonel," Ciampa replied.

Lori tapped her intercom.

"Major Powers, would you please report to my office?"

Within minutes, the scout commander was leaning over Lori's desk studying a hard-copy map of the region surrounding the Defiance complex. While Lori could read a map as well as any other officer in the Legion, Meg Powers seemed to have a second sight that could see beyond the lines of ink on paper to discern the exact lay of the land.

She also seemed to have a preference for the archaic printed map rather than the sophisticated electronic version. At last, she looked up with a slow nod.

"I've got it, Colonel," she said, pulling a handful of colored markers from the breast pocket of her fatigues. "This will be the best way." With swift strokes, she began drawing a route through the rugged Myoo Mountains. The lines and arrows started at the Defiance complex and arced away to the southwest, then ended behind and above the Rangers' bivouac.

"It's the most direct path you can take and still keep the mountains between you and the enemy. It's not going to be especially fast or especially easy, particularly for the armor and mechanized infantry. In fact, I'd suggest that you leave those units here. This right here"—she circled a patch of jumbled brown squiggles—"looks like it's moraine boulders. It'll be nearly impossible to move anything other than 'Mechs or leg infantry through that."

Powers marked out another trail in green. "Now this would be easier, and you should be able to take the armor with you. The ground looks more even. You can avoid any major hazards, and you'll still be out of sight of the bad guys. Unfortunately, it's going to take you at least five days to make this march. The first route will be just under two days, barring any accidents or terrain-to-map anomalies."

Using a red marker, Powers laid out a third road through the mountains.

"This would be the fastest, though you'd have lots of rough ground to cross. Some of the heavier 'Mechs might not make it."

Ciampa leaned over the map and whistled. "She's not kidding, Colonel. One of my battalions tried to move through this gap during an exercise last year." She pointed to a narrow pass through a steep-sloped ridge. "It was so full of loose rocks, some of them almost the size of a house, that they had to turn back. One of their scout 'Mechs, a Javelin, tried to make it through. The 'Mech is still there. The pilot fell into a gap between boulders and snapped both of the 'Mech's legs off. We had to abandon the 'Mech, and airlift the pilot out with a VTOL. The rest of his battalion had to back off and go around."

"I was going to point that out, Colonel," Powers said, irritation in her voice. "If you're forced to circumvent any obstacles, particularly here or here, you'd probably be spotted by the Rangers, especially if they have recon teams out."

Lori studied the lines and arrows.

"I don't like going into a major fight without my support troops. But I don't think we can take five or six days to launch this attack." She sighed and rapped the chart with her knuckle. "I guess it's the middle road."

She looked at Meg Powers. "Major, we'll have to pull your scouts out of the observation posts. Please hook up with Captain Radcliffe. Find out which of his leggers or mounted infantrymen have experience to see if we can free up your people for route reconnaissance."

Then she turned to Ciampa. "General, might I prevail on you to run a similar check on your troops? I'd like to keep the rebels under surveillance, just to make sure they hang around long enough for the Legion to throw them this surprise party."

Ciampa agreed and set off to comply with Lori's request.

"I'll brief my scouts," Powers said. "We'll be on the road in an hour or so." She saluted smartly and also turned to leave Lori's office.

"Meg, I can't let you come on this one," Lori said.

"Colonel?"

"I can't let you come on this mission." Lori held up her hand. "You're the best scout the Legion has. I know that. I also know you haven't got a power suit right now. Granted, there are a couple of spares back at the spaceport, if the Separatists didn't blow them up with the naval bombardment. But there isn't time to send for one, except by air. We did knock out a few of the Rangers' fighters, but we didn't get all of them. If we launch a VTOL now, there's a good chance the Rangers will spot it and launch an intercept. I know you don't want to risk the air crew's lives just so you can go on this mission."

"I can borrow a suit from one of my scouts," Powers said.

"Which one, Meg? Which one are you going to order to stay behind so you can risk your neck?" Lori shook her head, laying a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "I know it rankles, but you're just going to have to sit this one out."

Powers started to speak, but Lori shook her head and smiled ruefully. "Call it the price of command," she said.

29

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

08 July 3065

The chronometer built into the Victor's center control panel declared the time to be 0254 when the Legion's armored scouts sent the message that they had made contact with the rebellious Skye Rangers. The difficult roundabout trek through the Myoo Mountains had taken longer than originally expected. Nearly three days had passed since the Legion's 'Mech, jump, and armored infantry units had slipped out of the Defiance factory complex. Now they sat in silence on the edge of the enemy's bivouac, waiting to launch their attack. Lori did not keep them reined in for long.

"Ghost group," she said quietly over an encrypted comm channel, "commence your run."

* * *

Sergeant Elron David did not hear Lieutenant M'Dahlla. Rather, the scout officer lifted his hand and flashed a few signals to his armored scouts. Moving as silently as the haunts for which his group had been code-named, the scouts slipped into the enemy's encampment. They dispersed by squad. In addition to a personal weapon, each man carried a single Mark Forty demolition charge.

David guided his troops through the thin, low scrub trees lining the perimeter of the enemy bivouac. A score of meters into the camp, a lone sentry stood in their way. To his eternal misfortune, the guard was facing the wrong way.

David held up his left hand to call a halt. Drawing a specially modified pistol from the holster strapped to his armor's right thigh, he settled the weapon's self-luminous sights over the picket's spine and squeezed the trigger. The handgun jerked in his grip, emitting a low, harsh cough instead of a loud bark. The sentry collapsed. The clatter of his rifle falling from nerveless fingers was louder than the suppressed pistol shot.

David scanned the area, taking advantage of the advanced sensor systems built into this scout armor's helmet. No one seemed to have noticed the sentinel's death. He beckoned his men to follow him.

A hundred meters away stood a ZEU-9S Zeus. David caught the attention of the two scouts nearest him, tapped his left leg with the base of his left fist, and pointed at the red and black assault 'Mech. The troopers crossed to the big machine. One scuttled up its leg to stuff his satchel charge into the machine's vulnerable knee joint while the other stood guard. In short order, an Axman was served the same way.

David scanned the area, noting that the enemy's 'Mechs had been parked haphazardly. He decided that the apparently random order was a result of the Separatist officers trying to reform some of their broken and depleted units by stripping 'Mechs away from others. He saw a particularly valuable target: the towering shape of a captured Clan Loki OmniMech.

He signaled to his squad to cover him, then began to move quickly and quietly across the encampment. It was a long hop from the ground to the top of the Loki's arched left foot, and he reached up to grab the out-jutting flange covering the front of the knee joint like a hardened steel patella. The drag of the thirty-kilo block of pentaglycerine explosive he carried made the climb difficult.

Gaining a stable place to stand, he unslung the big demolition charge. He studied the Loki's knee joint. The scarlet paint was greasy. Chips and scratches showed where the lower-leg armor slid up and down across the plating of the thigh. He had to lean far over, supporting himself with his hands braced against the knee shield, to see the place where the upper and lower legs actually joined.

He unslung the satchel charge and rested it against the trapezoidal kneecap. Contorting himself into an uncomfortable angle, he braced his feet against the lower end of the 'Mech's thigh and his back against the inside of the shield. Grabbing the demolition block, he shoved it deep into the Loki's knee joint, securing it in place with hooked elastic straps. Finally, he flipped a switch set into a small box attached to the top of the pentaglycerine block by a few thin wires, then jumped down.

Rejoining his squad, Elron David selected the next target. The squad had barely begun to move across the 'Mech park when the rattle of a submachine gun pierced the night. The deeper roar of a light machine gun drowned out the small-arms fire.

"Do it," David barked at his scouts, then dropped back into the shadow cast by an enemy Catapult. His automatic shotgun came up to a low-ready position. Behind him, two of his scouts dashed off to sabotage the nearest enemy machine, a fifty-ton Centurion.

Spotting a woman clad only in a pair of spandex shorts and a cooling vest running toward him, he downed her with a single blast from his shotgun.

His night-vision visor suddenly flared to intolerable brightness. Involuntarily, his pain-wracked eyes screwed shut against the blinding glare. David keyed in the normal visible-light viewer but was still unable to see anything but bars of light dancing before his eyes. Until his vision cleared, all he could do was crouch in the shelter of the Catapult's foot. The deep roar of a heavy machine gun assaulted his ears. He heard the thin crack of the transsonic bullets as they passed overhead, and the banshee shriek of mangled metal as they ricocheted off some hard surface.

As his vision cleared, he saw the twisted, bleeding bodies of his scouts.

A beam of light swept across his hiding place, and he barely shielded his eyes in time. When the light passed, he was able to see the grotesque shape of a Guillotine moving through the enemy bivouac, its searchlight probing the dark. Another 'Mech, smaller, but unidentifiable in the dark, lumbered beside it.

"Ghost Group, this is Vampire One. Pull out," he called to the rest of his squad. "The big boys are in there to play." Springing from his hiding place, he sprinted for the edge of the 'Mech park.

His movement must have attracted the attention of the enemy MechWarriors. The searchlight panned across his trail, briefly illuminating his armor. Machine-gun bullets followed, the heavy slugs tearing up the ground beneath his feet. David zigged sharply, turning in toward the enemy machines. In the backwash of the Guillotine's light, he saw a Bushwacker shifting on its feet as though trying to track him.

