Lone Wolves . . .

Anastasia Kerensky has led the Steel Wolves to the planet of Galatea to repair, resupply, and—to the annoyance of her MechWarriors—retrain themselves in infantry combat. Ignoring Clan traditions, she has forged the Steel Wolves into a tighter, more cohesive fighting force with a new agenda....

Declaring the Steel Wolves mercenaries, Anastasia plans to sell the Clan's skills to the highest bidders. Fighting wars for wealth and continuous supplies of upgraded equipment will provide her elite troops an autonomy and strength that almost no other Mech- Warrior battalion can match. But her decision divides the Steel Wolves, with many veterans striking off on their own. Reduced to a mere fraction of their original strength, Anastasia's newly rechristened Wolf Hunters seek worthy warriors to refill their ranks.

Star Colonel Varnoff Fetladral, one of Kerensky's most vocal opponents, believes Anastasia has betrayed the founding principles of the Clan. With his own faction of loyal Steel Wolves by his side, he sets out to hunt down and destroy every member of the Wolf Hunters—and to restore MechWarrior honor....

OUT OF CONTROL

Anastasia Kerensky screamed her rage.

Sixty meters above her head Galatea turned slowly, the barren earth of the live fire field a sky of dun and char.

Yanking the joystick, she stomped her right pedal— demanding an extra burst of thrust from the right leg jet to rotate her airborne Ryoken II through the rest of the unplanned aerial cartwheel.

The computer countermanded her orders as quickly as she gave them, the gyroscope automatically undid her every effort. Feet to the sky, her BattleMech still rose on the last dregs of her initial jump's inertia, the corkscrew of its final flip uncompleted.

Anastasia pounded the cheerfully green diagnostic board with the heel of her hand. The external readout showed her BattleMech flying upright, coasting through the apogee of its jump. The system display complacently informed her that the jump jets were cycling for their braking burn.

A burn that would drive her head-first into the ground with enough force to drive both missile racks down through her cockpit and into the fusion reactor.

Her missiles . . .

Grabbing her fire control as the Ryoken II began its descent, she launched a full barrage, all four of the short- range missile six-packs firing at once. Newton's third law still applied. Free of the ground, her massive machine responded to the back thrust of twenty-four missiles. The BattleMech rotated.

Not much, fighting air and gravity, but some.

Not enough.

WOLF HUNTERS

A BATTLETECH™ NOVEL

Kevin Killiany

ROC

Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, November 2006

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Copyright © WizKids, Inc., 2006 All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARC'A REGISTRADA

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.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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 authors nor the publisher have received any payment for this "stripped book."

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

This book is for Valerie, my wife and partner in life. Her stubborn determination to stick with me no matter what makes all else possible.

Acknowledgments

I am a writer who writes—as opposed to a starving artist still searching for his muse—only because Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch lured me to their isolated estate on the coast of Oregon and pounded some sense into me. I shall be forever grateful. I am also grateful to Loren Coleman for introducing the wonder and excitement of the BattleTech" universe to a covey of unsuspecting writers at a long-ago workshop. That conversation around a coffee table laden with TROs and sourcebooks led to my happy relationship with the wonderful members of the BattleCorps and to my gaining the background and experience I needed to be able to tackle Wolf Hunters. Of course, this novel would not have happened at all without editor extraordinaire Sharon Turner Mulvihill, who, against her better judgment, defied common sense and a sea of naysayers to give me a shot at my first MechWarrior novel. Sharon was always ready with advice and guidance as I worked my way through the novel-writing process. And she was not alone. Herbert Beas, Randall Bills, Kelly Bonilla, Paul Sjardijn, David Stansel-Garner, and 0ystein Tved- ten (and others foolish enough to let me know their AIM or e-mail addresses) were always ready and willing to answer questions and offer support. The goodwill and camaraderie that extend throughout the MechWarrior community—from the magically loony offices of Wiz- Kids down to the guys who play the game at FanBoy Comics—are truly exceptional. I'm glad to be a small part of it.

Outside of our shared world, 1 need to thank the baristas at Port City Java, who kept the window table reserved and the organic coffee flowing as I hunched over my trusty laptop pouring my heart into the Wolf Hunters. Also worthy of special mention are my friends and family at Soul Saving Station. Over the course of this novel, they learned more about writing and Mech-

Warriors in my weekly homilies than most folks hear in a lifetime of churchgoing. Finally, I must thank my family—particularly my wife, Valerie—for supporting me when I needed it and giving me the space to write when 1 needed it and having the wisdom to know when to do which.

Prologue

Terra, Prefecture X

Republic of the Sphere

27 May 3135

Thaddeus Marik rested his hands on the cool stone of the balcony railing and stared out over the walled garden. He identified calla lilies and gladiolus native to Terra, Scythian fire tulips, Stewart roses—smaller and more densely petaled than their Terran namesakes—and a dozen other blooms the names of which eluded him. The dark red ferns lining the paths were new to him, as were the umbrella-like flowering trees shielding the artfully placed benches from the early afternoon sun.

Of course, it was possible none of the plants were as exotic as he supposed. He knew palm trees were native to Terra, for example, but though he had seen them on a dozen worlds, he had never visited the region of man's home world where they grew.

Whatever the origins of the flora within the wall, he did not see the locally native heavy oak and elm that had scrolled past the windows of the limousine that brought him directly here from the DropPort. Nor did he see the pale yellow-green foliage he had grown accustomed to on New Aragon, that once verdant world still fighting its way back from the Blakist chemical assault that had almost sterilized the planet. And nowhere beyond the wall of the garden, beyond the screening cedars, or beyond the fold of rocky hills that rose to mountains, could he see any evidence that war and rebellion threatened the Republic of the Sphere.

How many gardens like this were there? he wondered. How many enclaves of cultivated flowers, protected from the ravages of nature and man, and hidden from the eyes of those deemed unable to appreciate their beauty?

Diversity, exclusivity, nature, the wall. Together and separately the elements could be seen as metaphors for so many things that it was either profound or banal. He couldn't quite decide which.

Things fall apart, he quoted the ancient poem, the center cannot hold.

Yeats had been writing about revolutions in the early twentieth century. A time when people in the ancient nation-states of Ireland and Russia fought for what they thought of as freedom. Neither group would have recognized what the other was fighting for, yet both were remembered by history as threatening order with anarchy. What would that long-ago poet—or the victors who had labeled the revolutionaries—make of these modern times, Thaddeus wondered.

He was spending too much time wondering.

"You understand our purpose?" asked Tyrina Drum- mond behind him.

"Do you mean metaphysically?" he asked without turning. "Or just in the current campaign?"

She laughed—the carefree, bell-like tone oddly incongruous with the circumstances. Stepping forward, his fellow paladin leaned to prop her forearms on the stone rail next to him. Closer, perhaps than formal courtesy would dictate, but not overly familiar.

Thaddeus wondered if there would ever again be a time when he did not have to parse every word and action for its hidden meaning. He doubted it.

"Our job in the coming months is not so much a campaign as a holding action," Tyrina said, looking out over the garden. "Holding things together."

The murmur of voices, the disorganized babble of a meeting broken up, reached them dully through the open French doors. It sounded to Thaddeus like a distant ocean. Or a river rising to flood.

"Does that"—Tyrina indicated the garden with a jut of her chin—"look to you like the world?"

He glanced at her. Leaning forward brought the crown of the taller woman's head level with his chin. From this unfamiliar perspective he saw blue highlights in her helmet of closely cropped black curls. He'd never noticed that before.

"An enclosed space with many choices and no real options?" he asked. "I think that will illustrate our lives for quite a while."

"Hopefully not for too long," she said, straightening.

Thaddeus shook his head, but didn't bother to contradict her assessment.

When I was a child I thought as a child and I spoke as a child, he thought. But now that I am grown, I have put away childish things.

Like faith my leaders know best.

He had plans to see to. Arrangements half completed because he'd hoped to never need them. His hopefulness had cost him valuable lead time, time he was going to have to struggle to make up.

His eye was caught by Tyrina's Nova Cat tattoo, blue- black against the cinnamon-copper of her skin it rose like a vine from her collar—twining close to her ear before ending at the corner of her right eye. Having seen her dressed for the cockpit of her Loki, he knew the latticework of tribal markings extended down her right side, covering her arm and disappearing into the top of her boot.

Thaddeus had met Nova Cats with tribal tattoos so slight and spare as to escape casual notice, and others with blocks of what appeared to be text in unknown tongues, but none as extensively and intricately marked as his fellow paladin. He had no idea what the symbols represented, but he found himself hoping they offered Tyrina some protection against the coming upheaval.

He couldn't afford to rely on such mysticism.

With a start he realized she'd been speaking and he hadn't retained a word.

"Excuse me," he said, cutting across her words. "I should be going. There is much I need to prepare."

Tyrina gazed into his eyes, held him with her look. "We both have much to prepare," she agreed.

She extended her hands at waist level, palms up. Without thinking, Thaddeus placed his hands over hers, barely touching. One of her people's rituals, he surmised—centering the spirit or some such. He had little patience with esoteric religions, but he was loath to break the mood of the moment.

"Good luck," she said, suddenly smiling. She gripped both of his hands in a farewell squeeze.

"You, too," he said, returning the pressure. He realized he meant it—for all of them.

Leaving was not that simple, of course. There were last-minute confirmations of plans, exchanges of encouragement, and a brief consultation with Anders Kessel, before he was able to make it to his limousine. It was full nightfall by the time he reached his offices.

Once at his secure computer, physically unconnected to any other machine or network, he encrypted a dozen data crystals, filling them with files it had taken him months to prepare. Each was tailored and honed to meet the very specific needs of its recipient.

He muttered under his breath as he worked, angry he had not prepared them weeks before. But part of his mind acknowledged weeks ago would have been premature. Not only would that have increased the risk of discovery, but they would not contain the information he had acquired at today's meeting of paladins.

And the senators—

He let that thought go. He hoped—no, he prayed he was wrong. And it took events of this magnitude to drive him to prayer. But if his analysis of the files he'd received was correct, and unless there was some miraculous option of which he was unaware, the Republic of the Sphere was less than a year from total civil war.

He might not be in a position to save The Republic, but there were steps he could take—should have been taking—to salvage what he could.

At last satisfied with his work, Thaddeus buzzed for his aide. He would have preferred to go himself, but with Victor Steiner-Davion's funeral only days away— and the current crisis brewing—he could not afford to be far from the exarch's side.

Green was a man who had put a great deal of effort into becoming invisible. Of medium height and color, with nondescript hair cut in no particular style and unremarkable eyes, he could be overlooked in plain sight. His soft-spoken voice was forgotten moments after he spoke. He was also very good at doing whatever task Thaddeus set him.

Green blinked once as Thaddeus explained what was required and to whom the data crystals had to be delivered. A massive display of emotion by his standards. But in the end he simply nodded and accepted the packets.

Thaddeus Marik sat alone for long minutes after Green had gone, staring at a future that hung somewhere between his eyes and the wall.

1

Practice Fields, GalateaCity

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

2 June 3135

Anastasia Kerensky screamed her rage.

Sixty meters above her head Galatea turned slowly, the barren earth of the live fire field a sky of dun and char.

Yanking the joystick, she stomped her right pedal— demanding an extra burst of thrust from the right leg jet to rotate her airborne Ryoken II through the rest of the unplanned aerial cartwheel.

The computer countermanded her orders as quickly as she gave them, the gyroscope automatically undid her every effort. Feet to the sky, her BattleMech still rose on the last dregs of her initial jump's inertia, the corkscrew of its final flip uncompleted.

Anastasia pounded the cheerfully green diagnostic board with the heel of her hand. The external readout showed her BattleMech flying upright, coasting through the apogee of its jump. The system display complacently informed her that the jump jets were cycling for their braking burn.

A burn that would drive her head-first into the ground with enough force to drive her missile racks down through her cockpit and into the fusion reactor.

Her missiles . . .

Grabbing her fire control as the Ryoken II began its descent, she launched a full barrage, all four of the short- range missile six-packs firing at once. Newton's third law still applied. Free of the ground, her massive machine responded to the back thrust of twenty-four missiles. The BattleMech rotated.

Not much, fighting air and gravity, but some.

Not enough.

Anastasia cycled and fired a second volley just as the computer, sure in the knowledge it was executing a perfect jump, ignited the jets.

Cockpit-down, her BattleMech accelerated at a shallow angle. Flinging her PPC and laser wildly, she tried to impart spin. A zero-gee spacer trick that did her little good. But some. The Ryoken II's left shoulder rose slightly, her cockpit rotating a few precious degrees away from the ground now rushing past a few dozen meters beyond the ferroglass.

Anastasia scissor-kicked, one of the few moves the computer allowed, and twisted the torso left. Again the third law of motion worked in her favor. The leg assembly rotated as far right as the upper body turned left. Combined with the scissors kick, the realigned jump jets brought the leading end of the Ryoken II up. The gyroscope read this as the machine tilting backward, but she was ready for it, countering its "corrective" commands.

If she could—

Blood sprayed her controls as she bit her tongue. Her right collarbone snapped. Pain radiating through her arm and chest as the restraint harness kept her from flying through the viewscreen.

In front of her the barren landscape rotated madly as the right shoulder of her BattleMech dug into the earth and the machine upended, jump jets still blazing. Ferroglass buckshot sliced across her cheek, her neck, as the particle projector cannon—the right arm torn from the 'Mech's shoulder—shattered the canopy. The sickly sweet stench of coolant mixed with the copper taste of blood, gagging her as she gripped useless controls, re- flexively firing missile launchers that no longer existed.

The systems monitor beeped in sudden alarm, the wireframe flashing a crimson that flowed down and across the upper third of the Ryoken. The diagnostic screen reported something massive had struck the upright 'Mech from above.

Inertia slammed her back into the couch, her neck whiplashing. The tumbled 'Mech's jump jets were now pointed ahead. Finally doing what they thought they were doing, their combined thrust ended the Battle- Mech's plowing skid across the turf.

With a groan of metal, the Ryoken II rolled forward.

Anastasia hung in her harness. Down was now in front of her. The sharp pain with every breath warned her a rib fragment had punctured her pulmonary sac. Maybe a lung. She held still, keeping her breathing shallow and watching her blood drip on the earth where the canopy had been.

She identified a high-pitched grating scream as a gyro bearing. She wondered idly if it would fail before the gyroscope zeroed out. Maybe the wheel would come loose and send fragments of its housing up through her ass while she hung like meat on a hook.

Below her the status screen reported that her badly damaged BattleMech had landed safely and was now standing foursquare on solid ground awaiting further orders.

She spat at it. The glob of bloody froth struck dead center.

2

Steel Wolves compound, GalateaCity

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

5 June 3135

Ian Murchison brushed a strand of dark red hair off Anastasia Kerensky's brow with the edge of his hand. She didn't move, didn't acknowledge the gesture. Just as she hadn't moved or acknowledged any of her surroundings in the twelve and a half hours since he'd sewn shut the last of her wounds.

Or for the thirty-some hours before that—ever since her unconscious form had been pried from the crushed ruin of her Ryoken II's cockpit.

There was a comfortable familiarity to the tableau. Him watching, her healing. They'd repeated these roles often, until it was almost a ritual. Murchison appreciated ritual, or at least routine.

The air in his medical center was remarkably fresh. Just as everything was precisely placed and in perfect order. He liked order, predictability. Liked knowing that what you expected to be, was. And in its proper place. By while he could take credit for and a sort of workmanlike pride in the order and efficiency of his sick bay, the fresh air was none of his doing.

Something about living on a stinking desert of a world had inspired the Galateans to excel in air-conditioning technology. One of the few blessings of this godforsaken orb, in Murchison's opinion.

He liked the ocean. He had applied for his last position because an offshore oil platform was as close to living on the ocean as he could get. That's where he'd met his current patient, when she'd blown the brains out of a woman he was trying to save.

Since then, first as her bondsman and now as a Steel Wolf, he had followed her to a dozen worlds. But none, he was reasonably sure, as dull and dreary and oppressively hot as Galatea. He hated this place. As much as he hated any place. Ian Murchison was not a man given to deep passions.

He had also patched his bondholder—sometimes come close to putting her back together—on every one of those worlds. And in the spaces between.

Given how he felt about Galatea, it would have appealed to his sense of symmetry if this had been the worst incident, these injuries the most life threatening she had suffered. But it had not and these were not. Fairly routine, actually, once he had tracked down all the internal bleeders and sealed them. Not all that different from darning socks, mechanically speaking. If one allowed for scale.

Now it was just a matter of at least twenty-four hours of sleep to give her body's natural ability to heal itself time to work. A fact he'd explained more than once to the sweating man waiting to see her.

Bernard Carter was a gray putty of a man, scarcely reaching Murchison's shoulder yet massing half again as much in drooping rolls of fat. His technician's uniform— a sturdy shirt with a half-dozen pockets, heavy pants with more pockets, and a thick belt supporting utility pouches—was actually too large for him, cut for a much taller man. The cuffs of his pants were rolled up to rest on top of his shoes. The double cord at his wrist identified him as a bondsman. Someone deemed useful to own by a warrior of the Steel Wolves.

The only neat thing about him was his glasses. While everything else looked rumpled and uncared for, they were crystalline clear, as though precise focus were important to him.

Time certainly wasn't. Told it would be hours before Anastasia Kerensky woke, the man had simply taken up station to one side of the door. Refusing chair or even water, the man had stood watching with an expression that managed to look both anxious and blank at the same time.

At first, ignoring him while he completed inventory and filed a report on the injuries of the day, Murchison had dismissed Carter's pallor as long hours spent out of the sun, doing whatever specialty of computer tech he did far from the outside world. But as he spent more time in the man's company, he realized the grayish tinge with just a hint of blue indicated poor circulation.

It was possible he had more than one patient in his sick bay.

Without a word Murchison put two fingers to Carter's neck. The man didn't move, except to roll his eyes nervously toward the medico. Beneath layers of fat, Murchison felt the carotid artery leaping against his fingertips.

"Bounding pulse," he said.

The rhythm stuttered and stumbled. With a grunt, Murchison flipped the stethoscope from around his neck and levered the ear pieces into his ears.

If possible, the pasty Carter looked even more alarmed. Murchison was sure only the sense of duty that had kept him waiting for so long prevented the man's bolting when he placed the bell of his 'scope against his chest.

For thirty seconds the heart beat strong and true. Then the lub-dub stuttered twice—Lub, pause, dub, pause—before resuming its steady beat.

"You're throwing PVCs," the doctor said at last.

"Premature ventricular contractions," Carter recited, sounding almost proud, as though they were something he accomplished. "Heart clenches like a fist. That's normal for me. Kept me out of combat units. They only let me be a tech with medication and monthly checkups."

"They must have been hard up for techs," Murchison said as he pulled the stethoscope from his ears and draped it around his neck. "I wouldn't let you out of the house. Do you have your meds?"

Carter patted two pockets before coming up with a plastic vial.

Murchison read the label—common prescription at the lowest standard dose—and decided the tech's condition wasn't life threatening. No doubt the stress of the moment was aggravating the condition. He scheduled a physical for later in the week and refilled the bottle from medical stores.

"My wife—" Carter swallowed, then smiled weakly as he pocketed the medication. "My wife was in the militia, too. We were kind of a package deal."

Murchison decided not to press. There were probably very few small-talk options when talking to a bondsman about his family. He'd been lucky in having no one. To have left a wife, maybe children . . .

"How did you earn that?" he asked, indicating the cords around Carter's wrist.

"I was trying to save a MechWarrior," Carter answered without the hesitation Murchison suspected was usual. He was clearly prepared for the question. "Cockpit damage had jammed the escape hatch. I was trying to pry it open when two Elementals took me into custody."

"Two Elementals?" Murchison stopped him. "You were on a battlefield, in a firefight, trying to rescue a MechWarrior?"

Carter's smile was shaky. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You can understand that, can you not, Murchison?" Anastasia Kerensky asked. "Being taken trying to help Wolves' prey?"

He jumped, turning toward the bed. "You shouldn't be—"

"Shut up," Anastasia said, struggling to get up. "Get me my clothes."

Ignoring the command, Murchison put an arm across her chest. Gripping her shoulders, he easily overcame her feeble effort to rise and lowered her gently to the pillow. "I spent too much time inside you sewing things up to let you undo it all with a silly display of ego."

Anastasia laughed, a dry sound in the back of her throat.

Murchison lifted a cup from a side table, holding the straw to her lips. Her color was not good, and the bare flesh beneath his hand had been clammy. But her eyes were sharp, amused yet calculating as they held his.

"You've spent too much time inside me?" she repeated after she'd sipped. "You're the first man who's ever complained of that."

Murchison's ears pricked at her use of contractions.

Carter glanced around the room in panic.

Anastasia laughed again—a dry, rasping shadow of her usual laugh. "You would not be here unless someone sent you," she said to the terrified technician. "Who and why?"

"Chief Technician Garth," Carter answered, not quite a squeak. "I discovered the cause of the accident."

"How long did this take?" Anastasia asked, looking to Murchison.

"Forty-six hours," he answered, confirming her suspicion of lost time. "He's been standing here waiting to report for the last four."

Anastasia regarded the copiously sweating Carter for a long moment. "Garth dislikes you."

"Yes, ma'am," Carter bobbed his head. If the noteputer in his hands had been made of less sturdy material it would have cracked. "Intensely."

"Report."

"The Ryoken II was never designed to jump," Carter said. "The jump jet system on yours was a field upgrade, what we call aftermarket—"

"I said report, not natter," Anastasia cut him off. There was little force to her voice, which wasn't surprising under the circumstances. Murchison was impressed she was conscious at all. Nonetheless her words seemed to snap through Carter like an electric shock.

"Patches," he said, then stood frozen, staring at her.

"Something in between," Murchison suggested when it became apparent the man wasn't going on.

Carter tore his eyes from Anastasia to regard Murchison as though just discovering him. Then he stared back at the Steel Wolves' leader.

"Computer patches. Control interface programs," he said. "Every upgrade, every repair, made after the BattleMech leaves the factory requires patches. The patches let the new part interact with the existing systems."

He paused. Somewhat to Murchison's surprise, Anastasia nodded a millimeter, reassuring the technician she followed him. Rejecting the possibility of courtesy, he guessed she'd decided it was the quickest way to extract information.

"Your command system had too many patches," Carter went on, some of his terror subsiding with the encouragement. "The last upgrade, the ballistic arc module, which was supposed to cut down on heat buildup in the jump jet system by—well, it was one patch too many."

He turned the noteputer around as though the flowchart barely visible on the tiny screen would somehow illustrate his point.

"When it activated, there was a cascade failure of all systems related to the jump system." Carter said with a shrug. "The whole system went into bench test mode, with the diagnostic system correcting what it thought were mistakes you were inputting."

It took Murchison a second to separate the various levels of "system" in Carter's explanation.

"It assumed I was lying to it," Anastasia translated, two steps ahead of him.

"It thought you were trying to trick it," Carter agreed. "And it was outsmarting you."

He smiled. Then frowned. "Though that's terribly anthropomorphic and really oversimplified and—"

"Enough," Anastasia said, closing her eyes. "Go."

Carter stopped speaking midword, his mouth open.

Anastasia's breathing deepened and slowed. To Murchison it looked as though she had fallen asleep.

It took Carter a long moment to visibly process that he had been dismissed. He pantomimed leaving the noteputer to Murchison. The doctor waved it away. If Anastasia wanted the details she'd track them down on her own.

After the technician had left, Murchison busied himself rearranging his supplies, making space. They would be on Galatea at least until Anastasia recovered, if only because they had no place else to go. That meant bringing more everyday items out of storage and putting them where he could get to them. He didn't like that. Every box moved from the DropShip to the compound was one more attachment to this stinking desert world.

"Find out who sabotaged my 'Mech."

Murchison spun, startled.

Eyes shut, his sole patient lay motionless on the bed. There was no indication she was awake. But for her steady breathing, Anastasia Kerensky could have been lying in state.

3

Steel Wolves compound, GalateaCity

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

13 June 3135

The laughter caught Murchison's ear as he entered the repair bay. Cruel, edged—not comrades sharing a humorous moment.

Angling right, he rounded a pallet laden with cases to find half a dozen men and women gathered in a knot, evidently focused on something on the ground in their midst. They wore the coveralls of stevedores, though there were no members of the laborer caste among the Steel Wolves. No doubt these were technicians reduced through some arcane Clan scoring system to doing the heavy lifting.

He shouldered between two, expecting to find a comrade fallen with an embarrassing injury. Instead there was an open crate with a crazed creature flinging itself against the slats.

His first impression was of a half meter of chocolate brown fur and frantic motion.

One of the techs poked the animal's flank with a slat of packing and the beast whirled, seizing the board. Murchison found himself looking into red-rimmed eyes over

a rounded muzzle filled with dozens of needle-sharp teeth, now sunk deep into the light wood. With a shrill trilling the creature spasmed, throwing its full three or four kilograms into a whipsaw motion that splintered the slat.

The tiny hellion leaped toward its tormentor. The man snatched his hand back barely in time and the beast slammed impotently into the side of the crate.

The techs laughed as the frantic animal threw itself again and again against the barricade. The top of the open crate was less than a hand span above its head, but evidently the creature could not jump. Not surprising, since the thick, stubby legs were clearly designed for digging through tunnels.

"Stop." Murchison said as a woman extended a pry bar toward the captive.

The group fell silent. Though he was not above them in the chain of command, they knew who he was. Whose eyes and ears he was.

"It's a Galatean mole," one of the stevedores said, as though that explained anything. "I saw it hide in the crate and turned it up."

Murchison looked down at the creature, still circling the confines of its prison, but no longer desperate. It was either exhausted or lacked the imagination to realize its attackers were still present. With its rounded jaw and bright eyes, he would have called it a vole rather than a mole, but the distinction was probably meaningless. The native animal bore no relation to Terran rodents.

"Did it bite anyone?" he asked.

Two hands went up. The noble hunter who'd captured the poor beast and the one who'd poked it with a slat.

"If you have any symptoms—aching joints, blurring vision, indigestion, hot flashes, or cold sweats—come see me," he said. "I don't have any medication for rabies, but I can relieve some of your symptoms.

"You." He addressed the woman who'd been about to use the pry bar on the mole. "Use a hand truck to get this crate to the edge of the compound and dump it over. We'll let someone else deal with the contagion."

Turning on his heel Murchison headed toward his original destination, the computer diagnostic section.

He did not blink at the sight of Alexia Wolf. The MechWarrior had evidently stopped a few paces from reaching the group.

He nodded to her and she fell in step beside him.

"Do Galatean animals carry rabies?" she asked.

"I doubt it," Murchison replied. "But to be on the safe side, I will inject them with saline solution for as long as their hypochondria persists."

The young MechWarrior grunted. "I begin to see why Anastasia Kerensky made you her coregn," she said.

Murchison said nothing. Another Clan pseudo word to decipher. Probably meant some combination of nursemaid and court jester. It would have been easier if they'd ever published a Clan-to-human dictionary. Perhaps a project for his retirement years.

He paused at the first door to the computer section, ceding the lead to the MechWarrior without a gesture. Following her through the high-speed blowers, he donned a hair cap—hardly necessary in his case—and stepped into the clean room where the computer systems were uncased and repaired.

"Anything interesting, Carter?" Alexia asked the technician bent over one of the examination benches.

Murchison almost hadn't recognized the man. His color was good—though that may have been in contrast to the white gown and hood that exposed only his face— and his movements were sure and crisp as he shut down the system he was working on before turning to answer.

"You were right about the trigger delay," Carter reported, then thought to add, "ma'am. The targeting computer was running a tertiary confirmation of the lock before discharge. Pretty common glitch, actually. It's a standard protocol for calibrating the system when it's installed, but should have been off-line. Sometimes it initiates when the system reboots. Most MechWarriors would not have noticed the extra tenth of a second."

Alexia nodded once, accepting both the explanation and the circuitous compliment to her battle sense.

"How do I keep it from happening again?"

"I deleted the subroutine," Carter said, gesturing toward the bench as though the deletion would somehow be visible. "Ma'am. Whoever does your next scheduled revamp will not thank me, but your PPCs will be that much faster until then."

"How soon?"

Carter ran his eyes over the equipment spread along his bench. Murchison could tell he wasn't really looking at what was in front of him but calculating times.

"Three and a half hours," the technician said. "Faster if someone else does the physical reinstall, but I'd like to handle all phases myself."

"Three and a half hours," Alexia echoed. She left without another word or glance in Murchison's direction.

Carter stood looking expectantly at the doctor for a long second after the MechWarrior had left.

"She forgot you," he said after a moment.

"I wasn't with her," Murchison answered.

"Ah."

Now Carter's nervousness was back, though not as intense as his distress in Anastasia's presence. Murchison wasn't putting him in any danger of irregular heartbeats.

"I've been tasked with determining how the Ryoken's computer came to be overloaded," Murchison said. "Failures at that level are rare to the point of being unheard of."

Carter nodded in quick agreement. "I should have left my noteputer," he said.

Murchison said nothing.

"What happened was conservative thinking," Carter explained. "The system had been upgraded, modified, and repaired more times than I could count. That required—"

"Patches," Murchison cut him off. "You explained."

"Patches were added." Carter nodded. "But none were ever removed. Two-thirds of that BattleMech's crystal space was taken up by software for hardware it no longer had.

"They'd been afraid to take anything out."

Murchison could imagine this just-short-of- condescending attitude grating raw the traditional—and self-important—Chief of Technicians Garth. He'd no doubt ordered Carter to report personally to Anastasia to remind the little man of who he was and whom he served.

"Any evidence of tampering?" he asked.

Carter looked surprised. No, Murchison amended, dumbfounded.

"No! No, no, no. Just very careful caution," the computer tech quickly backed away from his implied criticism of his superiors. "Galaxy Commander Kerensky's BattleMech has had a lot of upgrades and replacements.

"Most BattleMechs have unused programs." Again Carter repeated his gesture of waving to the bench as though it somehow illustrated his point. "But in most cases it takes generations for them to reach critical mass."

Murchison nodded. The technician's evaluation dovetailed with his own investigation. The strongest emotions he had found among the Steel Wolves had been boredom with their prolonged idleness on Galatea and ambition to move ahead, neither a strong enough motive for murder.

"Except . . ."

Carter was frowning at something over Murchison's left shoulder. Fighting the urge to glance in the same direction, Murchison waited for the technician to complete his thought.

"There's no evidence that the computer was tampered with physically," he said at last. "All of the service tabs were in place, no one had opened the case."

"But?" Murchison prompted as a second silence descended.

"But there's no security in the cockpit," Carter said, focusing on Murchison. "Anyone could have sat in the command couch and input the software manually."

"Wouldn't that take a long time?"

"Hours. Days," Carter agreed. "But it's a threshold effect. There would be no evidence the system was being overloaded until it hit critical mass."

"Would the person inputting the programs have any indication he was approaching this critical mass?"

"They wouldn't know until the system failed," Carter said. "And that would depend on the operator inputting a complex series of commands at a critical moment."

"So it was dumb luck this happened at practice?" Murchison asked. "It could have happened in battle?"

"Battle would be most likely," Carter agreed. "But it could have been any time."

Murchison considered the image of a patient assassin covertly making several visits to the cockpit of Anasta- sia's Ryoken over a period of days or weeks to surreptitiously install garbage programs in hopes it would freeze her control systems in the heat of combat. Putting a banana peel on her front steps would seem a more reliable strategy.

Dismissing the entire train of thought, he left the little man to his work and headed back to make his report to Anastasia. He did not expect this to be his final report on the matter. She believed she had been sabotaged— that someone meant to kill her—and she would not regard the investigation as over until he delivered the culprit.

No matter what the facts said.

4

Steel Wolves compound, Galatea City

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

18 June 3135

"What do you think?" Murchison looked up from his inventory screen. Seeing she had his attention, Anastasia Kerensky stepped slowly into the infirmary, giving him time to take in the full effect.

She wore her usual black leather pants and waist- length jacket, which he could not imagine was comfortable in the brutal heat of Galatea. Though it hugged her body closely, the shirt under her jacket was almost modest, reaching nearly to her throat. And imprinted on the black fabric was her trademark red hourglass.

Her left hand rested on the head of a heavy walking stick of what looked like black wood with a silver band some twenty centimeters below her hand. The snout of

a dog formed from a dull silver metal protruded from between her thumb and fingers, a small, dark gem clutched in its bared fangs. Not dog. Wolf.

"The use of a cane is backward," Murchison said. "The broken bones and internal damage are in your upper body. You want to keep stress off your arms, chest, and shoulders. And your color is not good."

"Flatterer," Anastasia said, her lip curling in something between a smile and a snarl. "The color is makeup. And the cane meets the expectations of those who think me injured."

Murchison did not waste breath pointing out she was injured.

"The cane is a weapon," he said. Not a question.

Anastasia's smile neither confirmed nor denied his supposition. Perhaps the cane was meant to distract from some other weapon. Provided he stayed out of the line of fire it was not his concern.

"Come." She turned on her heel, heading for the door.

"Why?" he asked her back.

She stopped and turned slowly toward him.

"Because a medic at my elbow confirms my injured state," she said. "And because you ask why."

Murchison nodded and reached for his field kit.

"Oh!" A startled gasp in a shaky tenor.

In the doorway stood a portly little man in technician's coveralls, staring at Anastasia as his lips pulled away from his teeth in a grin of sheer terror.

It took Murchison an instant to recognize Carter. A glance at his desk calendar confirmed he'd scheduled the computer specialist's physical for today—in about twenty minutes, in fact.

At five meters and without instruments, Murchison diagnosed arrested respiration and elevated heart rate. He hoped Carter's acute symptoms would not include incontinence.

"Ah," the little man said as the Galaxy commander strode toward him.

Then, evidently realizing he was between her and where she wanted to go, he backpedaled hastily. His shoulders hit the far wall of the corridor with an audible thump.

Anastasia strode past the quaking technician without acknowledging his presence.

"Let's reschedule that physical," Murchison said as he passed.

"Uh," agreed Carter.

Very few people displayed it as openly, Murchison reflected as he followed Anastasia into the blistering heat of Galatea's polar spring, but the computer technician's response to the leader of the Steel Wolves was fairly typical. Terror, awe—sometimes mixed with hatred or adoration or both. He wondered if she found it tiresome.

He didn't ask.

In the vehicle yard the sun was blazing, the air was dry enough to parch his eyes in their sockets, and the dust was blowing—of course. Typical spring day on the Galatean Riviera.

Seginus, the world to which the Steel Wolves had gone immediately after Skye. had been a swamp. He knew no planet was covered by a single biome, but the only colonized regions there were wetland. He had hated the bugs and the mud and the endless cases of foot fungus; been glad the agricultural planet's infrastructure proved insufficient to support their rebuilding. But after less than a week in the arctic desert of Galatea, he found himself missing the methane-laden stench of the salt marshes.

Settling opposite her in the chauffeured hovercar without a word, he angled his head slightly to make it clear he wasn't looking at her. After a moment the limousine rose on its cushion of air and the buildings of the Steel Wolves' rented citadel slid backward. Anastasia was silent as the ground car carried them toward Galatea City.

The view outside the tinted windows was of blank walls six meters tall with broad gates at irregular intervals. Uniform ferrocrete walls coated with uniform, echo-deadening stucco and painted a uniform desert dust yellow lined broad, featureless avenues designed to accommodate assault 'Mechs walking three abreast. With the exception of the few banners or emblems some of the mercenary commands hung on their gates, there was nothing individual, nothing that indicated place or culture.

Despite those bits of individuality, the mercenary district looked like nothing so much as a public works project. Which Murchison supposed it was. He wondered what the Republic of the Sphere's Office of the

Exchequer would make of the fact that all the financial aid for the rebuilding of Galatea had gone to housing mercenary commands. Then again, the mercenary trade was Galatea.

Galaport DropPort was designed to house a dozen mercenary fleets. It lay on the southernmost coast of the Amersia Sea—a landlocked, nearly saltless ocean that covered the northern pole like a beret, dipping south almost to the arctic circle.