As he broke out of the searchlight's illumination, he made another tight turn, heading back almost the way he'd come. He hoped the sudden, jerky changes would prevent the Rangers from spotting him again.

Suddenly, a blow harder than any punch he'd ever experienced struck David between the shoulders. He pitched forward, dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

"Vampire, we've lost Ghost Two," M'Dahlla yelled over the communicator. "We're pulling out. Suggest command detonation of charges."

"Confirmed, Ghost One," Lori responded. "Get out of there. Save yourselves. Vampire One will detonate charges in one-zero seconds."

She watched intently as the chronometer scrolled off ten seconds, then she punched a small red button on her right-hand control panel. A handful of white flashes, subdued by the tamping effect of the armored joints into which the charges had been stuffed, lit the darkened encampment. Lori didn't know if any of the enemy machines had been crippled by the knee-capping charges. At the moment, she had more important worries. Her Victor's thermal viewer showed four enemy 'Mechs up and running, with more powering up every second.

"Wraith Group, Vampire Group, looks like the plan's gone to hell. Hit 'em where you find 'em. Charge!"

Lori flung the Victor into a lumbering run, closing the distance. At two hundred meters, she pulled up short, skidding to a halt in the loose soil. She snapped up her gauss rifle and pumped a dense metal slug into the Guillotine. The Separatist 'Mech was half-twisted at the waist by the impact of the nickel-iron pellet, which splintered the armor on its right forearm.

A lance of laser energy speared Lori's 'Mech through the belly, while missiles flamed out of the Guillotine's chest. It was Lori's turn to stagger as the warheads savaged the Victor's torso and leg. Leigh Cooper slipped up beside her to blast the rebel 'Mech with lasers and short-range missiles. Only the pulse laser scored a telling blow, burning a line of smoking divots in the Ranger's right leg.

All three 'Mechs fired again, almost simultaneously. Cooper's anti-missile system whined, reaching out to swat the Separatist's missiles from the air. The stream of machine-gun bullets tore through empty air. When the smoke cleared, all three 'Mechs were still standing. The Guillotine had taken the worst of the exchange, though Lori's Victor wasn't far behind. The missiles had blown armor away from her Mech's left torso and leg.

Before either of the Legion 'Mechs could act, the Guillotine turned and fled back into the bivouac.

Lori surveyed the damage done to her Victor. The armor, though badly damaged on the left arm, had not been breached.

"Let's keep moving," she said to Cooper. Her lancemate said nothing but moved off into the night, seeking a new opponent. Lori and the rest of the command lance followed close behind.

A stroke of man-made lightning streaked out of the night, followed by a volley of short-and long-range missiles. Lori's sensors displayed a trio of attackers, who had taken the Legion's command lance into a crossfire. She selected the nearest machine, a Lancelot, and blasted the heavy 'Mech with her full weapons complement. Heat flooded into her cockpit as the lasers and short-range missile launchers discharged.

"Mac, take the Assassin. Leigh, you're on the Dervish. Paul, can you hit the Lancer?"

Cooper and Paul Hansen, the fourth man in the Legion's command lance, shouted their acknowledgments and turned their weapons on the enemy. Dallas MacKensie was strangely silent.

"Mac?" Lori called again. Still there was no answer. The Lancelot dragged her attention back to the fight as its large laser slashed away armor from her left arm. The endo-steel bone creaked dangerously as the laser bit deeply into its metallic structure.

Lori fired back, her gauss rifle blowing away all but a fragment of the armor protecting the LNC25-0V s right arm. Darts of verdant energy from her pulse lasers also clawed at the enemy 'Mech. One stuttering blast spent itself ripping into the ground behind the Lancelot. The other burst melted away more than a third of a ton of armor from the rebel machine's right breast.

A flight of long-range missiles arched over the Victor's head, falling on and around the Separatist Assassin. When the firestorm from Paul Hansen's Bombardier died, the Skye 'Mech was still on its feet, but its splendid paint job was now more black than crimson.

"Mac?" Lori yelled again as she waited for the gauss rifle's breach to cycle. She received no answer other than static.

Gamely, the Lancelot stayed in the fight, striking at Lori's 'Mech with a one-two punch from its lasers. She could only imagine the fiery heat the rebel pilot must be experiencing, despite the high-efficiency heat sinks in his 'Mech. One azure beam flickered past the Victor's head, but the other left a deep, carbon-edged score in its right shoulder.

Lori fired her jump jets, vaulting high over the enemy machine. Flexing the Victor's knees, she brought the 'Mech back to earth, then fired her gauss rifle. The heavy slug blasted into the rebel 'Mech just below one armored shoulder, splintering armor and internal structure. A loud bang echoed across the battlefield as fragments of armor and nickel-iron projectile mangled the rebel's Kinslaughter particle cannon. Pulse lasers and missiles tore through the Ranger's shattered armor. In an instant, the 'Mech's thermal signature blossomed from a dull red to a brilliant orange-yellow as shielding was stripped from its power plant.

The Lancelot's head split open as the pilot ejected. Looking around, Lori saw that Leigh Cooper and Paul Hansen were pursuing the Lancelot's companions deeper into the rebel encampment. Ominously, Dallas MacKensie's Trebuchet was standing frozen where it had been when the fight began.

"Mac?" Lori said in a small, hopeless voice. "Dallas, answer me."

Stepping closer to the immobile machine, she saw a jagged hole burned through the middle of the 'Mech's eyelike viewscreen. She leaned in as close as she dared, trying to peer through the dark opening. She could see nothing.

"Command Lance, this is Vampire One. Mac's dead."

No one answered Lori's simple declaration. Neither did the warriors of the Gray Death Legion slow their deadly work. The Dervish and the Assassin died within seconds of each other.

"C'mon, people," she yelled to the surviving members of her lance. "Reform on me. We've got to get back in the fight."

As Cooper and Hansen fell into formation, Lori looked over the situation on her tactical display. The Legion was holding formation better than she had expected. The Rangers seemed to be disorganized, but were relying on their superior numbers to make up for unit integrity. They had closed with the Gray Death 'Mechs and were wreaking havoc.

"Colonel McCall, what is your situation?" she said, trying to pick out the Highlander amid the mass of 'Mechs.

"It's nae sae guid, lassie," the bluff Caledonian replied. "Th' sassanach are aye makin' a fight o' it. We're tangled wi' 'em, proper. They're pressin' us hard. I'm tryin't' turn their flank, but there's sae bluidy many of 'em, I'm in danger o' losin' both m' own flanks."

"Hang on, Davis. I'll see what I can do," Lori shot back.

The command lance had been pulled further north than Lori had intended, and now she formed her lance into a wedge with her Victor in the lead. The darkness before her was lit by brief, flickering gouts of flame and energy discharges, showing exactly where the area of hottest fire was.

"Paul, Leigh, we got pushed so far north, it looks like we're coming in across the end of the lines." Lori squinted at the tactical display, trying to decipher the jumble of information. "We're going to try to roll up the Rangers' flanks. Pick your targets carefully. You're just as liable to run into a friendly as you are an enemy. Let's try not to kill any Legionnaires.

"All right, here we go."

Lori pushed the Victor into a slow forward trot, bringing her lance in squarely perpendicular to the main line of battle. In that moment, a red and black Zeus loomed out of the darkness. All three 'Mechs of the command lance fired. The assault 'Mech absorbed the damage and split his return fire, blowing armor off Cooper's Grim Reaper and Hansen's Bombardier. But at three-to-one odds, the fight could not last long. Another volley from the command lance finished off the rebel machine.

Moving south, the next 'Mech they encountered was a boxy-looking Cataphract. The machine's blue icon on Lori's tactical declared it a friend. A blast of laser fire lanced out from the heavy 'Mech's wrists. One went wide. The other sliced into the Victor's left thigh.

"Dammit, Lieutenant, we're friendlies!" Lori howled into the communicator. "Use the damn IFF! That's what it's there for." Her IFF showed the Cataphract as belonging to Lieutenant Andrei Denniken, a Legion veteran.

"Identify yourselves," the stubborn pilot snapped back. "Name and codeword."

"This is Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle, you moron! Codeword Stingray," Lori fumed.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Denniken said apologetically. "My IFF is out and so are about half of my sensors." Then he gave Lori the tactical situation in his sector.

"We've lost three 'Mechs so far, Colonel: two lights, one heavy. I've got four seriously damaged, but still able to fight. They come up close, hit us a couple times, then back away."

"Okay, let's—" Lori started to say, then paused as movement flickered in the corner of her viewscreen. She twisted her 'Mech's torso so she could see.

"Sappers!" she shouted, catching sight of a dozen infantrymen running forward, lugging large canvas satchels over their shoulders.

One of the ground-pounders dropped to his knees and fired a pair of missiles from the man-portable launcher on his shoulder. Another peppered the Victor's faceplate with automatic rifle-fire. The rockets missed their mark, bursting at the feet of Denniken's 'Mech. The dull orange glare of burning napalm illuminated the darkness.