Perhaps guided by the events on Outreach, the locals had used Republic of the Sphere money to place the rebuilt mercenary district as far from Galatea City proper as possible. Thus the DropPort, bordered on one side by the sea, was surrounded by an urban crescent. The mercenary enclaves were at one end, Galatea City at the other. Connecting them was a long business district officially designated the RESA—Recreation, Entertainment, and Services Area—but known to everyone as the Strip.

Murchison was not surprised when the car turned off the highway to Galatea City and into the Strip. Here the buildings were not uniform and the scenery not without character. It was barely midday, but off-duty mercenaries were already on—or still on—the streets.

Most of the people he assumed were mercenaries wore nondescript fatigues, but there were plenty of distinctive uniforms moving through the throngs. If he knew who favored what colors, the Strip would have given him a fair measure of which mercenary commands were in town.

Murchison found the general decay of the district interesting. Glittering casinos stood shoulder to shoulder with boarded-up buildings, dark dives, honky-tonks blaring frenetic music, and holovid theaters advertising shows with anatomically improbable titles.

The only building given a wide berth by the sidewalk traffic was painted in cheerful shades of blue and white. The hand-lettered sign above the door proudly proclaimed the shunned building was the "Soul Saving Station Rescue Mission."

Seventy years ago, Galatea had been a microcosm of the FedCom Civil War, with faction fighting faction through the streets of the cities. That conflict had barely ended when the Blakists launched their Jihad against the Inner Sphere. The Blakists and their mercenaries had made a major stand against Lyran forces on Galatea. The fighting had not been as devastating as the legendary destruction of Outreach, but it had been bad. Gala- port, the largest DropShip field in the region, had been destroyed, along with most of the urban centers in the northern hemisphere. Stone and his rebels had completed the devastation, targeting the Blakist stronghold for one of the most vicious battles of the rebellion.

Some incredible percentage of Galatea's population— Murchison thought it approached a fifth—had immigrated in the last few decades as part of The Republic's relocation and diversification programs.

More to the point, all of the buildings along the Strip—the Strip itself for that matter—were the result of the Republic of the Sphere's massive rebuilding program. None of the beaten and dismal buildings they were cruising slowly past were as old as Murchison. Yet they looked as though they'd been degraded and abused for centuries.

Murchison wondered if the builders—knowing what the Strip would become—had used materials designed to fall into the right state of hopeless disrepair as quickly as possible.

The car stopped at some unseen signal and Anastasia unfolded herself onto the sidewalk with just a hint of stiffness.

Murchison followed quickly, the kiln blast of Galatea's polar spring sucking energy from him before he made it halfway across the sidewalk. When Anastasia leaned heavily on her cane, his hand twitched. But he realized in time that offering to support her elbow would be gilding the lily. He wasn't sure why they were performing this particular charade, but he suspected keeping himself as peripheral as possible was the wisest course.

The building they were entering looked better than most in that it seemed solid and well maintained. It also lacked the garish advertising that plastered most of the Strip. In fact, it had no signage at all.

A doorman stood in the inky shade beneath the awning. It was evident he wasn't the usual shill trying to entice customers inside. He looked a lot more like a guard in place to keep people out.

A step behind, Murchison was gratified to see Anastasia did not lean too heavily on her walking stick. He knew she was keeping the fine balance between looking injured and appearing weak. Why she wanted to project an air of nonthreatening competence—instead of her usual full-bore deadliness—was of no interest to him. He just appreciated the net effect was to keep her from putting too much stress on her real injuries.

Like most buildings Murchison had seen on Galatea, there was a foyer, a vestibule with doors at both ends. The arrangement was very like an air lock, though its intent was to keep the forty-degree air outside and the twenty-four-degree air inside. Still, the moment of trapped immobility between doors never failed to edge his nerves. He wondered what it did to Anastasia's combat reflexes. Perhaps he should be monitoring her heart rate.

The corner of his mouth twitched at his own humor.

The inner doors opened onto what looked to Murchison like a tavern, complete with dark wood bar, and high-backed booths lining two walls. Matching what he was seeing with verbal descriptions, he recognized an informal hiring hall, one where unregistered contracts were arranged.

"Sit there." Anastasia indicated a chair at the end of a row of apparent spares along the wall by the door.

Murchison sat, wondering why they were in mercenary territory, but keeping his thoughts to himself.

Anastasia took a seat a half dozen meters away, in a chair at a table that gave her a clear view of the front door and an apparent side door at the far end of the bar. Her back was exposed to half the room and Murchison interpreted his duty as keeping watch in that direction.

For an hour they sat, Anastasia nursing a dark beer and looking nowhere in particular—though Murchison noted the wolf head of her cane rotating as she idly turned the stick in her hand.

People came and went with no apparent pattern or purpose. More business types than the colorful, hardbitten holovid mercenaries he'd have expected. People drifted from booth to booth, apparently meeting old friends. Conversations were sometimes very brief and sometimes went on for several minutes. Often, particularly during the longer exchanges, all parties stared down at the tables in front of them as they spoke.

It took watching a few conversations for Murchison to realize there were data terminals built into most of the tables. The terminals were flush so only those sitting directly over them could read them. Contracts were being negotiated, funds transferred, commitments made.

Now that he was actually looking, he saw every table had a white-noise generator prominently placed next to the condiment rack.

Twice men drifted over to talk with Anastasia, exchanging a few words without sitting down before moving on.

Murchison had begun to wonder if the door at the end of the bar led to a bathroom, when his charge rose without warning and headed for the door. He was at her elbow as she entered the vestibule.

The ground car was gone.

Unsurprised. Anastasia turned and began walking back toward the compound district. Picking up his pace, Murchison fell in beside her.

"What are we doing?" he asked.

"Seeing who talks to whom," she answered.

A shill of indeterminate gender, hardly more than a child, circled in, praising the physical and chemical delights available to the discerning customer with the wisdom to enter what was evidently a brothel. The patter died with a hard glance from Anastasia, and the creature faded rapidly toward the wall.

"Why do we care?" Murchison asked.

The corners of Anastasia's mouth curled up in the suggestion of a smile.

That was her only answer as they repeated their charade at three more of the covert hiring halls. Though the tavern motif seemed unifying, each place had its own spin on the theme. Murchison rather liked the one modeled on the Terran Old West; it suited the barren climate.

At the second—which failed miserably to replicate a tropical island environment—Anastasia spent fifteen minutes of intense conversation with a dark-complected older man of military mien and discouraged flirtation from an Amazon of truly heroic proportions. Someone, and sometimes several someones, spoke to her at every stop. But if anything came of these meetings, she chose not to share the information.

As they came out of the fourth tavern, a twentieth- century NorthAm urban speakeasy, Murchison was delighted to see their car at the curb.

"Notice anything?" Anastasia asked as the car eased into traffic.

"Almost all the patrons were more heavily armed than you," Murchison replied. "The last booth on the left at the Bavarian drinking hall is a secret entrance to somewhere else. And a couple at the fourth bar were also at the first and found you fascinating in both places."

"Good."

Obviously satisfied, Anastasia settled back more comfortably in the neoleather seat.

5

Steel Wolves compound, Galatea City

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

29 June 3135

Murchison did not flinch as Verena Wolf unleashed a long burst of automatic fire from the heavy assault rifle.

The Steel Wolves' compound, one of the largest, was on the edge of the mercenary district farthest from the city. Anastasia had ordered a small arms range set up on the plain outside the wall. Murchison had no idea whether the firing range was approved by the Galatean government: he suspected no one official yet knew it existed. There were certainly no others on the kilometers of barren hardpan that separated the walled enclaves of the mercenary district from the improbable blue of the Amersia Sea.

He stood a few paces to Verena's right, taking advantage of the shade offered by the awning over the firing bench. The smoke wafted his way, of course, just acrid enough to irritate his nose without triggering an actual sneeze. Gunpowder had been smokeless for nearly a millennium, but the residue of the flash-burned casings still had to be vented away from the shooter. He wondered if the technology to eliminate that didn't exist or was just too expensive for military buyers to waste it on enlisted personnel.

He'd never seen MechWarriors fire hand weapons before. Much less heavy slug guns like these. All of them carried laser pistols, of course, holstered in their high boots, and most affected a blade weapon of some sort— which could be anything from a throwing dagger to a bowie knife. But when it came to actual combat, they all made the leap from unaugmented—bare-handed— duels to BattleMechs, with no consideration of the weapons in between.

Murchison had no idea what had prompted Anastasia to require each to fire a magazine at a target now, but it had made for an interesting hour. Accuracy at eighty meters had ranged from sprays governed more by chance than control to Kyle Wolf methodically pumping one hundred single shots into the bull's eye.

Verena's performance was better than most he'd seen. Almost every round in the torso region, most in the kill zone.

What Anastasia thought of the performance was unclear. She gave no indication of her mood as she stood behind the firing line, in the full glare of the white-hot sun, watching her Mech Warriors demonstrate their skill with the heavy infantry weapon.

Murchison felt a little guilty about that. He'd warned her about the dangers of Galatea's sun, particularly for fair-complected redheads. He should have anticipated this would lead to her taking every opportunity to dare the ultraviolet radiation to do its worst. He took some solace from the fact that she showed no signs of burning. Not that he would ever voice the suspicion that she had added wearing sunscreen to her daily regimen.

Rob Juergens was the last shooter in this group. Easily two meters tall and a hundred kilos, Juergens cultivated the cold and deadly air of a professional killer. A scar across his cheek testified that a knife, or maybe a dueling saber, had come within centimeters of robbing him of an eye. Murchison had heard his precise targeting under fire made his Vulture a welcome sight on the battlefield.

Juergens took the rifle offered him by the infantry soldier by the firing position and looked to be sure the chamber was empty before cycling in the first round. The bolt did not move on the first trigger pull. Looking first at the gun. then at the soldier who had handed it to him. he released the safety. Bringing the gun to his shoulder, he sighted for a long second, then squeezed the trigger. The muzzle moved not at all as the magazine's full hundred rounds cycled through at full auto. Murchison was impressed with Juergens' control of the trip-hammer recoil. The single hole in the target could have been covered with a dinner plate.

Unsmiling, but clearly pleased with himself, Juergens handed the empty assault rifle back to the infantry trooper with exaggerated courtesy and turned to go.

"Stop!"

Anastasia took two steps forward, snatched the assault rifle from the startled trooper's grip, and threw it at the MechWarrior.

Juergens caught it easily, looking mildly surprised. He swung it around to the port position.

"Field-strip it," she ordered.

"Galaxy Commander?" Juergens looked from her to the weapon in his hands.

"You take a weapon from a soldier, you fire it, then you give it back to the soldier," Anastasia said. "Any sibbie can point a gun at a target and squeeze the trigger. Prove you know that weapon."

Juergens raised his chin slightly. Murchison could see the struggle as he tried to decide which was greater: the insult to his pride or his duty to his Galaxy commander. Pride won.

"I am a MechWarrior," Juergens began. "I—"

Anastasia hissed between her teeth. Without looking she extended her hand to another infantry trooper. The soldier cleared the chamber of his weapon and surrendered it. Without breaking eye contact with Juergens, she broke the weapon down, slapping each part on the firing bench. Finished, she held the bare frame at eye level, making sure the MechWarrior saw it.

Then she began reassembling the rifle as quickly as she had taken it apart. Murchison was impressed by the display of peripheral vision as she snatched each component from the bench without fumble. With a no-look thrust, she shoved the completed weapon back into its owner's hands.

"If you are a warrior only within the safety of your 'Mech, you are no warrior, she said. "A Wolf can fight anywhere with any weapon. And fighting with a rifle in the battlefield means being able to clear it when it jams."

She looked around at the crescent of Mech Warriors, then turned further to include the infantry troopers. No one dared move. Murchison saw, and none dared look away.

"All of you learned to use these weapons in the sibco. Each of you fired rifles and cannon, operated trucks and tanks," she said. "But when you attained your Battle- Mechs, you thought yourself elite, above the weapons of lesser warriors. But without your mighty 'Mech, you are at their mercy!

"From this moment on, no Wolf will be powless!" she declared. "Everyone will qualify on every weapon. Everyone will master every weapon."

She rounded on the firing instructor, holding his eye as she pointed toward the MechWarriors.

"Teach them to field repair and maintain every weapon in our infantry arsenal," she said. "Then teach them to shoot. The full course."

Turning to look along the length of her extended arm, she leveled her laser glare to look at Juergens, Alexia, and each of the others in turn. "You," she said. "Obey your instructor."

Expressions ranged from MechWarrior Kyle Wolf's grin to Verena's blank shock.

Juergens' white eyebrows stood out against the sudden red of his face. Murchison wondered idly about the upper limits of the man's blood pressure. The MechWarrior opened his mouth to speak, but Anastasia forestalled him with a raised palm.

"You have not been singled out," she said. "Every MechWarrior, every aerospace pilot, every tank crewman will be trained. And the infantry will be taught to operate the machines."

Juergens, who had shown signs of calming at her first words, shifted from red to purple with her last. Even Kyle lost his grin. But none spoke out against her.

"No Wolf," said Anastasia, "will be less than the best with every weapon."

Turning on her heel, she headed back toward the compound. Reluctantly leaving the shade, Murchison fell in step. The hundred meters in open sun felt like a forced march.

Star Colonel Varnoff Fetladral was just inside the gate. From his air of purpose and evident surprise at discovering Anastasia coming in, Murchison surmised he'd been on his way to meet her at the firing range.

"You sent for me. Galaxy Commander?" Varnoff confirmed by way of greeting.

Murchison expected Anastasia to keep walking; require Varnoff to keep up. Instead she stopped, evidently content to hold court at the edge of the vehicle lot.

The Star colonel cut his eyes toward Murchison as though willing the medic to excuse himself. He'd been about to do exactly that—prompted by thoughts of air- conditioning and the fact that he was not wearing sun screen—but Varnoff's glance was enough to ensure he stayed.

"Why do you field an unarmed Mark II AgroMech?" Anastasia asked.

"That is Kyle Wolfs machine," Varnoff said. "He is a freebirth, and too old for a BattleMech. He has been told there is none for him."

"He has been told," Anastasia repeated.

Murchison was surprised Varnoff did not seem to register her tone.

"The expense would be wasted." the Star colonel said as though explaining the obvious. "He is old. He's welcome to serve out his useful time in the AgroMech."

"Yes, he has grown old," Anastasia agreed. "He aged piloting an unarmed AgroMech in combat against the Swordsworn on Acamar. He grayed battling Highlanders in an unarmed AgroMech in the mountains of North- wind. He entered his dotage taking heavy fire on the frozen tundra of Terra in an unarmed AgroMech. And he had one foot in the grave when I saw him pull the laser turret from a Jade Falcon Demon on Skye with his unarmed AgroMech."

Varnoff grew straighter with each sentence. Murchison expected to hear his spine pop audibly, but the Star colonel held together.

"You were there, Varnoff, beneath the Falcon Drop- Ships on Skye," Anastasia said. "In your heavily armed Sphinx."

"Yes, Galaxy Commander," the Star colonel said, retreating into formality.

"And you have denied Kyle Wolf a Trial of Possession because of his age?"

"Galaxy Commander," Varnoff answered. "I made clear to him that his age prevented such a trial."

"Yet he routinely defends his position in your Cluster's recon Star against younger warriors."

Varnoff said nothing.

"That he listened to you is the only thing I have heard against Kyle Wolf." Anastasia said. "I have acquired new BattleMechs. One of them is a P-5 Havoc. It shall be his."

"I will tell him he may enter the trial—"

"No trial," Anastasia cut him off.

"No trial?"

"Is there a dispossessed MechWarrior who has demonstrated greater skill in combat?" Anastasia demanded. "His service has been trial enough."

Without waiting for Varnoff's response, she stepped off toward the command center. Having recognized the exit line, Murchison was in perfect step.

6

Randersville, Shiloh

Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

30 June 3135

Mako DuBois turned the collar of his duster up against the chill breezes whipping around the corner of Governor's Tower. In the urban-corporate style, the knee- length coat was little more than a wind breaker, designed more to drape stylishly from the shoulder or fold neatly over the arm than keep the constant winds of the desert at bay.

The sun was setting, already filling the empty, after- hours streets at the foot of the planetary administration complex with shadow. To the south and east the tall condominiums fronting Blessed Lake were outlined in blazing, copper-gold fire.

Those buildings were mostly empty, Mako knew. Shi- loh's nascent tourist industry had died ignominiously with the loss of the hyperpulse generator network. Without artfully persuasive advertisements to counter generations of prejudice, people were unwilling to invest their vacation C-bills in a world of religious fanatics and terrorists.

In the southeastern sky, darkening toward the blue of night beyond the fiery buildings, Mako could see one of Shiloh's new daystars. In full night, he knew, it would be easy to see the orbital water purification plant's movement against the field of stars, but now, with nothing to compare it to, it seemed to hang motionless.

Which it was, in a sense. Once the great hope of Shiloh, the last hurrah of The Republic's great revitalization program was just another victim of the loss of the HPG net.

For hundreds of years the desert world of Shiloh had imported water from neighboring star systems. Efficient recycling and conservation made sure water that arrived was well used, even cherished, but no open system could be self-sustaining. The world's single greatest expense, above education, health care, even defense, was importing water.

The irony was the Shiloh system as a whole was rich in water in the form of ice asteroids so thickly contaminated with heavy metals that the few that breached the atmosphere in the course of natural events released clouds of toxic dust.

The Republic—using orbital water-purification satellites built by engineers from the ice world Phecda—was going to free Shiloh from its dependence. Empowered to progress, the public relations campaign had declared.

Then the HPG had blacked out. In the local economic panic—the economic panic on Phecda—construction on the equatorial ring of satellites had ground to a halt. Leaving moonless Shiloh with three orbiting reminders of what could have been.

What will be.

The service door behind Mako clicked. He turned to see a nondescript security guard holding the metal door open against the wind. Having recently learned to take special note of nondescript people, Mako looked the guard in the eye and smiled.

The man seemed startled—apparently being acknowledged by the people he served was a novel experience— then smiled in response. If nothing else, Mako reflected as he made his way up three flights of stairs, his new watchfulness might earn him a reputation for being courteous to the underclass.

Planetary Governor Yvgenny Kubeyshev was a great bear of a man, easily twice Mako's mass. He was such a perfect caricature of the giant Russian that Mako, in his newfound suspicion of all things, wondered if the name might be an alias.

"Come in," the governor said, rising to extend his hand across his desk. "Sit, sit."

Mako sat, aware his carefully prepared persuasions would not be needed. Kubeyshev had reviewed the data and accepted the premise. Paladin Marik had assured Mako the governor would be receptive—what had Mar- ik's man Green called it? "An easy sell."—but he'd had his doubts.

"So," the governor said after Mako had been settled and equipped with a quarter-liter bottle of imported water. "Annexation."

"Rather, a coalition." Mako said. "And then only if The Republic is unable to recover. Or worse . . ."

"This civil war everyone is afraid of develops," Kubeyshev finished. "I'd feel better about it if Milton or Wing were involved. We could use their resources."

"They have resources enough for themselves." Mako pointed out. "They do not need us. Alhena is a water- starved world like Shiloh. And Gacrux, though its industrial base is stronger, is also hard-pressed for useable water. Both worlds import water from Phecda and both—up until the Blackout—were looking to Phecda water-purification technology to end their dependence."

"And with the current upheavals panicking Phecda ..."

"Sir, you know there's ample evidence that Phecda has not panicked at all," Mako said. "I believe—and it's supported by the data—that once they realized The Republic could not enforce its mandate to provide us with the technology to be self-sufficient, the Phecdans simply reverted to selling water. More profit for less effort."

Kubeyshev conceded the point with a small wave.

"What of Alchiba's involvement?"

Mako wondered for a moment at the governor wanting him to go over material that was already on the data crystal. Was there some recording device at work—was the governor trying to get him to incriminate himself?

He quickly dismissed the notion. Between the data crystal, communications logs and personal movements, his involvement in the coalition process was already too thoroughly documented to make recording this conversation worth the effort. Kubeyshev was just a man who liked to talk through decisions.

"While they do not need water and are economically viable, Alchiba is an agricultural world," he said. "Their concern is that in the face of a collapse of The Republic, powerful, industrialized Milton may choose to annex them as a food source."

Kubeyshev stared at his desktop for a long moment.

"You say the other governors are on board?"

"Quentin, Quinnaton, and Helchi have all agreed in principle," Mako said. "All that's left is the nuts-and- bolts discussion of who does what."

"All that's left?" Kubeyshev echoed. "You make it sound like it's all downhill from this point. I'm thinking this is when the real work begins. What does your boss think of this?"

"None of the planetary legates are aware of the coalition," Mako answered.

"Nor anyone on Phecda, I imagine," Kubeyshev added. "Even if this civil war comes, I wonder: Will the Republic of the Sphere sit by and do nothing when four of its member worlds form a coalition to annex—to invade and control—a fifth?"

7

Steel Wolves compound, Galatea City

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

3 July 3135

Yulri made his way across the compound, his stomach churning in sympathy with his mental turmoil.

Anastasia Kerensky had been his bondholder; she was now his Galaxy commander, but what she was doing pushed him to his limit. Last night he'd sought her out alone to discuss—not question, not challenge—her actions, her plans. Her answers still circled through his mind like dingoes seeking out a weakness, looking for the kill.

He wanted exercise, motion, physical effort to work out the forces building inside him.

Ironically, his lifetime of keeping all his combat skills at their peak had robbed him of the perfect outlet. From breakfast until midday all who scored less than mastery scores with any weapon or vehicle were engaged in drills and exercises on the firing ranges, the practice fields, and the sims. He could have joined them, of course, but he wanted solitude, not the pressures of a crowd.

Cross-country running would do no good. In the oven temperatures of Galatea's spring he'd only succeed in adding a pounding headache and nausea to his troubles— heat stroke was not the answer. There was an indoor track of sorts, a silly one-third kilometer oval marked on the floor of the "Sports Arena." Yulri had no idea what sports were intended by the builders, nor could he imagine a serious combat force—even a mercenary force—being frivolous enough to play.

However, those same builders had provided each barracks with an exercise room—an unadorned, utilitarian space of weights and mats. There was a good chance he'd have the one in his building to himself.

A clank of dropped weights as he cycled through the revolving door into the air-conditioning alerted him he'd be disappointed before he reached the exercise room proper.

Rob Juergens and Verena Wolf were at the weight bench, Rob just rising. Beyond the fact that Rob piloted a Vulture and Verena a Cougar, he did not know the two well. Alexia Wolf, the Uziel pilot who had joined the Steel Wolves on Skye, stood by the weight rack. Not a crowd. He decided to stay.

Eschewing the locker room, Yulri stripped off his shirt and hung it on the corner of a ball rack.

He noted Alexia was evidently working on stamina, a fairly light barbell on the rack in front of her as she rested between sets. He knew she had followed Anastasia in search of what it meant to be truly Wolf. He wondered what she thought of what was happening to the Steel Wolves on Galatea. And, Anastasia's words still fresh in his ears, he wondered what she would make of what was about to happen.

Juergens was adding weights to the bar across the lift bench as Verena positioned herself for a bench press. From the heavy load it was evident she was working on muscle mass, though from what he could see of the Mech Warrior's long build it was unlikely she would bulk up to any degree. And from what she was watching as her partner stood over her. her mind was not entirely on weight lifting.

Yulri selected a pair of medium dumbbells. Mindless repetition and the low-level burn of endurance suited his mood.

"I do not like it," Juergens said, securing the weight lock.

"What do you not like?" Yulri rose to the bait despite—or because of—Anastasia Kerensky's words.

"The recruiting of non-Wolf," the taller man said, positioning himself to spot as Verena gripped the weight bar.

That surprised Yulri. He had expected the complaint to be about the retraining program. He'd not heard recruiting efforts were under way.

"Abtakha," he said.

"The adopting of a warrior who has proven himself and seeks admittance," Verena said. "Not the wholesale seeking out of freeborn Spheroids."

Lifting the barbell above her from its rack, she lowered it slowly to her chest.

"Our Galaxy commander has been studying the mercenary commands around us," Juergens said. "We have heard she is combing their rosters for mercenaries to recruit."

Yulri wondered at the source of that rumor, a new one to him.

"The Steel Wolves are Wolf," Verena said, grunting against the strain of pushing the weight up.

"We must. Rebuild. After Skye. After Terra," Alexia Wolf said, timing her words with curling her barbell.

Good form, Yulri noted, if a littie fast. He wondered if her reasons for choosing the mind-numbing repetition of endurance training were similar to his.

"My blood is Wolf," Juergens answered. "My heritage—"

"Is like. Mine," Alexia cut him off. Then, either finished with her set or deciding that making her point took precedence, she set her barbell on its rack.

"Our progenitors accepted Stone's invitation to disarm and settle in The Republic." She shrugged. "Their reasons were right for those times. Adopting of warriors into the Clan is not a new thing. Perhaps the Galaxy commander's reasons for following this method are right for now."

"We are a new breed of Wolves," Verena said, quoting Khan Vladimir Ward from nearly a century before as she pushed up the barbell again. Then added, timing her words with her lifts: "But we are Wolves. We should not dilute. Who we are with. Mercenary hirelings."

She nodded to Juergens, who stepped forward to help her ease the weight back on the rack. Again her eyes were not on the weights.

"Perhaps dealing with Stone was wrong," Juergens said thoughtfully. "Perhaps this is wrong. You cannot be Wolf only when it suits you."

"There are Wolves who would argue the Steel Wolves are not true Wolves," Alexia said. She turned toward Yulri. "What say you, Arc Royal trueborn? Are we Wolves?"

Without pausing in his set, Yulri cut his eyes toward the others. That was their worry. They wanted to be true Wolves, reclaim the heritage their progenitors had traded away for peace. They feared Anastasia's new path was leading them away from that, taking them further from what they believed themselves to be.

"I fight beside you," he said. "You are Wolf."

"Finding lost Wolf, rebirthing what they are, is one thing," Verena persisted. "Recruiting warriors who never were Wolf is another. No one not trueborn of Clan blood can truly be a warrior."

"Phelen Kell," Alexia said before Yulri could respond. "A freebirth some still say had no rightful claim to the Ward bloodname. He earned his place and rose to be khan of Wolves-in-Exile."

"In Exile," Verena repeated.

"Do you claim he was not a warrior?" Alexia asked. "That he did not earn his place?"

Juergens and Verena looked to Yulri, as though expecting him to answer.

Instead, Yulri replaced his dumbbells, cutting short his set, and pulled the front of his undershirt up to mop the sweat from his face. To voice what was in his heart would betray Anastasia's trust in him.

"Your position is our Galaxy commander now seeks out Phelen Kells?" Juergens asked Alexia.

"Unnamed, unheritaged freebirths who are true warriors," Alexia confirmed with brittle force. "There is precedent. She does not betray what it means to be Wolf. She seeks to expand it."

Verena grunted, clearly unconvinced as she mopped the sweat from her body. But Juergens' face was thoughtful, as though this were a new consideration. He looked again to Yulri.

And Yulri again broke eye contact, turning away to reach for his shirt. His hunger for exercise was past. And he had no words that would help these three find their way.

The situation Anastasia had put him in could not be resolved with words. It required action—action he did not want to take. But he had no choice. There was only one course before him.

And no reason to delay taking it any longer.

Without a word to the others, he was in the corridor leading to the outside. Shrugging into his shirt, he shouldered through the revolving door and into the blaze of the sun.

* * *

Ian Murchison reviled himself yet again for having warned Anastasia about the Galatean sun. Because yet again she was outside, with him in tow, conducting business on the fly in the sun and heat as she strode from practice field to firing range to God knew what.

Varnoff Fetladral was in close attendance today, as was becoming his habit, along with Xera of the aerospace wing—Cluster—and Nikola Demos of the armor Cluster. Every Cluster had mixed forces, of course, their own fighters, tanks, and cannon, but Anastasia had broken these off to form what she called "pure" forces. She did not share her thinking in this reorganization, but Murchison noted it disentangled most of the Steel Wolves' tanks and fighters from the chain of command, making them answerable directly to her.

The why of it eluded him.

As did the Clan mentality. Warriors who had denigrated non-MechWarrior skills as useless and beneath them, were now bent on mastering those very skills. For some it was a matter of remembering childhood training, but for others it was uncharted territory. Whatever the case, the complete lack of dissent was—

—about to come to an end.

Across the packed earth of the vehicle yard, Yulri advanced on Anastasia with a grim determination. Ignoring the Star colonels, he began speaking directly to her as soon as he was close.

"You have awarded BattleMechs to those who have not earned them through trial," Yulri said, his voice raw. "You have demanded MechWarriors demean themselves with learning to pitch tents, drive trucks, dig ditches. You intend to seek out and bring in outsiders, non-Clan—recruit them—ignoring the rite of abtakha!"

Varnoff and Xera, between Yulri and Anastasia as he approached, stepped properly aside, permitting their Galaxy commander to face her antagonist directly.

For her part, Anastasia appeared calm, almost amused as she watched her former bondsman.

Yulri looked to Murchison as though he were about to explode. His Clan mask of control was in place, but barely. The tendons of his neck stood out like cords. He seemed confused that Anastasia did not respond to his charges and clearly took her smile to be mocking.

"Do you deny," Yulri demanded, "that you have registered the Steel Wolves with the hiring hall of Galatea as a mercenary unit?"

That did rock Anastasia, Murchison saw. Though only those who knew her would recognize the tilt of the head, the arch of the eyebrow as covering a startle response.

Her response was lost in the varied expressions of the Star colonels around her. Varnoff in particular seemed almost comic in his overreaction. After her initial shock, Nikola seemed thoughtful.

"I should restrict my confidences to warriors with honor," Anastasia said lightly.

"You are throwing away everything that makes us what we are for money!" Yulri said.

Murchison was impressed that the MechWarrior was able to enunciate so clearly through clenched teeth.

"You are not fit to lead the Steel Wolves."

Anastasia threw her head back and laughed. Clear and free, the sound bounded back from the block buildings around them.

"Are you challenging me to a Trial of Position, Star Captain?"

Yulri rocked back slightly. Murchison understood the reflexive weight shift was an unconscious response to surprise, but the effect was of her words striking him visibly.

Glancing at his fellow audience members he saw their faces carefully blank. They were taking no part in the confrontation. Whether this indicated respect or simply waiting to see which combatant showed weakness depended on one's attitude toward Clan culture.

"No," Yulri answered the question. "I demand a Trial of Grievance."

"You have no right to trial," Anastasia sneered. "Requiring you to rise to a higher standard is no cause for grievance."

"Higher standard!" Yulri's face contorted into an almost comic mask of outrage. "Your chalcas is for your own gain. This reform, this new path, is leading the Steel Wolves into prostitution."

Murchison guessed chalcas meant change, challenge, or upset. For a culture that prided itself on clarity the Clans seemed to delight in convoluting the language unnecessarily.

Whatever the exact translation of the term, the effect was to wipe all humor from Anastasia's face. Her eyes lidded in a mask of pure malice.

"You live because your death is not worth the effort," she said. "Your cowardice makes you unfit to call yourself Clan. Go. Take what you will. Take whoever shares your fear of the future with you.

"If you will not follow me, there is no place for you here."

Turning her back on the dumbfounded Star captain, she resumed her purposeful stalk toward the command center. Caught off guard, Murchison was a heartbeat late in falling into step. He was still long seconds ahead of the Star colonels in abandoning Yulri.

"You suspended Trials of Position until the retraining is complete," Xera said as she came abreast of the Galaxy commander. "For that there is precedent. Have you suspended all trials?" "Anyone who is not fit to be Wolf will be expelled," Anastasia said. "Anyone who realizes they are not fit is welcome to leave before they are expelled. No trials are necessary."

What Xera thought of this did not show in her face, but Murchison noted her pace stiffened to a stalk.

"You have registered the Steel Wolves as mercenaries?" Nikola asked, following her own thoughts.

Anastasia did not respond, which the Star colonels clearly took as confirmation enough.

"We are Wolves." Varnoff said. "We take what we want."

Anastasia turned at the steps to the command center and faced them.

"We are Wolves; we take what we want," she agreed. "And now we will get paid to do it."

Turning on her heel, she climbed the short flight of steps into the building.

Murchison was the only one who followed her.

8

Kentwood, Irian

Prefecture VII

Republic of the Sphere

6 July 3135

Chu-sa Antonio Blatz of the Dragon's Fury gave the tunic of his dress uniform a final tug before entering Irian Planetary Governor Frederik Syrmar's formal office.

The dress uniform may have been a bit much, he thought as he saw the governor's open collar and turned- back cuffs. He had not realized the man used what the designers had clearly intended to be an audience chamber as his working office. Still, erring on the side of formality was never an error—to paraphrase some of his early instruction into the ways of the Dragon.

The night sky beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows flanking the governor's desk turned them into multipaned mirrors throwing back a fractured reflection of the ornate room. The effect was of a wall of bubbles. For a giddy moment Blatz felt as though he were inside a soap bubble—that nothing around him was substantial and one ill-considered movement would cause the world to pop-

Technically, the Dragon's Fury Brotherhood regiment garrisoning Irian did not answer to Governor Syrmar or to Planetary Legate Ramon Martinez. After a bitter conflict against several opponents, the Dragon's Fury had won control of the planet—and its once-secret BattleMech production. But the position of his command had been unsettled at best since Tai-sa Ichiyo Rusch had taken the bulk of the regiment—and, Blatz admitted only to himself, the best of the regiment—to support Katana Tormark in taking Saffel.

Governor Syrmar rose, an unexpected courtesy, and leaned across the broad desk to extend his hand.

Already coming to attention two paces in front of the desk, Blatz had to throw himself forward—hoping the stop and restart wasn't too noticeable—to keep the governor from waiting in the uncomfortable position.

"Good of you to come at such a late hour, Colonel," Syrmar said, rounding up The Republic's approximation of his rank a notch as he gestured for Blatz to take one of the high-backed chairs facing the desk. "I wanted your professional assessment of a situation that's arisen."

Blatz nodded stiffly. His professional assessment was that Rusch and the Dragon's Fury as a whole had abandoned Irian and his mixed battalion of low achievers. But he was not going to tell the planetary governor that.

"I'll do my best, sir," he said aloud.

Syrmar regarded him for a long moment, as though measuring whether to go ahead.

"I don't need to tell you The Republic is facing some of the toughest times in its history," he said. "What you may not know is that there is a division, perhaps several divisions, developing within the Senate of The Republic."

Blatz nodded again, parsing Syrmar meant fractures, not military units. He was grateful to the governor for not mentioning the part the leader of the Dragon's Fury- was playing in The Republic's tough times.

"I had not known," he said, lest his nod be mistaken for claiming prior knowledge. "However, given what little I understand of the situation it is not unanticipated."

Syrmar nodded again as though there was some wisdom in Blatz's words.

"Senator Ptolomeny of Park Place is apparently the leader of a powerful alliance of senators which includes several worlds rimward and spinward of Irian," the governor said. "Including Senator Riktofven of Augustine. Apparently these senators have the support of their local governments—though one assumes not the planetary legates."

He smiled a bit at that last, as though making a small joke.

Blatz dutifully smiled in unison.

"Senator Hughes was approached, but of course she turned them down flat."

Blatz considered echoing "of course," but the moment passed too quickly. Again he nodded, slowly, as though considering political implications while he tried to imagine where this conversation—without the planetary legate—was going.

"There has already been violence on Terra itself and other worlds over control of The Republic," Syrmar said.

Blatz sat up straight, all but coming out of his chair. The reaction seemed to reassure the governor.

"The senator is concerned that the Senate Alliance, as they are calling themselves, may go beyond civil war to revolt against The Republic," Syrmar said. "In which case, Irian—with its robust industrial infrastructure— would be a valuable prize."

Not to mention your BattleMech manufacturing plants, Blatz thought.

"A valid concern," he said aloud. "How may the Dragon's Fury serve?"

"If this Alliance did attempt to annex Irian, could you defend us?"

The Tai-sa's last order to Blatz had been to protect Irian. Not hold it for the Dragon's Fury. The change in status for those left behind was implicit in the wording of that final command.

Significant, too, that the Brotherhood members still on Irian were all native Iriani. True, many who had gone with Rusch had been as well, but Blatz believed the decision to abandon him and those in his command sprang from the suspicion that they were more loyal to their home world than to the Dragon's Fury. Though he might have challenged that assumption before being abandoned, in it he now found some absolution.

And as protector of the planet, a new calling.

Asked if he could defend Irian, Blatz's conditioned response was to declare, "Yes, sir!" His basic nature, the part that knew he and his men were castoffs, wanted to respond, "Not a prayer." He stilled both voices and considered the tactical situation.

"Our garrison was left with the minimum of ordnance," he said. Let the governor puzzle out why. "We are a viable fighting force, but against the combined arms of several worlds?"

He frowned at the near edge of the governor's desk.

"They must realize the bulk of the Dragon's Fury is out of position to come to our aid," he continued. "Against seven worlds, any long-term defense would have to involve allies. Which, given the political situation you've described, would mean the Republic of the Sphere."

He paused, waiting for the governor to respond, but Syrmar was once again regarding him with that measuring stare. He was waiting for Blatz's full analysis before responding.

Which wouldn't have been so daunting if Blatz had actually analyzed the full strategic situation. In truth, his thoughts had not gone far beyond wrestling with the reality of his—of their—abandonment. What did he know of The Republic's resources? There was a Highlander Republican Guard unit on Alphard, but with the Highlanders putting out fires all over The Republic, he suspected they were as stripped to the bone as his much too light battalion. Beyond that he was not sure. But he was sure they would commit all available assets against the threat of Senate Alliance expansion.

"If—if—the Irian Planetary Militia and the private security forces of Irian Technologies could be placed under our command," he said carefully—he thought he had a fair understanding of their assets at any rate—"we could mount a defense that would hold the planet until Republic of the Sphere forces arrive."

"How long do you anticipate that being?"

"Without knowing what else The Republic would be facing at that time, I would not dare guess," Blatz said without hesitation. "However, the defense I envision would hold Irian for weeks. Perhaps months."

"And if you do not secure the cooperation of the IPM and IrTech security?"

"If we defend the world piecemeal, we will be defeated piecemeal." Blatz illustrated with a series of small chopping motions with the edge of one hand along the other palm. "And quickly."

Governor Syrmar nodded and rose to his feet.

Blatz was ready for the move, having sensed the ending of the interview. He was at attention before the governor again extended his hand across the desk.

"Thank you. Colonel," he said. "You've given me much to think about."

One formal pump of the proffered hand and an about- face and Blatz was in the corridor. He waved away the taxi the doorman had summoned. He needed fresh air. His red dress boot heels clacked on the sidewalk in rhythm to his thoughts as he made his way around the central park toward the office he'd been assigned in the building—now mostly empty—that had been the Dragon Fury's formal headquarters.

He noticed no one as he strode through the urban evening. He had just promised the governor of Irian— and through him Senator Hughes, Legate Martinez and, most importantly, the people of Irian—to defend their world against all comers in exchange for overall command of every defensive force on the planet.

Now his only problem was devising some way for those brave words to be true.

9

Jamison's Juggernauts compound

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

11 July 3135

"Jerry?"

Jerry Jamison looked up from his desk terminal, from another letter to a family about a husband and father who had died serving Jamison's Juggernauts. He knew the face he turned toward Don Avison was haggard. Not the face of an inspiring leader.

He was usually proud of his unit, of his people. He was still proud of his people; it was himself he was sour on. The unit banner and the name seemed to taunt him. The Juggernauts weren't very much like lords of the earth now. They'd been beaten, almost broken, and it was going to take a while to recover. They'd believed a client's intel and walked into an opposing force that outnumbered them four to one. They'd given a good account of themselves, the ratio was down to three to one by the time he'd managed to extract his forces. But it had been costly, too costly, and there was no way he could pretend it had been a victory of any sort.

"Whatcha got, Don?" he asked. For it was clear his second in command had something. Something he was excited, or at least intrigued, by. He looked more animated than he had since they'd made planetfall.

"You are going to have to come and see this," Don said, stepping aside and indicating his commander should precede him through the door. "Someone to see you at the main gate."

Jerry shut down his workstation, feeling a bit guilty that he was relieved to do it, and settled his cap on his head. Leading his XO into the late-morning sunlight, he cast a sour glance at the clear spring sky above. He was not in the mood for perfect weather.

Galatea hadn't adopted the centralized BattleMech hangars Outreach had. Good thing, too, considering what had happened in '67. The rebuilders had expanded on that practice, providing rental compounds that allowed each mercenary command its own self-contained 'Mech and vehicle facilities. The compounds were arranged in looping crescents—no fast, direct route from place to place—in a district across from the giant Drop- Port of Galatea City. Jerry had usually enjoyed the long walk from his office in the rear of the compound to the front gate. Walking past his command had given him a sense of place and of accomplishment. Now, with nearly a quarter of the bays empty, it gave him a sense of loss.

He was aware of Don watching him as he looked at the hangars and garages.

And he heard Don chuckle when he caught sight of the main gate and stopped dead in his tracks. Not quite a spit take.

"That is an Orion IIc."

"If you'll turn your head a little to the left," Don said. "You'll see it's brought a Thor, a Goshawk with a strange set of arms, and something I don't recognize along with it."

"Predator," Jerry supplied. "Pretty rare."

As was the Goshawk variant, mounting a missile rack—sealed, of course, so he couldn't count the tubes— where most had a large pulse laser, and what looked like a medium laser in place of the usual machine guns. Not set up for fighting infantry.

"These are Clan 'Mechs," he said aloud, running a professional eye over their lines. Black rectangles announced where unit insignia had been; a poor disguise considering the distinctive brown-and-silver paint scheme. "What do the Steel Wolves want with us?"

"That you're going to have to hear from them."

Following Tom's pointing finger, Jerry saw a knot of strangers just inside the gate. One was a blond man of average height in MechWarrior gear—glancing back at the Orion lie he noted the open hatch and dangling chain ladder—two others were men in nondescript battle fatigues, and the fourth was a muscular woman of enormous proportions. An Elemental? He had met perhaps a dozen in his life; none had been particularly friendly.

He almost asked Don another question, but realized in advance what the answer would be. Dropping his game face into position, he stepped out to meet the newcomers.

All he could judge of the Clanners as he approached was that their game faces were every bit as good as his. They could have been four composite statues for all the information their expressions or body language revealed. Except. . . their physical positions offered mutual cover. They were outside their comfort zone big time.

Useful intel.

He stopped one stride outside arm's reach. Or at least he thought he was outside the Elemental's reach. At over two meters and something close to two hundred kilos, she looked dangerous at any distance.

"I'm Colonel Jerry Jamison," he said. "Commander of Jamison's Juggernauts. You wanted to see me?"

"I am Star Commander Tal Sender of—" The blond MechWarrior stopped midword. "Star Commander Tal Sender. I propose an alliance."

"Not interested." Jerry turned on his heel.

"Our assets are mutually beneficial," Sender said to his back.

Jerry stopped a stride later and looked back at the knot of Clanners. And Avison, whom he noticed hadn't followed him.

"What do you know about my assets?"

"Anastasia Kerensky made a thorough investigation of all mercenary units on Galatea. I read her records,"

Sender said as though it made perfect sense. "The Juggernauts are honorable warriors. You were betrayed by an unscrupulous employer. A force many times your size trapped you through treachery and would have destroyed you, but you fought your way free with three- fourths of your assets intact."

And half a hundred letters to write to grieving families.

"Nice to know Annie did her homework," Jerry said aloud, again turning away. "But tell her I have no interest in an alliance with the Steel Wolves."

"We are not the Steel Wolves."

The one-step-then-turn-back pattern was getting tiresome. Jerry resolved not to turn his back on the Clan- ners again until he'd heard them out.

"From the top," he said.

Four blank stares.

"That is an idiom," Jerry explained, remembering to whom he spoke. "It means a brief and concise summary of events or information."

"From the top," Sender repeated, nodding as he filed the phrase. "Anastasia Kerensky has determined that the Steel Wolves will become mercenaries. She banned trials and declared those who did not wish to follow her were free to leave. We chose to leave."

End of brief and concise summary.

"But you've got no transport and you're not a big enough unit to survive on your own," Jerry said, leaving alone the mind-skidding intel that Anastasia Kerensky was going mere. "You're seeking an alliance before someone bigger forces you into Absorption?"

Sender nodded.

Beside the Clanner, Don raised his eyebrows in a "Didn't I tell you?" expression. No need to ask how Sender had come by Anastasia Kerensky's dossiers on the other units. Clan concepts of privacy and security— even after generations of exposure to the Inner Sphere- were legendary in their absence.

"Just how many of you are there?" he asked.

"My Nova," Sender said with a note of pride, "chose to follow me."

Jerry knew a Nova could be just about anything. But if he could see only four 'Mechs over the top of the compound fence, there was probably a parade pulled up in the street outside.

"Can you form up here?" he asked, indicating the formation area between the vehicle garages and the gate with a jerk of his head. "I want to see what we're talking about."

Sender measured the space with his eyes, then nodded once.

Two minutes later the four BattleMechs, two Mithras light tanks, ten Elementals with a brace of Svantovit armored personnel carriers, and fifty Clan infantry were drawn up in a rather cramped review formation. Jerry made a point of taking ten times that long going down every line and looking at each trooper. Seemed the least he could do considering the effort they had gone to. Everything was perfect.

More than the equipment, Jerry eyed the Clanners themselves. Mindsets seemed to range from the resignation of troopers standing through yet another inspection to carefully banked curiosity about the guy doing the inspecting. No defeat and no more than the usual amount of Clanner arrogance.

These boys and girls don't looked disgraced to be here. But they aren't as cocky as they could be. Things are changing on them and they're not sure what to do about it.

"Assuming the Elementals' battlesuits are in the Svan- tovits," Jerry said when Tal Sender had again descended from his Orion lie and the other three—one each from the tanks, Elementals, and infantry he now saw—had rejoined him, "I see everyone has full kits. What I don't see are techs or spare parts."

The Clanners said nothing. Whether they hadn't thought of that or no techs had been willing to follow was likely to remain a mystery. Another mystery was why they kept reforming into a committee to talk to him. they're out of their depth.

"You're not in a position to offer an alliance," he said. "At least, not the kind I think you mean. And you're in no danger of being absorbed. We offer contracts—formal commitments to each other that end when all parties agree they end."

The four looked at each other. The Elemental was the first to nod. Jerry caught her eye and smiled, letting her know he'd seen her place in the decision-making process. Her blank expression became slightly less frozen.

"Jerry Jamison," he said.

"Fiona Cooper."

Something in her stance indicated she expected a response of some sort. Evidently he'd missed something. Making a mental note to figure out what, he turned his attention to each of the others in turn.

Each of them glanced at Sender before answering.

"Aziz."

"Bailor."

Single names, which in contrast to the two double names meant something—probably Bloodnames. But he'd also met Clanners with last names that— apparently—had nothing to do with Bloodnames, though he wasn't sure of the ins and outs of all of it. Jerry knew enough about Clan culture to get by—more than most— but he was aware of the holes in his knowledge.

"What are the—terms—of these contracts?" Sender asked, bringing Jerry back from his mental side trip.

"On our side, we maintain and repair your equipment at no cost to you and pay you fair market rates for its use," Jerry said, keeping it basic. "We provide food, housing, equipment, and pay you a living wage for your time and commitment. There is no pay scale. You get the same as me and the cook. There is combat pay and bonuses for going above and beyond the expected. You will not at any time be asked to fight against any former affiliation, including home world—or, in your case, Clan."

He paused, but there were no questions.

"In exchange you accept assignment to whatever unit or duty I see fit," Jerry said. "And you submit to my orders or the orders of any officer or noncom I place over you. Understood?"

"Aff."

Jerry looked past the foursome to the troopers still drawn up in review lines under the late spring sun. Arranged in his formation yard was what looked to him like the best chance he had to get the Juggernauts back into viable, wage-earning shape fast.

It surprised him a little how quickly he'd already accepted that notion. But Clanners working with freeborn—under freeborn? If the Clanners were going to be at all touchy it would be best to find out now.

"Okay, that hits on something else," Jerry said. "Lives depend on communication. Communication has to be clear and fast. The Juggernauts use basic English. Do all of your people speak English?"

"Aff."

"Aff isn't English," Jerry pointed out. "If you mean affirmative, say 'affirmative.' If you mean negative, say 'negative.' Better yet, say 'yes' or 'no.'

"I'm not going to tell you to start using contractions, but I am telling you the Clan habit of smirking every time someone else does is not allowed," he said. "If you think efficiency and conservation of resources is lazy, you're welcome to your mistake. If all of humanity was as opposed to getting the job done, we'd all be living in Terran trees. You understand?"

All four of the Clanners were watching him with blank expressions. Not anger, just shut down.

'Aff," Sender said after a moment. Then: "Yes."

"The Juggernauts are not big on sir and ma'am and salutes because everyone knows what their job is and who fits where." He glanced at each. "If you join us, there's going to be a period of adjustment while we figure out which of you fits where in the organization."

Let's push a little harder.

"And this is not Clan. You don't get a job because you can punch somebody out. You get a job by proving you can do it better than anyone else." Again the measuring look at each in turn. "Lives depend on it.

"Flip side—" Let them figure out that idiom. "If you know you're the best at something and you don't do it, your laziness might kill people. Screwing up's one thing. Everybody does sooner or later. But if any Juggernauts die because you didn't do your job. I'll kill you. Understood?"

Again a long moment of shut-down silence.

"Colonel," Cooper said at last. "If that was a test of our reaction to freebirth prejudice, it was singularly limp."

Jerry grinned at her choice of words despite himself. He was surprised at how her answering smile lit her eyes.

* * *

"I wonder if she realizes what she's done," Jerry said as he loaded the seventy-four new contracts into the data file two hours later. No way he was going to leave them a cohesive unit within the Juggernauts, but integrating them into the roster was going to be a balancing act.

Better than writing letters.

"What did who do?" Don asked. He was seated across from Jerry balancing budgets on his own noteputer.

"Anastasia Kerensky," Jerry said. "She broke the myth, the mystique of being Clan."

"What?"

"What are the Steel Wolves?"

"Pirates," his XO answered instantly. "Used to be, anyway—planet raiders. Went legit fighting the Jade Falcons."

"Ask a Steel Wolf and he'd tell you he was part of this great race come to save humanity from itself," Jerry countered. "Raiding planets was only necessary because we didn't understand we were supposed to just give 'em stuff for rescuing us."

"Ha."

"I'm serious." Jerry said. "And they followed their leader because she was the one with the map leading them on this great quest.

"Annie K. screwed up by telling them they could be mercenaries." He considered the updated spreadsheet as the rated skills of the newest Juggernauts popped into place. "Now the battle isn't to save humanity, it's to make a C-bill. No great purpose, no mystique, no reason to follow her." "If she's in it for a buck, they can do the same."

" 'Specially since the Clans are sort of strong-arm communists." Jerry nodded. "If someone works for you, you take care of them. But if you can take something, it's yours."

"Meaning anybody who wants to just walks off with what they need and whoever wants to come with them?"

"Right. And she can't force the issue." Jerry saved and closed the file. Enough time for this later. "Because if she tries to stop them, she might just find she doesn't have enough loyal muscle left to make it stick."

Don sat for a long moment, staring into the middle distance.

"She is well and royally screwed," he pronounced at last.

10

Steel Wolves compound, GalateaCity

Galatea, Prefecture VIII

Republic of the Sphere

16 July 3135

Murchison was not surprised the corridor was deserted. He'd heard the packing, the sorting, the moving in the night. Muffled voices, as though low speech would somehow disguise the exodus. Especially the sounds of 'Mechs and heavy armor moving out.

There had been other departures, smaller departures in the days since Yulri's confrontation with Anastasia— the confrontation that had forced her into announcing the Steel Wolves were now mercenaries. She had made the best of it, but Murchison knew it had been premature. The Clan had not been ready.

Murchison believed that by itself the revelation would not have torn the fabric of the Steel Wolves. Just as the active recruiting of new warriors had not been enough on its own. Or the radical retraining program by itself. Or even the suspension of trials—though that last had come close.

But taken all together, it had been too much.

Varnoff had gone so far as to question whether the purpose of all of the changes—from bulking out the roster with raw troopers to diversifying the skills of the warriors to setting aside trials—had not been to strengthen the Steel Wolves as Wolves, but to prepare them to become mercenaries. In a poetic reference Murchison had found surprising in a Clan, he had called it selling their birthright for pottage.

Anastasia had laughed in his face.

But by then, Yulri's exit had already started a drain. Given his precedent, individuals, pairs, Stars, and even a Binary or two had simply collected their equipment and left.

Anastasia had done nothing to stop them. In fact she had proclaimed that anyone who did not want to follow her did not deserve to follow her. She had demanded that those who put themselves above being Wolf leave.

Yesterday, in words that would have led to deadly combat in the days before Anastasia suspended trials, Varnoff Fetladral had declared that she was the one who had put herself above being Wolf.

There had been no violence. But there had been a night of movement followed by a morning of stillness.

The sky was gray as Murchison stepped into the quad, the sun not fully risen, but the temperature already past comfortable. He estimated two hours before it reached the kiln blaze of what the locals called spring.

The compound was not completely empty. He saw at least a dozen others wandering singly and in groups— apparently assessing the situation for themselves—as he made his way to the command center and Anastasia's quarters. He could see the tank garages were nearly empty without changing course, but he made a loop past the 'Mech hangars in case she asked for a count. Perhaps one in three BattleMechs remained. More than he expected, given the silence of the compound.

He noted Kyle Wolf's former AgroMech was partially disassembled. Evidently it had proven more valuable as a source of parts than as barter.

"If my bondholder left me," a voice startled him, "am I still a bondsman?"

Peering into the blue shadows along the wall, Murchison discovered Carter on an equipment pallet. He'd evidently been sitting looking up at the dismantled machine.

"I don't know," Murchison answered. "But if your bondholder is gone, you could probably just walk out the gate and no one would care."

"No."

Looking past the AgroMech, Murchison saw Kyle's new Havoc in its bay, still connected to the diagnostic equipment. No doubt that was what Carter had been working on. But at this hour?

Which raised another possibility: Kyle had decided not to wait for his new 'Mech to pass initial inspection and had taken someone else's. All remaining BattleMechs would have to be cross-referenced to their pilots.

"Was Kyle Wolf your bondholder?" he asked.

Carter seemed not to have heard, following thoughts of his own.

"Did I tell you my wife was in the militia?" he asked. "She was pregnant. We'd just found out. But she didn't tell anyone because they needed warriors."

Murchison knew what was coming. He was a licensed med tech. He could perform minor surgery—was good at it, in fact—dispense medications, set broken bones, deliver babies, and perform any one of a hundred other tasks a general practitioner would be expected to do.

But for some reason the general public expected him to be a counselor as well. Not to mention confidant. Or confessor. He was not trained in it. In fact, he hated it. But once the process of unburdening to him started, he was powerless to stop it. Over the years he'd learned to just remain silent and let the words wash over him. Saying them aloud seemed to be all the therapy most people needed.

"She's gone," Carter said. "My wife. There was nothing . . . nothing else in my life that mattered."

Murchison waited for the usual emotional release, but it didn't come. Instead Carter pushed himself to his feet and tugged at his clothes as though straightening them for an inspection.

"All I have left is to be here," he said, as though that explained things.

Without another glance at Murchison, he wandered into the deeper shadows of the 'Mech hangar. Murchison noted that he patted the ankle of Kyle's AgroMech as he passed. It was as though he'd been talking to the machine all along.

Murchison made a mental note to check his inventory of mood elevators. Carter might not be the only one needing medication to deal with—

Whatever this was.

As he left the 'Mech hangar, the smell of bacon told Murchison at least one of the cooks had stayed. He stopped by the galley to pick up a half liter of black coffee and a shredded-beef-and-egg-with-cheese burrito.

There was a communications tech Murchison didn't recognize on duty at the command center. He noted her eyes were red-rimmed and her complexion parchment- pale beneath the melanin. Emotional shock and fatigue, he diagnosed.

"Got a roster?" he asked the woman by way of greeting.

She proffered a noteputer without a word. Murchison had to set down the burrito to slip the slender device into an outer pocket of his med kit. He noted it was a civilian-grade Blue Heron, high-end model, and recognized his fixation with details as a coping mechanism— healthy, if he didn't overindulge.

Anastasia's quarters were at the end of a short, unmarked corridor. He almost dropped the burrito scanning his thumbprint into the lock.

Anastasia rolled to sit upright on the edge of her bed as the door opened. Taking the steaming mug of coffee, she drained a third with a single gulp before setting it on her nightstand. She took a single bite of the burrito and glared at him in sudden suspicion. Wordlessly, he handed her a bottle of Asian hot sauce.

The burrito, peppered to near toxic levels, was half gone before she extended her hand for the noteputer. Anastasia thumbed through the first couple of screens, then set down the burrito and pushed back onto the bed until she could lean on the wall as she read the complete report.

Murchison noted no signs of stress, no evidence of alarm or surprise. Apparently this morning was going about as she had expected.

There was a rapid knock on the door. At Anastasia's nod, Murchison opened it and stepped back to let Alexia Wolf into the room.

The young MechWarrior paused one step across the threshold. Clearly, her naked commander sitting up in bed reading while her medical officer stood by was not what she'd prepared for.

"Report," Anastasia said.

"Galaxy Commander, Star Colonels Varnoff Fetla- dral, Nikola Demos, and Xera have left," Alexia spoke rapidly. "They have taken their commands with them."

"Did they leave together?"

"No, Galaxy Commander." Murchison could see Alexia was unnerved by her commander's calm, but pressed on regardless. "Star Colonel Demos remains on Galatea. She has taken a compound at the far end of the mercenary district. But Star Colonel Fetladral has commandeered eight Steel Wolf DropShips. They are loaded and currently awaiting clearance to launch."

"And Xera?"

"The carriers with Star Colonel Xera and all but a Star of Steel Wolf aerospace aboard have already launched," Alexia said. "They are presumed bound for their JumpShips."

Regaining the edge of the bed, Anastasia rose to her feet and handed the noteputer to Alexia. "Confirm those data," she said. "Then assemble all who remain in the main 'Mech hangar in twenty minutes."

The MechWarrior bobbed her head as she accepted the assignment, then left.

Anastasia took a healthy bite from her burrito and sipped coffee as she chewed, eyes focused on some point in the middle distance. She was scheming, Murchison recognized, one of her favorite recreational activities.

He also recognized that Anastasia was anticipating battle.

She cocked an eye in his direction. "I can dress myself, y'know."

Murchison blinked at the contraction, then realized he'd been dismissed. Dipping his chin in acknowledgment, he let himself out.

The comm tech he didn't know had been joined by one he did.

"What's your take, Parker?" he asked the familiar communications specialist.

Parker scrubbed his brush-cut hair with the heel of his hand as though the heat of friction would stimulate thought.

"Between the de"—he paused—"partures over the last week and last night, we are down to a Cluster."

Murchison nodded. He agreed with the tech's characterization of the exodus as desertion, and respected his caution in not using the word. Techs such as they did not level such charges at warriors.

A Cluster was a damnably vague Clan term, though. Reviewing what he had seen of the compound, Murchison decided the technician had meant something like a battalion.

"Thank you," he said, glancing around the otherwise empty communications center to make it clear he meant more than just for answering his question.

The technicians nodded.

Murchison stepped out onto the small porch rather than hover over the faithful techs while he waited for Anastasia. He could see figures from all parts of the compound heading toward the 'Mech hangar. He saw the sentry box was empty, the gate closed and double- barred. Even the cooks were crossing the assembly area.

Evidently Alexia had figured out the quickest way to confirm who was present was to assemble them all in one place. He wondered what the apparently instant and silent compliance said about the mental state of the remaining Steel Wolves.

Anastasia passed him, heading down the stairs with the two communication techs following at a respectful distance. He decided not to hurry to catch up and followed at his own pace.

The hangar was not packed. In fact, there was room for the technicians to allow a respectful space between themselves and the warriors gathered around a platform of crates that had not been there earlier.

Murchison eased his way through the ranks of technicians and crossed the moat of bare floor to the rear of the warrior ranks. Somewhat to his surprise, a path opened. He reached the dais and—responding to Ana- stasia's glance—took his position flanking her at the rear edge of the narrow platform.

Looking out over the remaining Steel Wolves he saw anger, disappointment, confusion, resolve—a spectrum of healthy responses to emotional trauma. If one overlooked the complete lack of conversation, that is. He was surprised to pick out Carter among the technicians. He was even more surprised to see Kyle Wolf. Apparently he'd mistakenly assumed the identity of Carter's bondholder.

Rob Juergens was also present, but Verena Wolf wasn't beside him. Murchison had thought the two were a couple—or whatever passed for being a couple among Clan. Perhaps they had been; this division cut deep.

Anastasia stepped to the front edge of the platform, the Blue Heron noteputer in her hand. She looked out over the silent assembly long enough to be sure every eye was upon her, then raised the noteputer so she would not have to look down to read the screen.

In a calm and unhurried voice, she called the roll. MechWarriors first, then aerospace pilots, Elementals. armor crews, and infantry. There were pitifully few names in each roster. The crowd stood silent and attentive. No one shifted position, no one spoke except to declare their presence firmly.

When the last warrior had answered, Anastasia paused again. Raising her eyes, she looked out past them, then again at the screen. In the same clear tone she called out the first technician's name.

Now there was a murmur, and a shift among the warriors.

And a moment of anticipation before the startled tech answered.

With no change in inflection, Anastasia read through the complete roster of support personnel. By the third name, the warriors were again silent, listening as what they recognized as a ritual ran its course.

At last the final name was read and acknowledged.

and again there was silence as Anastasia looked over those assembled, letting her eyes rest on each in turn.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

There was no answer, though this time Murchison saw a few shift position.

Anastasia looked down at the rank of Mech Warriors in front of the dais.

"You," she said to Rob Juergens. "Why are you still here?"

The tall MechWarrior looked to the ground for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet hers. "Because you are right," he said simply. No bravado.

Anastasia shifted her eyes to Alexia. The younger woman came to attention under her gaze.

"Where else can we go?" she asked her Galaxy commander. "You are Wolf."

There was a general murmur of agreement from the others, a disorganized sound that sorted itself into a unified proclamation of faith.

"You are Wolf!"

Murchison saw no dissent in their faces. To a man, to a woman, now they looked to Anastasia with an almost religious certainty. Not troops looking to their leader, but faithful beholding their prophet. It was profoundly disturbing.

"What about you?"

With a shock he realized Anastasia was looking at him. She'd broken the glass wall that protected him and dragged him into the moment. Her micromillimeter smile—part challenge, part amusement—told him she knew how she'd thrown him off balance.

He shrugged the shoulder without the med kit. "I have nothing better to do," he said.

She held her look a moment longer, then turned back to the others.

"We are Wolf," she said. "But we are no longer Steel Wolves. We are no longer Clan and not Clan. We are no longer Points and Stars and Novas. We are no longer MechWarriors and troopers. We are pure Wolf. Each as deadly, as vital, and as expendable as the next."

She paused for a moment.

No one moved. No one spoke.

"Look to your left," she said. "Look to your right. These are your sibkin. This is your Pack.

"I am Wolf!" she declared, punching a fist into the air above her head on the last word, holding it rigid, defiant. "Who follows me?"

Murchison was absolutely flabbergasted by his own shout of affirmation. And glad it was lost in the thunder that rose from the others.

11

Black Hills Urban Combat Zone, SolarisCity

Solaris VII, LyranCommonwealth

2 September 3135

Jazz cut left behind the outcrop of masonry without being sure she'd heard anything but wind.

She cast a quick glance at the black ferroglass ball housing the camera array. No way to tell where they were aimed inside their globes, but it didn't hurt to check. Some scrappers claimed that when the light was right you could see them point out your enemy. She figured they were lying, but she always looked anyway.

When the Blake Jihad destroyed half the Black Hills district, they'd created the biggest urban combat arena on Solaris VII. Tanks, battle armor lances, company-on- company infantry—just about everything—duked it out in the rubble that surrounded the New Avalon Technologies enclave.

Except BattleMechs. There had been precious few of those left after the Blakists leveled—or tried to level- SolarisCity. The boys and girls of the MechWarrior- exclusive Valhalla Club had put up a hell of a fight. But these best-of-the-best had gone down, and taken their precious machines with them.

There were still 'Mech bouts, of course. More every year as the industry recovered. That's what brought the tourists and the off-planet income. But the bread and butter of the Solaris VII Games—and gambling—was now less expensive infantry, armor, and even aerospace combat.

No way to rig bleachers around the Black Hills Urban Combat Zone, of course. That's why the camera towers were everywhere, watching every move and piping it to pay-per-view sports bars and hotel lobbies.

Not that many folks would be watching a pickup scrapper match like this one. Jazz slid from shadow to shadow in the early-morning light, confident only the refs and a few hard-core gamblers too wired to sleep were watching.

Technically, she was part of a scrapper team, but this was a pickup match and she wasn't used to the others, so she was treating it like a solo. She'd set it up that way, dominating the sketchy pregame strategy session.

She was on a wide left flare, coming into the target zone from the north, alone. Two young hotshots were working up the middle, taking the shortest route to the zone. The other four strays had formed two duos and chosen their own paths flaring south of center. Not the usual division of forces for a seven-man scrapper squad. Outside chance of throwing off defenders expecting the usual three-four or two-three-two.

Jazz dodged into a doorway then back out again, reversing course. Nobody on her tail.

Nobody obvious.

She dipped under a fallen column, slipping into an open storm drain. The promoters didn't like scrappers dropping out of the holocams' sight, but she couldn't shake the feeling she was being tracked.

It hadn't rained in over a week—a major drought by SolarisCity's standards—and the tunnel was dry. Night goggles weren't allowed, but overhead cracks allowed just enough gray light to seep through to give shapes to the shadowy piles of rubble and refuse. She couldn't see far, but anyone playing by the rules would be just as blind.

Jazz took three steps right, then lowered herself by a clump of debris left by some past flood. Nonstinking, she was glad to note. Bracing her carbine, she lined up on the drain entrance and waited.

A hundred count. No sound from the way she'd come, no moving shadows.

She climbed silently to her feet and faded from cover to cover until she reached a T intersection. Slipping around the right corner, she secured her carbine and drew her pistol. It was a blunt twelve millimeter— nonregulation, but quick to target and deadly in the tunnel.

The side tunnels were feeders. A few paces past the juncture in either direction, the ceiling dropped to about one and a half meters. Which meant, barefoot and with her helmet off, she would have just been able to stand upright.

Bent low, she picked her way around loose gravel, making sure each foot was firmly planted on silent concrete before trusting her weight to it. After a dozen steps, she paused, listening, with her back against the wall and her weapon aimed back the way she'd come. Another hundred count.

Reversing course, she crab-stepped back to the main tunnel. Quick look. Again. Then a spin across the opening, handgun leveled at the empty shadows of the storm drain.

Jazz bent low, handgun thrust ahead, and jogged down the other feeder tunnel. Stealth was secondary to speed at this point, but she varied her pace out of long habit, messing up the timing for anyone tracking her in the dark.

The metro spur leading to what had been the low-rent district of the Black Hills had been pretty thoroughly demolished in the bombardment. The tunnels were blind cave-ins a hundred meters in both directions from the abandoned station.

Most defenders ignored the subway station, figuring it was a dead end. But for scrappers as small as Jazz, a jagged fissure in the tunnel wall provided a secret entrance.

Gravel spilled as she squeezed through the break but it couldn't be avoided. She cleared the position fast and took cover by a ruined kiosk. Two one hundred counts later she was reasonably sure the platform was empty. Having seen no one on the defender team under one- eighty centimeters, she wasn't worried about anyone following her through the crack in the wall.

At the top of the stairs, Jazz paused with her eyes at sidewalk level, scanning the area surrounding the subway entrance. Nothing. The storm drain shortcut had put her close to the middle path—messing up what little planning her squad had put into this assault. Now she had to decide whether to cut back out to her original course or head straight in.

She'd made good time along the north route. She'd worked that section before and there hadn't been many changes. Added with the shortcut, Jazz figured she should be a little ahead of the two pairs on their southern arcs and about even with the pair going up the middle.

Only she saw no sign of the hotshots. Either they were slower than she thought and were behind her, or faster and ahead.

Or they were dead.

As soon as the thought formed, she was certain of it. At least one defender had decided not to wait for the aggressors to breach the perimeter and gone hunting. Jazz knew she'd felt the hunter on her tail.

Rules of this match were chemical projectile weapons—slug guns—edged weapons, or bare hands. She hadn't heard gunfire, so whoever was after her was the close-and-silent type.

With a hunter loose, moving back out to the north approach was a waste of precious time. Choosing a shallow angle left that carried her through some good cover to a low-walled park, she sprinted forward.

Six steps into a dead run, she jumped left hard enough to risk an ankle, fetching up in a shadowed doorway.

The patch of gray urban camo dropped back below the lip of the park wall. If the defender was stupid, he was waiting for her to move again. If his IQ approached double digits, he was moving—probably left.

Quick look to be sure another defender wasn't hiding inside, then she was through the doorless doorway into what looked like the lobby of a bank. Crabbing below the windowsills, Jazz cut through the open space, ignoring the black half globes of the cameras. She took the extra five seconds to worm through a barricade instead of jumping it, taking the grit working its way down her collar as cheap price for the cover.

With her left eye half past the door frame, she scanned the street and the low wall of the park. Nine out of ten guys would move to that slight dip in the wall, giving them a false sense of security. Too far for her handgun. She switched her carbine to her left shoulder and waited. She kept her head still but her eye moving, taking in as much of the scene as she could without calling attention to her position.

Scoring was simple. Aggressor team—hers—made it past three to four defenders, taking out as many as they could, to reach a specific house in a target area. Then they cleared the house. A win was one aggressor in the house, alive at the final whistle. Pay—the important part—was based on points earned through kills and captures. Clearing the house doubled the aggressor's money.

Double bonus with three kills would be enough to keep her off public dole for another six months. If she was frugal.

She breathed slow and shallow, waiting for the defender in the park to make today's first contribution to her freedom fund.

He was candy. He actually stuck his head over the wall, looking toward where she had been. His first clue as to where she'd gone was a marker round in the temple, just below the edge of his helmet. He'd have a good four days of headache to remind him that patience was a virtue.

Jazz cut across the street, staying low in case her kill had a partner. Moving along the inside of the wall, she gave the defender a no-hard-feelings pat on the shoulder as she passed. He glanced pointedly at the doorway, some sixty meters away, from which she'd made the offhand shot and shook his head in disgust.

Unarmored vital point, one-shot kill, degree of difficulty two—maybe two and a half. A couple more like that and she'd be able to afford meat this month.

Jazz hadn't always had to count each kill in terms of food rations. Not too long ago she'd had a run in prime- time matches as one of Darcy's Divas. They'd been contenders on the infantry circuit. Had an agent, were being scouted by some serious stables.

Until they'd gone up against a dirty-tricks unit that had thought to give themselves an edge in a marker match by using live ammo. Live ammo was a penalty, but didn't automatically cost you the match unless you killed somebody. Mostly the idea was to scare the other team into not putting up a fight; get them to keep their heads down so you could walk over them.

Well. Darcy didn't scare and neither did her Divas. Even after their first casualty—especially after their first casualty—they went after the dirty-tricks unit full bore. Paint rounds weren't deadly, but they could hurt. And when you got close enough there were always gun butts, boots, and knives.

When it was over Darcy Yarrow and four other Divas were dead. It was Jazz's highest rated match ever, her almost-death even made it onto a couple of major distribution highlights holovids. But it pretty much ended her career.

The other team got banned from the games for a year or two; some of them even did some jail time. Big deal.

It took Jazz a month to recover from her wounds. By the time she was on her feet, Jamice—the only Diva to come out of that final match in one piece—had joined a new unit, one that didn't need another scout.