"They're using Infernos!" Leigh Cooper yelled, turning her 'Reaper's pulse laser on the crouching infantryman. The stuttering blast of energy flickered green where it passed through the smoke of the battlefield. But the pulse laser had not been designed to kill infantrymen. The missile-man abandoned his weapon, diving for cover. He escaped the laser bolts unharmed.

Half a dozen Skye foot soldiers broke from cover, dashing straight toward the Cataphract.

"Andrei, look out," Lori shouted. She fired the twin pulse lasers affixed to the back of her Victor's left arm, though with little effect. Denniken's 'Mech executed a half-bow as he tried to bring the dual-purpose autocannon into play, but the ground-pounders were too close. They swarmed up the Cataphract's back-acting legs. Lori looked on in helpless horror. She could not fire on the infantrymen without hitting the 'Mech itself.

Denniken swatted one trooper away with a clenched steel fist, but then time ran out for the Legion vet. The infantrymen dropped away and dashed off into the night. Lori felled one with a laser blast just as a pair of loud explosions tore through the Cataphract's reverse knee joints.

Denniken's machine sagged, the mangled right knee giving way as the 'Mech toppled. The Cataphract thrust out its arms, trying to catch itself. Because of the twisting fall, the swollen vambrace housing the rapid-fire Nova-Five ultra autocannon on its right arm hit the ground first. It gouged deep into the gravel-laced dirt before finding purchase. The seventy-ton machine came down hard on that spindly limb, snapping it off at the elbow. Lori saw Denniken drop to the ground, apparently unhurt. He pulled a heavy automatic pistol from his holster, jerked the slide back to chamber a round, then waved at the Legion command 'Mech.

Before Lori could call for a rescue unit, tracers reached out of the night, punching Denniken against the shoulder of his fallen 'Mech. He collapsed to the ground, leaving a long, bloody smear on the Cataphract's armor.

Lori fired long blasts from her pulse lasers in the direction from which the shots had come. She didn't know if they had any effect. She didn't get time to find out.

A knot of medium and heavy machines bearing the crest of the Skye Rangers came up, pushing hard against the Gray Death lines. Lori ordered her soldiers to push back. For a few moments, both lines wavered. Then a rebel 'Mech vanished in a roiling fireball. The ill-fated warrior's friends fell back in disarray.

All along the lines, the Skye Rangers were pulling out of the fight. Lori slouched wearily in her seat, knowing the Legion had broken the rebels' back. The realization jerked her upright. She had to make a fast decision. Pursue or call it a day?

If she gave chase, the Legion could likely destroy the bulk of the Separatist force before sunup. But doing so would scatter the Gray Death throughout the passes and valleys of the Myoo Mountains, and it would cost her still more damaged and destroyed 'Mechs and wounded or killed pilots. She didn't think she could afford either. She had to assume that there were more Skye Separatist troops on their way to support the invasion of Hesperus. She had to conserve enough strength to oppose them until Lyran loyalist troops arrived to bolster her defenses.

"Bloody hell!" a baritone voice yelled in her headset.

"What is it?" she snapped. "Report."

A loud, rolling series of explosions accompanied by strobing flashes of detonating ordnance were the only answer.

"Command Lance with me," Lori barked, kicking her Victor into a lumbering run. She aimed the battered 'Mech for the spot where the explosions were coming from.

Cutting around a stone outcropping, she saw three 'Mechs locked in a death struggle. McCall's Highlander snapped a shot from its gauss rifle into the body of an enemy Rakshasa. The big 'Mech, an Inner Sphere version of the Clan Mad Cat OmniMech, took the devastating hit and struck back with a volley from the boxy missile launchers set high above its shoulder joints. A score of warheads rained down on and around the Highlander.

From another angle, an ugly Guillotine, which could have been the twin of the 'Mech Lori had fought earlier, savaged the big Legion 'Mech with laser and missile fire.

Lori watched as McCall tried to step backward so he could keep both opponents in his front arc. The Rangers moved to keep the Highlander in a crossfire. She brought up her gauss rifle, the only weapon she had that could reach the machines harrying McCall's 'Mech. The crosshair targeting reticle floated across the Rakshasa's form, and she stroked the trigger.

The basketball-sized, metallic sphere missed the rebel by centimeters. She waited for the solid, satisfying clunk of another round settling into the weapon's breech, but it never came. She stared unbelievingly at her master armament panel. The night's fighting had exhausted her ammunition supply.

If the Skye MechWarrior had noticed the shot that streaked past his war machine, he paid it no mind. Instead, he kept his attention focused solely on McCall. He poured laser fire into the already damaged 'Mech, while his partner, the Guillotine, did the same. Lori threw the Victor into a shambling run, screaming for Cooper and Hansen to engage the rebels with their long-range missiles. Her headlong charge began too late.

The Rakshasa stepped in close to McCall's Highlander, firing its large lasers point-blank into a rent in the big machine's side. The Legion 'Mech reeled like a drunk, and Lori realized that they'd gotten his gyro. She fought her swaying 'Mech as she desperately tried to close range with the enemy.

The Rakshasa clubbed the Highlander, sending the massive assault 'Mech sprawling. A second later, the Guillotine took a long step forward and smashed its foot into the side of the bigger 'Mech's boxy head. The Highlander convulsed. Again, the rebel machine lashed out. Armor crumpled and broke. The Legion 'Mech's right arm flailed blindly. A third savage kick, and the Highlander lay still.

Lori shrieked an inhuman cry of rage and anguish. She fired her lasers and missiles as she ran, with little hope of hitting either of the enemy 'Mechs. The Rakshasa turned to face her. Its extended-range large lasers burned away the remaining armor on her right leg and cored deeply into the Victor's breastplate. The Guillotine likewise opened up on her charging 'Mech. Its powerful laser hacked through the exposed endo-steel bone of her left arm, severing it just above the laser mounts.

Something huge moved in the darkness behind McCall's killers. Lori's mind screamed at her to pull out, but her heart clamored for revenge. The shape resolved itself into a Banshee. Something in the sight of its hideously grinning faceplate snapped Lori out of her berserk rage. She slammed the Victor to a skidding halt and touched off her jump jets, just as the Banshee unleashed its particle cannon. The man-made lightning struck the ground where she had been standing in an explosion of dirt and stone.

Riding the jets, Lori extended her backward leap a bit longer, then allowed the crippled Victor to settle back to earth.

"Colonel, we gotta pull out. Now!" she heard Hansen yelling at her.

"All right, Paul. Give the order."

"There ain't no order to give, Colonel," Hansen said, moving his Bombardier up to support his commander's battered machine. "The Legion is retreating. The lines broke when they heard Colonel McCall was dead. Let's try not to lose you, too."

"Okay then, Paul, get me out of here," Lori said dully.

McCall had been her oldest friend in the world beside Grayson, and now they were both gone. Lori fought against the black, enveloping grief that tried to invade her mind until the Legion was clear of the combat zone.

A dozen kilometers away from the battlefield, she called a halt, ordering the least damaged units to form a rearguard while her battered command rested. Then, switching her communicator off, she tore her neurohelmet from her head, buried her face in her hands, and gave in to the grief.

30

Defiance Complex, Myoo Highlands

Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

10 July 3065

Repairs to the Gray Death Legion's BattleMechs were proceeding. Lori could see that from her perch on the catwalk running around the outside of the huge 'Mech bay deep inside the DefHesp underground complex. Rebuilding the unit's morale would be much more difficult. More than half of the slots assigned to the Legion stood empty. In most of those cases, the vacant cubicles meant a vacant bunk in the Legion's barracks. The feeling that she had let the Legion down, and had failed Grayson's memory, writhed through her heart like a venomous snake.

"Stop it," she whispered angrily to herself. "You did your best and that's the most anyone, including Gray, could ever ask for."

"Colonel, I hope I'm not disturbing you," someone said, coming up behind her.

Lori jumped at the voice intruding upon her gloomy thoughts. Feeling the flush of embarrassment spread across her face and neck, she turned to see Gina Ciampa standing behind her, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.

"I don't know how you take it," Ciampa said, handing one of the cups to Lori. "I hope cream and sugar is all right."

"That's fine, General." Lori smiled, taking the cup. If Ciampa noticed her embarrassment at being caught talking aloud to herself, she had the grace not to mention it. "Thank you."

Ciampa took a sip a coffee. "That's something else. We've been calling each other 'General' and 'Colonel' ever since you got here. Don't you think it's about time you started calling me Gina, Lori?"

"Probably," Lori allowed. "Thank you, Gina."

"Well, Lori, what now?"

"I wish I knew," Lori said wearily. "The Legion is in bad shape. I've lost over half my strength, including all of my armored scouts. I've lost some key people, too. The warriors I have left are exhausted, dispirited . . . Hell, I'm feeling kind of demoralized myself."

A long, bitter sigh escaped her. She shook her head in deep sadness. "I don't know how Grayson stood it all those years. I thought I felt the losses the same as he did. But now? Now I feel like I killed each one of them as surely as if I had pulled the trigger."

Ciampa snorted softly. "I know what you mean. Lori, please don't take this wrong, but I do know exactly how you feel. The last time you people were on Hesperus II, you killed and wounded an awful lot of my soldiers, destroyed an awful lot of my 'Mechs. I had to write 'those' letters. I always hate doing that. And I blamed the Legion. In time, I got over it. I rationalized to myself that the Legion was just doing its job, following its own conscience.

"Then, when I heard the Archon was sending the Gray Death to Hesperus, I discovered how angry I still was. There I was carrying around all that guilt for having lost my men in battle, only to be told that I had to accept the presence of the people who killed my troopers on the very world we'd fought to protect."

Ciampa stopped to take another gulp of her coffee. Lori knew that having the Gray Death Legion posted to Hesperus must have been hard to take, not only for Ciampa, who hid it well, and for Zambos, who took no pains to conceal his feelings, but for the men under their command. How would she have felt if Katrina had posted the Fourth Skye Guards on Glengarry, given that unit's participation in the invasion of the Legion's land-hold during the rebellion of 3056?

She would have felt angry, would have felt betrayed by the Archon, to whom the Legion, in the person of Grayson Death Carlyle, had pledged loyalty. To be completely honest with herself, she'd probably have taken an attitude similar to that displayed by Peter Zambos.

"I had to make a decision," Ciampa said at last. "I had to decide if my devotion to the Archon was greater than my devotion to my own feelings. That always has to be the first consideration for a soldier, wouldn't you say? Loyalty to the greater cause. I know some say the first duty of a commander is to his or her troops. I think that by maintaining loyalty to the Alliance, and to the just causes it pursues, I am serving the best interests of my men."

Ciampa looked down at her mug, thinking for a moment. "They know I'm not about to throw away their lives in a hopeless fight, because, in the end, that harms the Alliance and dishonors the Archon."

She glanced up again, a strange light in her eyes. "I think, Colonel . . . Lori, you have a decision to make. I think you've already made it, but your mind hasn't notified the rest of you yet. Are you going to take this kick in the teeth, roll over, curl up, and die? Or are you going to pull your unit together—for the good of your unit, if for no other reason—stand up, dust yourself off, dig in your heels, and fight?"

Lori regarded Gina Ciampa over the rim of her cup, masking her turbulent emotions behind a long pull at the steaming beverage.

"Point taken, General," she said, intentionally using Ciampa's rank rather than her given name. "Of course we're going to dig in and fight. I suppose I should notify myself first and then the rest of my warriors, eh?"

"Those were the first two things I did when I decided to accord the Gray Death Legion the respect and consideration it deserved as one of the Archon's premier combat forces, rather than treating you like a bunch of murdering cut-throats." Ciampa smiled to rob her last few words of any offense. "I made up my mind first, then I went about making up my soldiers' minds."

Lori nodded slowly, taking the other woman's words to heart. She looked out over the 'Mech bay again. The empty berths still caused her heart to ache, as did the stack of "those letters" waiting on her desk, but the despair had faded to a dull throb. There was something else growing in its place, a new, refreshed determination. The Legion had known defeat, but it had never been beaten.

"So, Lori, I'll ask you again, what now?"

Lori saw an odd light of triumph in Ciampa's dark eyes, and she understood. This was a different kind of victory, one over an insidious inner enemy more dangerous than any enemy from without.

"Well, I'd like to say the Skye Rangers are finished, but I know better than that," Lori said, pushing herself erect. "They still have enough 'Mechs onplanet to make up an effective combat force, and they still have that WarShip floating around up there. That is one helluva force equalizer."

"I'd have to say it is a force multiplier," Ciampa said. "They don't even have to bring her into direct action again. All they have to do is keep her onstation, and we have to assume they are going to use her, either for fire support or to keep our DropShips and fighters on the ground."

Lori nodded. "Right. That will limit our ability to make rapid shifts in troop deployment while giving the Rangers the freedom to move their forces around with impunity. I don't really think they'll play it that way, but it might be a good idea to put General Zambos' men on the alert. We've given the rebels a couple of solid defeats here in the north. They might decide that cracking Defiance isn't worth the risk and move on to other, less heavily defended sites. I guess we'll have to send some of your troops back to Maria's Elegy, just in case the rebels try to take the spaceport."

Ciampa smiled. "Well, at least my people are getting in their cockpit time for the month."

"Then they're getting some good out of this mess," Lori said, a bit of humor creeping back into her tone. "The rest of us will fort up here until reinforcements arrive or until the Rangers make their next move. I'll have some of my armored infantry work with the few scouts I have left to keep track of the them. I don't want to lose contact with the bad guys again. This planet is too big to track them down without aerospace cover, and if we don't keep an eye on them, there are too many places the Rangers could crop up to cause us trouble.

"I'd also propose we alternate sending out lance-strength patrols in maybe a three-kilometer radius sweep around the plant. That will give us some warning if the Separatists try it again."

Lori sat staring off into the middle distance for a time, as though it would let her see the entire Isle of Skye in a single glance. "The key to this rebellion is Defiance. The Separatists need 'Mechs to carry the thing through. If they don't get this factory, they'll have to try to buy them from someone, but I don't know if they've got either the money or the time to count on doing that.

"As for Katrina Steiner, with Coventry in Victor's hands, Defiance is the Alliance's only major source of BattleMechs. I don't believe she can afford to lose this world.

"The Archon will have to send us reinforcements, and soon."

BattleTech - LE5866

31

Defiance Complex

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

12 July 3065

In the days following her talk with Gina Ciampa, Lori found her mood gradually brightening. The pain of losing Davis McCall was still there, along with the overshadowing grief of Grayson's death. However, the fire of determination that had been nearly quenched during the disastrous night attack on the Rangers' bivouac was beginning to blaze again.

Now, as she paced along the catwalk high above the Legion's assigned area of the Defiance 'Mech bay, watching as the repairs on her beloved regiment's BattleMech and armor assets neared completion, her heart was warmed with the beginnings of a new pride and a new resolve. The Legion had always bounced back from a defeat, and it would do so again.

Most of the Gray Death 'Mechs that had survived the battle had been reparable, including her own Victor, whose armor had been patched and its left arm replaced. A few, however, were too damaged for anything but the scrap heap. The pilots of those 'Mechs had worried that they'd be thrown into the ranks of the Dispossessed, an old term for MechWarriors who'd lost their mechanical mounts. Considering that the Legion was now ensconced in one of the biggest 'Mech production facilities in the Inner Sphere, the notion was almost laughable. Still, the old stigma of losing one's 'Mech was difficult to erase.

Her troops needn't have worried. It took only the barest of urgings by Daniel Brewer, backed up by General Ciampa, Major Goree, and herself to see her 'Mech-less warriors given replacement machines fresh from the Defiance production lines. They were so new that, when Lori inspected the NGS-4S Nightsky replacing Lieutenant Brian Scully's junked Hatchetman, the cockpit still had the odd aroma of whey that often pervaded the control deck of new machines.

She couldn't help thinking that it wasn't so easy to replace human losses, but she crushed the mordant thought almost at the same instant it flashed across her mind. Lori wouldn't permit herself to slip back toward the paralyzing grief that had threatened to immobilize her. She owed it to the men and women of her command.

"Colonel Carlyle?"

She turned at the sound of a runner barking the abbreviated version of her name. The young woman's footsteps rang on the metal walkway as she jogged her way across.

"Colonel, Major Goree wants you to join him in his office right away. He sent for General Ciampa, too," the runner panted.

"I'm on my way," Lori said. "Did he say what this is about?"

"No, ma'am. He just sent me to fetch you."

Lori quickly descended from the catwalk to the bay floor, where her commandeered electric cart was waiting. Taking the wheel, she raced the little vehicle through a maze of passages and concourses until she reached what the DSPF referred to as "the officer's block." Lori's temporary quarters and office, along with those assigned to Gina Ciampa, were housed in the same building as Goree's permanent accommodations. She parked the cart in a layby carved out of the living rock of the mountain for just such a purpose, and ducked inside the block.

"I'm here, Major," she said, striding into Goree's office. "What's up?"

"I'll tell y'all when General Ciampa gets here," Goree drawled. "We've got that much time."

The coda to Goree's simple sentence piqued Lori's curiosity, but filled her with apprehension as well. "Reinforcements?" she asked.

Goree nodded.

"Ours?"

"Theirs."

"Theirs what?" Ciampa asked as she entered the room.

"Reinforcements," Goree said. "I've just received word from Maria's Elegy that the technicians there have managed to restore at least a basic level of the aerospace warning system. They detected a massive burst of tachyon energy at a pirate jump point out on the system rim. Without sophisticated scanners, the spaceport has no means of knowing either the size or the heading of the incoming force. We'll have to wait until the enemy enters orbit to make that kind of guess. About all they can tell us is that it's a massive intrusion into this system, and there has been no response to their radio signals. Therefore, we must assume the new arrivals are hostile."

"Is there any way to get a feed from the spaceport sensors out here?" Ciampa asked.

Goree shook his head. "Not anymore. The Rangers took care of that when they blew up the maglev line. All of the data-transmission cables ran along the rail bed."

"You said it was a massive intrusion," Lori said. "Do we have any idea how big the incoming force is?"

"I asked them the same thing. All they could say is that it was big. That could mean it was a single big JumpShip or several smaller ones. It could even be another WarShip, for all we know."

"I doubt it," Lori said.

"Why's that, Colonel?" Goree asked sharply.