She'd lived on her winnings for as long as she could, trying to hook up with another established outfit. But the fact was nobody thought she was as good as she knew she was. Add to that her scars—and her lopsidedness—and she no longer had the camera appeal to be a frontline scrapper.

The last eighteen months had been showing up for cattle calls and hoping she'd strut her stuff well enough to get picked up by a team with some future. If the rest of the defending squad was as candy as her first kill—

Jazz hit the ground and rolled, the memory of a marker round slapping a tree trunk keeping her moving until she was in cover. If she hadn't been reflexively varying her speed—mixing up her step—while daydreaming about prize money, the round would have hit her low on the face.

Keeping to cover, she checked out the angle of the paint smear. The shooter had been high, probably on the roof of the three-story building across the street. No doubt this guy was already moving. If it were her, she'd go to ground level and come in from an angle while the target was still checking windows. Then again, she'd never take a high sniper position in the first place. Best watch the ground and the windows while figuring her move.

To her right was another camera pylon, the black fer- roglass globe low enough to get good coverage below the tree cover. She glanced at it out of habit. Then glanced again.

On the underside of the globe was a light smear. The reflection of a face, white, against the shadows of dense foliage. From the angle and size, she made it to be ten to a dozen meters past the pylon, about even with her position.

No odds at all that the defender who liked to hunt with knives was sidling up for another silent kill.

She faded back, not as silent as she wanted to be on the detritus under the trees, moving to get both her targets in the same quarter. She was fairly sure there was a hollow a few meters back, directly behind her quarry's position, that might give her cover. If she didn't get boxed in.

It was tempting to try to figure Knife Boy's exact location from the reflection and saturate the zone with short bursts, but she discarded the idea. Blind burst fire was a low-points move and only worked about half the time.

If she wanted max points—and max money—she'd go for a live capture.

She lost the pale reflection by her third step, but not before she'd seen he was moving, too. Hard to tell with the curve, but it looked like he was paralleling her, heading toward the same hollow.

That's what he thought.

Cutting sharply right, she went on the attack.

Bent double, she dashed under the low hem of a conifer, cutting close to the bole, then angling out on a new vector. He had to have heard her coming and she made an apparent stumble left before jumping right just as she broke cover. Speed trumped evasion this close in and she made a straight dash, clearing a massive log with a low hurdle to land at a crouch, her carbine leveled at Knife Boy's head.

At Knife Boy's helmet, perched on a stick.

She took her right hand off the carbine, holding it by the fore stock in her left, and swung the gun gently away from her body as she pivoted slowly left.

He stood five meters away, black hair blending with the shadows under some flowering branch, with his own assault rifle—much heavier than her carbine—leveled at her. No knife this time; she'd earned that much respect. She could see the massive blade hung hilt-down in a shoulder sheath, its marker-orange-striped grip covering his heart.

Instead of killing her, he gestured for her to drop her carbine. He'd evidently done the point math, too, and was going for a live capture over a shot in the back.

Her first shot took him in the sternum, two fingers to the right of his knife's hilt.

His first shot fired in time with her second, but while hers painted a second disk center chest, his thwacked against the butt of her carbine as it swung through the space she'd just left. It hadn't been a jump, just a sudden straightening of her legs with no gathering of her upper body to telegraph the move.

Jazz emptied her lungs in preparation for impact, making no effort to break her fall. Instead, she spent her second of float time focused on keeping the blunt twelve millimeter in her right hand leveled at Knife Boy's chest. She squeezed off the third shot just before she hit, a flat flop that would have knocked the wind out of her if there'd been any.

She came up. fast but graceless, pushing off the ground with her carbine as she kept the automatic trained on her target.

He didn't move. With standard body armor, three hits to a vital—three hits that could be covered with a playing card—meant he was dead.

"Aerospace," the dead guy said.

That meant nothing to Jazz. She shrugged it off, already scanning for the sniper, who could have used the confusion to move in. No sign of anyone, though there wasn't much to see from the hollow.

She gave her latest victim another glance, taking the time to admire his frame. Couldn't tell if his eyes were green or brown in the shade, but she saw they were something dark that went well with the rest of his face. She winked her right eye, keeping her pretty one open and focused on him. If the rest of the scrap went right, she might offer him a dinner.

Pulling her head back to the match, she crouched low and moved right. The hollow stretched into a shallow fold, leading south. If she followed it, she had a good chance of flanking the sniper's position.

Two steps and she sensed a lack of presence behind her. A quick check confirmed dead Knife Boy had not stayed put. No reason he should, once his death was recorded. It was traditional for kills to sit where they'd fallen, but a lot of dead guys headed back to the staging area to wait out the game in comfort.

Except Knife Boy didn't feel gone.

Jazz couldn't see him, but she knew he was still with her.

Walking around dead wasn't really a violation, unless he let his position tip a teammate where she was. Or tried to draw fire from an opponent who didn't know he was dead.

She'd already killed him, so there was nothing she could do about it without stopping the game. Shrugging off the concern, she focused on defenders still in a position to help her income.

Two minutes later she was in an alley leading away from the park at the base of the sniper's building. If it was still his building. There'd been no reaction to her topping the wall and crossing the street, moving from truck carcass to shell crater to stoop. Either she'd been too fast for him or he was on the move, too, between firing positions.

Or he was already set in a new position, waiting for her to come to him.

A fusillade of distant gunfire echoed through the alley.

Two, maybe three, blocks south of her some idiot had his assault rifle set on full auto. The four jokers on the right wing must have found the defenders.

She hoped it was the target house and not just some picket. Rules were that at least three defenders hold the target, which meant—if her teammates kept them pinned for a moment—there were at most two still at large. One of them the sniper who was—if he thought like her— somewhere ahead, between her and her objective.

Jazz headed east, ninety degrees off the direct route. From the sound of things her compatriots had cleverly massed all their fire on one side of the house, making them easy to defend against but—hopefully—pulling all of the defenders to that side of the objective.

She'd take out the sniper if she could, but now her goal was getting around him and into the back door of the target house. Any kills she made after breaching the objective carried a fifty percent bonus.

Dust bin. Gutter. Wrecked car. Doorway. From the sounds of the firefight—now reduced to sporadic bursts of fire and counterfire—the target house was the roofless brownstone across the street.

No movement along the street. Nothing in the windows, most of which still had glass. No cover between her position and the stoop leading up to the back door of the brownstone, either.

She could either sprint across twenty meters of open concrete here, or she could move up a few blocks, cross under cover, and work her way back to target.

The firefight on the other side of the house was winding down. She didn't have much time.

She studied the street back along her trail, checking each window. Most snipers liked to set up, their gun leveled, and wait for their target to move into the kill zone. Which meant most snipers could be spotted if you could pick out the barrel of the rifle. Unless they stayed far enough back so the rifle didn't show from the street.

Jazz could see nothing that didn't belong. There was an outside chance that was good news; she'd evaded the sniper. More likely it meant the sniper just wasn't where she was looking.

She glanced at each of the black ferroglass camera globes she could see from her position. No helpful reflections.

And no time.

Jump. Stutter step left. Flat run. Broad jump right.

Halfway across the street, the pavement in front of her geysered dust.

Jazz buttonhooked, almost ran back, but turned it into a two-seventy. The spot she would have stepped sprayed her with cement chips.

Real bullets. The sniper was using real bullets. She was alive only because he was going for a leg shot. He wanted to keep her out of the house but didn't want to blow the match by killing her.

Bent double, keeping vitals as close to legs as possible to complicate the sniper's sighting, she ran flat out for the basement entrance of the building next to the target. As she passed the closest point to the stoop of the target house, the curbstone shattered. The shooter had anticipated, shot where she should have gone. She jumped through the dust, faster—she hoped—than the sniper could retarget.

Up the steps, carbine on full auto, the heavy paint rounds chewing up the paper wood door.

As nearly as she could tell, the sniper had a clear field of fire. Unless he suddenly got stupid, his next shot would get her. But if she was close enough to throw herself across the threshold . . .

She leaped.

Her shoulder crunched through the bullet-shattered panel. Flinders exploded away from her as she twisted in the air, bringing her carbine to bear on the human shape half visible in the low light. A distant portion of her mind registered the end game signal hooting through the ruined city streets and she held her fire.

Jazz hit the floor, landing on her back as the note died away, her carbine still bearing on the defender standing over her. She felt a moment of inverted deja vu.

"Game ended before you breached," the defender said.

"Like hell," Jazz snapped. "That horn saved your life."

The defender—a kid half a decade younger than Jazz—spat on the ground.

"You lost, lady," he sneered. "Live with it."

* * *

As it was, they were recalled to the staging area with no clear winner declared. The judges were hung up on something, which suited Jazz not at all. Hang-ups were never about the scrappers' wealth and well-being. Hangups meant the big boys, the ones who ran and profited from the matches, were unhappy about something. What the something was wasn't apparent.

Until Jazz made the ready room.

"He cost us the damn match!" somebody Jazz didn't recognize was shouting.

Nose to nose with Jenkins, stable rep for Banshee. Jazz hadn't heard her pickup squad was going against a stable unit. Must have been tryouts. Right now the two men had a space to themselves just inside the entrance. The squads for the next match were filing out, eyes front, not seeing anything. Mismatched uniforms told Jazz it was another pickup bout, which figured. Most alarm clocks in SolarisCity hadn't gone off yet.

"You were using live ammo," Jenkins answered. "So get a grip."

Jazz took a closer look at the shouter. The side of his face was purpling. Someone had hit him, hard. And the barrel of the rifle over his shoulder was bent. It was a civilian-grade hunter with a tapering tube, not a proper sniper's bull-barreled rig, but Jazz had a lot of respect for whoever'd given it that dogleg.

"He was friggin deadl" Purple Face showed no sign of getting a grip.

"Jazz!"

Jazz pivoted to find herself eye to eye with one of the few men she knew as short as she. His skin was as dark as hers was light, the few shots of gray through his close- cropped jet-black hair the only indication he was over twice her age. Two years ago she would have called him a friend, or a mentor at least. Darcy's former agent hadn't spoken to her since that one visit in the hospital, hadn't returned a call since she'd been back on the street.

"Tommy," she said, her voice flat.

"Saw the match." The agent nodded as though continuing a conversation. "You are really back on your game. Smooth move on the Clanner. I knew your fast draw was coming when you swung the gun in your left hand, but looking for it, I didn't see your hand move."

"Clanner?"

"Guy I've been scouting." Tommy shrugged. "Looking to take him on. Don't know what to do with him after today, though," Tommy indicated Knife Boy, looking good as ever, apparently answering questions for the refs in the corner of the staging area. A couple of suits flanked the refs. No stable colors. They probably represented one of the gambling cartels. "Took out one of his own."

"That's why they blew the whistle?" Jazz leveled a deadly glare at the Clanner. "He cost me the match."

"He probably saved your life," Tommy countered. "The way the judges see it, Jacko there figured out scaring you didn't work and was going for a hit when the Clanner stopped him. The only thing they don't like is his busting the rifle across the joker's face after he took it away from him."

"So if Jacko's in such trouble, why's he standing there complaining to Jenkins?"

"Because Jacko's really stupid." Tommy dismissed the issue. "I'm just wondering if you've got representation nowadays."

"Used to have Tommy Gunn." Jazz made no effort to keep the edge from her voice. "But he dropped me for no damn good reason a couple of years back."

"Two years ago you weren't in the games." Tommy shrugged. "Docs said fifty percent chance you'd recover without prosthetics, no future that didn't involve the public dole. You didn't need an agent."

I could have used a friend, Jazz thought, but said nothing. She'd learned since that there were no friends in the business.

"But today's match, first time I seen you in a while," Tommy was saying. "You got skills. I'm thinking you might be needing a rep; get yourself out of pickup hell."

The refs called for attention before Jazz could decide between cutting the little weasel dead or taking him up on his offer.

The refs had arranged themselves in front of the gaming commission banner. This was going out to all the sports bars and gambling venues that cared. Maybe a dozen at this time of the morning. But if Knife Boy had done what Tommy said, their ruling might set a precedent. Which meant the big boys would be watching.

If they haven't weighed in already, Jazz amended, watching the suits fade to the wall.

The holoscreen behind the formation of refs came alive, showing Jazz in slo-mo coming through the bullet- splintered door. It froze frame when the end-game hooter went off and an amber trapezoid appeared, cutting through her legs just below the hips.

Also clear in the shot was the kid who'd ended up over her rushing into the room, his own rifle vertical even as hers swung to bear. Nobody with any eye for the game had a doubt how things would have shaken out if the whistle hadn't blown.

"Seventy percent of the aggressor's body mass was inside the building when the match was aborted," the head ref said, looking over the heads of the players in the room to address the automated holovid feed. "And with three point four minutes of regular time remaining, the aggressor still presented a viable threat. Final judgment is the house was breached. Win goes to the aggressors."

"Good work, girl," Tommy said beside her. "The way you came through that door made the difference. Solid bet Klornax and Parmenter run that loop on Game Watch."

Jazz turned her head enough to give him the eye. Her bad, droopy, right eye. If he had any sense she wasn't warming under his praise, the agent gave no sign.

Dismissing him, she lost the rest of what the refs said balancing her own budget. Successful breach, two clean kills, both high degree of difficulty, no injuries, no equipment costs outside of ammo . . . She was looking at a good month off dole, maybe more.

A clear win or two in the meantime and she'd be in a position to upgrade some equipment, move into heavier prize money. The right agent might make that move a little quicker, a little easier, and a little more profitable.

"Damn!" Tommy broke into her thoughts.

"What?"

"They went way too easy on Jacko and dinged the Clanner." Tommy didn't seem to think it odd she'd missed what was said while standing right next to him. "Both banned from play for a month. Jacko should have got six months and the Clanner should have walked away with his kill fees. Very pretty knife work in addition to saving your ass. That was good theater. Good crowd-pleasing stuff."

"Saving my ass is crowd-pleasing?"

Tommy cut his eyes toward her, but evidently gave up right away trying to figure out the meaning of her tone.

"Look, get washed up," he said instead. "I'll buy you a steak and we can talk about representation."

Jazz decided telling him to stuff it would be easier on a stomach full of beef he'd paid for, and nodded.

Nobody followed her into the locker room. Most pickups saved the locker fees and went home in gear. She liked to leave the game behind her when she left, with all the dirt and smell.

She was in her black fatigue pants and tank top, needing only her jacket and boots, when someone else came in from the ready room. She didn't look up, not wanting conversation, and focused on stuffing her dirty field kit into a duffel bag. She drew the line at paying laundry fees.

"Aerospace."

She looked over her shoulder at Knife Boy, still in his dirty field gear. Tommy'd said he was a Clanner, though he didn't have that self-conscious arrogance she associated with the breed. More an easy confidence. Whatever he was, there was a lot of him and it was put together right.

She pulled her gear out of the duffel, searching for something that wasn't there. Looked like she'd need to repack while he got undressed.

"You keep saying that," she said.

"You are an excellent skirmisher—"

"Scrapper," she corrected.

He waved away the game classification. "Your skills are excellent," he repeated. "But your size and the speed of your reflexes make it plain your bloodline is aerospace."

"My bloodline, as you call it, is Xolara—SolarisCity slums," Jazz said, dismissing the assessment. "I've never flown a thing."

She saw his eyes snag for a second on her chest and decided to preempt the usual confused stare. Turning to face him, she arched her back and watched him take in the still pneumatic jut of her left breast against the ribbed fabric of her tank top and the blank nothing where her right breast used to be.

Knife Boy's face closed down, his eyes going flat. She was used to that. Most guys could see past the scarring along her jaw, some even said the dip to the corner of her right eye was sexy. But any come-ons they had in mind shut down when she shed her gear and they got a look at her one-sided chest. Best to get it over with quick.

"Cancer?" he asked, his voice flat.

You could call it that. For a moment she remembered bending over the fallen opponent, the hide-out weapon—little more than a chamber and a trigger—the back-snapping jump to get away . . .

"Shotgun." she answered. Keep it simple.

"Ah."

Then Knife Boy did something she'd never seen before. He lit back up. He smiled a micromillimeter and nodded. He glanced back at her chest and there was— yes, there was—a glint of approval in his eye.

Of course.

He was Clan.

Racial purity above all else. Cancer, or the propensity for cancer, was genetic. To have lost a breast to cancer would have meant she had faulty genes. Something a Clanner could not forgive. But a battle scar, worn proudly, that was something a Clanner would understand—would admire, in fact.

She didn't even pretend to pack her duffel as he stripped for the shower. That earned her another glance with a glint of something.

Okay, then, Clan. A girl should be open to new things.

"Ah, jeeze," Tommy said, bustling into the room. "Why didn't you get an implant or something, kid? A padded bra at least. That chest is going to keep the cameras off you."

Jazz sucked her teeth and resumed packing her kit.

12

Genève, Terra

Prefecture X, Republic of the Sphere

11 September 3135

This was worse than what he'd imagined.

Thaddeus Marik had always thought himself a man too sophisticated for religion, but Jonah Levin's revelation of the Fortress stratagy had driven him to his knees. In the end, he had voted with the exarch. Unity—even unity in this—was needed now. But still . . .

A civil war would be terrible, yes, but to avoid it by abandoning nine-tenths of The Republic to anarchy? The core, the heart of The Republic, would remain intact. But at what cost? How could they desert their people?

He had tried to get in contact with the former exarch over the last week and a half. He'd been careful to make the inquiries seem social—an invitation to dinner or even an informal lunch. Thaddeus was certain Damien Redburn had no part in this. He'd wanted his former commander's—former mentor's—insights into the situation.

However, the former exarch had been unavailable— not even to answer his calls. His wife Sasha had been gracious but firm in assuring him Redburn would not be available for social engagements anytime in the near future. Thaddeus was torn between concern for his old friend's health and suspicion he was involved in these machinations.

This "FortressRepublic" plan illustrated in a nutshell the difference between elected governments and nobility. The nobility realized the well-being of the people under their rule was their greatest responsibility.

The Republic was administered on the military model. Gifted, experienced, trained military personnel—strategists and tacticians who could hold their own against any in history—because Devlin Stone knew tough military thinking would carry The Republic through any crisis.

And right now the military minds had decided the best way to carry The Republic through was to sacrifice its citizens. The moral equivalent of keeping the wolf out of your home by throwing your children into the night and barring the door behind them.

Stop it!

With an effort. Thaddeus unclenched his jaws. Catching his reflection in one of the many reflective surfaces in the ornate public waiting area, he schooled his features into an expression of calm resolve. It would not do to torpedo his plan by an inappropriate display.

He could not—The Republic could not—save all the people now. But, if he did this right, he could help some of the people save themselves.

At last a majordomo he didn't recognize opened the ceiling-high double doors that led into the exarch's sanctum—the Bullet, he'd heard it called. He'd also heard there was a significance to the red-starred emblem inlaid in the carpet. He ignored both the room and its furnishings as he focused on their owner.

The exarch came around his desk to meet Thaddeus— he'd been looking out of the curving window. He extended his hand and Thaddeus took it.

David McKinnon, already standing, and Tyrina Drum- mond, rising, were both in the room as well. He nodded to each in turn, working his way through a Spartan exchange of pleasantries with all the patience he could muster.

"So," said Jonah Levin when he had maneuvered Thaddeus into sitting at the far end of the couch from Tyrina and taken his own seat in a wingback chair—not behind his desk. "What is this plan of yours?"

"Pocket fortresses," Thaddeus said without preamble. "In every prefecture there are clusters of worlds— neighborhoods, if you will—proximate, and sharing common interests and needs. With a few proper nudges, these worlds could band together for their mutual protection."

"I believe there are senators who would tell you they are already doing that," McKinnon pointed out.

"I'm thinking those senators would be one of the things the worlds would be defending themselves against," Thaddeus replied. "Along with Lyrans, Capel- lans, Clans, or even pirates."

"To what end?" asked the exarch.

"Unless the Fortress is to be the final stage of The Republic," Thaddeus said, "we will expand again. When we do, it will be to our advantage to have worlds— neighborhoods of worlds—intact and unoccupied by states that may be disinclined to give them back."

"How would this help?" Tyrina asked. "Wouldn't they defend their independence against the Republic of the Sphere just as they did against everyone else?"

"Not if we guide their development, and establish governments favorably inclined toward The Republic," Thaddeus said. "We can't be overt, let everyone know what we're about. Even if that didn't backfire, it would alert others what we are up to."

"But you're not talking about governments—or neighborhoods, to use your term—which we would control," Levin said. "How would these coalitions of worlds work to our advantage?"

"At two levels." Thaddeus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was aware of McKinnon and

Tyrina, but he kept his eyes focused on Levin. "First, as I said, it would deny these worlds to more powerful enemies who would fight to keep them. Second, by having pro-Republic leadership in place and—with luck and a bit of media work—a population sympathetic to The Republic's ideals, we stand a better chance of bringing these worlds back into the fold later. Without bloodshed."

Thaddeus followed Levin's glance to McKinnon. The eldest paladin was frowning at the coffee table, his lips pursed. Looking to Tyrina at the other end of the couch, he found her looking at him, her head cocked to one side.

"These nudges you're talking about would take some preparation," she said. "Isn't it too late to be thinking of something like this?"

Careful.

"When I thought The Republic might be heading toward civil war," Thaddeus said, "I began taking steps."

"What sort of steps?" the exarch asked.

"I made some contacts, shifted some funds, generally laid groundwork." Thaddeus held his leader's gaze as he answered. "My plan at that time was to have foundations in place which could be built on. Strong points from which to resist any rebel forces."

"Interesting." Jonah Levin leaned farther back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. The unaccustomed pose struck Thaddeus as Capellan. "And you didn't mention these steps?"

"If they were never needed, there would be no reason," Thaddeus said. "And as long as there was a chance they might be needed, it seemed best to keep them secret until such time as they became necessary."

McKinnon's lips were still pursed, but his frowning gaze had lifted from the coffee table to regard Thaddeus. Thaddeus met his eyes levelly, confident his words—so close to the truth—would stand up under any scrutiny.

"These neighborhoods where you have taken steps," McKinnon said. "Where are they?"

"Prefectures six, seven and eight," Thaddeus answered promptly. "The regions I know best."

The regions adjacent to Marik space.

Aloud he said: "Though, as Tyrina said, while the time is now late, it's possible similar steps may be undertaken in other prefectures, by paladins—or even knights— familiar with those regions.

"Also—"

He paused, looking at each in turn before focusing exclusively on the exarch.

"I had not anticipated a development like Fortress," he said, pulling a data crystal from the breast pocket of his jacket. "If, under the circumstances, you think it best someone else take over operations in these prefectures, I have all the relevant data here."

Jonah Levin glanced at Tyrina, and Thaddeus handed the crystal to her. She glanced at it as though able to read some information from its surface, then shook it in her loose fist. A die about to be rolled.

"I don't think there's any need to change plans at this point," the exarch said. "Continue. And continue to keep us apprised for as long as practical. Am I correct in assuming carrying this plan forward will require you to be outside Fortress?"

Thaddeus nodded.

"Paladin Drummond," Levin said formally. "Review Paladin Marik's strategy. See if this is not something you could apply in prefectures one, two, and three."

A little late for that.

"Mandela for the others?" Levin asked McKinnon.

The paladin exemplar paused, chewing his lip in thought. Thaddeus had never seen him do that before. It gave the eldest paladin an aged and feeble air completely at odds with what he knew of the man.

Pulling his eyes from whatever inner vision he'd been considering, McKinnon looked to Levin.

"We may need to make some adjustments," he said, then nodded once, slowly. "But pending any discoveries to the contrary, I see no reason not to pursue this course."

Thaddeus could tell the old soldier wasn't sold on the idea. However, McKinnon would continue to give his exarch the best counsel he could—which in this case meant keeping an open mind.

"Too bad you didn't come forward with this earlier," McKinnon said to Thaddeus, his tone cold. As rebukes went, Thaddeus knew he was getting off lightly.

"I did not anticipate anything like Fortress," he repeated. Truthful, though the next was a blend. "I had scheduled this meeting before the vote to discuss this as an option in dealing with a civil war I didn't expect to reach crisis level for another six months."

McKinnon nodded—not pleased, but accepting the explanation on face value.

The exarch relaxed visibly—not the posed relaxation of a moment before—and rose from the wingback chair.

"Tea?" he asked his paladins.

13

Sportsmen's Club, SolarisCity

Solaris VII, LyranCommonwealth

22 October 3135

Tommy Gunn thumbed the credit chit the waitress offered. ignoring the shot of cleavage she'd bent an extra ten degrees to offer along with it. Tips were included in his membership fees and it was going to take more than a half acre of valley view to pick up an extra percentage. Unaffected by her parting flounce, he leaned back, fingers idly turning the glass by its rim on the little table built into the arm of his chair as he surveyed the room.

The MechWarriors had their Valhalla Hall, where they did whatever it was MechWarriors did when they weren't strutting about in their great machines. The gamers of Solaris VII—the owners and agents who made the world work—had their Sportsmen's Club. The gambling public saw the arenas and thought that was what Solaris VII was about. Those who understood knew the Sportsmen's Club was the true heart of the Game World.

Around him on shallow tiers rising in gently concentric arcs were similar chairs, some arranged in pairs or small groups, facing a wall of holovid screens. The central screen showed the key exchanges in real time as they unfolded—that was the feed that went out to the hotels and subscribers and lesser gambling centers. Smaller screens ringed around the central screen tracked individual scrappers or developing—potential side bet— situations. Stats for scrappers on each team flanked the wall of images, while a ticker across the top ran continuously updated odds and side bets.

Tommy could have seen all these data and images from his office terminal and been really relaxing in his much better chair. But then he would have missed the important information.

He sat a few rows back, able to keep an eye on the action around him as well as the screens. Stable scouts, bookies, serious money bettors, and other agents in similar chairs watched the match run its course, arranged singly or in pairs or small groups. No tourists here; everyone in the room was in the business. Some, like Tommy, feigned relaxation; others leaned forward, tracking the action and the stats closely; a few spoke quietly, comparing notes.

Behind him were the team owners, guys and gals who didn't have the vig for a full stable but sponsored individual teams. Or even, in some cases, individual scrappers. Solo matches were scheduled for after the current match. Low-level ownership was the poor man's entry into the glamorous world of gaming. Tommy never looked their way. He wasn't interested in the poor man's entry into anything.

He did nod to Simien Fox. Professional, no smile; the old guy hated suck-ups. Fox was seated by himself, as always. Or always now that he had driven off all the agents and promoters who'd courted when he arrived a few months back. And there'd been a few. The man's credit checked out six ways from golden and story was he was looking to do some heavy investing. But so far he hadn't parted with a sou.

Dismissing Fox and his unattainable wealth, Tommy watched the watchers, taking note of who was taking notes on whom.

On the big screen was a jungle setting, part of the original Liao Arena soaking under typical SolarisCity monsoon weather. After the Blakist destruction of the pyramid that had once housed their arena, the Capellans had chosen to repair only those sections that shielded spectators from the elements. Tommy didn't know if the jagged, half-ruined structure was supposed to be a monument or a warning—either way he didn't like it.

Five of the Liao Arena screens that should have been showing individual scrappers had overviews of the terrain. That was five scrappers out, four of them with Hombres Stables.

Prime-time scrapper match and his boys and girls were doing good.

Squad-on-squad infantry matches were not the big moneymakers—nothing without BattleMechs was. But matches like this one, an ad hoc team of scrappers showing their stuff against an established stable team, were the bedrock of the sport. Or maybe the nursery, because this was where careers began.

Yulri and Jazz were the core of this squad of young turks—all new clients Tommy was bringing up into the pro ranks. The current mix wouldn't last long as a squad; too much testosterone in some of the bucks to let them cooperate. But all of them were looking at futures with established stables.

And every stable contract provided a finder's fee and a guarantee of one percent of the scrapper's lifetime earnings to the agent who brought him in. Individually it wasn't much, but after thirty years of hustle. Tommy was doing all right.

Maybe not all of them were ready for the stables. Tommy winced as one of his new boys fell for a misdirect and took a burst of automatic fire in the chest. Too eager by half.

No such problem with Jazz. She'd learned her lessons the hard way.

Tommy nodded as she rose out of a hole the Hombres' scout had just cleared and slit his throat. Okay, drew a bright orange line from below his left ear to his right with the edge of her marker blade, but the effect was the same.

She'd come up with the slash, right in front of him inside the arc of his assault rifle. A moneymaking move, sure to be on the daily highlights coverage. From the look on the corpse's face, he was going to need new underwear before he met the public.

That knife work was new, something she'd picked up from the Clanner. With her small size Jazz had always been a shooter, keeping her distance. The Clanner had taught her some inside moves, stunts like the one she just pulled, that most scrappers couldn't pull off. Because most scrappers didn't have her speed.

With five Hombres scrappers down. Tommy didn't even watch the screen. Hot side bets were on how many kills Yulri would rack up. He could have made some money there if he'd been willing to lose his license over some inside betting. He'd asked his two stars to hold back a bit so they could evaluate the new talent.

He'd already turned down a couple of very solid offers on Yulri and Jazz—individually and as a pair. The two had had some good write-ups in the gaming press. Some idiot had tagged them "Cat and Mouse"—thank God that hadn't stuck. A good nick could boost play, and more importantly betting, by boosting fan recognition. A bad one like that could cost money for the same reason.

He had no intention of parting with those two. He was going to keep them independent—at least through next year's championships. They were going to be the core of a new scrapper team—them and maybe one of the kids in the match with them now. Get a team together—no ownership, no out of pocket, strictly agent's commission— nursemaid them through a championship win, then negotiate a juicy contract with one of the big stables. That was the plan. The road to comfortable retirement was paved with good package contract residuals.

The Lynch Stables scout was hot on Petrie. The kid was a hell of a sniper—or would be with some polish. And Lynch Stables would be just the place to give him that needed luster. About time for a long-term contract.

Tommy rose languidly, leaving his untouched drink. Adjusting his cuffs as he strolled, the agent moved in for his own kill of the day.

* * *

"I keep meaning to ask," Jazz said, throwing herself down on the imitation mohair couch he'd allowed the decorator to talk him into renting. She propped herself on her left elbow, her right leg stretched across the cushions, the other foot on the floor.

No way she was getting up fast from that position, Tommy thought, which made her the most relaxed he'd ever seen her. Until he noticed her right arm draped casually down her hip. Her wrist had to be resting on the butt of that damn hideout twelve.

No sudden moves, Tommy boy.

"Ask what?" Tommy asked. He let his eyes rest for a moment on the framed two-d portrait of his nieces as he settled behind his desk. Those two smiling faces always relaxed him. As did the memory foam of the executive chair as it conformed to his aching back, its heaters kicking in to suck the tension away. This he had bought.

After his traditional prowl of the perimeter, Yulri had seated himself in one of the winged neoleather guest chairs. Some Clanners put on the laid-back and arrogant air; this guy went for the alert and attentive pose. At least with his feet under him he didn't try to pretend he was relaxed.

"Are you called Tommy Gunn because you talk fast?" Jazz asked. "Or do you talk fast because you're called Tommy Gunn?"

"My name is my name and I talk like I talk," Tommy gave his standard answer. "No connection."

"Tommy Gunn?" Yulri asked.

"A five-kilo submachine pistol," Jazz explained. "Threw eleven-millimeter slugs; subsonic."

"A cumbersome and inefficient weapon," Yulri observed.

"The Thompson submachine gun was the first of its kind; the original assault rifle," Tommy said, aware he sounded defensive. "Twelve hundred years ago it was the meanest thing on the street."

"Ah." Yulri sounded unimpressed.

Tommy could see the wheels turn as the Clanner worked out the connection between an automatic slug gun and his own speech patterns, then dismissed the entire topic.

"Tommy, we make our second million and I'll give you an original," Jazz promised.

"You'll give me twenty percent," Tommy corrected. "You want to buy me anything out of your cut, that's up to you."

"It is time we became more serious," Yulri said. "Arrange combat in the full-contact arenas."

Whatever Jazz had been about to say died on her lips. She swung her right foot to the floor, coming up straight and ready on the edge of the couch, her eyes fixed on Yulri.

She didn't see that coming.

"Why?" Tommy asked. "Sure it's more money if you win. but it's not worth the risk. That's for flash-and- burn performers, not talent with the long-term career potential you two have."

He didn't bother to add that he didn't represent the wackos who played full-contact. Twenty percent of dead wasn't worth his time.

"There is no benefit in testing myself against athletes in a sport," the Clanner answered. "I am not encountering warriors."

"Jazz here—"

"Enters every match ready for death," Yulri finished. "She is a warrior."

"Good to see you pay attention," Tommy said. "What you're talking about you see in the top contenders, the kind of contenders you two are. You're not going to find it in the desperados and hard cases who go for the snuff matches. Stay the course you're on and you'll be up against the kind of opponents you're looking for soon enough."

"How soon?"

Tommy thought for a long moment. Not that he needed to—he had the rosters and spreads calculated at all times—but he wanted to remind the Clanner who was the authority in the room.

"Four months," he said, adding two to his estimate. "Five, tops."

"That is not soon enough," Yulri said. "I must test against the best Solaris VII has to offer now."

"It doesn't work that way," Tommy said, uncorking hothead legend-in-his-own-mind reality-check speech number one. "If you want to prove yourself in the arenas of Solaris—"

"I have no need to prove myself," Yulri answered. "It is the warriors of Solaris VII I must prove."

Tommy felt his jaw unhinge. Of all the damned Clan- ner arrogance—this took things to a new level. He turned to Jazz, wanting a witness to the overwhelming hubris, and got another shock. She was staring at the Clanner, too, but with eyes bright like the joker had just revealed some shining truth.

"You want to run that by me again?" Tommy asked, turning back to Yulri. "Slowly."

"I am trueborn Wolf, a MechWarrior," Yulri answered with some of the sincerest arrogance Tommy had ever seen. "I was a Star captain of the Steel Wolves before leaving them to come here."

Tommy's negotiator reflexes caught a note in the Clanner's voice, a slight deflation of the ego in that last phrase he couldn't quite place. He glanced at Jazz and was not surprised to see her still rapt.

"I was told this was a world of warriors," Yulri was saying. "But I find too many games players. I need to know there are true warriors to be found. That I have not . . . wasted myself ... in coming to Solaris."

With that he seemed finished. He sat, feet flat, hands on chair arms, and looked for all the world like he'd just stated the obvious.

"Let me see if I got this straight," Tommy said. "You don't need to prove yourself in the Solaris VII Games. Solaris VII needs to prove itself to you."

Yulri didn't twitch, which Tommy took as confirmation that he had it straight.

There you have it, folks. Clanner attitude in a nutshell.

"Then the answer's the same," he said. "Stay the course you're on and in four months you'll have earned your way into—" What was the Clan term? "The circle of warriors." Close enough.

"If that is the course I am on," Yulri answered, "then I did not choose wisely."

Tommy didn't say a word, giving the big man time to add two plus two.

"I am a MechWarrior," Yulri repeated his earlier claim. "Is the way to this circle of warriors quicker if I were to fight in a BattleMech?"

"Sure," Tommy answered. "Once you earn your way in. Which is impos—"

"Arrange a Trial of Position." Yulri cut him off.

"Say again?"

"A Trial of Position," Yulri repeated. "Against the champion of one of these stables of warriors."

"You mean an audition," Tommy answered. "Those alone aren't easy to come by."

"The local name is not important." Yulri dismissed the objection. "And I have come to respect your bargaining acumen."

"It will take time to arrange," Tommy said, rather than point out the foolishness of the Clanner's position. "In the meantime . . ."

"We shall continue as we are," Yulri agreed, rising.

"Jazz?" Tommy stopped the girl from following him out.

Murmuring something after the departing Clanner, she strolled back and took the neoleather wingback chair he'd left.

"No," she said.

"No what?" Tommy asked.

"No, I didn't know he was going to say that. No, I didn't know he was a MechWarrior." She counted the items off on her fingers. "No, I don't think losing him as a scrapper will ruin your dreams of the thirty-six championship. No, I am not really a MechWarrior, too."