"The rebels already have one WarShip insystem. They haven't really used her since they leveled half the spaceport. Why would they move a second combat ship into Hesperus when they haven't been using the assets they've got?"

Lori turned to look at the chart of the Hesperus system displayed on the back wall of Goree's office. A small red light blinked at the estimated position of the newly arrived forec. "I suppose it's possible that the Separatists are expecting the Archon to send in a relief force to break up the invasion and secure Hesperus II for the Alliance. In that case, they might send another WarShip to try to stop the relief force.

"But, even then, why would they deploy a WarShip without sending some kind of ground forces as well? We know von Frisch boosted a couple of his DropShips. We know one rendezvoused with the Simon Davion. That was right before they started bombarding the spaceport. As for the other ship, we're reasonably certain it went to meet the other Ranger JumpShips and that one of those jumped out-system. Why do that? The only reason I can think of is to call for reinforcements."

Goree nodded agreement. "I just wonder why the rebels haven't sent reinforcements before now."

"Probably because they didn't have any to send," Ciampa said, speaking up finally. "Aside from the Fourth, the Seventeenth, and the Twenty-second Skye Rangers, the Separatists haven't got all that many troops. They might be able to raise a few militia companies here and there. But unless a Lyran unit jumps to their side, wholesale, or if Kelswa and Dundee manage to scrape together enough money to hire a mercenary outfit or two, what we see on Hesperus right now is what they've got."

"So, what we've got inbound then is the Seventeenth Rangers?" Lori asked.

"Probably. Though, last I heard, the Seventeenth was way to-hell-and-gone out on Lost, barely managing to keep their 'Mechs operational." Ciampa looked up at the chart. "If I remember the latest strength estimates correctly, the Seventeenth is supposed to be down to one regiment only. If the tachyon burst was as big as the techs are saying it was, then there's more than one regiment coming in."

"What if this isn't the Separatists?" Lori asked in a grave voice. "What if this is Victor renewing his offensive against the Alliance?"

It suddenly grew very quiet in Goree's office.

"If that's the case, we're in deep trouble," Ciampa said. "We can recall the Thirty-sixth Guards from Maldon, but given our losses, that will only put us at, what, six full 'Mech battalions, if we combine our strength. If that is Victor out there, he's coming in here with a helluva lot more than two regiments. All we'll be able to do is pull back inside the mountain and suffer through the siege until help arrives. But I don't think it's Victor."

"Why not?" Lori asked.

"Because he was sitting on Freedom last I heard." Ciampa worked the controls to change the chart of the Hesperus system to a map of the Lyran Alliance. "Then he pulled back from the Skye border. Some think he was repositioning his troops for a strike into Skye, and some think he's going to circumvent the province and hit another target. A few think he's going home."

Ciampa looked back at Lori and Goree. "I don't have an opinion either way. But, if I were Victor, I'd leave the Isle of Skye alone. We all know firsthand what a nightmare it's become. Why expend lives and resources capturing the region when he can let it become a sinkhole into which his sister ends up pouring time, money, and 'Mechs?"

"You're probably right, General," Lori said quietly. "Nonetheless, I'd still suggest having General Zambos and the Thirty-sixth stand by to be recalled, just in case the enemy comes in too strong. If they drop into our laps, we're going to need all the help we can get."

* * *

"Ja, Herr General," Leutnant-General Alice Day said nearly ten minutes after William von Frisch sent his initial message. The transmission time-lag made communication between the Skye Separatist forces already on Hesperus II and the reinforcements clumsy. "We have already begun launching DropShips. We will be in position to commence combat drops in a few days."

"Good," von Frisch said, refusing to lapse into the stilted German used by the Lyran Alliance. He was an officer of the Isle of Skye—if anything, he should be speaking Gaelic.

"When you're twelve hours out, you will signal me and have your ship captains bring your Thirty-second Lyran Guards in for a low-altitude drop directly on top of the Defiance complex. I will move what is left of the Fourth and Twenty-second up to support your landings. We will then go straight in against the factory complex. Divert the Seventeenth to Maldon. I don't want Ciampa and Carlyle calling up the Thirty-sixth Guards as reinforcements."

"Jawohl, Herr General," Day said, sticking to her formal tone. "We are on our way."

32

Defiance Complex

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

18 July 3065

Almost a week later, Lori, Gina Ciampa, and James Goree were back in Goree's office, watching a short-range sensor feed on the wall-mounted display screen. The device showed Hesperus II as a large, green-brown disc, with Maria's Elegy and the Defiance Hesperus factory marked in white. The mining complex at Maldon was not displayed, as it was on the far side of the planet. If desired, a command to the screen's map system would change the view to reveal Maldon and the other sites now hidden.

It was not the details of the map display that interested the officers. Their concern lay in the half-dozen or so tiny, U-shaped red icons closing on the planet.

"Any idea where they're headed?" Lori asked with a sigh.

"Specifically, no," Goree answered, tapping the screen with his forefinger. "It's too hard to tell until they've entered the atmosphere. This group might be headed for Maldon. The larger group seems to be headed straight for Defiance."

"Have we gotten an ID on them yet?" Ciampa asked.

"Not yet." Goree shrugged, shaking his head. "They've been observing strict radio silence ever since they entered Hesperus orbit. Unless Colonel Kalmar-Carlyle wants to launch a fighter to go take a look, we're going to have to wait until these ships are on the ground to find out who they are."

"Well, we know they're hostiles," Lori said. "If they were friendlies, they wouldn't have come in under radio silence. They would have contacted somebody by now, either at the spaceport or here at Defiance. I'm willing to bet that Zambos hasn't heard anything from them either."

"Not a peep," Ciampa confirmed.

"Then I guess we're still playing the waiting game," Lori said tensely.

* * *

A CHP-5W Chippewa heavy fighter blazed in low over the Defiance complex. Though lasers and missiles reached up to tear armor from the flying wing's nose and belly, the Chippewa gave as good as it got, its guns blasting at the underground factory's defensive gun emplacements. The whole mountain seemed to vibrate as a long-range missile turret was destroyed. The blast of the emplacement's destruction rippled back through the ammunition-feed tunnels, touching off that launcher's magazine. Fortunately, the defense grid's designers had had the foresight to isolate each launcher's ammunition supply.

As the battle unfolded, Lori, Ciampa, and Goree watched from a room off the main 'Mech bay, which offered a display screen similar to but somewhat smaller than the unit in the DSPF commander's office. Pulling out of its attack run, the Chippewa rolled to one side, displaying the red arrow-and-bloody flag emblem of the Thirty-second Lyran Guards.

Gina Ciampa swore when she saw that crest.

"I'd heard that the Thirty-second was negotiating with Robert Kelswa-Steiner," Goree said, his voice cutting across Ciampa's hissed expletives. "I had no idea they'd struck a bargain."

"Obviously, they have," Lori said evenly. "I wonder how many Lyran units Duke Robert managed to subvert." The comment triggered a new round of cursing from Gina Ciampa.

Goree ignored her and reset the viewscreen to display a larger, tactical picture of the battle. DropShips were grounding on the plateau a few kilometers from the front gates of the Defiance complex.

"General," Lori said, laying her hand on Ciampa's shoulder, "if you're about done, it's time for us to get to work."

Ciampa's vituperations ceased immediately. She stared at the tactical display, nodded, and stalked silently out of the office. Goree shrugged, smiled, and gave Lori a courteous half-bow.

"After you, Colonel," he said as Lori headed out the cart that would take her to her troop area.

* * *

Bringing the cart to a skidding halt, she leaped from the vehicle and ran toward the stairs leading to the catwalk. By now, the rest of the Gray Death Legion's Mech Warriors had heard the news and were already sealing themselves into their cockpits. Not far off, diesel internal-combustion engines throbbed to life as Legion tank crews buttoned up inside their armored fighting vehicles. The surviving Legion infantrymen made last-minute preparations for battle.

Smoothly, Lori swung into the Victor's cockpit, and quickly connected the 'Mech's cooling and power systems to her combat suit. Next, she settled her combat neurohelmet over her shoulders, feeling the familiar wave of vertigo sweep over her. Far beneath her feet, the Victor's huge gyroscopic stabilizer spooled up, its settings fine-tuned and matched to Lori's sense of balance through the helmet interface.

She scanned all of the Victor's primary displays. The Defiance repair technicians had carefully patched her battered 'Mech back together, and every component was functioning as it should. Hardly surprising, since Defiance Hesperus was the company that had designed and assembled the 'Mech.

As the ready signals filtered in, Lori passed her orders to the Gray Death.

"Take up position on the left wing," she said into her neurohelmet mike. "We'll deploy in battalion order: Major Devin on the right, Major Houk on the left. Devin, you'll hook up with General Ciampa's left flank. Major Goree's DSPF is going to take close-in defensive positions, in case the enemy pulls off a successful end run.

"Tom, stay in contact with the Guards. Make sure there are no breaks in the line. Command Company and the infantry battalion will form the tactical reserve. The armored battalion will form up at a right angle to Second Battalion's left. Meg, you'll be the flank guard. Don't let any of them get past you."

"Count on it," Powers said tightly.

"That's it, then," Lori said. "You know, people, I have a feeling Hesperus will either stand or fall on this battle. If things start to go sour, we all pull back in good order to the mountain—the Legion, the Lyran Guards, everybody. We don't retreat as separate units.

"All right. Form ranks and move out."

* * *

As Lori struggled to wheel the Gray Death Legion's left wing forward, she spiked an Orion that got in her way with a blast from her Victor's newly refitted pulse lasers. By now, the Gray Death lines were overlapping the fresh rebel troops' formation by several hundred meters.

Lori snapped off a message to General Ciampa that the Legion was going to attempt a flanking maneuver. As she urged Rae Houk's troops forward, the Lyrans spotted the attempted end run and moved to oppose it.

The Orion sent a short burst of autocannon shells into the Victor's right leg, and also peppered it with long-range missiles. Lori scanned her 'Mech Status Display, noting that she'd suffered only moderate damage from the attack. According to Ciampa, many of the Thirty-second's 'Mechs and vehicles were older models, lacking the upgrade kits. That gave her a triple advantage over her opponents.

Lori knew she out-gunned and out-armored the enemy machine and, judging from the Skye warrior's clumsy movements, it looked like she also had a lifetime's worth of experience over him. The enemy warrior surely realized it, too.

Lori settled her targeting crosshairs over the ONl-K's center of mass and squeezed the trigger. A loud crack followed as the nickel-iron slug sped from the barrel of the Victor's gauss rifle, making the rebel machine jerk convulsively as it smashed into its right arm. The damage wasn't fatal, but it was bad. Lori brought up the Victor's left arm, following up with a double blast of laserfire into the enemy machine's chest and right arm.

Undeterred, the Orion hit back with autocannon and missile fire. The echoes of the exploding warheads had yet to fade when a pair of laser beams carved chunks of armor off the Victor's left arm.

"Dammit," Lori cursed, her damage display showing that she'd lost nearly two-thirds of the armor protecting that limb. That arm had just been replaced, and she wasn't going to let some rebel son-of-a-buck rip it off again.

She fired the gauss rifle again, hammering the Orion's left arm. Missiles and lasers added to the injuries already suffered. Still, the enemy machine came on. Missiles sprang from the big, triangular missile launcher set into the ON1-K's shoulder, showering Lori's 'Mech with a hail of fire. She weathered the blast, but the missiles chewed vital armor from her machine's legs and belly. She'd forgotten how tough some of these old machines were.

Lori traded a few more blows with the pilot before Paul Hansen finished off his long-range dance with a rebel Stalker. Stepping up to his commander's side, he leveled a double volley of missile fire that left the Orion with its entire front torso burnt and blackened. The pilot started backing away from the fighting, and his tormentors pursued. The enemy machine burst through the main rebel line, but the Legion was unable to pursue as the Skye troops closed ranks around their damaged comrades.

The rebel forces delivered a barrage of weapons fire that swatted two Gray Death machines to the ground. Neither got up again, nor did either of the pilots escape.

Lori picked out a target and pumped a gauss slug into the Quickdraw's left shoulder as fire erupted along both lines. 'Mechs on both sides staggered and fell. Behind her lines, Lori heard an explosion, the sound of a Legion tank taking a solid hit from an enemy weapon. The Striker's ammunition had cooked off, turning the wheeled tank into a funeral pyre.

Just then, Lori spotted an infantry squad moving among the feet of the enemy 'Mechs. Fearing that the enemy might be turning the anti-'Mech tactics Grayson had invented against her people, she bellowed a warning. It wasn't needed; Legion 'Mechs turned their weapons on the darting foot soldiers. A few squads were shattered, but not before they got their own bite in. Antiarmor missiles, flamers, and machine guns all struck out at the Gray Death, claiming another victim down and three more damaged.

Flame blossomed from the Quickdraw's left breast. Missiles pummeled Lori's Victor, shattering armor on the assault 'Mech's legs and torso. She returned fire, hitting the round-headed machine in the chest with a gauss slug. Lasers ripped up the rebel's left arm and opened a gash in his right leg. The Quickdraw gamely hung in the fight, returning Lori's fire, but only succeeded in scrubbing away some of the Victor's tough armor.

Then a PPC blast nearly knocked the Victor off its feet. As Lori fought to recover, a flight of missiles tore up the ground around her feet. Rocked by the near miss, the Victor fell to its knees.

The Quickdraw pilot strode forward, raising his 'Mech's clenched fists high above its head. Lori struck out with her right-arm gauss rifle, jolting the Quickdraw to a stop with a punch to the belly. The Victor was jolted too, as its handless arm rammed full force into its sixty-ton opponent. Instinctively, Lori jerked the trigger, sending a chunk of metal into the rebel 'Mech's torso. The impact sent the Quickdraw sprawling.

Lori glanced around to see a Vindicator wearing the colors of the Thirty-second Lyran Guard lining up for another PPC shot. She snapped off a twin blast from her pulse lasers, carving armor from the Vindi's chest and right leg, and spoiling his aim. The bolt of charged particles ripped through the air a meter above her head.

Leigh Cooper stepped up and grasped the Victor by the right arm, helping Lori get back to her feet.

"You okay, Colonel?" Cooper asked.

"Yeah, I just got knocked off my feet," Lori paused to lace the Vindicator with her pulse lasers. Cooper did the same to the Quickdraw. The lighter 'Mech fired its jump jets, bounding away to the rear. The Quickdraw froze in place as the pilot ejected. A second later, the 'Mech blew itself apart in an ammunition explosion.

"What about the rest of the Legion?" Lori asked. "And what about Ciampa?"

"The Legion is holding for now. So are the Guards," Cooper replied.

Another voice cut across the Legion's command channel at that moment.

"No, we aren't," Ciampa yelled. "We aren't just facing the Thirty-second. They've brought up the remains of the Skye Rangers and have thrown them into our section of the line. We're going to have to fall back."

"Very well, General. We knew it might come to this." Lori switched to the Legion's general communications frequency. "All Gray Death units, this is Legion One. Fall back. Fall back on the factory."

A flurry of acknowledgments flooded Lori's ears as the Gray Death Legion began pulling away from the enemy. The turncoat Lyran Guards and Skye Rangers pressed the attack. Occasionally, a lance or a company would turn and fire a few volleys at the enemy to discourage pursuit. Often, the only thing that was achieved was a waste of ammunition.

Once, the rearguard action cost the Gray Death dearly. Fifth Company's combat lance was one of the last to withdraw, lagging behind to guard the end of the retreating formation. As they turned to fall back after one of their discouraging volleys, a Skye Ranger piloting a damaged Salamander unleashed three flights of long-range missiles at the withdrawing Legion 'Mechs. All three flights seemed to home in on the back of Private William McBride's captured Thor-B. The OmniMech's anti-missile system whined, clawing a third of the missiles out of the air, but the sheer volume of fire overwhelmed the radar-aimed machine gun.

The missiles slammed into the big machine's back and left arm, chewing through the thin dorsal armor. The Thor was engulfed in a fireball as the warheads set off an ammunition locker. A second explosion followed the first, as another magazine went off in sympathetic detonation. The Thor collapsed, toppling onto its side, its left arm and shoulder blown away by the explosions. Orange flames and greasy smoke boiled from the huge gash in the ferro-fibrous armor. McBride didn't escape.

The death of the OmniMech seemed to be a signal for both sides, and the defenders' resolve seemed to collapse. They fell back with only the barest semblance of order, while the Skye Separatists, emboldened by the destruction of such a formidable opponent, rushed forward.

Lori and the Legion command company found themselves in the rearguard facing the onrushing rebels. Having seen McBride's fall, she targeted the Salamander, punching a gauss slug deep into the missile-armed machine's right shoulder. The damage didn't seem to deter the artillery 'Mech's pilot, who launched a spread of twenty missiles at Lori's Victor. The warheads cracked armor and widened the gap left in the machine's left breast by the Vindicator's PPC. Like hyenas worrying a wounded lion, other rebel 'Mechs closed in on the Victor. A JagerMech's autocannons ripped armor from the Victor's greaves, while an old-model Zeus savaged it with laser and missile fire.

Warning lights flared all over the Victor's cockpit as systems failed. Most terrifying of all were the twin scarlet bars in the center of Lori's main control panels. One read FIRE and the other CORE. With flames growing in her 'Mech's belly and severe damage to her reactor core, she had no choice. She reached above her head and yanked a pair of yellow and black striped handles.

An instant later, the ejection seat rocketed her clear of the dying 'Mech. Lori felt the bump as the seat pan separated from her safety harness and the parafoil deployed to bring her back to the ground.

Not wanting to be taken prisoner, she aimed the 'chute at the open 'Mech bay doors. She had no illusions that she could fly the steerable canopy through the opening. She just prayed she could get it close enough to allow her to dash inside the mountain before the doors were sealed. She hauled down on the front risers, spilling air out the back of the canopy as fast as she believed was safe. The ground rushed up to meet her. Her right foot hit first, sending a jarring pain the length of her spine. She tumbled forward.

Rolling to her feet, Lori took stock. The last of the defending units, a mixed bag of Legion, Lyran Loyalist, and Defiance 'Mechs, were still a hundred meters from the doors, backing slowly up the grade toward the 'Mech hangar. The enemy was right on top of them. In her heart, Lori knew those last five defenders were going to die and that their sacrifice would be in vain. Lighter, faster Separatist 'Mechs swept around the flanks of the collapsing battle lines, heading for the 'Mech bay doors.