She grinned, which—surprisingly—looked pretty. "Did I leave anything out?"

Tommy shook his head. He didn't want to spoil her fey mood, but he didn't see any way around it. She was a contender and he was her agent. She'd already had enough rocks thrown at her and, for both their sakes, he had a responsibility to warn her in time to dodge another.

"If I didn't know better," Tommy said, "I'd think you had more than just the hots for that Clanner."

"Trying to figure how to get twenty percent of that?"

"Nah. Just don't want to see a good meal ticket screw herself up."

Jazz looked at him with both her eyes. Hard. "Meaning what?"

"He's a Clanner," Tommy said as though that explained everything. "Trueborn. He got hatched from a bottle along with a dozen other copies."

"What the hell does that mean?" Now her eyes weren't just hard, they were mean.

Tommy adjusted his position, like that would help, and pressed on. "Those military types that bugged out on the Star League when things got tough needed raw labor when they set up their new worlds," Tommy said, knowing he was repeating common knowledge, but buying time, giving her a chance to see the setup. "They couldn't have done it naturally, even if they'd spent all their time rutting like rabbits."

"In vitro fertilization, artificial wombs," Jazz supplied. "Cut to the chase, Tommy."

"Even picking and choosing which sets of DNA got together, probability would have turned out a random mix of individuals, just like real people," Tommy said, careful not to rush. "Not the uniform uberrace they got. I don't care what they say about cloning being taboo or whatever. The only way that bunch of deserters became all those Clan supermen is finding some they liked and turning out clones in gross lots."

"And you are an expert on Clans how?" Jazz asked, her voice dangerously low.

Tommy flicked a glance at the portrait of his nieces to steady his nerves.

He knew it would take more than telling Jazz a truth she didn't want to hear to push Jazz over that edge. However, he could see some soft-tissue damage in his immediate future if he couldn't make her understand he was helping her.

"I'm here because my grandparents saw the way the wind was blowing," he said. "They got their daughter off Unzmarkt before Yulri-boy's Wolf Clan hit.

"They had people on Solaris VII and sent along what should have been enough money to take care of her. But Free Rasalhague scrip was worthless after the Clans finished with the Republic. And the people here weren't as good as they'd hoped.

"My mother grew up working the streets of SolarisCity." Tommy kept his voice level, letting the words work. "And she grew up an orphan because the Wolf Clanners slaughtered the Unzmarkt Free Rebels after they had surrendered.

"Not just the soldiers. They destroyed a dam, drowning thousands of civilians after they had won as an object lesson—to prevent further resistance."

Tommy was surprised by the bile in the back of his throat. He'd thought he was past this. He fought down the urge to spit on his rented carpet.

Jazz was watching him, holding very, very still. A lifetime of reading eyes and he wasn't sure what was in hers. Or what she saw in his.

"Yulri I can deal with," Tommy said when he trusted his voice. "He wasn't there in thirty-fifty—probably, with the way Clanners remember history, he doesn't even know about Unzmarkt. Plus, he's a good scrapper. But I never forget he's a Clanner, a clone, a biological automaton . . ."

He knew his shrug looked helpless. "If you're just enjoying the ride, fine," he said. "But don't you ever forget Clanners got no hearts, got no souls. When he gets tired of you . . ."

He looked away from her. There was some sort of bird he'd never noticed before hanging in the air, practically hovering, about twenty meters outside the office window.

"Just don't want one of my top players off her game," he said at last.

The bird was a sort of gray with rust brown. He'd probably seen a million in his life without noticing them. Who knew they could hover?

The neoleather of the wingback guest chair creaked. A few moments later the door to his office clicked gently shut.

Tommy sat for an uncounted while longer, watching the hovering bird as it hung, looking to him like it was searching for something vital. Finally it saw whatever it was looking for—or gave up—and dived from sight.

With a sigh, Tommy swiveled back to his desk. Not looking at his nieces, he pulled the comm unit to him and punched in a code from memory.

14

DropShip Diligence

Wasat System, former Prefecture VI

16 November 3135

"In eighteen we were recovering a Tramp-class Jumper off the Kyrkbacken nadir station," Yard Control Officer Tarnell Amiton's voice came over the bridge speakers. "The Largo. Some sort of explosion, I forget what, blew its sail assembly and sent it spinning out of the system."

Anson Monteith grinned and shook his head. The problem with skippering the Diligence was having to listen to Tar's endless stories about the adventures he'd had when she'd been his. The Octopus tug was just over a century old, but apparently its days of greatest glory had been the two decades Tar had either XO'ed or held down the hot seat.

Now he ran operations for the Wasat Yards. Less than a third of the sprawling complex of habitats and shipbuilding facilities—built during the Star League era- was in use. But that was five times as much as had been viable before Devlin Stone and The Republic's revitalization program.

Designed to save vessels in need of service the three- week round trip to planetary orbit, the yard hung a half a day "below" Wasat's zenith jump point and recharge station at one-gee boost-and-flip. Distant enough to be out of the way of traffic, but close enough to be efficient. The yard was now a cargo-handling hub for a half-dozen transport companies and—though shipbuilding was still at least a decade in the future—was well known for fast, quality JumpShip and DropShip repairs.

"Matching spins was a bear," Amiton said. "It was still venting gases and rotating on two axes, so yaw and tumble were flux . . ."

Helm Officer Nyota Liberdade turned her head just enough to catch Anson's eye. Her face, nearly as dark as the image of space on the viewscreen, was outlined in the multicolored glow of her control panel as she arched one eyebrow.

Anson grinned back at her. Gripping his tightly bound ponytail of dreadlocks he pantomimed pulling his own hair.

"Hold one, Yard," he said aloud. "We're closing on the maverick. We'll reopen this channel when we've got it under wraps."

He signaled the operations officer to cut the radio before his supervisor had time to point out capturing a wayward storage hold wasn't anywhere near as difficult as matching spins with a tumbling JumpShip. No doubt Amiton had often done this in his sleep.

Storage holds weren't exactly misnamed, though the label implied they were part of a larger vessel. Storage holds were free-floating containers designed to hold construction materials until they were needed or—in the case of this one—cargoes that had arrived too far ahead of the connection that would take them to their final destination.

With delays of a few days or even a week, the DropShip would wait, of course. But if the anticipated wait time stretched into weeks, it was cheaper all around to off-load the shipment. Even with stevedore fees, it cost a lot less than making the wait worth a Drop-Ship's while.

Occasionally storage holds were anchored, but the laws of physics were usually all that was needed to keep them handy. Parked outside the travel lanes, hundreds of them hung, motionless relative to the yard, waiting for pickup. Without some form of energy signal, free-floating metal objects were practically invisible, of course, but transponders made location simple. Most storage holds could be easily retrieved by service sleds with only a few of the big ones requiring the Diligence.

Only two things could go wrong with the system. A transponder could go dark, rendering the storage hold invisible to the yard's sensors, or a hold could pick up incidental motion and drift out of formation.

Both had happened in this case.

Late in the last shift a hold had abruptly changed position and begun tumbling toward Wasat. That had been a fairly easy capture, routine. Until they'd gotten a look at its hull damage. Something had struck it a glancing blow along one side; most likely another storage hold with a dark transponder.

Factoring the mass, course, and speed of the container they recovered, it was a simple matter to work out the amount of energy necessary to swat it out of position. What made finding the culprit tricky was guessing how much of that impact energy had come from the velocity of the interloper and how much from its mass.

Eyeballing the hull damage, Anson had gone with a big, slow-moving bogie. Keeping the search spiral tight, they'd found the maverick in a matter of hours. A hexagonal prism, sixty meters by twenty, it was tumbling languidly toward deep space.

Given that physical description, Amiton had given them a list of six storage holds lost over the last decade that it could have been. Yard insurance had long ago reimbursed all the parties involved, so whatever it contained was now salvage—property of the yard.

Which—according to their contract—meant twenty percent of whatever was left after the cost of damages to the contents of the other storage hold belonged to the officers and crew of the Diligence.

"Match rotation, helm," Anson ordered. "Close to grapple."

Nyota's long fingers keyed attitude thrusters—firing, feathering, adjusting sequence and fuel flow—until the cylinder tumbling against the field of stars became rock steady. Without gravity to alert their inner ears, only the pinwheeling of the distant stars told them the Diligence was now spiraling in perfect time with the tumbling container.

Nyota tapped the main drive, a single pulse. The storage hold grew gradually larger on the screen.

On most DropShips, the skipper did nothing firsthand. She or he made decisions and gave orders, relying on everyone else to carry them out. What Anson loved about the Octopus was the control panel he could choose to swing up from beside the command chair.

"Taking grapples," he informed Harrison at ops. A formality. The operations officer hadn't even bothered to activate his own grapple controls.

Nyota keyed a long burn on the nose thrusters, hard enough for Anson to feel a gentle pressure against his harness.

Anson activated arms one and five. Fingers feather light on the joysticks, he extended them as a pair, gripping two of the hold's hard points without fumble. Given its dimensions, two arms would be sufficient to secure the storage hold even if it were packed with solid lead. But Anson was master of a recovery tug because he knew when to take risks and when to play it safe. Locking the first pair in position, he brought arms three and seven online and repeated the maneuver.

Only when he had the cylinder in a grip that would have held a Union under thrust did he order Nyota to slow the rotation. She rode the attitude thrusters harder, compensating for the additional mass, and brought them to horizontal relative to the yard proper.

"What have we got, Johnny?" Anson asked.

The operations officer spun his chair to face the cargo board. Running a trickle of power through a contact in arm one to a receptacle built into the hard point, he brought the storage hold's transponder online.

"Zero one four four three six dash four four eight four dash three one two eight," he read aloud as he tapped the numbers into his terminal. There was a pause as the database rendered the storage hold's manifest. "Damn."

"Not four hundred and twenty-seven tons of uncut jewelry-grade diamonds?" Anson guessed.

"All the way from exotic Wasat," Harrison confirmed. "It's a load of Wasat Aggressor targeting systems. They had been bound for Andurien Aerospace seven years ago. Paid for, never collected, lost, then paid for again by yard insurance."

"Damn," Anson agreed.

"There goes my solar sailboat," Nyota said. "This year anyway."

Sale and transport of military materiel was closely regulated by The Republic. Which meant no public auction of this particular salvage.

Protocol was that any locally produced hardware they recovered had to be returned to the Wasat plant. Even hardware for which Wasat had already been paid. There would be a small finder's fee, of course, but not enough to make an appreciable bump in their annual incomes.

On the other hand, since they knew who had ordered it in the first place, it was possible, if they squinted at the regs just right, to offer the cargo to Andurien Aerospace. They had already been paid for the shipment lost seven years ago and—if they were still building whatever it was they'd wanted these for—they might be interested in buying these at a discount. Anson bet half price would still be an order of magnitude above the finder's fee.

Except—given what little he understood of the current political situation—getting in touch with them might be problematic.

There could be other markets out there. Almost certainly were, in fact. But that did them no good. He just didn't have the connections . . .

Anson sighed.

He didn't have the connections, but he knew who did. Their supervisor had been around for decades—back in the days when the Diligence had been armed and could go wherever the work took it. Before she'd been reduced to a glorified harbor tug for the Wasat Yard. It was possible Tarnell Amiton knew people—or knew people who knew people—who might be willing to pay a decent price for the load of specialized technology.

He'd had a vague hope that whatever they'd pulled out of the sky would have been rare enough or valuable enough to—finally—top one of Tar's stories. As it was, all they'd found was a white elephant. And he was going to need Tar's help to unload it.

He laid the situation as he saw it out to his bridge crew. Nods all around; their numbers matched his. By now the long comm silence had to have tipped the yard master something was up, but there was no incoming signal. He wasn't one to ask important questions over an open radio channel.

Johnny Harrison scrolled through the list of possible storage holds they'd been sent.

"Tall Trees triticale," he said, reading the screen. "Wheat. Lost nine years ago."

Anson nodded. Recovering nine-year-old wheat would not attract interest—except to make them the butt of a few jokes. And parking a can of wheat for the months— or years—it would take to find a market would not inspire any questions.

"Wheat it is," he said. "Make the report and find an out-of-the-way place in the grid to park it. Tar will know we need to talk after we dock."

"Assuming Old Tar finds some way to make some C- bills on this," Harrison said after shutting off communications again, "how many years do you figure we'll have to listen to the story of how he bailed us out?"

"Four years," Anson guessed.

"Ten," countered Nyota.

15

New DeLonStablesSolarisCity,

Solaris VII

Lyran Commonwealth

21 November 3135

"This is your champion?" Yulri demanded.

The youth, hardly a man, stood up straighter at Yulri's incredulous tone and regarded him down the length of a particularly narrow nose.

Yulri thought it was possible the angle of his chin was meant to imply disdain, but the net effect was to expose his thin neck for easy slaughter.

The broad man who had been speaking to Tommy Gunn near the door of the 'Mech hangar—the Industrial- Mech hangar, since there was not a true BattleMech in sight—chuckled deep in his throat.

Yulri knew the big man's name was Garnet , and that he was someone of significance at New DeLon Stables. Someone Tommy Gunn was going to great lengths to humor.

Garnet's features, his shoulders, even his arms and legs, seemed to have been stretched sideways, creating the illusion he was as broad as he was tall. But the man was not fat. Yulri recognized the physiognomy of someone raised on a heavy-gravity world. He suspected Garnet's bone and muscle density would rival an Elemental's.

"This is Parchez, young man with a future," said Tommy Gunn, indicating the youth who had abandoned his exposed-throat stance to meet Yulri's gaze more directly. "He earns his keep as a sparring partner for the pros. You look good against him, maybe you get one, too."

The Solarian spoke rapidly and with an inflection that implied familiarity, a combination Yulri found annoying. But he could not fault the assessment of Gunn as the best agent through whom to navigate the business side of Solaris VII.

Behind Tommy Gunn, Jazz shifted her weight to catch his eye, then pulled her interesting mouth into a straight line. Her impression of the testing procedure reflected his own.

Yulri flicked an eyelid in response.

Looking over the agent's head, he ran a practiced eye over the row of 'Mechs. None was in good repair. Battered and worn, they looked to serve no other purpose than to be targets for better machines.

Bringing his gaze down, he met Garnet's appraising eye, cold and level. His next words would not surprise the heavy-worlder.

"If I am not to fight a true Warrior in a BattleMech," he told Tommy Gunn, "being here serves no purpose."

His agent looked to the DeLon Stables man and raised his eyebrows and shoulders while spreading his hands at waist level.

Unschooled in Solarian culture, Yulri was still able to understand that the overdrawn "what can you do?" body posture was meant to convey both an apology and a question. He recognized that the little man's eloquence in communicating in such gestures was one of the skills that made Tommy Gunn an effective agent.

Garnet was equally nonverbal. He shook his head.

Yulri turned on his heel and strode from the hangar.

* * *

"That was the stupidest maneuver I have ever seen," Tommy said. "You managed to blow your best shot at getting out of the scrapper league and dent my credibility in one fell swoop."

Jazz said nothing. Walking a half step behind the two men, flanking them, she kept her own council. She wished Tommy had kept his. Knowing what he felt, what he kept hidden while dealing with Yulri, colored the way she heard everything he said. On the other hand, knowing how he felt and seeing how he looked out for them . . .

"Defeating an unbloodied child in an IndustrialMech proves nothing," Yulri said.

"It proves you know what you're doing," Tommy said. "It proves an employer can count on you to stick with a program and turn him a profit."

At the limousine Tommy's driver Clarence stood by the rear door, holding it open as the three climbed in.

Jazz stopped before entering, taking a moment to scan their surroundings. New DeLon security right where they should be, with at least one she couldn't see for every two she spotted. They were a sharp outfit.

She knew Yulri did the same sort of scan without being obvious about it. So did she, for that matter. The point was letting the other guy know you were watching and know you knew they were watching you watch.

And I'm not even security. She felt the left side of her mouth twist in a wry grin. She knew from weeks alone with the mirror this gave her mouth a disconcerting sideways S turn. When did my whole life become a scrapper match?

"You screwed up any chance you had of being taken seriously," Tommy was saying as she took her seat facing back toward the two men. "You can't tell from most MechWarriors, but you don't get into Valhalla just by being arrogant. You earn it.

"New DeLon is not going to invite you back," he added. "Unless you two want to come in on their infantry team."

Jazz shook her head. Tommy knew that wasn't her style, smaller cog in a big machine. When they went to company-level competition, she planned on leading her own company. If. She liked squad-level action. She and

Yulri had to get serious about recruiting some long-term talent. It was too late for this year, but she could see them taking the '36 trophy easy.

"I wish to defeat their champion pilot," Yulri was saying. "In a BattleMech."

"First of all . . ." began Tommy and stopped. "No, before first of all: why them? Why New DeLon Stables?"

"Because they answered your batchall."

"I didn't make a batch call, you Clanner, I made a comm call." Tommy sounded exasperated. "And I called them because—I don't know why I called them. They were just first on the list."

Jazz read that as a lie, but she was too interested in seeing what Yulri was up to to sidetrack the conversation with questions.

"Back to first of all," Tommy said. "You didn't show them anything today that was worth seeing. Certainly nothing to make them think you're worth Jordan's time."

"Jordan is their champion?"

"The top jockey in their stable, yeah," Tommy said. "Used to be a client of mine, but he's got a short memory."

For the second time in ten seconds, Jazz bit her tongue. Now was not the moment to get into short memories and agent-client loyalty.

"Then I shall defeat Jordan."

"You're listening like a Clanner," Tommy said. "Which is not. There ain't going to be a trial because they ain't going to let you in one of their BattleMechs."

"Then I shall use my own."

"Right," Tommy said, drawing that one word out longer than he did most sentences. "You are going to have to do a lot better than you've been doing—

"No. Strike that," Tommy corrected himself. "You've got to keep doing as good as you've been doing, only three times a day, and for bigger purses, for about a year and a half before you can afford a BattleMech. Stick with what you know and leave the dreaming to me."

Jazz went on alert.

Nothing changed about the way Yulri was sitting. But everything changed. His face had gone from pleasantly noncommittal to dangerously blank without twitching a muscle.

The agent prattled on about something, unaware the big man beside him had just gotten cold-killer angry. One backhand move and the edge of Yulri's hand would be driving fragments of sinus bone through Tommy's brain before Jazz could stop him.

Not that she cared that much about Tommy. She just hated the idea of losing her best partner ever to murder charges.

As quickly as it had hit, the mood was gone. Yulri was once again Yulri, listening with polite detachment as Tommy spun some tale of finance and market positioning.

"Order Clarence to drive us to the DropPort," Yulri said, cutting across Tommy midsentence.

"What?"

"The DropPort," Yulri repeated. "Have Clarence drive us to the transient BattleMech storage hangars."

"Why?"

"Because he is your man," Yulri said. "It is not my place to give him orders."

"I meant," Tommy said, giving Jazz a "do you believe this?" roll of the eyes. "Why should we go to the BattleMech hangars at the DropPort?"

"You stated that you did not believe I own a BattleMech and thus would not arrange my Trial of Position with Jordan, champion of New DeLon Stables," Yulri said with the air of one restating the obvious. "I will show you my BattleMech. Then you will arrange the trial."

16

DropShip Roofvogel

Ululani Orbit, Rochelle

Former Prefecture VIII

22 November 3135

Star Colonel Xera did not attach the Clan name Wolf to her own. Nor did she permit those under her command to do so. Not that she did not revere the name Wolf—quite the opposite. But her Bloodname was Ch'in and until she earned the right to bear it she would take no other that might distract her from that goal.

She took her commitment to being Wolf more than seriously—it was her heart. Her commitment to protect all things Wolf had given her little choice but to attach her command to Varnoff Fetladral and the band he now called the Steel Wolves.

It had not been her intention to ally her aerospace warriors with Varnoffs forces. In truth, his Steel Wolves were over half of the original—the Steel Wolves of five months ago. A strong cluster of Mech Warriors, but with few support personnel, insufficient armor, few infantry. And no aerospace.

She did not believe Varnoff was the best fit to lead, but she lacked the power base or the position to challenge. And she lacked the heart to abandon the Steel Wolves. So she had done what she could for the greater good of Wolf: She had attached her aerospace command—pilots and ship's crews who had followed her—to Varnoff's MechWarriors.

Now she sat in the Aerospace Command station on the bridge of the Titan-class Roofvogel as it hung in the shadow of Rochelle's largest moon, coordinating two Stars of her cluster as they supported Varnoff's latest conquest. Watching, actually. Her warriors knew their work.

Rochelle was another world of tech and materiel raided to make up for the supplies Varnoff had neglected to secure on Galatea.

And the personnel he'd neglected to woo. One benefit of Anastasia Kerensky's egalitarian reforms had been the devotion of the lower castes.

At the zenith jump point the Gier and Cazador—two Merchant-class JumpShips of her personal touman—held station in loose formation with the Steel Wolf fleet. The Havik, the Carrier that transported her command Star, and the Miraborg-class Hibou were both docked to the Cazador.

"Star Colonel," reported Star Commander Tally, "planetary defenses have been stripped from the sky."

Xera glanced at the chronometer. Twenty minutes from orbital drop to sole possession of the sky. A fair performance.

"Well done," she said. "Return."

"Star Colonel." Tally's voice was troubled. "Galaxy Commander Fetladral is ordering us to make a strafing run."

"Get me Varnoff Fetladral," Xera snapped at the communications officer. To the Star commander she said: "What target is he requesting?" She bore down on the verb.

"Mining and transport infrastructure," Tally replied. "Rail juncture."

"Not military?"

"Neg, Star Colonel."

"Communications reports Galaxy commander is in battle on the surface and cannot respond to personal messages," the Roofvogel's communications officer reported.

Xera glared in his direction and saw the technician braced for her verbal onslaught. Her fight was not with him.

Rochelle was a blasted hulk of a world—half its land- mass a radioactive wasteland from wars waged centuries ago. What benefit could there be in destroying what little infrastructure the people had managed to rebuild?

"Star Commander Tally, Star Commander Roche," she said into the aerospace command frequency, "Shut off ground-communication channels. Return to Roofvogel. Weapons free to return fire only."

"Aff" and "Aff"—both sounding relieved.

Xera rotated her webbed chair to face the DropShip's Star captain.

"Star Captain Goddard," she said. "When the aerospace fighters are secure, set course to the jump point."

"Are we—" Goddard broke off. Then continued: "Are we leaving the Steel Wolves?"

Words unthinkable five months before. An unthinkable thought Anastasia Kerensky had made thinkable— had made a consequence every commander now had to consider.

"Neg," she said. "You will redock with the Gier and we will await the return of the rest of the conquest force.

"There is nothing more for us to do here, but our duty—our calling—remains."

17

Overlord Stables

Solaris City, Solaris VII

Lyran Commonwealth

24 November 3135

Jazz had never realized 'Mech battles smelled.

She'd seen 'Mechs in combat before; this was Solaris VII. Even though she was immune to whatever it was that transfixed the tourists, media-hyped images of man- made lightning and swarming missiles had been part of the backdrop of her life ever since she could remember.

But she had never been this close to a BattleMech firefight, standing behind the low wall surrounding a practice pit as two of the war machines had at each other less than forty meters away.

The noises she'd expected, of course: the electric crackle of the particle projector cannon and the pop of displaced air as lasers burned their way to target had been accurately replicated on holovids for generations. And the explosions battering her earplugs, the gush of missiles and the rattling roar of autocannon, weren't much different from infantry combat once you factored in scale.

But no one had mentioned the frisson of thunderstorm ozone that rolled over her like a wave when the PPC discharged. Or the sickly sweet stench of whatever that green-gray mist was spraying from the man-shaped 'Mech's shoulder. The tang of chemicals—gunpowder and missile fuel—was mixed with an overheated-frying- pan smell she assumed was hot armor.

She stole a glance at Tommy, practically lounging next to—McAllister?—the Overlord Stables assistant manager. In fact, both of them looked relaxed, their body language testifying to absolute trust in the mesh-covered grid of charged cables that was supposed to keep them safe from the hellacious weapons fire in the pit. Jazz disguised her own opinion of the gossamer curtain by resting both elbows on the chest-high wall and propping her chin on a fist.

Jazz had never been touch-the-metal close to a Battle- Mech until Yulri had stalked his out of the darkness of the hangar to stand nose to nose with Tommy's limo. Tommy's dark brown face had taken on a dirty dishwater tinge as he'd stared up at the thing. She knew because she'd looked to see if he saw the monster, too, when it stepped into the sunlight.

Clarence, bless him, had his hand halfway to his shoulder holster before he came to himself.

Yulri's BattleMech was a good eight meters tall, maybe nine, and at least a dozen broad. The body was flat, like a crab, but with a forward-thrust head. Two heavy arms hung down and out with a dozen very deadly muzzles held low and aimed straight ahead, as though the 'Mech was about to shoot from the hip.

"Black Hawk," Tommy had said at last. "The crazy Clanner is playing scrapper and he's got a Black Hawk."

"That's good," she'd said, like she understood what he was going on about. The thing was honking huge was all she knew for sure.

Tommy had looked at her like she was crazy, then seemed to realize who he was talking to.

"If he can pilot that thing the way he scraps, that 'Mech could take him to the championship," he'd said. He'd followed this up with some convoluted prattle on weapons load outs and pod space that she had followed not at all.

Jazz couldn't see Yulri through the glare on the canopy, but she didn't have to. The machine stood like Yulri. Not that his arms hung like that. But there was an attitude to the thing; you could tell the man and machine fit together. Or maybe she was just letting her schoolgirl crush romanticize her vision.

Once he'd shaken off the initial shock—and earned himself a deadly glare by requiring Yulri to prove he had full control of the machine and wasn't just walking the BattleMech in maintenance-tech mode—Tommy got on the comm.

Jazz had made slow circuits of the machine, checking out everything she could see from ground level. Demolition wasn't her long suit and she'd never considered taking down a 'Mech before, but by her second time around she had spotted a couple of joints that might be vulnerable. On her third orbit she'd discovered what had to be a tech access port disguised as another plate of armor.

She'd felt eyes on her. Yulri was watching her, knowing what she was doing, knowing what she'd found, and approving. Her hunter's grin was answered with a micro- millimeter smile and a half nod.

By the time Tommy was off the comm, she'd sauntered back over to stand at Yulri's elbow.

Tommy told them he'd bypassed New DeLon and set Yulri up with a good middle-of-the-pack medium-'Mech jockey at Overlord. Said she'd be a good test of Yulri's bona fides.

Yulri hadn't liked that. The two had gone around in circles about it a few times before Tommy finally laid out that Yulri could either trust he knew what he was doing or find a new agent. Yulri had said that was well bargained and shut up.

Then Tommy had made sure Yulri understood it was not a Trial of Position—he wasn't going to take anyone's job if he won. Yulri said he understood, but kept calling it a Trial of Position anyway.

Jazz guessed "audition" wasn't in the Clanner dictionary.

Now, a week later, she was staring down into a pit and trying not to flinch while Yulri in his Black Hawk traded fire with a . . . she couldn't remember what it was called. It was taller than the Black Hawk, shaped more like a man. with only two lasers to Yulri's twelve, but a missile launcher and PPC seemed to more than make up for it. At least they were hitting at ranges the lasers couldn't seem to match.

The Overlord pit was twice as large as New DeLon's, with stone and metal barricades the 'Mechs couldn't see over. Which was good for Yulri since the other 'Mech's missiles and PPC had more range than his medium lasers. He was having to do a lot of dodging and maneuvering to get his shots in.

A wave of heat rose out of the pit, parching Jazz's throat as the two machines traded fire. She hoped they'd move to the far end of the pit while she still had eyebrows. The beams of Yulri's lasers, already ghostly in the sunlight, were almost washed out by the blue lightning of the PPC.

"Look how he's leading, letting the lock float," Tommy was saying to Mc-whatever. "Lets him change up fast, catch any dodges."

The Overlord Stables assistant manager made a noncommittal sound. Jazz couldn't tell if she was agreeing with Tommy or thought he was an idiot. She was watching like Jazz was, taking in every move. The difference was that she knew what she was looking at while the whole thing looked random to Jazz.

One thing Jazz knew for sure: Strutting across a battlefield atop a giant weapons platform may be the glamour job of warfare, but unless you could see your enemy's eyes, feel his breath on your face, you weren't really fighting.

At least these were medium 'Mechs. There was some science and skill involved in how they went at each other. Not just the toe-to-toe slugfests of the assault 'Mechs. Those were just tests of how well the BattleMech's technical crew had prepared it for the pounding. The guy bolting down the armor had as much to do with the win as the jockey pulling the trigger. Or pressing the button, or however the jockeys made the big guns go boom.

One of Yulri's arms looked bad; it jerked back and forth and only two of its lasers fired. If he was going for the win, he'd better do something fast.

Almost in response to her thought. Yulri swung his

Black Hawk out from behind a barricade in a bow- legged pivot that brought it nose to nose with the other 'Mech. If his opponent was surprised by the move, it didn't show. Missiles were streaking from the man- shaped 'Mech's chest before Yulri's foot was properly planted.

"Hot loaded!" Tommy exclaimed, losing his cool as Yulri took all five missiles from the Overlord 'Mech's rack.

Still covered in flame and smoke, Yulri fired all his lasers in answer—the nine that were working—focused on the other 'Mech's left knee. The beams seemed to hold for long seconds, which Jazz thought had to be a trick of her own perceptions. There was a staccato rattle of falling fragments of superheated armor, then a loud pop. With a long creak, like God's own gate swinging in the wind, the Overlord BattleMech's knee bent backward. With majestic solemnity, the huge machine collapsed, kicking up a great billow of dust that reached Jazz and the others at the wall above.

"What do you think?" Tommy asked as they watched the techs help the Overlord pilot from his fallen machine.

Mc—Astor, that was it—nodded her head thoughtfully.

"I'll have to see a few more matches to see if that was nerve and timing there at the end, or bravado and luck," she said. "But there was some solid work there."

"He's got skills," Tommy agreed. "And battlefield experience."

Jazz would have added that Yulri had been a Star captain with the Steel Wolves, but she left it. Maybe emphasizing Yulri's Clan heritage wasn't the best idea marketingwise. She had no idea how many people shared Tommy's attitude. On the other hand, it was pretty clear he was Clan and all things considered, making it clear he was Wolf and not Jade Falcon might be a good idea.

On the third hand, Tommy understood negotiation and she was having trouble getting her earplugs out. Better let the one who looked like he knew what he was doing do the job.

Yulri's head appeared at the top of the wall. Just like him to ignore the elevator twenty meters away and climb the service ladder up from the pit floor. He levered his body over the wall as easily as though he'd been standing on flat ground instead of at the top of a six-story climb.

Jazz admired the glint of sunlight off the sweat along his biceps and the way the soaked ringlets of black hair framed his brown-green eyes. Mech Warriors fresh from combat looked delicious. As long as you were upwind. Keeping her distance, she consoled herself with the sure knowledge that he'd appreciate some help with his shower.

McAstor shook Yulri's hand, making some comment he accepted with a solemn nod. A compliment he agreed with, then.

The three headed for Clarence and the limo. Jazz in her usual flanking position.

"Pretty work in there," Tommy said. "Played Wallace nicely."

"She was a competent MechWarrior." Yulri pronounced. "She fought as one accustomed to battle."

"She's a vet," Tommy confirmed with the same lack of detail he'd given McAstor. "That's why I teamed you up with her."

"She is their champion?"

"Where do you get this champion stuff?" Tommy asked. "Even I know that's not Clan talk. You sound like one of those cheesy action holovids. . . . You didn't watch those as a kid, did you?"

"No."

Tommy let the matter drop until they were all in the limo. The fans of the usually silent air conditioner kicked up to audible levels as it scrubbed the air in the little cabin.

"Wallace is a competent midlist performer with a solid reputation," Tommy said. "Not a headliner—which is what I think you mean when you say champion—but she's no slouch. Made you work for the win, didn't she?"

Yulri didn't answer, simply waiting for Tommy to complete his explanation.

"When I saw your Black Hawk I knew sparring with an intern was out," Tommy went on. "But there was no point in putting you up against a headliner or a serious contender, either."

Yulri continued to sit.

"Don't you want to know why?" Tommy prompted.

"Why?" Yulri asked.

"Because if a top contender beat you, it would prove nothing because that's what top contenders do," Tommy said. "And if you beat a top contender you would throw the entire betting structure of the thirty-five championship into a tailspin and give the money people nothing they could use."

"Ah," Jazz said despite herself. That was a side of the coin she hadn't considered. And one she should have, considering how figuring odds was a big part of how she earned her living.

Tommy nodded at her, acknowledging her enlightenment.

"But fighting Wallace, whether you won or lost," Tommy went on, "would give a good measure of what you had without upsetting any applecarts."

Yulri frowned slightly and nodded. Jazz's translation: He didn't know what an applecart was but he understood the intent of the metaphor.

Until she'd met Yulri she'd never imagined how much fun Clan-watching could be.

"Word about your show back there will be out by this time tomorrow," Tommy was saying. "If it's not already."

Jazz was willing to bet Tommy would be part of being sure the word got out.

"We can expect a solid offer from Overlord before your 'Mech is repaired." Tommy nodded. "But don't go with it. Let the other stables get some bids in. Maybe arrange another of your trials—"

"No."

Tommy sighed. "Being an independent scrapper is one thing," he said, a beat quicker at deciphering the syllable than Jazz. "Being an independent MechWarrior requires deeper pockets than you've got and more outlay than I can afford."

"I will no longer go to others," Yulri said. "It is inefficient and time-consuming. Others will need to come to me."

"I hope you mean sit back and wait for stables to come with job offers," Tommy said. "But I'll bet you're about to disappoint me."

"Other MechWarriors," Yulri said as though it were obvious. "Other warriors such as Jazz. The true warriors on Solaris VII should come to us."

"You want to start a stable," Tommy said. It wasn't a question.

"No." Yulri frowned. "A band."

"A band?"

"Co-op," Jazz said, catching sight of what Yulri was driving at. "He wants to start a co-op. Bring warriors together as partners."

"Oy vey." Tommy shook his head. "Just so we're clear: This isn't the part where you make us drive to a vault so you can show us you've got millions of kroner, is it?"

Yulri shook his head.

"Then, if you know supporting a single solo MechWarrior is prohibitively expensive," Tommy said, "how do you plan on paying for your very own co-op?"

"I have come to respect your bargaining acumen."

18

Bunker City, Geir

Laiaka, former Prefecture VIII

28 November 3135

Nikola Demos strode the length of the sunlit corridor, aware of Star Captains Rhodan and Taylor flanking her and the shut double doors ahead of her. A corridor nearly a kilometer underground had no business being filled with what her eyes insisted was daylight. But she wasn't going to stop and study the ceiling to figure out how the effect was managed. Any more than she was going to stoop and examine the gray floor that looked like stone, felt like stone beneath her boots, yet soundlessly absorbed her footsteps. Having her own breath be the loudest sound when marching seemed alien, reminded her of her few experiences in vacuum suits. If she'd worn leather at least she'd have creaked.

The two Laiaka Planetary Militia guards flanking the double doors at the end of the corridor should have appeared comic in their chrome yellow uniforms. But there was a solid professionalism in the way they assessed the approaching trio of tankers. And their ported flechette rifles would have reduced Nikola and her Star captains to three hundred kilos of hamburger in a matter of seconds.

The doors, three meters tall and a half dozen wide, parted automatically at their approach, swinging silently away and opening into a sun-filled chamber that seemed too large to be an office and too small to be a public audience hall. Directly opposite the door was a crescent table behind which sat two central figures and perhaps a half dozen aides.

Here at least Nikola could see the ersatz sunlight came through airy arches lining the sides of the room.

"You misrepresented yourself, Colonel," said the figure left of center.

Jayson Zeander, Nikola guessed, governor of Laiaka. That would make the imposing—and immense—woman to his left Planetary Legate Leigh Bahram. Now that she was noticing, she realized the aides to Zeander's right were clad in lighter shades of his yellow, slight variations of the guard's uniforms.

Not uniforms. Those are decorated hazmat suits.

That made perfect sense, given Laiaka's toxic atmosphere. As did the fabric-shredding fiechette guns of the guards. The psychological deterrent probably ensured firing them was almost never necessary.

Bahram and her apparent staff wore more varied— and nonprotective—dress.

Natives and civil servants rotated in. Got it.

She wondered for a moment that the legate seemed to still hold at least equal power with the governor. She imagined a lot of worlds were going through pretty fundamental readjustments in authority in the weeks since the Republic of the Sphere had imploded.

Two more steps and she reached the focus of the crescent's arc. Holes in the floor indicated a second crescent table—the other half of a hollow oval—had been removed. They were meant to stand—employees, not equals.

"I am Star Colonel Nikola Demos of the Steel Wolf Corps," she introduced herself as though the governor hadn't spoken. "These are Star Captains Rhodan and Taylor. You entered into a contract with us to remove a problem."

"We entered into a contract with the Steel Wolves," the governor countered. "You are not the Steel Wolves."

"As we explained to your representative on Galatea, your information was out of date. The Steel Wolves as a mercenary unit do not exist," Nikola answered calmly. This confrontation had been anticipated. "The Steel Wolf Corps is a mixed cluster of armor with infantry support. We bid to fulfill the contract and you accepted."

For a long moment the governor seemed frozen, simply looking at Nikola.

"Interestingly enough. Star Colonel," Legate Bahram spoke for the first time, "the governor and I were having a very similar conversation just before you arrived."

Her breathy, melodious soprano contrasted incongruously with her immense size. Distracted by the alien obesity, Nikola wondered if the legate could move unassisted.

"You did indeed represent yourself and your assets accurately," Bahram was saying. "Jayson made the mistake of assuming you were engaging in the little- understood Clan practice of offering minimum resources. He anticipated that you would realize the situation required BattleMechs and Elementals once you arrived. The fact that you have neither of these—assets?—has come as a surprise to him. This despite your complete clarity on the issue from the outset."

Nikola didn't bother to explain that this misconception on the governor's part had been clear from his communications. Beyond restating the nature of the Steel Wolf Corps a second time, she had made no concerted effort to disabuse him. In her assessment, the situation on Lai- aka was well within the capabilities of the Steel Wolf Corps and did not require the trinary of assault 'Mechs Zeander seemed to imagine.

Which would be the next hurdle.

"Perhaps a good faith error was made," Zeander said on cue. "We will of course reimburse your transportation expenses. An honorarium—a small honorarium—to compensate you for your lost time would not be out of the question."

"With all due respect. Governor," Nikola said, "time is not something you have in abundance. You have a problem. The Steel Wolf Corps is the solution."

Neither administrator looked particularly impressed.

"The surface of Laiaka is toxic," Zeander pointed out. "Tanks are not vaportight. Nor are they able to maneuver in the tunnels. We need BattleMechs and Elementals in full armor. How do you imagine you can be of any use to us?"

"Pirates have taken Yaleston and its DropPort," Nikola said, summarizing the tactical situation as laid out in the contract offer. "They are effectively gutting your export reserves of refined metals and rare earths for the next decade. The pirates evidently have several DropShips and at least one JumpShip, but not many because the process has been going on for weeks.

"What's left of the prefecture cannot respond. They can no longer draw on The Republic's resources and Clan Jade Falcon has taken the opportunity to seize territory."

For a moment she wondered if the pirate issue was an excuse to import mercenaries to protect Laiaka from the Jade Falcons, but dismissed the idea. Even the thickest Spheroid knew using Wolves of any stripe as defenders would be a lightning rod for Jade Falcon assault forces.

"Further, you suspect political collusions and have a short list of neighboring worlds you think might be behind the piracy," she said. "These are not our concern."

Zeander opened his mouth to speak, but Bahram laid a hand on his wrist. The easy familiarity of the gesture almost threw Nikola off her prepared summation. What else can she do unassisted?

"Yaleston is built in a series of natural caverns and mined tunnels with a large dome covering the crater opening of the original gas vent. Though there are portals in the dome, main access to the city is through the global tunnel network," she said, establishing she had given the matter thought. "The DropPort and the underground warehouses can be easily reached through that same network, but a series of locks between the field and Yaleston make taking the city by that route problematic.

"Everything in Yaleston, from the dome air locks to the cradle clamps holding the DropShips to the blast pads to water circulation, is controlled through a central control complex in the third cavern," she finished. "Direct assault on it from any direction is considered impossible."

" 'Considered impossible'," Bahram quoted. "You speak as one who has a plan."

"Indeed," Nikola agreed. Eyeing the protective garb of the natives, she adjusted the timeline she'd devised on the journey to Laiaka. "Give us seven weeks to prepare—about the time of a round-trip journey to find someone new on Galatea—and we will give you Yaleston."

19

Solaris City, Solaris VII

Lyran Commonwealth

2 December 3135

She did not know what kind of hit her viz gave. Or maybe she did. Beauty and the beast rolled into one.

If she got an eye patch she'd have a perfect disguise. Cover her right eye and folks would remember the killer babe with the wide-eyed hazel gaze you could dive into and swim around. Switch it to cover her left, and everyone would shy away from the hag with the Quasimodo glare.

And that cyclops chest . . . Well, the Clanner didn't seem to mind. Guess it cut down on decisions.

They made a weird couple any way you looked at it.

Tommy pulled his head back into the office in time to catch Fox finishing up something about wanting only the best fighters in his stable. Tommy nodded as though this were a wise observation. Like anybody ever started out "I want to build my stables out of the worst screwups in the games."

Simien Fox dominated the office. No mean feat with the view it commanded; across the river the Montenegro district of Solaris City was spread like a topomap. On the other hand, there was nothing personal in the office.

The excellent furniture and fair-to-middling incidental pieces passing for art had been provided by the same designers who'd decorated the penthouse suite. Fox had occupied the north half of the Vladivostok's top floor for the last five months and added absolutely nothing personal.

Important pitch-spinning intel Tommy filed for later use.

The man himself looked like a warrior from days gone by. Or a warrior whose days had gone by. Tall, with perfect posture, broad shoulders, and skin maybe a shade lighter than Tommy's weathered by a lifetime out of doors. Tommy bet if he could talk Fox out of his shirt, he'd find washboard abs.

More than the physical, Fox's attitude shouted military. No nonsense, dead-level stare, speech clipped and formal, very exact phrasing. None of the creases in his face were laugh lines.

Fox kept using the singular when speaking of his stable, like the old days when the big stables only fielded 'Mechs. Now major stables had a 'Mech stable, an infantry/scrapper stable, tanks, and even aerospace. But Tommy had long advised Fox off kites and cans. Two basic stables—easy-to-maintain infantry for the bread and butter and pricey-but-high-dividend 'Mechs for the steaks and glory—that was the way to begin.

Fox was still playing it cagey about how much he had to invest. The good news was it wasn't in stones. Money from all over the Sphere circulated on Solaris VII; the economy was based on international spending. A lot of tourists had been stranded and not a few personal fortunes gutted when the gaming commission had ruled Republic of the Sphere stones were no longer legal tender.

But whatever Fox had, he seemed in no hurry to part with any of it. Which was why most agents and packagers had given up on him months ago. Tommy had stayed in touch; you didn't let a potential investor of that magnitude become a stranger.

But until Yulri had come up with his cockeyed plan to start a co-op, Tommy hadn't known what to do with Fox or his potential coffers of kroner. The old man wanted into the Solaris VII stable system on the cheap and the kid wanted to start a co-op with no front money. Why not put the two together? As far as Tommy knew, there had never been a co-op stable partnership—he wasn't even sure how the legalities involved would work out—but it was the perfect route to all their happy endings.

What happened here today could be huge; this could make his career a hundred times over. Or it could end with watching Fox ship out steerage and a lifetime of business horror stories to trade for drinks. Which way it went—or even if it went at all—would depend on his getting all the parties happily married. And right now the groom was making unhappy sounds.

"I am concerned about a fighter who has so obviously suffered defeat," Fox ended, looking at Jazz.

"Defeat?" Tommy said before Jazz opened her mouth. "You're kidding."

Fox turned his unsettling gaze back to Tommy.

The agent held the level stare. Fox might have been some kind of warrior back in his day, but the negotiating table was Tommy's arena and this was still his day.

"They were armed, she wasn't," he said, "But she's here and they aren't."

Tommy leaned forward, fingertip tapping the table once for emphasis.

"When Jazz has her game on," he said, man-to-man, "Satan calls for backup. She's the best investment you're going to make here."

Fox raised an incredulous eyebrow and looked back to Jazz.

The little minx was lounging in the straight-backed chair, looking relaxed. If you didn't noticed how her legs were placed. No tension, but Tommy knew that if anyone snatched the chair out from under her she wouldn't shift a centimeter. Her placid beauty/beast gaze met Fox's hard stare without a flicker.

Fox's eyes broke away first, but only to rake the length of her body and come back to her eyes. There was—maybe—a tenth of a degree melt, which told Tommy he'd registered her covert battle readiness.

The girl's got skills.

Breaking the lock a second time, Fox looked to Yulri.

Tommy couldn't see his eyes from this angle, but the Clanner nodded as though answering a question.

Apparently that was good enough for Fox.

Must be a warrior-to-warrior thing, Tommy thought. Brothers in arms and all that. Even if one of them was a Clanner.

When Fox turned back to him, Tommy was ready with a cocked eyebrow of his own, letting the investor know the ball was in his court.

"What are the specifics of your proposal?" Fox asked.

* * *

"Satan calls for backup?" Jazz laughed, a carefree girlish jingle Tommy would never have imagined. "God, Tommy, if I'd had a beer it would have come out my nose."

"I call 'em like I see 'em, kid."

"Hell with that." She waved her hand dismissively. "You say whatever you think will close the deal."

"Which you think is an insult." Tommy leaned back in the cushioned seat of the rented limo. "But it's just a question of knowing which tool will get the job done."

"But lay it on that thick?" She snorted again at the memory. "I'm surprised Fox went for it."

"Simien Fox is not a subtle man," Tommy said. "With all that military discipline and reserved, controlled look he puts on, he likes things bold and straight. Try to be subtle or play it low-key and he thinks you ain't got the balls to back it up."

"Technically—"

"Yours are titanium, kid," Tommy cut her off.

"Tommy is correct in his assessment," Yulri spoke for the first time. In his formal Clanner mode, which tipped Tommy he'd been giving the matter a lot of thought.

"You're trusting Tommy's assessment of my balls?"

"His assessment of Simien Fox," Yulri said as though Jazz had asked a reasonable question. "He bargained well. Our bid will be accepted."

Tommy nodded. He didn't know the Clanner's reasoning, but his conclusion matched Tommy's read on the table.

Next step would be location, location, location. And he had a couple of spots in mind—in the price range

Fox probably had to invest—for establishing the stables. Stable, to use Fox's singular. Had a couple options in higher and lower brackets as backup, in case Fox surprised him, too. But all things considered, that wasn't likely.

20

JumpShip Kure Beach

Shiloh nadir jump point

Former Prefecture VIII

6 December 3135

Mako DuBois paused in the companionway outside the paladin's cabin.

He thought he'd heard a shout, but that should have been impossible through the metal bulkhead. Perhaps the sound had come from somewhere ahead or behind, but it had sounded muffled, not echoing.

He stood, the deceleration thrust holding him to the deck at a comfortable two-thirds of his normal weight, and looked both ways. The muffled shout was not repeated. Beyond the sigh of circulating air and the normal collection of mechanical noises, the corridor was silent.

Mako shrugged mentally, and rapped on the frame of the bulkhead—remembering to use his ring instead of his bare knuckle this time.

"Enter." The paladin's voice sounded from the speaker by the door.

Mako crossed the threshold, then stopped.

Paladin Marik stood in the center of the small cabin with a noteputer in one hand and the back of his neck in the other. Chin on chest, his widely spaced eyes blazed at Mako through thick eyebrows. His hair looked as though he'd been pulling it. Or at least scrubbing his scalp.

"Bad news, sir?"

"Yes. No. Damn it," the paladin answered. "A family issue."

Mako blinked.

"My brother has made a rash decision, taken a course I think unwise." Marik said. He leaned his head back against the pressure of his hand on his neck and mustered a wry smile. "There is nothing amiss with Operation Fair Play. We may proceed on schedule."

"That is good, sir," Mako said. "I came to inform you we were about to make jump to the Phecda system pirate point. We will arrive on the ecliptic, about three days' travel from Phecda."

"You make it sound routine."

"It's fifty-two days from Phecda system jump points to the planet." Mako smiled. "Orbits and intervals for most stable pirate points have been pretty thoroughly- documented over the last four hundred years."

"I can imagine." Paladin Marik looked around his Spartan quarters. "You may inform the captain that I am as rigged for jump as I'll ever be.

"Operation Fair Play can launch at his command."

Kentwood, Irian

Former Prefecture VII

Brigadier General Antonio Blatz had stopped using his Dragon's Fury rank of Chu-sa when he assumed command of the Irian Defense Force. First, the Draconis title tended to confuse members of IrTech Security and the Irian Planetary Militia under his command. Second, it translated directly to "lieutenant colonel," which meant the ranking officers of the two local forces—now seated as far from each other as possible at the oval situation table in his large, utilitarian office—were his superiors.

He had performed a similar adjustment in "standardizing" the ranks of all his former people. Raising them a grade, in some exceptional cases two; giving the former members of the Dragon's Fury Brotherhood regiment on Irian every advantage he could in this new order.

For they were all former members of the Dragon's Fury. There was no point in pretending Katana Tormark or even Ichiyo Rusch—who had trained him, had pronounced him fit to command, had pinned the two green katanas of rank to Blatz's collar himself—cared whether any of them lived or died. They had been left behind— whether as a sop to a planet they had sworn to defend or as a misdirection to confuse observers as to their true intent did not matter.

Considering the way the Dragon's Fury had descended from an independent corps with a proud heritage to a puppet of House Kurita, none who remained on Irian was eager to be included in their number. Blatz knew he wasn't the only one in his former command who found the memory of the bushido code they had embraced bitter.

As castoffs, their position was similar to all of Irian. The Republic had imploded, leaving its former member worlds to fend for themselves. Any shame they might have felt in their discarded condition was absorbed in the betrayal suffered by their entire world.

Though that was little comfort now. With the disappearance of The Republic, the Senate Alliance had risen as a greater threat than their worst-case scenarios had anticipated. The senators had long presented themselves as a loyal opposition—the Senate itself as a balance to the exarch and the paladins within The Republic. Only recently had indications of the full extent of their opposition—and the limits of their loyalty—begun to surface. Blatz doubted anyone outside Genève would ever know the full story.

Of greater immediate concern was what the Senate Alliance had become. A nascent nation-state of seven star systems, still rough and unformed. Seven united worlds that could at any moment decide they needed the resources Irian had to offer.

Blatz's promise to defend the world until help from The Republic arrived was no longer meaningful. There would be no help from The Republic. He knew diplomatic overtures had been made to neighboring worlds coreward and antispinward of the Alliance, but had heard of nothing good resulting.

They were on their own.

Which meant responsibility for welding three military forces that did not like each other into a unified defensive force was his responsibility.

He glanced over to his desk—at the pewter sculpture on his desk. About ten centimeters by twenty, it depicted a thin and evidently beaten man in rags pushing a boulder up an incline. It had been a gift from Senator Hughes when she had commissioned him as commander of the Irian Defense Force. He suspected the figure had some historical or mythological significance. However, even without cultural subtext, the little figurine captured the spirit of his life in the weeks since accepting the position.

His own people he was fairly confident of. They had been competent—otherwise they would never have made it into the Brotherhood regiment—and were now regaining some of their spirit, adjusting to their new status. At the very least they were a known quantity who delivered what he expected of them.

IrTech Security—former IrTech Security—regarded themselves as the elite combat force on the planet. They had the best BattleMechs—the best of everything, in fact. Including salary. Irian Technologies had spared nothing in giving the troops protecting their factories more than they could possibly need.

IrTech had also agreed to outfit the nascent Irian Defense Force with materiel from their various ordnance plants. But at a price. Last he'd heard, the particulars were still in negotiation.

The Irian Planetary Militia was laboring under the impression that they were the only legitimate military force on the planet, IrTech Security being weekend rental soldiers and the Dragon's Fury being misguided pretenders to a culture that wasn't theirs and that had in the end rejected them. The fact that they were the smallest and most poorly equipped of the former commands served to somehow reinforce their self-image as professionals who overcame hardships.

"We are professional soldiers," Colonel Jon Greene, former commanding officer of the former IPM broke into Blatz's thoughts to underscore that very point. "We need to remain an independent, cohesive force. Spreading us thin to shore up amateur units is a fundamental mistake. You're sacrificing your only effective fighting force to make what are at best supporting units marginally less impotent."

"Colonel Greene, you last fired a shot in combat nearly two decades ago," Blatz pointed out. "The IPM has served admirably in disaster relief and law enforcement. There is no question of your professionalism or courage. But over half your troops are virgins. Combat against pirates—both on Irian and in hunting them elsewhere—has been the purview of the Dragon's Fury—"

"From which your people were discharged—"

"Because our commitment to Irian was greater than our loyalty to Katana Tormark!" The standard explanation came easily, now. "The fact remains, every former member of the DF is a veteran.

"And IrTech confirms Colonel Sander's troops"—he indicated the head of IrTech Security with a tilt of his head—"have had experience in small-unit antipirate actions."

In addition to what they called "industry-specific sorties"—a fairly transparent euphemism for industrial black ops.

"So while no one questions the competence of your troops, the former IPM is in fact the least experienced in actual combat," Blatz concluded. "Integrating them into other units maximizes their effectiveness."

He turned to the other colonel, shaping his face into a smile of false bonhomme.

"Just as integrating the former security personnel across the board makes best use of their experience and equipment."

Brigadier General Blatz nodded to the expected explosion, appearing to consider each point while letting Sander's outraged blather wash over him unattended. He let his eyes rest again on the pewter statue.

If Irian was going to survive an onslaught by the Alliance, they were going to need help.

21

Atlantic Coast, Gamurmaj, Phecda

Former Prefecture VIII

10 December 3135

"Unknown BattleMech!" someone called over the general frequency. "Not part of the Phecda militia."

The transponder ID told Thaddeus the speaker was a lieutenant with the Alchiba Planetary Militia piloting a Firestarter. That struck him as an interesting choice for an ice world where little would burn.

Around him Kriegaxt, his personal Warhammer IIc, was cool and secure, confident as it strode across the icy permafrost between hills of frozen rock. He knew the name he'd given it was a poor translation of the BattleMech's model designation—and not very creative—but the sound, the feel of the word was satisfying. Kriegaxt had a focus and finality Thaddeus appreciated.

"Details," said Colonel Ozawa, commander of Operation Fair Play's ground forces. "Report."

"Computer says it was a Havoc" the lieutenant answered. "Had an ax. Colors were gunmetal gray with the cockpit picked out in red—like he was daring you to target it—and what looked like a red paw print. He withdrew at first contact. South-southwest."

"Contact! Koshi" said a new voice. Captain Rollins, commanding the Alchiba militia and piloting a Centurion. "Looked like the laser and SRM load out. Turned and ran south-southwest. Add a big red triangle to that color scheme—on top. pointed forward. And I think that paw print is supposed to be dripping blood."

Thaddeus dialed up the command channel.

"Two scouting 'Mechs that could have stayed out of sight running south-southwest," he said. "Sounds like an invitation."

"Topo shows a broad valley leading to nothing but hills and ice and hills of ice in that direction." Hernandez, captain of the small Alhena contingent, said, her voice thoughtful. "Either they want to take the fight away from AtlanticCoast or they want to lead us into a trap."

"Both of the above is a good guess," answered Rollins. "I say keep pressing on for AtlanticCoast—a quick victory there will carry the whole planet. Keep an eye on our right flank for more of these bloody paws, of course. But once we've taken the main objective—and their employers—there'll be little they can do."

"Depends on how big they are." Rollins pointed out.

"We have a superior force," Illya Patel, captain of the Gacrux Planetary Militia, said. "Why not leave a lance to cover the valley entrance? That way we can take our objective but keep our backsides covered."

"Solid thinking," Thaddeus agreed.

Operation Fair Play required that the forces of the local government—the new coalition—be the ones who actually secured AtlanticCoast. This was their new world, their victory. Covering their backs against a rear assault would help ensure their success without stealing any of their glory.

"If you don't mind, I'll hang back, too," he said on the command channel. "You don't need me to take the base and I might make a difference here if the bloody paws have anything heavy to throw at us."

He did not add that—second only to Ozawa's Nightstar—his Warhammer lie was the biggest single roadblock Operation Fair Play could put in the way of a flanking action.

With brisk efficiency an ad hoc lance was formed from the four subcommands to support him. A Shiloh Panther, a Gacrux Razorback, an Alhena Puma, and a Centurion—older than Rollins'—from Alchiba. A democratic representation, Thaddeus reflected, symbolically useful and probably more than enough to hold the valley entrance against whatever mercenary band Phecda had managed to hire.

In fact, it might be enough to clear the valley.

As the main thrust of Operation Fair Play moved on to take AtlanticCoast, Thaddeus led his troops to meet whatever threat lurked to the south-southwest.

* * *

Anastasia Kerensky kept her mouth shut.

The air inside the command hut was cold—not as frigid as the wind outside, but cold enough to make her wish she'd worn more than her cooling vest and shorts. Only her feet deep in their boots were warm. She suppressed the reflex to shiver.

The battle of AtlanticCoast unfolded on the bank of data screens. Each pack of Wolf Hunters deployed along preset patterns, but not rigidly. Each adapted as the circumstances demanded. Advancing, pulling back, redirecting in response to—anticipating—the invaders' moves and countermoves.

This was the fruit of months of retraining, augmenting reflex and instinct with knowledge and cunning. Twice she saw opportunities missed and twice she bit her tongue. The cubs would never learn to hunt if mother wolf directed all their kills too closely.

If the Wolf Hunters were to truly become Pack, they must fight and think together—not just as tools of her will. Murchison had called the concept "all for one and one for all," though to her "all for all" was closer to the spirit.

This was the first test of the Pack in live combat. Their first blooding. And succeed or fail, they would do it as Pack.

"What is this icon?" she demanded, pointing at a secondary screen.

"A Warhammer IIc, not part of the Shiloh Alliance touman," the technician monitoring the satellite feed responded promptly. "Tentatively identified as the personal BattleMech of Republic Paladin Thaddeus Marik."

"A paladin," she repeated. "And he's broken off from the main thrust of the battle."

She considered a moment longer, eyes on the screens showing the battle she would not direct. Then she turned on her heel and headed for the door.

"Good hunting," squeaked a voice—half familiar but unrecognized.

A technician, she realized, terrified at his own temerity in wishing her success directly, but pressing on regardless. She did not acknowledge the salute, but a grin quirked one corner of her mouth as she pushed through the outer doors.

The spirit of the Wolf came in all sizes.

* * *

Thaddeus pulled back on the joystick as he brought his right foot down, throwing Kriegaxt into a buttonhook turn that should not have worked on the ice, but did. The Uziel's particle projector cannon went wide, twin bolts of azure lighting crackling through the place where his Warhammer lie should have been.

He swung back left, unleashing his own extended- range PPC in return. He arced a flight of six missiles above the smaller 'Mech, anticipating its jump to avoid the beam.

His opponent surprised him by staying earthbound, sidestepping to dodge the ER PPC's bolt. Not far enough—the box canyon he had used as an ambush restricted his movement—blue fire scored and fractured armor along its left upper leg and hip actuator.

Too far away to use its short-range missiles and vulnerable to all of the assault 'Mech's weapons, the Uziel jumped. The plasma flare of its jets sheened the ice cliffs with molten water as it cleared the ridge.

Over his general channel, Thaddeus could hear confused shouts and conflicting commands. Apparently the main thrust of Operation Fair Play had hit a combined force of undetermined size—except that it included everything from regular infantry to 'Mechs, including Elementals.

"Find the leader," he broadcast on the command channel. "Cut off their head and the rest of this pack will fade away."

"No designations, no clear leader," Hernandez replied, the sound of her autocannon coming over his headset. "It's like they're—"

It took Thaddeus a moment to realize her signal had gone permanently dark.

His own scanners showed the Uziel, ghostly and distorted through the ice wall, and something more his size moving up from the southeast—a position between AtlanticCoast and the sideshow he'd let himself get drawn into. His read of the field was that the mercenaries had hoped to keep the fighting away from the city, but hadn't really counted on the invaders cooperating.

Thaddeus cut right. His Clan-tech scanners had a slight edge on the Uziel's—there was a chance the other wouldn't track his move. Everyone knew it made no sense to try and take a jumping 'Mech by end-running a barrier it could clear. The other pilot might not realize he was playing the stupid card until too late.

"Paladin, it's like fighting a damn hydra," Rollins' voice was exasperated. "Twice I thought we broke them and both times they reformed on the fly. And if they've got radio chatter, the ECM crew says they can't find it."

No radio chatter was impossible, Thaddeus knew. But battle codes could be squirted fast enough to evade scans. Except that involved highly condensed codes, which implied the bloody paws had anticipated every move the invaders might make—or had a devilishly flexible response structure.

Clearing the end of the ice wall, Thaddeus launched a double flight of extended-range missiles, counting on the advanced tactical missile system's ability to compensate for his hasty aim. He was surprised to note the other machine was already facing his way. Either he was more predictable than he thought or this PPC-mounted Uziel had better sensors than the ones he knew. The missiles stitched the ground and the ice wall, but four of the twelve hit home—lower left torso and hip actuator.

The Uziel's left leg buckled, but didn't give completely. The bloody paw pilot shuffled his 'Mech around to put its good right armor between him and the damage. At this angle he could only bring one PPC to bear, but he didn't have much choice. He couldn't risk another jump, the left leg wouldn't take landing impact.

Thaddeus keyed an alpha strike under his primary trigger—twelve of the shorter range high-explosive missiles and both ER PPCs.

He toggled his radio to broadcast on a universal channel in clear.

"No reason to die for a paycheck." Thaddeus said. "Surrender, bloody paw."

"That's Wolf Hunter, freebirth."

The woman's words barely registered before Thaddeus was thrown against his harness by a deafening double hammer blow. Crimson blossomed across the right rear quarter of his wireframe display as his damage readout announced Kriegaxt had taken two gauss slugs under its right arm.

Thaddeus turned from the Uziel to face the new attacker.

The assault 'Mech moving up from the southeast was a Mangonel. Twin gauss rifles over and under the center torso and four medium lasers on disproportionately tiny arms. This one was the same gunmetal gray as the other mercenary 'Mechs, with the cockpit, mounted low to the left of the upper gauss rifle, picked out in blood red.

But in addition to the bloody paw print, the Mangonel had a bloodred alpha on its left leg and an omega on its right. Thaddeus suspected he was facing the leader of Phecda's hired defenders.

The four medium lasers clawed for the newly torn armor along his right side, but did little damage. No weapons lock—the newcomer was firing freehand. Which explained the lack of warning, but didn't excuse his being so focused on the smaller 'Mech that he'd let this slower machine get the drop on him.

Wolf Hunters implied yet another fragment of Clan Wolf—or maybe someone who hated the Wolves. Either way, that "freebirth" meant Clan mindset.

"Whatever happened to zellbrigen?" Thaddeus asked.

Dropping his alpha strike, he separated the ER PPCs. letting them track independently. Arms wide. Kriegaxt targeted both assailants.

"Whatever happened to paladins defending worlds instead of raping them?" countered the woman, evidently the Mangonel pilot.

"You have the advantage of me."

"Aff."

All three BattleMechs fired at once.

Both of Thaddeus' shots went true. His left bolt bathed the lower half of the egg-shaped Uziel in destructive lightning while his right gouged high across the Mangonel's right torso.

In exchange he took a PPC bolt raking across his left torso and a gauss slug to the short-range missile launcher mounted on his right shoulder. He'd left the rack uncovered, still prepared to fire. The nickel-iron projectile tore into the exposed missiles, the kinetic energy triggering a detonation that ripped the assembly from its mount.

The CASE system prevented a chain reaction touching off all his ammo. Small consolation.

Except—

The Mangonel was spinning in place.

No. not spinning, but moving abruptly from one side to the other, as though the pilot was trying to target multiple assailants. Or had lost torso control.

Was it possible his shot had hit some vital control circuit? That didn't seem likely, but he didn't know enough about the Mangonel design to be sure.

Whatever the reason, now was his opportunity to behead the defenders. No matter how flexible their response strategies, they weren't likely to remain viable without their commander. Particularly if they followed Clan culture and mindset.

Ignoring the wounded Uziel and saving his remaining missiles against the chance of a longer battle, Thaddeus brought both of Kriegaxt's ER PPCs to bear on the helpless leader of the Wolf Hunters.

* * *

Broil Wolf double-checked his targeting display.

This residential district on the northwest fringe of AtlanticCoast had been evacuated days before to provide a clear battlefield. The owners of these condominium complexes and rows of duplexes were not going to like what war had done to their homes, but at least they'd be alive to resent it.

Broil's own JES III was inside a snow-covered garden that was screened on three sides by eight-meter walls of decoratively scrolled concrete blocks—one with a JES Ill-sized hole—and on the fourth by four stories of upscale condos.

With the extra-light fusion engine banked to reduce their heat signature. Broil and his crew were waiting for something worthy of their salvo of sixty armor-piercing missiles to come their way. And Broil thought he saw it.

"Ivocet, get the Nightstar's attention. Then fade south two hundred meters, then best speed east along boulevard with pink buildings," he said into his microphone. Then he tapped the contact which sent the recorded message as a half-second squeal of static.

A double click from the Fenris confirmed the Mech- Warrior's intent to comply with the tank commander's order. Broil could remember when the exchange would have required a request and an explanation.

"Sticks and Stones," he addressed his gunners, who were named neither, "we've got ninety-five tons of heavy metal coming our way. Indirect target, full load on the intersection. Be ready to reload pronto for a straight-on shot when we go through the wall. James, when the first flight's away, forward sixty meters and freeze."

Satisfied, Broil smiled at the screens. He'd been a MechWarrior in the Capellan Confederation, but his Sha Yu would never have been a match for the Nightstar. He could have gone with Nikola Demos—almost all of the tankers had—but with her he would have been one among many doing the same thing. Here he was an individual—and a part of a team like no other. In forty seconds they would launch two salvos back- to-back—one hundred and twenty armor-piercing missiles. In less than a minute—while he expected Ivocet to turn and add her ten short-range missiles and large laser to the mix—a 95-ton assault 'Mech would fall to a 60- ton tank.

It was good to be a Wolf Hunter.

* * *

Twin blazes of silver-blue lightning tore into the lower torso of the distressed Mangonel, stripping away armor in molten shards that lost themselves in the permafrost. The superheated air of the cockpit seared the back of Thaddeus' throat as he inhaled through his mouth. His nasal passages were already parched to the point of agony.

The Mangonel's deadly gauss rifles answered. Or tried to. Apparently unable to stop her machine's wild gyrations. the Wolf Hunter tried to time her shots. Again and again, iron-nickel slugs blurred past Kriegaxt to bury themselves harmlessly in the ice or earth beyond.

"Power down." Thaddeus said on the universal frequency, keeping the pant out of his voice. "You can't win and your death solves nothing."

Four medium lasers answered, two of them scarring the cooling housing on his right PPC.

Thaddeus sighed. This was not combat, it was slaughter. Targeting the lower half of the stricken machine, he fired again.

A bolt from the Uziel went wide.

The smaller machine had risked facing Thaddeus full on to fire an alpha strike. Three of its missiles and both PPC beams had hit, scarring and fusing armor along Kriegaxt's left torso and leg.

But his answering salvo—six high-explosive missiles that did not miss and paired bolts from his PPCs—had shattered the Uziel's left leg and fractured much of its armor.

The machine had fallen, and turned as it fell so that it now lay on its back with its damaged left side facing Thaddeus. The pilot had fired two bolts from his left PPC with long delays between. From its thermal signature, Thaddeus was sure it had lost most of its heat sinks.

The Mangonel tried to charge forward, but its swinging torso made it stagger like a drunken priest. The machine could not reach him.

Weapons lock.

Thaddeus' first thought was that here at last was someone who played by the rules. His second was to turn and fire both ER PPCs at the newcomer.

The stranger answered back with an ER PPC of his own and a burst of autocannon fire. Thaddeus' targeting computer identified the newest Wolf Hunter as a Vulture and—based on the PPC and autocannon arms—deduced it was the variant packing six six-tube short-range missile racks.

He would have to either finish off the Wolf Hunters' leader in a hurry or move on before the other machine closed to SRM range. His missiles had a higher yield and a greater range, but it would be his six-shot salvo to the Vulture's thirty-six. Damaged as Kriegaxt was, he didn't like the odds on those exchanges.

"Ozawa is down." Rollins reported over the command channel. "We're down about one-third of our force and still not within direct-fire range of our objective."

"Are you stopped?" Thaddeus asked, cycling extended- range missiles into his tubes to accompany the PPC bolts toward the Vulture.

"Elements are still advancing," Rollins said. "But. yes. the main thrust of the assault is bogged down."

His targeting computer hooted for attention. Thirty- six short-range missiles incoming.

It was extreme range for the SRMs—farther than common sense said the weapons could reach—but the Vulture pilot was either very lucky or very good. Geysers of frozen earth and ice stalked toward him. Metal impacts clanged through his cockpit as Kriegaxt's foot actuators and lower legs took hits.

Backing away from the oncoming Wolf Hunter, Thaddeus retargeted his right PPC on the staggering Mangonel—closer now but lurching from side to side as its pilot still attempted to charge him. A coup de grace to its cockpit and—

Blue-white flash.

Thaddeus snatched his hands from the firing controls to cover his eyes before the canopy polarized to block the flare. The damned downed Uziel had gotten in a lucky shot—a PPC bolt to his cockpit. Only the glancing angle of the raking beam had saved him.

Flash blind, barely able to see his hand controls much less the tactical displays, Thaddeus turned away from his assailants. Reorienting to the way he had come, he made best speed back around the shoulder of the ice wall. Once out of direct line of fire, he slowed—giving his eyes time to adjust. Rescuing their leader would take precedence over chasing him.

"Efrid?" he called over the tac channel his ad hoc command had adopted. The Panther pilot had been closest, advancing on his right flank before the ambush.

No answer.

With a beep, his targeting computer identified—with 83 percent probability—the twisted mass of metal in the center of a refrozen pond as the missing Panther. Thaddeus saw from the missile craters bordering the pond that the Vulture had not been idle before engaging him.

"Ozawa—" Thaddeus caught himself. "Rollins, tac sit?"

"Withdrawing in good order under harassing fire," Rollins said. Thaddeus could hear some sort of alarm beeping stridently in the Centurion s cockpit. "DropPort is still secure."

"They're leaving the exit open for us," Thaddeus said. "Go to a universal channel and broadcast in clear. Ask for hegira."

"Who's that?"

"These meres are Clan—or at least going through the motions," Thaddeus said. "Hegira is the Clan word for cease fire. If they play their part, they'll stop shooting and let us off planet."

"We're giving up?" Rollins demanded.

"We're getting out alive," Thaddeus corrected.

"It's your command, of course," he added, remembering his advisory role. "But Operation Fair Play was clearly no surprise to Phecda. Their meres have us out- maneuvered, outgunned, and on the run while they sit safe inside their houses."

Rollins had no answer for that. Only the persistent tone of the Centurion"s cockpit alarm told Thaddeus the channel was still open.

"If you're going to negotiate with Phecda in the future, it would be best to have at least some military assets left," Thaddeus said. "If only to prevent them from annexing you."

Weapons lock astern.

Thaddeus turned in place, bringing both ER PPCs and his remaining missile rack to bear on the Wolf Hunter Vulture that had rounded the ridge. Letting his weapons lock float, he backed away, reversing steadily along his escape route.

The Vulture stood four-square. From what Thaddeus had seen of the pilot's marksmanship, Kriegaxt was in easy range of all its weapons.