Lori broke into a shambling run, favoring the right leg that, though uninjured by the marred landing, still pained her from the heavy impact. She dodged inside the open bay door and ran for one of the many side rooms opening off the hangar. On foot and armed only with the Mydron autopistol she preferred as a sidearm, Lori would only get herself killed if she stayed in the 'Mech bay. The first storeroom door she tried was locked.

An explosion rocked the 'Mech bay. Shrapnel rang and clattered off the rock walls and floor. One fragment of steel tore through the sleeve of Lori's combat suit. A gout of coolant fluid spilled from the rent. Lori spun, dropping to her knees. Instinctively, her pistol came up to follow her eyes. A Flashman painted in Legion colors lay on its back across the threshold of the hangar bay doors. She watched as Elias Whitlocke climbed from the smashed 'Mech's cockpit. The legs of his uniform were soaked in blood. He ran a few steps, then collapsed. Lori didn't know if he was dead, and she couldn't reach him to find out.

Four Skye 'Mechs, led by a scarred Banshee, entered the 'Mech bay, followed closely by a quartet of Maxim heavy hover transports. The screaming howl of the armored personnel carriers' lift fans cut through the din of battle. The 'Mechs pressed deeper into the 'Mech bay, firing their weapons at targets Lori could not see. More giant war machines followed on their heels, fanning out across the bay, penetrating deeper into the factory complex.

The Maxims dispersed throughout the bay. One settled onto its skirts about twenty meters from Lori's position. She scuttled across the bay and tried the next door she came across. It too was locked. The third opened. Lori dodged inside, allowing the portal to close behind her. Stacks of armor plating cluttered the room. She pulled herself up across one of the pallets and dropped into the narrow space beyond.

There, she pulled her emergency radio from her combat suit. She didn't know if the device would work in the underground environment of the Defiance factory complex, or even if there was anyone listening to the Legion's search-and-rescue frequency.

"Lifeline, Lifeline, this is Skull One-one."

There was no response.

"Lifeline, this is Skull One-one. I do not know if you receive, but I send. Skull One-one is down. I am inside the complex, under cover. Do not attempt rescue. I am behind enemy lines. I will attempt escape and evasion. I will attempt to return to friendly lines soonest. Do not attempt to contact me, as I may be compromised. Skull One-one out."

Before she could return the radio to her pocket, the door to the storeroom rattled violently. Lori flattened herself against the rock wall. A blast of gunfire, muted by the thick door, sounded in the small chamber. Five armed infantrymen dressed in the uniform of the Skye Separatists dashed into the room, sweeping the area for any signs of resistance. Lori remained still. The men turned to leave.

Then a woman's voice called out, "Hey, Sarge, looky here. This looks like coolant. It stinks like coolant, too. There's someone back there. Hold it, you!"

Lori saw a female soldier lifting a rifle to her shoulder. In that instant, she snapped up her own weapon and squeezed the trigger.

The Mydron belched out a stream of nine-millimeter slugs that smashed the female rebel in the chest, punching her backward. Lori rode her weapon's recoil, allowing the gun to rise, stitching a line of bullets up the woman's body, past her flak vest, and into her neck and face. She died messily.

Lori then swung the pistol toward the other Skye infantrymen. She got off a short burst at the nearest one, a staff sergeant. She never knew if she hit him or not, for in that moment two rifles spoke in unison. One bullet ricocheted off the wall behind her. The other smashed into her left shoulder. She dropped to the floor behind the armor plate, her pistol falling to the floor as she clutched her wounded shoulder.

Something clanked against the wall above her, then rattled down to the floor. It was a grenade.

33

Defiance Complex

Myoo Highlands, Hesperus II

Skye Province

Lyran Alliance

18 July 3065

"I'm on it," Captain Daniel Brewer shouted into his neurohelmet microphone. He'd seen the Colonel's Victor go down and the Skye troops sweep into the 'Mech bay. Ignoring Lori's instructions to delay rescue, he led his company in a fierce countercharge that temporarily split the attacking rebel forces. One section of the invaders pressed deeper into the Defiance complex. The other, smaller force withdrew to reform. Brewer's men were able to establish a weak perimeter, closing off one section of the 'Mech bay, the one near which Lori's 'Mech had been destroyed.

A red-and-black-painted JagerMech broke cover, charging the open 'Mech bay doors to make it inside. Brewer carefully settled his Champion's targeting reticle over the rebel machine and squeezed the trigger for his autocannon. The armor-piercing shells ripped into the big fire-support 'Mech, stitching a line of cratered and broken armor across the JagerMech's barrel chest.

The Skye warrior tried to turn to face Brewer. As he did, a pair of missiles streaked out of the shadows of a huge automated milling machine. The rounds burst, showering the rebel 'Mech with burning napalm. For a few seconds, the JagerMech's pilot hung on, firing his autocannons first at the missile team, then at Brewer's Champion. Finally, he ejected in a cloud of smoke and flame.

Brewer appreciated his enemy's desperation. If there was insufficient "head room" inside the bay, an ejecting warrior might be slammed into the stone roof or find that he didn't have enough altitude for his parachute to open. Even if the 'chute did deploy, the canopy could get fouled on projecting machinery, leaving the pilot hanging in space. It could drift into an active machine or an open crucible full of molten metal. Fortunately for the JagerMech's pilot, his chute opened properly. He drifted to earth just as his 'Mech's ammunition cooked off.

The fall of the heavy 'Mech seemed to dishearten the rebels crouching outside the bay, but Brewer knew it wouldn't last long. Soon they would drive Second Company out.

"Lieutenant, you'd better hurry the hell up," Brewer grated.

"We're going as fast as we can, Captain," Lieutenant Morgan Graham shot back. "Most of these doors are locked, and we've got to break them down. Stand by . . ." The armored infantryman paused for a long moment, then Brewer heard an anguished moan. "Oh, no."

"Graham, what is it?" Brewer demanded. "Answer inc. Lieutenant!"

"Captain," Graham said in a strangled voice. "The Colonel ... the Colonel is dead. Looks like she tried to hide in a storeroom. There's one dead rebel in here, so she took at least one of the bastards with her."

"All right, Lieutenant. Pull back." Brewer felt an icy weight in the pit of his stomach. As he stared hopelessly around him, he noticed that none of the original Legionnaires remained. The heart and soul of the Gray Death Legion was gone.

A volley of missile fire rocked his Champion. In that instant, the despair vanished in the bright, white-hot flame of anger and the thirst for revenge.

He snapped his 'Mech's weapons into line, tripped the targeting interlock circuits, and fired. Heat flooded into his cockpit. He could hardly breathe. The computer screeched a shutdown warning. He slapped the manual override. Down-range, a Separatist Kintaro wearing the red arrow of the Thirty-second Lyran Guards reeled as cannon, missile, and laser fire shredded its armored hide.

The apelike machine recovered its balance and dispatched a volley of short-range missiles. The rockets hammered the Champion's right arm and side, and blew shallow craters in the ferrocrete floor of the 'Mech bay. Brewer ignored the damage and fired again, this time using only his heat-efficient Lubalin LB 10-X autocannon and short-range missiles. The Kintaro struck back with its lasers, both of which missed the mark.

Suddenly, the rest of the Skye Separatists charged the bay doors. Michael Taylor and Roger Karns stepped up beside their company commander, showering the enemy 'Mechs with long-range missiles. Jason Fry's Panther blasted a rebel Assassin with its PPC and semi-guided short-range missiles. A howl of rage cut across the comm channel. Brewer looked up just in time to see Dale Ross' Grim Reaper charging the onrushing rebel 'Mechs. That seemed to be a signal. Almost as one, Brewer's Mech Warriors flung their machines into a wild assault on the enemy.

The Kintaro tried to stand in Brewer's way, but he lowered his 'Mech's shoulder and smashed into the lighter machine's broad chest. The Kintaro went over backward, grappling with Brewer's Champion as it fell. Brewer struggled with his controls, but failed to keep his 'Mech upright. The birdlike machine fell half on top of its victim. Before either machine could move, a steel arm and fist lanced past Brewer's cockpit, and the massive hand of Joseph Cheng's Apollo splintered the Kintaro's faceplate. Cheng drove his fist into the fallen 'Mech's head twice more before he stopped. As Cheng helped Brewer's Champion to its feet, he saw the ruin of twisted metal that had once been the Kintaro's head. The Skye warrior was dead in his cockpit.

An Axman in the blue and white of the Lyran Guards but bearing the Skye crest, strode forward, cocking its massive double-bitted weapon back over its shoulder. Brewer fed it a burst of autocannon fire, while Cheng launched a double volley of missiles. The enemy 'Mech was too close for the LRMs to be effective, but the autocannon shells slashed across the Axman's left knee. A stroke of man-made lightning flashed over the Champion's head, as Fry pummeled the tall rebel machine with his Panther's particle cannon.