He would have to wait until the missiles launched, then throw himself right. There was a chance the lunge would unbalance him and he figured it better to land on the already damaged side than risk losing the other missile launcher. If he kept his feet, he'd get off an alpha strike while the Wolf Hunter's tubes reloaded. If he fell, he'd copy the UzieVs trick of firing from the horizontal position.

The weapons lock alarm ceased.

The Vulture lowered its arms, making it clear the ER PPC and autocannon no longer bore on Thaddeus.

"Thank you. Captain Rollins," Thaddeus said under his breath.

Turning, he set Kriegaxt to making its best speed back toward the DropPort. Only the Puma, with fresh battle scars smoking in the frozen air, left the valley with him.

Three 'Mechs lost on a pointless diversion. And a possible stronghold of friendly forces turned into a microcosm of The Republic—politics, suspicion, and betrayal— through poor execution of a plan that should have worked.

The broken coalition was going to blame him—he'd taken too direct a hand, he now realized. He'd soon be gone, but the memory of his failure—the failure of a paladin who'd come to save them—would poison the local worlds against The Republic for years. If not generations.

Maybe the mission wasn't a total loss.

* * *

"What do you mean you don't know?"

If at all possible, the computer technician became more pasty. He was a freeborn bondsman, but he had learned enough Clan to know that when Anastasia Ker- ensky used a contraction the situation was very dangerous.

He glanced around the command hut—idle now that the Shiloh Alliance forces had withdrawn—and seemed to gain some reassurance from the sight of Murchison at Anastasia's flank.

"The computer system is completely fried," he said as though forcing the words through a choke hold. "Physically melted. I can't extract data—I can't even extract any parts—it's a lump."

He seemed to gather his strength.

"Perhaps if you told me what happened I could extrapolate," he said in such a rush that it took Anastasia a moment to parse the individual words.

"My second salvo went high." she said. "A PPC bolt hit the upper right torso. I turned on my active targeting system. The torso began snapping right and left to the full extent of its rotation as fast as it could."

The technician blinked at her. Motionless, his face became abandoned as his thoughts turned inward.

His complete blankness reminded her who he was. Cooper, Carpenter, the terrified toad of Chief Technician Garth—now gone with the so-called Steel Wolves— who had been sent to report on her Ryoken IVs crash on Galatea.

Only he wasn't a toad, she reminded herself. He was a Wolf Hunter, one who had chosen to follow her. And, now that she was thinking about it, it had been his squeaky voice that had wished her good hunting.

"You are describing a range-of-motion diagnostic program running at ludicrous speed," the technician suddenly spoke. His voice was surprisingly clear and strong—until his eyes refocused on Anastasia. "That's im-impossible."

"Impossible?"

"Accidentally impossible," Cooper/Carpenter/what- ever clarified hastily. "That could not happen by accident."

He became completely immobile again, staring round- eyed at Anastasia.

"Carter," said Murchison with a gentleness Anastasia imagined he used to comfort the dying. "Have you taken your medication?"

Carter turned to face the doctor. "Yes, sir," he said clearly.

Noting the change in his demeanor, Anastasia shifted her weight left, getting out of the little man's line of sight.

"What do you think happened to the 'Mech's computer?" Murchison asked conversationally.

"Trojan horse program, hidden command," Carter said. "I can't imagine how it was loaded—and without the files I'll never know the specifics. My guess would be it was triggered by specific conditions, like taking damage and having the targeting system engaged."

Sabotage. Anastasia had assumed that whoever wanted her dead had left with the ersatz Steel Wolves. Her untested assumption had almost cost her life.

"You will check every command circuit on every BattleMech," Anastasia ordered Carter. "If another machine fails, you will answer."

"Yes, ma'am."

Realizing he'd been dismissed, the man scurried away. He paused at the main door to put on two layers of coats before going out into the wind.

"Medication?" Anastasia asked, self-aware of how unusual her interest in the well-being of a tech was. To be Pack . . . "Is he mentally unstable?"

"Heart condition," Murchison answered. "Given how terrified he is of you, he risks a cardiac episode every time you're in the same room."

"Yet he serves."

"He told me since his wife's death he has nowhere else to go," Murchison said. "He said he's here for her."

Anastasia frowned for a moment at the tangled web of alien concepts behind that explanation, then dismissed it. Whatever the little man's former commitments, he had pledged himself to the Wolf Hunters. He was Pack now.

As were they all.

22

Bunker City, Geir

Laiaka, former Prefecture VIII

13 December 3135

The Odin scout tank spun in place, its armored fenders missing rock with meters to spare. The turret rotated independently, easily clearing the roof of the mining tunnel as the medium pulse lasers and SRM2 rack locked on several targets in sequence.

"This is the smallest tunnel we'll encounter?" Nikola asked.

"This is the smallest standard diameter in the Geir network." confirmed Captain Roost, commander of the Laiaka Planetary Militia contingent of the assault force. "The Prieska network was constructed to the same specifications."

Nikola nodded. Given the tunnel environment, Zean- der's belief that Elementals were the only answer was understandable—in someone who didn't understand what tanks could do. Particularly with the generous twelve-by-twelve-meter circumference that seemed to be standard. She couldn't help thinking that a Star of Sha- mash would have been useful. To acquire some of the laser-equipped reconnaissance vehicles had long been a goal of hers.

"Star Captain Rhodan, you will command the tunnel assault," she said, and dismissed any further concern for that phase of the operation from her mind.

Knowing Captain Roost would follow her, she headed for the surface garage.

Though the garage was fully sealed and pressurized, they had to cycle through an air lock to reach the cavernous—literally—chamber. Out of the corner of her eye she noted Roost go through what was evidently a suit-check protocol—touching the gloves at his belt and confirming the goggled hood hung from his collar— before opening the second door. All the indicators showed clean air and unprotected personnel clearly visible through the ferroglass door panel.

She had seen nothing cowardly about the natives of Laiaka. A sulfur-carbon dioxide atmosphere didn't sound dangerous, but if the natives treated it with such respect she would be wise to heed the warning.

With that in mind, she took extra care in examining the insulating collar that had been added to her Condor's turret rotation ring. The governor had been right that tanks were not truly vaportight. To operate in a vacuum would have required nearly five tons of modifications. But a toxic atmosphere could be kept at bay with catalytic air filters, impervious barriers over the moving parts, and additional oxygen tanks tied into an air recirculation system set to run at a higher pressure than the outside air.

"Pandot," she said, catching the attention of the technician overseeing the tank modifications. "Oxygen tanks and hazmat masks for every crew member."

The technician's eyes unfocused for a moment as she calculated what adjustments would need to be made in each vehicle to comply.

"One point four hours." "Done."

"You were not at all what we expected," Roost said.

Nikola did not answer as she moved on to the next tank in formation, an SMI tank destroyer. The comparatively fragile SMI was a risk, but the surface attack force had to be fast and able to traverse both land and water. That meant her Condors, Bellonas, and SMls.

"I'm not rehashing the whole 'Mech-Elemental issue," Roost said to her back. "Though I suppose by piggybacking on your machines we could pass as elementary Elementals."

Nikola turned and looked at the native for a level second. She hated puns, particularly the extremely bad sort the Laiaki seemed to favor. She had learned through painful experience that if she did not let Roost know she had heard—and hated—his sally, he would repeat it until he was sure she'd grasped his intent.

"I meant," Roost pressed blithely on, "we had certain notions of how Clanners would act, and you've disappointed us at every turn."

That brought her up sharply. "Disappointed?"

"Poor choice of words," Roost said hastily at the sight of her expression. "I meant that your behavior has not been what we expected. Believe me, that is a compliment."

Nikola grunted and moved on to the third tank. She had never, prior to Anastasia Kerensky's dissolution of the Steel Wolves, imagined spending so much time conversing with Inner Sphere natives. She did not enjoy the experience. Particularly when they were trying—as she surmised Roost was—to be friendly. She had loosened the teeth of Wolves foolish enough to take the liberties the Laiaki did in the course of what they considered casual conversation. Why they felt it necessary to repeatedly express their surprise that the Wolves were not grunting barbarians, for example, was beyond her.

And the iron discipline to respond civilly—as an employee—was barely within her grasp.

She tugged at the netting lashed to the hull of the Condor, the source of Roost's "elementary Elemental"—quip, she guessed the term was. Lacking environmental suits, the Steel Wolf Corp infantry would be making the attack on the underground tunnel entrances to Yaleston. Foot troops for the surface assault would be two companies of Laiaka Planetary Militia, which would ride into combat clinging to nets secured to hover tanks moving under fire and over rough terrain at one hundred plus kilometers per hour.

Nothing cowardly about the Laiaki, she reminded herself.

In fact she had ordered the Steel Wolf Corps infantry Star commanders to train with the LPM. They had agreed the military-grade hostile-environment suits— flexible exoskeletons with light armor and minimal my- omer augmentation—would be valuable additions to the Steel Wolf Corps materiel. They had also spoken with respect of the militiamen themselves, which was enough to free Nikola of any concern about their performance when battle was joined.

She was vaguely aware of Roost prattling along as she completed her inspection of every vehicle. That was another Laiaki "courtesy"—filling the air with useless chatter—she had difficulty adapting to. Its corollary, that remaining completely silent was rude, also required adaptation. If she was going to lead the Steel Wolf Corps successfully on campaigns through the Inner Sphere, she must master the requisite social skills.

Her chronometer told her Pandot had another thirty- seven minutes in which to complete outfitting all the vehicles before their first live-fire exercise on the surface. Now that she was no longer focused on her job, social protocols required her to make some response to Roost's verbal barrage. Unfortunately, she had not apprehended a word he'd said in the last half hour, which precluded any relevant reply.

The final tank faced the exterior doors. The interior doors of the air lock, big enough to accommodate four of her tanks at once, were open. She crossed the chamber to the massive reinforced panels that opened directly onto the surface and peered out through the narrow fer- roglass viewports.

Though she knew it was local day, the world outside was dark. An oppressive, roiling ceiling of oily clouds hung close to the surface. Lightning traced through what she imagined must be thunderheads.

"Storm brewing," she said, applying carefully deduced small-talk skills.

"That?" Roost peered through the slit. "Storms are coming, but not until winter. This is summer and that's a clear sky."

Nikola gave him her flat look.

"That one wasn't a joke," Roost assured her. "What you're looking at is a mild, early summer midmorning. If there was a storm you'd be able to see maybe a dozen meters through sheets of falling sulfuric acid."

Enlightened, Nikola looked out at the mild summer morning, cataloging the features for future reference.

Small talk.

"How is there enough light for those plants to survive?"

"Light? Oh. Photosynthesis." Roost shook his head. "Wrong sort of ecology. The sun heats the air—or, technically, the vapor and dust in the air. Direct light almost never reaches the surface. Just diffuse sky glow."

"Then how is life possible?" Nikola asked, a bit surprised to be actually curious.

"Chemosynthesis." Roost pointed out the viewport as though it could be seen. "The heat, the sulfuric acid, the carbon dioxide. The whole planet's one giant black smoker."

Nikola didn't recognize the term, but the implication was clear from context. The toxic cauldron beyond the ferroglass—a nightmare from a childhood fable—was as good as this world ever got.

What sort of people colonize hell?

23

Steel Wolf JumpShip Stalin

Avellaneda nadir jump point

Former Prefecture VII

17 December 3135

Star Colonel Xera pulled and pushed herself through the service tunnels of the Star Lord-class Stalin with the thoughtless ease of long practice. She was aerospace, her stature and her reflexes the product of generations of eugenics.

Turn, twist, turn; even if she had not had the labyrinth of maintenance passages memorized, she would have known where she was relative to the shuttle bay, the bridge, the axis of travel, and the cold of space to within the meter. Not through any supernatural ability—though many aerospace liked to feed that mystique—but through a lifetime of training—conditioning built upon a genetic proclivity for heightened spatial awareness.

Flowing around a ninety-degree bend, she plucked an

adjustable spanner out of the air without breaking rhythm. Xera handed it to the tech who'd "dropped" it and pushed around the next bend before the startled woman fully registered who she was.

Pushing open an access hatch, she gripped the threshold and drew up her knees, somersaulting into the main through corridor a half dozen meters from Galaxy Commander Varnoff Fetladral's wardroom. The guard at the door glanced her way incuriously, then snapped rigid.

Xera found it significant that Varnoff had a guard on duty. And that the guard cared little enough about his post to relax.

She ignored the man—a reprimand that spoke volumes— and pushed through Varnoff s door unannounced.

"Star Colonel Xera," Varnoff greeted her without looking up from the noteputer tethered to his web chair.

"Galaxy Commander," Xera responded.

Hooking a foot through a loop grip in the deck, Xera oriented herself to Varnoffs vertical and "stood" at her ease waiting for him. She felt the thrusters keeping the huge JumpShip and its sail aligned to best advantage adjust twice—compensating for the constantly changing net effect of solar winds and gravity wells of worlds orbiting the distant primary—in the minutes it took Varnoff to finish whatever he was reading.

"Our aerospace assets are dangerously concentrated," Varnoff said at last. "Three DropShips docked to two unarmed Merchants,. Vulnerable."

He paused, tacitly inviting her response. Xera waited.

"The Roofvogel is nearly as long as the Gier\ a Merchant was never meant to transport a Titan" he said when she remained silent. "1 am ordering the DropShips reassigned."

"I prefer to keep my command consolidated," Xera said.

"Your command." Varnoff let the words hang in the air between them for a moment. "Are we not all Steel Wolves, Star Colonel?"

"Aff."

"Your aerospace cluster left Galatea independently of the Steel Wolves," Varnoff said. "You showed admirable initiative. And you showed wisdom in reattaching your cluster to the true Steel Wolves once we were free of the taint. In recognition of your initiative and your wisdom, I allowed you great autonomy."

Xera did not point out that he'd had little choice. He had no direct control over—no direct access to—the aerospace warriors.

"But despite the autonomy I granted you, your command is under my command, Star Colonel," Varnoff said. "A fact you seemed to forget on Rochelle."

"Our rightful objectives had been secured," Xera answered, not for the first time. "The secondary strike was unnecessary."

"The second strike was ordered," Varnoff repeated his side of the discussion.

That they were repeating this exchange was significant, Xera knew. Nothing had come of it at the Rochelle jump point. But at the Rochelle jump point Varnoff had not felt the need for the guard at the door. Things were changing, and not for the better.

"We are not Jade Falcons," she said, taking the debate to a new level. "Only Malvina Hazen wantonly punishes defeated enemies for having the spirit to resist."

"And only Anastasia Kerensky throws away her heritage when it suits her," Varnoff answered. "A Steel Wolf Star colonel does not form committees among her command and she does obey to the fullest when the Galaxy commander gives an order."

Xera braced. But Varnoff carried the threat no further. It occurred to her that she could declare a grievance at his treatment, but that she would not. Were they becoming more feeble or more wise?

"You doubt my loyalty?" she asked. "Or mv command?"

"If I did you would not be here," Varnoff answered. But he did not meet her eyes. "Both of us were too long under the influence of Anastasia."

She noticed he did not grant their former Galaxy commander the respect of using her full name.

"Before we realized the extent of her madness, we allowed some of it to seep into our own thinking. It is in the thinking of some of our warriors." Varnoff's voice became more intense. "You see it as well as I do. The lack of center. The loss of unquestioning obedience."

He gestured with his noteputer, a broad and careless movement no one bred to space would ever have made. Then he leaned forward in the web chair, as though conveying a confidence.

"We must be vigilant," he said. "We must examine ourselves and those under us. And we must crush any evidence of that woman's poison."

Xera kept her own counsel, gauging the depth of Varnoff's fears.

"You have been keeping aerospace as a separate force," Varnoff said a few moments later in a calmer voice. "That is Spheroid thinking.

"The Huvik and the Roofvogel will transfer to the Stalin," he said, consulting his noteputer. "Two Mule- class materiel transports will be assigned to the Gier. The Hibou will remain with the Cazador, but the Fang will be added. A Lion and a Miraborg should provide a symmetrical load."

Xera was not fooled. Varnoff was breaking up her power base, making it clear that the aerospace forces— that she—was not the independent ally she had striven to be. One of the JumpShips he knew was personally loyal to her was now an impotent transport. He had not completely stripped the second for reasons of his own, but he had garrisoned it with one of his troop carriers. And he had attached half her aerospace fighters along with her command Star directly to his flagship.

Varnoff saw her as a threat to his command and thought to destroy her influence by scattering her people among his own. Considering his outburst of a moment before, she elected not to contest the decision. In his present state he would hear even the most reasoned argument as a challenge that could turn their delicate balance into open conflict. And that was one thing the Steel Wolves did not need if they were to heal, to become again what they should be.

Besides, having her warriors and technicians in daily contact with warriors and technicians Varnoff considered unquestioningly loyal to him could work to her advantage.

"To build unity of purpose we must have a goal," she said as though moving from one item to another in a set agenda. "What are our long-term objectives?"

Varnoff considered her for a moment, though whether suspicious of the ease with which she relinquished her fiefdom within the Steel Wolves or gauging how much of his plans he should reveal was not clear. Xera schooled her features into an expression of respectful attention.

Secure in his woven zero-gravity chair, Varnoff may have thought himself a spider at the center of a web, but to Xera he looked more like a spider's prey, wrapped and held for later eating.

"Tigress," Varnoff said at last. "One more thing that woman took from us was our secure base, our home world. I intend to take it back."

"The Laurel family will have consolidated our holdings by now," Xera pointed out. "They will not be easy to dislodge."

"The Laurel family depended on the Republic of the Sphere," Varnoff said. "With that crutch no longer available, they will not stand against us.

"However, we will not attack in haste." He held up his noteputer. "We will gather our strength and resources along an archipelago of worlds that hold resources we can use. And we will hone our skills on lesser targets as we build."

Varnoff looked up, holding her gaze.

"And we will rebuild our reputation as a force to be feared through our swift and complete victories over those targets," he said. "Psychological warfare that will soften Tigress for our return."

He waited until Xera nodded her acknowledgment of that tactic.

"And, though we will not waste our time and substance searching for her," Varnoff said, "if our path should take us close to Anastasia Kerensky, we will hunt her down and kill her."

24

Caravanserail, Kalidasa

Protectorate Coalition

Former Prefecture VII

20 December 3135

The eyes of the Kalidasan customs agent slid over him, looking toward the large family waiting behind the line on the floor. That happened a lot, which was good. He worked hard to make sure it did.

Either the family behind him pointed or the agent realized his mistake. Either way, his eyes came back to Green. He smiled apologetically and Green smiled pleasantly.

Pleasant people were never remembered.

He had all his data in order, the crystal ready for the scanner, his luggage unlocked. Security at Caravanserail DropPort had become tighter. Again. The rumors were rampant. The Republic was coming back. The Republic was gone forever. The Mariks were considering annexation. The Steel Wolves had raided Rochelle. Stewart was invading neighbors to form its own pocket kingdom.

The only truth in the entire melange was the Steel Wolves raid, and it was the only part he'd had nothing to do with. Green found that amusing.

Stewart's Planetary Legate MacNaughton and her lap- dog Governor Ingram would be particularly shocked by that last bit. It was their solidarity, and her espoused dedication to Stone's ideals, that had prevented them from becoming the center of power in this region.

Not that he bought her faith in the return of The Republic for a moment. His intelligence sources were thin in this region, so he had no hard data, but unless he missed his guess, MacNaughton was waiting until everyone's back was turned. Then she would go running to the Marik-StewartCommonwealth, taking their namesake planet with her. That would be irony.

He watched the customs agent go through the mind- numbing routine of checking his luggage with three kinds of sniffer—in the proper sequence—and hand enter the negative results into the appropriate info fields on his terminal. Someone who'd never had to pass through customs or fill out a civil service form in his or her life had devised this system.

Green loved it.

It was the dearest wish of every underpaid minion forced to slog through this tedium to make it through a shift without finding anything that might require filling out additional forms. He did his best to help them achieve their goals. One case in the most common style, neatly packed with all the appropriate items present and nothing unusual in sight. Data chit flawless, manner un- imposing, every exchange courteous but not one syllable past the necessary.

Green never wished anyone a nice day—after hours in line he'd be remembered as the only one who had. He never chatted about where he was going, inquired how to find anything, or stood in main traffic patterns.

Kalidasa really was the best choice as the center of this neighborhood—even before their parochial attitude had ruled out his boss' first choice.

Rochelle had many of the qualifications, but having already been invaded once, it lacked credibility as a leader. And after the Steel Wolves' visit, Governor Pe- trokovitch had been eager to become part of a mutual- defense network—despite Legate Illiarveski's objections.

Alkes and New Hope had gained the most in joining the newly formed Protectorate Coalition—a committee- chosen name if ever there was one. The one had minerals, the other abundant agriculture, but neither could flourish without outside markets.

Relieved to find nothing, the customs agent sealed Green's case with a tamperproof band—that came off easily with a mild alkali solution, then could be unde- tectably replaced with spray adhesive—and handed it and his data chit back to Green.

With a pleasant smile, a nod, and no inquiry as to where to go next, Green went out of his life forever.

Kalidasa was a wealthy world, used to comfort, used to being the center of trade, used to taking care of itself. Even its DropShip passenger terminal—a barn on most planets—was spacious, airy, well lit. with good terrazzo floors and sound-absorbing wall hangings that actually looked like art.

The boarding agent accepted Green's data chit without comment, feeding it into her terminal. He made no small talk as she wearily ran a fourth and fifth sort of detector around the outside of his case.

Kalidasa's leadership would make the Protectorate Coalition one of the most successful "neighborhoods" in the region. The ripest plum when the inevitable har- vesttime came around.

Eyes on her data screen—the better to detect if his verbal answer matched the recorded information—the boarding agent asked: "Final destination?"

"Irian," Green answered pleasantly.

25

Providence Plain

Yaleston, Prieska

Laiaka, former Prefecture VIII

26 January 3136

Nikola squinted through the midday gloom of summer over Providence Plain on Laiaka's southern continent of Prieska and hated it. Not as much as she had hated the surface boat journey that had carried her binary undetected—the Laiaki assured her—across the narrow band of equatorial sea that separated Prieska from Geir, but hated nonetheless.

That the Laiaki shared her hatred of dark places was one of the few things she liked about them. Their subterranean tunnels were Terran noonday bright at all times. Planetary Militia Captain Roost had mentioned, among the hundreds of things he'd mentioned over the last several weeks, the ersatz daylight had something to do with preventing depression. There were also, if she was remembering correctly, recordings of birdsong and running water continuously playing at subliminal levels.

The volume of trivia one acquires through simply standing near a Laiaki is staggering.

The dun-brown plain beneath the churning cloud cover was nearly flat, though folds that appeared gentle concealed sudden arroyos carved by the winter monsoons. Fortunately, the scouting parties had confirmed the accuracy of existing maps. A wide swath of unbroken hardpan undulated from the sea to the Yaleston dome. The hovertanks should traverse the two hundred kilometers from their beachhead with relative ease while—hopefully—staying below the radar's floor.

They were the third task group to arrive on Prieska. though they would be the first to strike. Star Captain Rhodan had arrived four days ago. His infantry and Odin tanks had been working their way toward Yaleston through secondary materiel-transport tunnels from a quarry far to the east. Compared to his trek through subterranean darkness, crossing the Providence Plain was a stroll in a sunny park.

The tanks were moving now on a course oblique to their target, hidden by a final roll of bluffs, at seventy kilometers per hour, their speed determined by the slower Bellonas.

She had her goggles up on her helmet, to better see through the gloom beyond her view slit. She'd either have time enough to pull them down if and when the first tendrils of sulfur announced the vaportight seals had begun to fail, or she'd be killed by the shot that breached the hull. Either way, there was no reason to have them adding another layer of material to obscure her vision.

A ruddy nimbus of heat lightning illuminated a quarter of the sky. No rain. The acid rain that fed the local flora fell only in the wintertime. The sickly yellow vegetation of this region was bundled in tight, moisture- retaining balls for dry-season hibernation.

Nikola keyed her throat microphone and surprised herself by asking Roost: "You okay out there?"

I have become Laiaki.

She had meant to simply warn the LPM captain they were five minutes from deployment. The ugly weather must have affected her more than she'd realized.

"Delighted to be here," came the instant response. Though Roost was on the skin of the tank—clinging to netting just below her view slit, in fact—his voice sounded tinny and distant. Radios were reduced to minimum transmission levels to avoid detection. "The sandwiches are lovely, but the beer has gone a bit flat."

Nikola felt her mouth twist. Laiaki humor was nearly as bad as Laiaki weather. Or maybe it was just Captain Roost's humor; she had not heard anyone else crack wise with quite the same failure rate.

"Deployment in"—she checked the chronometer— "four point five minutes."

"Confirmed."

Tv/o seven-trooper squads of planetary militia rode each of ten Condors—half her assault force, and the swiftest to carry them quickly through the last rush to the dome—clinging to netting lashed to the hulls and turrets. It couldn't be a comfortable ride, but the augmented environmental suits' exoskeletons protected them from any harm.

A binary of hovertanks and the rough equivalent of a binary of lightly armed infantry were not much to bring against the Yaleston dome, but it was far more than the pirates would expect. While the ten carriers delivered the militia to the base of the dome, the other ten would engage the defensive towers, six minarets topped with lasers spaced equally about the dome. That the militia's environmental suits would read like battlesuits would only add to the pirates' alarm.

That initial alarm was important, for the surface assault was only the first of three prongs to the attack on Yaleston.

Already in place beneath the DropShip loading docks should be Star Captain Taylor and Steel Wolf Corps infantry who had infiltrated piecemeal over the last thirty-six hours, concealed among outbound shipments and sympathetic laborers. Timed to coincide with the surface attack, this second prong would rise from below to take the DropShips. With the pirates jamming local communications except on their coded channels, the only way Nikola would be certain the DropShips had been taken was if they did not fire on her tanks when they took the field.

Only when the pirates were defending themselves from two unexpected attacks would the third and final thrust strike home.

The only serious attack the pirates feared was through the main tunnels, and with good reason. All vital controls for the enclosed city were deep underground. They could be reached from the surface, but only by a force willing to fight its way through scores of levels, many of them civilian habitats. Holding the DropShips was a limited victory. The huge ferrocrete-and-steel clamps that held the ships were also controlled from the city's center. Any DropShip attempting to lift off while the docking cradle was engaged would only succeed in tearing itself apart.

The objective of the first and second thrusts was to convince the pirates that the Steel Wolf Corps and Lai- aka Planetary Militia were desperate enough to attack from the surface—that they were willing to batter their way through hundreds of meters of civilian housing to get to them. They had to scare the pirates into committing as many assets as possible to meeting the unexpected onslaught.

For the overall plan to work, Nikola would have to judge when the greatest number of defenders was engaging the diversionary forces. Too soon and it would be easy for them to double back to the tunnels. Too late and the pirates would have the upper hand and too many lives would be lost. This could not be timed in advance and the pirates' jamming signal, while insufficient to block signals at the close proximity of tanks and men in tight formation, made direct communication with Rhodan impossible.

Instead she had devised a two-step signal. When she judged the moment right, she would launch a green flare, which would stand out vividly against the ruddy and dun of the Laiaki landscape. Star Captain Taylor would then detonate a series of placed charges in a specific pattern along the subterranean blast chamber beneath the DropShips. The charges would do no damage to the reinforced ferrocrete and granite, but their concussions would travel through the bedrock.

The seismic signal would release Star Captain Rhodan to lead the bulk of the attack force—Steel Wolf Corps infantry-supported Odin scout tanks—against two secondary tunnel entrances. Conventional Laiaki tactical wisdom held that only the main tunnel entrances were likely to be attacked, since the smaller gates could not be assaulted by massed troops.

This philosophy, which the pirates were likely to share, was predicated on the assumption that no heavy ordnance could be used against the locks themselves. In the minds of the Laiaki. the locks were as inviolate as JumpShips. But this tradition reflected safety precautions that had been obsolete for generations. With modern air scrubbers, negative-pressure baffles, and universal haz- mat suits, a breached lock was now more a matter of costly cleanup than a colony-threatening catastrophe.

The most difficult part of implementing the assault had been convincing the militia riding with them that attacking the dome itself was even thinkable, much less a legitimate target. At last she had made the point that only their apparent disregard for collateral damage would convince the pirates to pull defenders off the tunnels.

Her difficulty in winning the Laiaki over to the idea of causing even minor damage to the dome convinced Nikola that she would have to employ another Inner Sphere social skill to be able to succeed in liberating Yaleston. Deception. She had explained that the purpose of the Odin tanks in the tunnels was to convince the defenders that they might use them to breach the locks if they did not yield.

However. Star Captain Rhodan's live-fire tests— conducted in disused tunnels of Geir—had proven that Odins in staggered formation could concentrate devastating fire in the confined space of even the most narrow tunnel. The first warning the pirates would have of the tanks' presence would be the air locks being blasted inward. With Odins leading the way to smash through emergency gas seals along the way, the Steel Wolf Corps would secure the central control room in a matter of minutes.

"One minute," Nikola reminded herself and everyone else on her comm link.

The twenty tanks slowed, though there was little danger of their dust plumes attracting attention in the whipping wind. The very weather that made the surface an improbable assault route also covered their approach. The formation wheeled right, facing the ridge that separated them from the dome and the DropPort beyond.

Nikola had considered indirect fire for the first wave of missiles, but discarded the idea. The hurricane-force winds increased the danger of undirected missiles striking the dome or unexpected civilian targets that might be on the surface.

The tanks would crest the bluff in a line, and the Condors and Bcllonas would fire their first salvo deliberately short, edging the dome for maximum psychological effect. They would then race in before the few surface batteries could fully recover and deposit their cargo of militia close to the dome, under the arc of the defender's fire. While the militia made a show of sapping the dome, the tanks would pull off to circle the dome—some engaging the batteries in earnest, others to threaten the DropShips and any loader activity on the surface.

The real battles would belong to her two Star captains, and the real honor would be theirs. But they needed the honor more than she, and sharing it would earn respect.

"Now," she ordered.

The first Bellona crested the ridge—

—and disappeared in a forest of flame and flying earth.

Nikola's targeting computer reported thirty missiles had impacted on and around the fragmented hulk.

" 'Mechs!" a startled voice reported.

A Condor slid to a halt too close to the top of the ridge. From just below Nikola's line of sight a lightning storm of blue-white fire swept high along the length of the tank, scouring it clean of militiamen.

"Get off!" Nikola ordered Roost.

"Get us to the dome!" Roost counterordered.

Nothing cowardly about the Laiaki.

"Condors, make the dome," Nikola ordered—perhaps the last order she'd be able to give before combat carried her command out of range in the radio haze surrounding Yaleston. Beneath her the Condor's fans roared as the 50-ton machine shot forward. "Others engage dome defense towers and BattleMechs at will. Melee. Follow original plan of attack."

Taking fire control, she swung the long-range missile turret left, tracking the nearest BattleMech. Her targeting computer identified it as a Sentry, an inexpensive Inner Sphere design popular with pirates and mercenary units. She cared only that its thermal profile identified it as the machine that had scorched fourteen unprotected men to ash without warning.

She moved her thumb off the firing stud. She could not engage the enemy with defenseless passengers on her hull.

"Someone told the pirates we called for help," Roost stated the obvious. "They hired some heavy guns of their own."

Nikola nodded absently as she assessed the force ranged against them. Three BattleMechs—the Sentry, a Cobra to the right and an Osiris rounding the dome from the DropPort side. The Cobra was cleariy the source of the double flight of LRMs that had immolated the Bel- lona and its cargo of militia.

The Cobra flamed its jump jets, rising above an SMl's ability to track. It lanced twin medium lasers down as it flew over, one of the beams going wide, but the other scoring deeply along the armor of the autocannon housing. If the SMl's commander were wise, he wouldn't fire that weapon until he'd inspected it.

"I'm going to drop you at about ten kph," she told Roost.

"Make it twenty."

She shook her head, not bothering to answer. Risk of injury—or environmental suit tear—was too great at twenty. She respected Roost's willingness to try, but his daring was clouding his judgment.

The Yaleston dome was nearly flat, a low, convex lens covering the vent crater. Despite having seen images, Nikola had expected an upturn of rock, a lip to the crater, where the dome met the earth. Instead, the pale fabric rode the surface of Laiaka like a blister.

The tank approached the base of the dome at speed, both to evade the defensive towers and to preclude Roost and his men jumping early. At the last moment Haret, her Condor's driver, threw the 50-ton machine into a buttonhook turn. For a moment it was almost still, then they were racing back toward the Steel Wolf Corps tanks and the BattleMechs. Nikola did not check her rearview to confirm the militia had jumped at the optimum moment.

Breaching the dome on Laiaka was not a simple matter of cutting a hole in the semiflexible membrane. There were over a dozen layers of gastight fabric stretched over the frame for one thing. Some of the militia would attempt to overcome the wiring and security of existing air locks, a battle of technology and electronic counter- measures as they tried to outthink and outmaneuver defenders within the dome. Elsewhere militia sapper teams were erecting airtight shelters against the base of the dome. Once safely enclosed, they would begin cutting their way in, cauterizing and sealing each layer as they progressed. Done right, their point of entry would be stronger than the dome itself.

It struck Nikola as a needlessly complex process, but that was not her concern.

The assault was.

Three BattleMechs on the field. If the pirates used Inner Sphere protocol, there was a fourth somewhere. Assuming the pirate force was at full strength and not using the more sensible Clan Star configuration.

Would the fourth be on the DropShip field?

As if in answer, the Osiris paused in its advance, turning back toward the DropPort. The DropShips must be broadcasting word of Taylor's attack.

If the field was the Osiris' responsibility, the fourth 'Mech must be in the tunnels. In the main tunnels, where a 'Mech could maneuver easily and where the pirates would expect an attack.

Meaning Rhodan, in using the secondary tunnels, had probably already outflanked it.

A BattleMech in the tunnels would not be coming to the surface fast. All the forces that were going to be committed to repelling the first two prongs of the attack were already in place. No need to delay.

Reaching for the button Pandot had wired for the occasion, she launched the green flare.

"Engage Cobra with autocannon," she ordered, telling Ha ret that he had ballistic fire control.

The Condor swerved, its skirt venting air, and lined up on the medium 'Mech even as it touched down. Haret did not fire the nose-mounted cannon immediately, holding fire until he was within optimum range.

Nikola cranked the missile launcher to its highest elevation. She had observed that the Cobra pilot liked to jump directly over attackers.

The Cobra extended its left arm toward the advancing Condor. Through her viewer the oddly domed missile launcher seemed directed between Nikola's eyes.

Suddenly a blaze of coherent light gouged along the length of the Cobra's arm, flash-melting armor and apparently collapsing two of the missile tubes. A Bellona's extended-range large laser scoring a direct hit.

Nikola bit back a curse. She had ordered melee attack; this was not her foe alone.

Anticipating the Cobra's response, she launched the missiles even as Haret opened fire with the autocannon.

The pirate 'Mech leaped directly into the flight of long- range missiles, taking seven of the fifteen in hits across its thighs and torso. The multiple concussions threw the BattleMech off its arc, sending it tumbling toward the wind-scoured earth. The Cobra landed hard, one knee buckling; the pilot thrust a missile launcher into the ground to keep his machine from falling over completely. The left, Nikola noted, already damaged; he had the presence of mind not to ruin both main weapons.

However, the Cobra never got the chance to regain its feet. Armor chipped and shattered in ton lots as shells from a second SMI's AC/20 tore into its lower back. The Bellona followed up with another laser score of its own, slagging through the right torso's armor just below the 'Mech's extended arm.

Nikola paused, her thumb over the missile launch as the Cobra seemed to convulse.

The gyro?

Flame erupted from the major joints and gapped the armor down the center of the machine's chest. Nikola realized the 'Mech lacked CASE; its missile magazine was exploding.

The top of the Cobra's head flew away, explosive bolts clearing the hatch, and the command couch rose on the pillar of its escape jets.

Nodding, Nikola swung the viewer, searching out their next target. A scuttle of chrome yellow close to the ground caught her eye. Swinging back and refocusing she made out a squad of the Laiaki militia her people had just dropped running onto the battlefield, away from the dome. A laser blast—'Mech to tank—scorched through the air above them.