The axe flashed down, shearing through the Apollo's shoulder. As the Separatist wrenched his weapon free of Cheng's crumpled armor, he unleashed his monstrous Luxor Devastator autocannon. Anti-armor hollow-charge shells blasted into the Apollo's chest. Even over the din of battle, Brewer heard the rackety whir of a damaged gyro. Cheng's crippled 'Mech reeled under the impact and crashed to the ground.

Before the downed Apollo stopped sliding, four of Brewer's 'Mechs combined their fire to destroy the Axman. As the big machine fell, Brewer searched for another target but found none. The rebels who had been caught outside the 'Mech bay were on the run.

A platoon of Legion infantrymen dashed out of the open 'Mech bay to check on their fallen comrades and to round up any rebel warriors surviving the destruction of their 'Mechs. Brewer watched dispassionately as three ground-pounders rushed up to the wrecked Axman and dragged a half-conscious female pilot from the cockpit. Then he caught sight of the scarlet shirt beneath her cooling vest, and a flash of silver on her shoulder.

"Sergeant, take good care of her," he ordered through his 'Mech's external speakers. "That's a senior officer you've got there."

The squad leader looked up and waved his assent, but the expression on his face looked like he'd rather knife her.

Summoning his troops, Brewer moved his company back inside the 'Mech bay.

"Third Squad," he called to one element of his infantry support. "You guys stay here," he said raggedly. "Stay with the Colonel's body. The rest of you, form up. We have more rebels to kill."

* * *

"Lucy, take him!" Brewer shouted.

After leaving the 'Mech bay, Brewer's existence became a series of ambushes and counter-ambushes as his company fought their way through the cavernous tunnels and factory spaces of the Defiance complex. In one of the large armor-fabrication shops, his depleted company ran into a disorganized mob of Separatist 'Mechs.

Lucy Sal brought up both of her Dervish's misshapen hands and launched her last four short-range missiles. The Streak semi-guided weapons crashed into the ribs and hip of an enemy Hunchback. The Separatist machine staggered as half a ton of armor was blown away, but it was not out of the fight yet. Raising its arms in return, the rebel 'Mech flashed beams of laser energy from its wrists. The huge 'Mech-killing autocannon that gave the Hunchback its name remained silent. Brewer figured it was out of ammo.

The lasers melted through the remaining structural members holding the Dervish's left arm to its body. The limb crashed to the ground, leaving Sal's 'Mech crippled. Brewer cut loose with his own medium lasers. The Hunchback turned to face him, giving Sal a shot at its back. Her lone medium laser severed the rebel's leg at the knee. The Hunchback fell onto its face, tried once to rise, then lay still. Brewer's sensors told him that the rebel warrior had shut down his power plant.

"All Legion warriors, this is Legion Two-one," said Major Devin over the general channel. "The enemy is withdrawing. Let them go."

With Lori's death, Devin had assumed command of the Legion, though the scattered small-unit actions deep in the bowels of the factory complex required little in the way of overall command.

Brewer looked around the armor mill. One rebel 'Mech, an old model Dragon, stood next to the door, smoke pouring from a huge gash in its chest. A Skye Ranger Penetrator lay on the ground, its armor breached in a dozen places. There had been two more 'Mechs in the area.

"They bugged out, boss," Sergeant Kauffman told him. "Just before you guys polished off that Hunchback. It looked like they were headed for the exit, so I just let them go. 'Sides, my Hoplite isn't in any condition to chase 'em."

Three of his Mechs lay on the armor mill's floor, beside the fallen rebel machines. Roger Karns' Apollo, Susan Levy's Vulcan, and Dale Ross' Grim Reaper had been reduced to scrap, as had most of his company.

Brewer slouched forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on the armrests of his command couch. He felt old, tired, and sick. He forced himself to sit erect.

"All right, Sarge, Lucy, let's head back toward the 'Mech bay and see what's left." He sighed. "Keep your eyes open. There may be a few die-hards lurking in the shadows."

* * *

Making the journey to the 'Mech bay was not long or difficult, but somewhere along the way, Brewer used up the last of his strength. When his Champion stepped into the cavernous room, his flagging spirit sank even lower. Less than a dozen Gray Death Legion 'Mechs were still operational. Of those, only a few would be able to be repaired. Brewer focused his will on the task of backing his mangled Champion into its cubicle. Unlatching his neurohelmet and shrugging out of his safety harness seemed to burn up the last of his strength. He could not bring himself to slip out of his seat and crack the hatch.

He sagged in his seat, unable to move. Then he heard a loud, hissing pop as the seal on his cockpit was broken.

"Captain? You okay?" a young man's voice said behind him.

Brewer made a concentrated effort to turn his head. A freckle-faced youngster in the green coveralls of the Defiance technical crew crouched in the open ingress/egress hatch.

"Yeah," was all he could muster.

"Captain, lemme help you," the boy said. Brewer felt strong hands lifting him out of his seat and gently guiding him toward the hatch.

"How many?" Brewer mumbled, dreading the answer.

"I don't know, sir," the technician admitted. "There are about a dozen of your 'Mechs here in the bay. I don't know for sure about any others elsewhere."

The cool, fresh air of the 'Mech bay brought a little life back to Brewer's weary body. He thanked the boy for his help and walked stiff-legged to the catwalk's safety rail. A few meters away, he saw Major Devin clutching the rail with exhaustion. Across the bay, he noted that the Lyran Guards and the Defiance Self-Protection Force had not escaped the carnage. He wondered what would become of the Gray Death Legion now that Lori was gone. He supposed it would be up to Alexander, Grayson and Lori's son, to decide. But Alex was on Tharkad with the First Royal Guards Regimental Combat Team. It would be some time before he could rejoin the unit, let alone start to rebuild it, if it could be rebuilt.

Leaning heavily on the rail, Brewer dragged himself across to Devin.

"Good to see you're still alive, Dan," Devin said, exhaustion shadowing his voice.

"You too, sir," Brewer replied. "How many of us are left?"

"No idea. Twenty MechWarriors, maybe less." Devin shrugged. "Tankers and PBIs? Who knows?"

For a long moment, the officers remained silent, then Brewer spoke again.

"I guess Ciampa will have to call in the Thirty-sixth now."

"Probably. Though I don't think there's going to be a whole lot for them to do once they get here. I'd have to say the Separatists are broken. Major Goree tells me that our infantry captured Leutnant-General Alice Day and some of her command staff. So, the Thirty-second is minus its leaders. The Separatists will probably retreat into the hills. They're finished as a threat to Hesperus. All the Thirty-sixth will be doing is mopping up."

"If she'd called them in last week, none of this would have happened," Brewer said, fighting to damp the consuming rage threatening to overwhelm him.

"Maybe," Devin allowed. "But we can't know that. If she'd brought in the Thirty-sixth, we'd have been able to keep the rebels at bay, but von Frisch might have called in the Simon Davion. A naval bombardment would have ripped the hell out of the Legion just like the Separatists did here today, and there would have been no way to hit back. That would have been harder to take."

"Yeah, but that doesn't make it easy," Brewer said, shaking his head.

"No, it doesn't," Devin said.

"So where do we go from here?"

"We do what the Legion has always done. We pull ourselves together, make repairs, bury our dead, and keep the faith." Devin gazed out over the empty 'Mech cubicles in the legion's troop area. "But unless Alex has inherited all of his father's spirit and grit, we've seen the end of an era."

He shook his head.

"I think the Gray Death Legion is gone forever."

Epilogue

Royal Palace

Avalon City, New Avalon

Crucis March

Federated Suns

25 August 3065

Katrina Steiner leaned back in the high-backed leather chair and closed her eyes. For a long while, she remained that way in silence. Behind her, just outside the office windows, the trees and shrubs of the palace grounds were in full leaf.

The "real time" HPG image of her aunt, General Nondi Steiner, watched Katrina carefully for any clues to her reaction to the report she had just finished reading.

Katrina drew in a deep breath, blowing it out again in a long sigh.

"Do we have anything available to send to Hesperus?" she asked, without opening her eyes.

"We have a few regiments we can transfer," Nondi answered. "Mostly ad hoc units assembled out of the remains of those shattered by the fighting against Victor."

Katrina's eyes flashed open at the mention of her brother. "Move one regiment to Hesperus to bolster their defenses," she said, mastering her anger with what felt like a supreme act of will.

"I will, Highness, though I doubt Robert has much left to devote to his bid for Skye independence."

"Be that as it may, General"—Katrina stressed her aunt's rank, as a means of putting the older woman in her place—"we cannot leave Hesperus II open and undefended. The remnants of two Lyran Guard RCTs and one mercenary regiment are not going to suffice should my brother return to attack that planet, damn him."

"And what of Hauptmann Carlyle?"

"What of him?"

"He has requested leave to attend his mother's funeral and to set things in motion for the rebuilding of the Gray Death Legion."

Katrina thought for a moment before answering. "Ordinarily, I might be inclined to release him. But, with Victor knocking on our gates, I do not think I can spare him or any other man of the Royal Guards."

Nondi opened her mouth as if to protest, but closed it again as Katrina continued.

"Tell him that, once the war is over and this matter between Victor and I has been settled, then he may have a leave or even a discharge if he wants it. Once this war is over, he can go rebuild the Gray Death Legion, not before."

"If he survives," Nondi said guardedly.

"There is always that, General," the Archon allowed. "If he survives."