"Slow," she ordered, watching the militia. Two of them pulled canisters she didn't recognize from pouches as they ran. None were looking at the battle around them, all were focused on—

The MechWarrior. Strapped to his downed couch, he was thrashing wildly, slapping at his own flesh. His own flesh, red and blistering below his shorts and down his bare arms. Foam from the canisters washed over him, coating him in a clinging gel. Two of the others pulled him from his harness as a fifth shoved the mouthpiece of a small breathing tank into his mouth. Together the seven-man squad stuffed the still-struggling 'Mech pilot and his air tank into a bright yellow pouch that reminded Nikola of nothing so much as a body bag. Once it was sealed, they hooked another of the foam canisters to a nipple and apparently filled the sack with whatever the gel was.

Then, still ignoring the firefight around them, the seven lifted the bag by handles and began lugging it back toward the dome.

It occurred to Nikola that her air tank was going to be of little use if the hull around her was breached.

The radio came alive with a burst of static, startling her.

"... Dome!..." a voice that might have been Roost's crackled, the panic in his shout clear through the static.

Swinging her viewer around, Nikola could not at first see what the problem was. Around the main portal two groups in varied shades of safety yellow were struggling. She surmised some of the defenders had made a foray to repel the attackers attempting to overcome the air lock controls. Hardly worth—

Then the fabric of the dome above them rippled, a single wave of motion moving left to right across the field of her viewer.

Swinging her viewer left, she found a smoking tear— no, a razor-straight slit, smoldering. And a charred mass near the base of the dome. She did not comprehend what she was seeing until the next shot.

Laser fire stabbed into a blister at the base of the dome, scorching it to a molten mass. A mass that moved as men inside struggled and died.

The Sentry, the same 'Mech that had used its PPC to burn unprotected men off the side of a Condor, was now using its small pulse lasers against the sappers. The beams should have vaporized the dome material. From the looks of the several slits, they had at first. The 'Mech pilot—she could not think of him as a warrior—had reduced power. He was now melting the dome and boiling the militiamen alive in their molten environmental suits.

"Target that freebirth stravagl" she shouted, launching her own missiles.

Below her, Haret—a second late in understanding the situation—cursed and threw the Condor into a skittering run at the BattleMech. By the time they'd covered two hundred meters his intended target had been reduced to scrap by vectored fire from a half dozen tanks. And at least one defense tower.

Shouting his frustration at having been denied the kill, Haret spun the Condor right, shedding air, and arrowed toward the remaining Osiris. But that BattleMech had already surrendered, standing with weapons lowered and powered down. Haret pulled the tank to a halt, reduced to venting his outrage in a string of curses.

Nikola remained silent, watching her viewscreen as the hurricane winds plucked at the edges of the rents in the dome's fabric. Scars grew, like lips parting in sudden surprise. The dome rippled, fluttered, spasmed helplessly as Laiaka gleefully stripped Yaleston's protection away.

26

Canid Cooperative Stable

Solaris City, Solaris VII

Lyran Commonwealth

31 January 3136

Jazz swore and twisted in her seat, trying to speed the Lineholder's duck and turn with her own body English.

The BattleMech filling her screen was a Merlin, the same one that Yulri had beaten, with the same jockey at the controls. Only she wasn't Yulri and Wallace was cleaning her clock. The glare of a PPC bolt limned her cockpit as her Linebacker rocked under the impact.

An alarm hooted and the stupid cartoon of her 'Mech flashed red and yellow along its lower torso and leg.

She fired all her medium lasers—firing from the chest being a new idea—and a wave of heat washed through the cockpit. She kicked her pedals in what should have been a stutter step left as she brought her double missile racks to bear. The 55-ton machine around her shuffled like a senile song-and-dance man, but the tubes lined up.

"Ha!" she shouted and fired.

The twin flights of missiles twisted through the narrow space, arrowing into the other machine with deadly accuracy . . .

And bounced off like a handful of twigs thrown against a wall.

"Hot load, hot load, hot loadl" Jazz reminded herself as she twisted the machine's torso left, bringing up its left arm.

Twin lasers lanced from the Merlin's extended arms, scouring armor from her Lineholder's chest as machine- gun fire pattered like angry rain from her canopy.

Wait for it, wait for it.. .

Good tone on the large laser's targeting computer. She fired, shoving her thumb down on the trigger hard enough to send a twinge of pain along her wrist.

Nothing.

A glance at the stupid cartoon told her there was a bright red triangle at the left elbow and the large laser assembly was black. Leaning forward against the straps of the harness, she peered out at what she could see of the left arm. An elbow joint and mangled metal.

"Why the hell did the good tone sound?"

She was slammed back into her couch as explosions rocked the BattleMech backward. Wallace had remembered to hot load.

Jazz fought for balance, swinging the lasers around as she initiated her own hot load sequence. The cockpit filled with glare again as the Merlin's PPC raked her at close range.

With a final, fading wail of alarms, the cockpit around her went dark.

"Damn can opener."

With a beep of warning, the clamshell of the simulator opened, flooding her dark cocoon with light and cold air.

Sucking her teeth. Jazz yanked at the buckles of her restraints. Shoving free of the seat, she was pulled up short by the cables connecting her neurohelmet to the interface. She pulled the wires loose—in the right order and careful to use the releases—and put the expensive helmet on its rack without slamming it. She almost repeated the shove-and-jerk maneuver, but remembered to disconnect the coolant lines from her vest before successfully scrambling from the sim pod.

Wallace was already pulling a field jacket with the

Canid Cooperative logo on the shoulder over her cooling vest as she strolled over.

"Impressive."

"Like hell."

"I mean it," the bigger woman insisted. "You've got some good instincts. And not many jockeys could throw a Lineholder around like that."

"Or forget to hot load—"

"Pros do that all the time," Wallace said, leading the way toward the control cubicle. "Let's check the crystals."

The monitor tech—Pilfer? Milner, she read his name from the Canid jacket—

Where was hers?

"Hang on," she said and stalked back to her sim pod to fetch her fatigue jacket from the hook by the ladder.

Recordings of her getting her butt kicked—again—in the stupid 'Mech sim interested her not at all. If Yulri hadn't insisted everyone be checked out in everything the Canid fielded, she'd have never seen the inside of a 'Mech cockpit and died happy.

Wallace and Milner had their heads together over the data display as she entered the simulator control cubicle.

Knock out a couple of walls and this could make a nice closet.

"You realize you averaged six balance corrections to the gyro computer's five?" Wallace asked without looking up from the screen.

"So?"

"So most pilots average two to the computer's five," Milner said. "Too bad Canid doesn't include aerospace. You'd make a hell of a fighter jock."

Jazz grunted. Getting further away from reality was about as intriguing as a root canal. She listened dutifully as Wallace uncorked her standard lecture on the finer points of multitasking while piloting so complex a machine as a BattleMech and complimented Jazz on her situational awareness and battlefield savvy.

"You've got live fire this afternoon, right?" she asked when her 'Mech instructor at last wound down.

"No running this time, is there?" Wallace asked. "I don't have the wind for it."

"If you're ever going to be a real fighter, you're going to need to get off your . . . couch," Jazz said. "Three- kilometer run before your first qualifier and wind sprints every time you pass, just like always."

"Damn."

"If you can't be on target dog-tired and out of breath," Jazz reminded her, "you're no good in the field."

"You know our relationship is fundamentally unfair," Wallace pointed out. "Worst I ever do to you is simulate damage."

Jazz grinned savagely. Then Milner's smirk caught her eye.

"I'm going to recommend to the co-op that all techs go through full combat training as well," she said conversationally.

"Good plan," Wallace agreed, looking at the suddenly stricken Milner.

Still grinning. Jazz headed for the showers. She pulled off the jacket as she walked through the halls, her body already acclimated to the temperature. Time was when she would have overheated rather than reveal the stippled field of scar tissue from ribs to collarbone. But it had been weeks since her half-empty sports bra or the damaged flesh extending above and below it had earned a second glance at Canid. The place was getting downright homey.

On the heels of that thought came Yulri with some new faces. Out front was a kid who either hadn't washed or was trying to imply age through facial hair. His eyes went wide at the sight of Jazz. And his mouth.

Without breaking stride she shouldered open the door to the shower room.

Yep. Homey.

Twenty minutes later she entered the ready room where Yulri was finishing up with the newest batch of applicants. He did that every time. Most commands would wait until hopefuls had gone through the whole screening process before taking the time to meet them.

Yulri made face time with him the first step before the wannabes even identified themselves. Whatever else happened in the sorting process, that first impression carried more weight than any other single step.

The ready room was laid out like a classroom— holovid flat screen and diagramming board on one wall and straight-backed chairs with swing-up noteputer shelves arranged in loose semicircles. Four men and two women were sitting in various interpretations of attention facing Yulri, who sat to one side of the holoscreen in an identical chair turned to face them. As usual, his flat-footed pose looked both relaxed and ready.

Jazz gave him her secret smile—pulling the right corner up until her mouth made a straight line—as she twirled a chair one-handed and set it mirroring his position at the front of the room. His left eyelid flickered. Good group.

"Who am I?" she demanded.

"Jasmine duMartre," answered the kid who'd come unglued at the sight of her in the hall.

Jazz blinked.

"Aka Jazz," the kid went on, face shining through the fuzz of future beard. "My sister said you were the best scrapper scout in the business."

Sister?

Then she had it. Round his features a little, replace that buzz cut with a pageboy and he was the spitting image of Darcy Yarrow, leader of Darcy's Divas. That meant this was . . . Take off three years, add a mop of curly brown hair and painful first-crush moon.

"Acne cleared up nicely, Daren."

The kid beamed.

"But you're still too young for the games by at least two years."

Daren's face fell.

She turned to Yulri. "Did he lie about his age?"

"He has stated only that he wants to join."

"That just saved your ass, literally," Jazz told Daren, her left eye squinted so he got the full effect of the right. "If you had lied about your age and we'd put you in a match, the gaming commission would have yanked Can- id's charter in a cold Terran minute."

"But—"

"Shut the but up," Jazz said. "Come back in two years, with your birth certificate. Then—maybe—we'll talk."

After a stricken few moments, Daren stood and made the best of his exit, apparently trying for a sort of noble march. He blew it when he stopped at the door and looked back at Jazz. It was painfully clear this was not how he'd imagined their reunion going. Finally he fumbled something between a salute and a wave and slid out of the room.

"Who am I?" Jazz demanded of the remaining five.

"You're Jazz," answered one of the others, a woman maybe two years older than she. "Head of infantry assets and training."

"Right," Jazz said. "And you are all infantry assets, which means I am your boss."

A hand went up.

"I see your haircut, but you're still infantry," Jazz said. "Even if you brought your own 'Mech, you'd go through infantry training. And you will see Mech Warriors on the practice range with you. Everybody will be checked out on everything.

"Which means, yes, those of you who become part of Canid will all get your basic 'Mech certificates."

Jazz was gratified to see only the guy with the haircut and the younger female looked excited at that prospect. The other three looked as unhappy as she felt about the extra duty.

Still, she understood the logic behind Yulri's plan. MechWarriors respected other MechWarriors. No matter what they signed about equal memberships, it was just in their nature to view MechWarriors as a little more equal than everyone else. Quickest solution: Everyone in the cooperative earned 'Mech papers.

The flip side—making all those couch fighters qualify for the infantry games—added another element of equality. And instilled a greater respect for the ground pounders in the high-and-mighty jocks.

From there she went through the basics of the Canid structure. Yulri was the head, she was the neck, and everyone else was the body. No set ranks, but everyone had a job and knew where they fit in the whole. The rest—the fiscal communalism of the co-op; the trial period, application, and vote; arrangements with their agents—was all fairly standard and got covered in less than twenty minutes.

"If any of this doesn't sound right to you," Jazz finished, "there's the door."

The long moment of silence was broken by a heavy sigh. Looking at no one else, 'Mech-haircut boy levered himself out of his chair.

"Anything else?" Jazz asked when the door had shut behind him.

"There is a rumor," the older woman said without raising her hand, "that all Canid scrappers go in with a cache of live ammo."

"Really?"

"Story is, if anyone ever uses live ammo on any of your people, you'll go full-contact," she said, unflinching. "That you'll hunt down and kill anyone who tries to hurt one of your own by cheating."

"I like that rumor." Jazz said, nodding judiciously. "Repeat it often."

"Is it true?"

Jazz sat, unmoving, and regarded the woman.

"What about this honor thing?" a blond guy asked when it was clear Jazz wasn't talking. "This oath. Is that a Clan thing?"

"No." Yulri answered flatly. "And yes."

Jazz was glad to see the newcomers had the wit to wait.

The oath Yulri had originated—and required everyone to uphold—was the cornerstone of Canid. What made it unlike any other cooperative or stable. And nobody could explain it like Yulri. For a classically laconic Clanner, Yulri could be articulate when he wanted to be.

"The core and foundation, what it means to be Clan, has always been purpose," Yulri said. "The purpose was to raise human civilization to what it could be, to fulfill humanity's promise. It is not possible to be dedicated to such a purpose, to work toward such a goal, without honor.

"But the Clans came to believe their dedication to this goal made them automatically superior to all others in all things." Yulri shook his head. "The Clans did not see the blindness of this belief, did not see how at its heart it ran contrary to why they existed."

Yulri paused for a moment. His audience was quiet, respecting his moment of thoughtful regard of the middle distance.

"The Clans did not see they'd changed," he said at last, "or that the purpose did not always hold. Clans became something not Clan. The Steel Wolves . . ."

Again the pause. Usually his old Clan was not mentioned by name. Jazz did not know what had happened, what had driven Yulri to Solaris VII—perhaps the most unClan world in the galaxy. He never spoke of it. She was glad for it, whatever it was, because without it she'd never have Yulri. But when she caught a glimpse of how far it had pushed him . . .

"One does not have to be Clan to believe in Keren- sky's dream or to carry it forward," Yulri said at last. "One need only make a stand where one is. By choosing to live with integrity and honor, by striving to fulfill the promise of what we can be and by doing so boldly for all the world to see, each of us can serve his vision.

"Canid is part of that vision, dedicated to bringing it to pass," he concluded. He never added the corollary that anyone who wasn't part of the vision wasn't part of Canid.

In the end they did sign, filling out resumes, citing references, and authorizing background checks. Four new potential partners in the effort to save humanity from itself. And make Canid a few kroner in the process.

Peters and Elois arrived at this point, summoned by Yulri's signal. Skilled interrogators with counterintelligence experience, they conducted the oral interviews and reviewed resumes. Sifting past lives and current mindsets for elements the cooperative sought.

When they were alone in the corridor, Yulri grunted. An amused sound.

"What?"

"Jasmine duMartre?" Yulri asked, repeating the name Daren Yarrow had used.

"What about it?" "Your—parents"—he stumbled over the unfamiliar word—"named you 'fragrance of the weasel'?"

"Yeah." His etymology—and zoology—was a little skewed, but not enough to matter. "And then / named me Jazz."

She stepped closer, angling her chin to keep their eyes locked.

"And if you want to keep all three legs," she said, low and cold, "you remember to call me Jazz."

"Bargained well and done."

27

Bunker City, Geir

Laiaka, former Prefecture VIII

1 February 3136

"You exceeded your contract," Laiaka Planetary Governor Zeander's voice trembled with barely suppressed rage. "Your wanton destruction of Yaleston—"

"You lied," Nikola Demos cut him off, her own voice cold with threat. "You knew Yaleston was in rebellion. Pirates would have abandoned their holdings or surrendered in the face of our assault. People fighting to defend their homes . . ."

"You!" Zeander came to his feet with surprising agility.

Part of Nikola's mind decided she, with Rhodan and Taylor at her back, could defeat the governor, his aides, and the two guards easily. She was a little disappointed he didn't cross the table.

"You destroyed a city—left thousands domeless," Zeander said. "Refugees, damages, it's a civil nightmare—"

"You have a civil nightmare because we did not destroy a city," Nikola countered. "If you had gotten the BattleMech force you wanted and tricked them into the all-out assault you demanded of us, there would be no Yaleston survivors for you to contend with."

Zeander purpled. Not with shame—that she would have understood—but with outrage that Nikola would point out his deception.

"Jay."

Bahram's soft soprano stopped whatever retort the governor had been about to make.

Nikola wondered again at the woman's role. The same collapse of the Republic of the Sphere that had given the Yaleston colonists the idea they could declare their independence, had reduced its representative to little more than a refugee from whatever her home world had been. Yet it was obvious she still held power here.

"Both parties hired mercenaries who understand this world even less than I did when I first arrived," Bahram said with quiet composure, addressing Zeander's back as he stood glaring at Nikola. "Of course the result was disaster.

"The fact remains we are having this conversation because you hired the better mercenaries." She nodded to Nikola. "And they did the job you hired them to do."

Nikola noted Zeander was no longer gaping and that his color was dulling toward normal.

"Pay the Steel Wolf Corps what you owe them and let them leave," the former planetary legate concluded. "Then we can set about healing the wounds Laiaka has suffered."

* * *

Nikola could not wait to shake the dust of Laiaka from her boots.

The depth of Spheroid deception never ceased to disgust her. Clans fought, yes, and used every advantage to attain their goals. This was the natural order of selection, how the race improved.

But there was a universe of difference between using misdirection to trick an enemy out of position and using deception to trick a supposed ally into slaughtering thousands of civilians.

The tunnel to the DropPort was as flooded with sunlight as the day she'd arrived, but she no longer found the glow cheering. The stone was still soundless beneath their boots. She had never discovered the secret of that, but the mystery no longer interested her.

The gas doors separating the Bunker City tunnel from the DropPort tunnel cycled open with a hiss of equalizing pressure.

"Ten-shut!"

The strangely soundproof floor of the corridor robbed the shouted command of echo and reduced the stamp of booted heels snapping together to a muffled thump. But a double row of Laiaki militia, facing each other across the width of the tunnel, snapped to attention.

Captain Roost took the center of the corridor. Coming to attention, he crisply snapped to the curious left-hand salute of the militia and held position, staring fixedly into the middle distance between them.

Nikola stopped a step across the threshold, Rhodan and Taylor flanking her. Part of her mind noted the door sealing itself automatically behind them. Another part of her mind noted the complete field kits—and what looked like personal duffels—lining the walls behind the assembled militia.

Nikola brushed the tips of her fingers near her brow. Close enough to a returned salute to allow Roost to snap his own hand down—index finger no doubt aligned with the outer seam of his hazmat suit.

"Care to explain, Captain?"

"Sir!" Roost responded in formal parade tones. "The former First and Second Companies of the Geir Regiment, Laiaka Planetary Militia, request permission to enlist in the Steel Wolf Corps."

Nikola looked past him to the troopers along the wall. One hundred and forty of them had followed her into battle; seventy-three had lived to be here. They were not Clan, but . . .

She brought her eyes back to Roost. "Did you know about the rebellion?"

Roost's mouth became a hard line. "That's kinda why we want to enlist."

Nikola nodded. Zeander had deceived the Steel Wolf Corps, but he had betrayed his ow% people in sending them to make war on their brothers unawares.

"What of your . . . families?" She stumbled a bit over the unfamiliar term. "Dependents?"

"Have to complete six years of civic service to earn marriage rights." Roost said, as though stating the obvious. "We're committed and ready to move out now."

This is not how it's done. Then hard on that thought: After all that has happened, how will it ever be done? We're on our own.

"There will be trials," she said, though she doubted the prospect would daunt people who had colonized hell. "There will be no commitment until you have earned it."

Roost nodded, once.

"The DropShips lift in ten minutes."

Roost saluted again, a quick up-and-down snap of the arm. Then he stepped back and to the side, yielding the right of way.

Nikola Demos strode down the corridor, Rhodan and Taylor on her flanks and seventy-three new troops at her back.

28

Ruins of Carnwath City, Watholi Plain

Carnwath, Jade Falcon Territory

16 February 3136

The hot wind rising off the Watholi Plain managed to cool by wicking sweat from his brow and the nape of his neck. The rest of Colonel Jerry Jamison was protected against the gnats of summer by a jumpsuit bloused into his boots and cinched tight at the wrists.

He adjusted his pack, the lighter of the two, on his shoulders, and cocked a weather eye at the high haze. Not that he could tell anything from the white glare. He hadn't been here long enough to know what the weather patterns indicated.

Hot would be a good guess, he thought, dabbing stinging sunscreen from his eye.

It would have been easier—and more sensible—to have driven the air-conditioned ground car to the top of the grassy ridge. But something about the great circle of standing stones and the five crude pyramids within the shallow bowl of earth required that they be approached on foot.

Even if they weren't what they looked like.

"What do you think. Captain?" Jerry asked his infantry commander as they reached the base of the nearest pillar.

Fiona Cooper shoved her cap back on her head as she examined the crudely carved statue towering above them.

"Enos," she pronounced at last. "A sickly sibkin who tested to the science caste."

"I'm beginning to recognize Clan humor," Jerry said.

"Colonel?" The Elemental looked disappointed. "Then I have failed in my attempt at a Spheroid quip."

"There will be other trials," Jerry assured her solemnly.

In point of fact Fiona and the other former Steel Wolves had done a better job of fitting in than he had imagined possible. Six months ago he had seen them as a quick way to get his Juggernauts up to fighting trim. Short-term troops who would either move on or wash out by the end of the year. Now they were as much Juggernauts as anyone else in his command.

Not that there hadn't been rough moments, particularly in the first few weeks. Clan attitude, even the muted brand the newest Juggernauts practiced, was still Clan attitude. There had been a wide variety of contusions and bruises reported to the medicos during the first few weeks. All, the injured reported, related to improper safety practices in using locker doors or items of furniture.

Jerry had turned a blind eye to most of the incidents, visiting the infirmary only when the chief medtech called to report an Elemental with cracked ribs. Use of weapons, even clubs, was going over the line.

Beral, now Sergeant Beral, the wounded Elemental, had calmly explained he'd missed a sign warning him of a stairwell. He denied any weapons were involved in his injuries and had no theories as to why the bruise around the cracked rib was fist-shaped.

Sergeant Oscar was also on hand, waiting for Beral to be released by the medicos. Oscar had grown up in a domed mining colony on the dark side of Gulf Breeze, a world with nearly twice Terran standard gravity. An UrbanMech of a man, he barely reached the colonel's chin, but massed an easy hundred and fifty kilos of solid bone and muscle. When Jerry had commented that the side of Oscar's face was swollen, with a purpling bruise, the sergeant had blandly admitted it was the result of his not noticing a bar of soap on the floor.

Faced with a unified front. Jerry had elected not to press the attack and withdrew in good order.

Rental fees for target ranges, obstacle courses, and practice fields on Galatea had also eaten more of the budget than anticipated those first months. Juggernauts at every level found a need for exercises that might, to the jaundiced eye, have looked more like competitions.

The only unit that had integrated without a ripple had been armor. Major Don Avison had required all tank crews to be thoroughly trained on all vehicles. The brace of Mithras had filled in the light end of their roster nicely, as fast as the Juggernauts' Chevalier and well able to support it on rapid strikes. For their part the Clan tankers had been impressed with all the Juggernauts' armor. They had gone out of their way to praise not just the flashy Demons or their lone expensive-as-a- 'Mech Schiltron. but also the Myrmidon and even the workhorse Bellona.

Apparently a good machine was a good machine to a tanker. They had intermingled easily, re-forming into new crews with no ripples reaching Jerry's attention.

Turning from the statue, Jerry indicated the pyramids with a lifted chin.

Fiona stood for a long minute, taking in the sight. Five crudely geometric pyramids, either partially collapsed or never completed, rose from the flat interior of the crater. They were black, weathered to the point that it was hard to tell whether they were constructed of blocks or were carved from single, giant stones. Black, with the hazy white sky glare reflecting thousands of crystalline fragments, the pyramids commanded respect.

The wind and even the ever-present gnats seemed to obey, for neither stirred within the bowl of the crater, the natural amphitheater ringed with silent watchers. Intellectually Jerry knew the pest-free stillness was the result of topography and low-level radiation, but emotionally the effect was stunning.

"The stories of early settlers mistaking a natural formation for alien monuments are no longer humorous,'' Fiona said at last.

"For nine hundred years folks have known this is nothing but a meteor impact," Jerry said. "Yet I'm told it's still one of the biggest tourist attractions in the prefecture. Former prefecture."

"Clan Jade Falcon territory." Fiona supplied, packing the words with venom.

When the Republic of the Sphere had collapsed in on itself, many former Republic worlds had found themselves alone in hostile space. Some had been quickly absorbed by more powerful neighbors. Others had formed pocket coalitions with similar worlds, hoping mutual-protection pacts would make them too difficult for others to swallow.

Carnwath and a couple of neighbors including Izar had formed such a coalition, even—under the savvy business guidance of the Carnwathi—worked out an intersys- tem trade agreement. But before the treaty noteputers had cooled, the Jade Falcons had arrived.

Carnwath and the others had been stepping stones in the Jade Falcon invasion of The Republic nearly two years before. They had hoped the Clan, having ignored their worlds while recharging their JumpShips in 3034. would continue to regard them as targets unworthy of attention in The Republic's absence. They'd been disappointed

Faced with a threat they could not meet militarily, they'd presented a unified diplomatic front. Carnwath again took the lead and—speaking for the newly formed Carnwath Coalition—answered the Falcons' batchall with a business proposition. Citing a tradition dating from human prehistory, they offered tribute.

The coalition proposed to provide the Jade Falcons with a healthy percentage of each world's gross planetary product plus a portion of all trade passing through the three systems. In addition, Jade Falcon units would have free and unlimited access to any bases, repair facilities, or any other installation they deemed necessary.

In exchange, the Jade Falcons would maintain a minimum presence in each system. With the smallest force they thought necessary, they would hold the jump points and oversee the local military to ensure the three worlds were complying with the agreement—and allow the worlds to administer domestic affairs and deal with internal issues on their own.

Perhaps their forces were too thinly spread. Or perhaps they were gathering forces elsewhere for another campaign. Or perhaps the efficiency of gaining the spoils of three worlds without the tiresome and honorless responsibility of garrison duty appealed to them. For whatever reason, the Jade Falcons had agreed.

Jerry didn't know enough of Clan history to know how unusual that was. but he was pretty sure it wasn't SOP.

For the Juggernauts it had meant a cursory inspection at the jump point, providing an inventory and roster— which did not mention that some of the personnel were Elementals and a few misspellings making traditionally Clan names less obvious—and a copy of their contract. They were helped a great deal by the tribute treaty calling for the Jade Falcons to determine what they felt were the minimum assets necessary to administer the planet. This had led to bidding that reduced the garrisons to barely skeletal levels.

In fact, the most difficult—and galling—part of the entire process had been imposed by the Carnwath customs officer. She had required the Juggernauts to sign a new contract stating that if they used any weapons against any Jade Falcons, all of their assets were forfeit. They would be dispossessed, all of their equipment given to the Jade Falcons.

"You don't like the Jade Falcons much," Jerry commented, looking up at Fiona's profile.

"There has long been bitter blood between them and Clan Wolf, whether true, in Exile, or Steel," the Elemental said. "Nor have they enjoyed the friendship of my people."

"Your people?" Jerry asked. "You're not Wolf?"

Fiona turned her head to look down at him, a smile playing about her lips.

"I am with the Juggernauts now. I was with the Wolves," she said. "But I am trueborn Clan Hell's Horses. Cooper is a Hell's Horses bloodname."

Jerry realized he was gaping and shut his mouth.

"That's why you expected me to react when we were introduced," he said. "You thought I would recognize the bloodname."

"For six months you have remembered that moment," Fiona said. "And in six months you have never asked. Does that speak to your patience or your priorities?"

"Priorities," Jerry answered. "How did a trueborn Hell's Horses end up serving with the Steel Wolves?"

"That," said Fiona, turning to look back at the broken pyramids of the fallen meteor, "is a very long and interesting story."

Jerry stood for a long moment waiting for her to continue.

"A famous tourist attraction," she said at last. "A monument to people not understanding what they're looking at?"

Okay.

"More like a testament to people projecting what they want to see into what's in front of them." he said aloud.

They stood for a moment in silence, considering the massive stone shapes so hauntingly like the work of human hands. Insignificant among the stones were hundreds of tourists, wandering alone or in small groups, some gathered around picnic meals.

Speaking of which . , .

Shedding his pack, Jerry pulled out a ground-cover tarp and set about spreading it on a relatively level space. Fiona set her own pack carefully down before retrieving cutlery and containers of various local dishes from Jerry's pack. Arranging the items between them, they set Fiona's pack as an improvised table on the downward edge of the tarp. With the pillar of stone close behind them, they sat looking out over the valley of pyramids.

"Clan folk ever wonder about that?" Jerry asked when the rituals of dividing portions were complete and they'd begun eating. "Alien life, I mean."

"Sentient nonhumans," Fiona said as though testing the feel of the phrase. "Perhaps some in the science caste might consider such issues, but it is not a concern for warriors."

Jerry pricked his ears at something in her phrasing. "What about you. personally?"

Fiona peeled apart a local pastry and examined the meat that had been baked within. "Why does every new meat taste like roast bird?" she asked.

"Captain."

Fiona glanced down at him from the corner of her eye and reassembled the sandwich.

"I have been EVA in deep space," she said. "Jump point for a brown dwarf star. Sail repair at a sun with no worlds required muscle."

She paused, but Jerry said nothing.

"From that perspective," she said after a moment, "the field of stars appeared infinite."

" 'When I consider the heavens and the works of thy hands,' " Jerry quoted, " 'What is man that thou art mindful of him?' "

"What?"

"A Terran poet," Jerry said. "Or philosopher. I forget which. That was part of something my mother used to read to us. A book written over five thousand years ago."

"Your mother," Fiona said. "Interesting concept."

"And here I thought the idea of addressing a personal deity would catch your ear."

Again the sideways glance. "For Clan, that is a less disturbing thought."

"How about this one?" Jerry asked. "Scientist this time, prespaceflight: 'Considering the size of the cosmos, for man to be alone would be a terrible waste of space.' "

"Better," Fiona said. "But I would prefer to think of it as an adequately prepared field for expansion."

"Speaking of adequate preparation ..." Jerry said, looking to be sure no one was near them on the hillside.

"Indeed," Fiona agreed, moving only her eyes as she

also scanned.

Satisfied, she reached forward, touching a contact at the corner of their impromptu table. The side of her pack facing them dropped away, revealing a shielded holoscreen.

The image generated looked distorted to Jerry, and a bit ghostly. Shifting slightly closer to the captain brought him into better alignment with the emitters, and the colors and shapes became more opaque.

"Some of your inferences about our present job situation were correct," Fiona said as text scrolled under the images. "Izar is a world which has been occupied several times, but always at great cost to the occupiers. The natives are adept at guerilla warfare and resisting greater powers. Ambush, booby traps, sabotage, and assassination are all standard tactics. They are a self-reliant and indomitable people who claim with some justification that they have never been wholly conquered."

"Not the sort of folks to hire mercenaries," Jerry concluded. "No matter what their problem."

"No."

"What happened to the days when a mercenary could trust an employer?" he asked.

The Juggernauts had been hired, supposedly by covert representatives of Izar planetary governor Rowanda, to expel an occupying force that was well entrenched. Their delay on Carnwath, during which they were being paid to conduct exercises and generally be seen, was supposedly part of an attempt to solve the problem without violence. They were a stick to which the governor could point; a consequence if the interlopers did not comply with the vacate order.

The problem for Jerry was that he could find no evidence of unrest or trouble on Izar. True, before the job offer, the planet had been no more than a name on a star chart, but usually when a planet had problems, its neighbors knew something about it. Even if it wasn't being openly discussed, there should have been some hint of trouble. But there had been nothing about Izar in the press or—as nearly as he could tell—in the street.

Of further concern was the fact that sources he was able to develop soon disappeared. More subtly, needs were being anticipated and met. Earlier this week he had discussed searching for a new practice area as a cover for widening their information-gathering net— finding sources a little farther away from the DropPort. Before the search could be organized, a guide, hired by their employer, had arrived with a list of potential practice sites and a rented VTOL with which to conduct them on their tour.

Jerry had tasked Fiona with finding out what she could about both their employment and the potential bugging of their headquarters. He'd circumvented this last by handwriting her orders on a slip of paper. The paper had gone from his hand to hers to lighting her cigar with no chance of being intercepted or photographed.

Arrangements for this debriefing picnic were made the same way.

Fiona didn't answer Jerry's question, instead looking about as though enjoying the scene around them.

"Zebeneschamali."

"Never heard of it."

"It's the third world of this coalition, an equal partner with Carnwath and Izar," Fiona explained, the cut of her eyes telling him she suspected his ignorance was feigned. Scrolling through screens, she brought up a reddish image of what looked like tundra, with dark mountains in the near distance. "Small world; light. Long orbit around an M2V primary."

"Cold?"

"Cool. Twenty-five mean equatorial. This area—South Arragon—stays near zero, though temperatures rise into the low teens in summer."

"And South Arragon, Zeb-est-molly—"

"Zebeneschamali."

"—is where you think we're going."

"Zebeneschamali was originally settled by Terrans from a region called the Middle East," Fiona summarized the text. "Technological minimalists, they settled on the Kirikahmed continent and did not develop their world beyond self-sufficiency. Some decades later, survivors of a failed Unukalhai colony settled the North Arragon continent."

"They settled a colonized world?"

"The Zebeneschamalis occupied only one continent," Fiona said. "The newcomers regarded the space they appropriated as unoccupied."

"Resulting in a few centuries of intercolony war," Jerry surmised. "And now that The Republic's not making them play nice, we're being called in to bolster one side against the other? What's their new planetary government doing?"

"The cultures have coexisted and peacefully intermingled for nearly a millennium," Fiona said. "The united planetary government is funding our retainer and training pay."

"How did you find all of this out so quickly?"

Fiona blanked her face, letting her jaw slacken slightly behind closed lips, and her apparent IQ dropped by fifty percent. She held the expression for a moment, then smiled, her eyes reanimating with intelligence.

"Be a confused messenger sent to ask vague and rambling questions you clearly do not understand about missing materiel and read every data screen while they track nonexistent answers," she said. "Waiting blankly in a well-chosen spot for your master to retrieve you is also very informative."

Jerry looked pointedly at the mistaken pyramids. She grinned, catching the reference. Knowing most people did not expect Elementals—especially female Elementals—to be clever was one of the reasons he'd given this assignment to Fiona. It was no surprise she was adept at manipulating anti-Elemental stereotyping—showing people what they expected to see.

Eating slowly and taking care to appear deep in personal conversation, they reviewed the data Fiona had downloaded. Nothing in the information or the images gave any insight into what the Zebeneschamalis wanted with a regiment of mercenaries.

"Theories or recommendations?" Jerry asked at last. "The Zebeneschamalis are going to these lengths either to mislead us, or—if they fear their own security is compromised—to misdirect another observer," Fiona said. "Izar is cooperating fully in this deception."

"They are not going to try and throw off the Jade Falcons," Jerry said. "Even with the best mercenary outfit in the business. So what threat could be worth our price tag?"

Fiona frowned, clearly considering her words.

"Since the Blake Jihad there have been rumors that Blakist refugees went into hiding on Zebeneschamali," she finally said. "Specifically, the undeveloped South Ar- ragon continent. This is something of a regional legend, and was actually a sticking point in the formation of the coalition.

"At that time, Zebeneschamali Governor Wesisa Kisa announced that she would lay these rumors to rest." An image of a square-jawed woman in late middle age appeared on the display. "The planetary militia would conduct a meter-by-meter search of the entire continent, establishing once and for all that the continent is uninhabited."

"Four months later, with the help of some neighbors, they hire an augmented mixed battalion of mercenaries, move them to a planet one jump away, then pay them to keep in top shape and be ready to move on a moment's notice." Jerry finished. "They found snake tracks."

"Evidence of occupation, but no hard contact," Fiona interpreted.

"And they want a big stick handy just in case they find a bigger snake than they can handle on their own," Jerry went on. "But they very much do not want to upset the balance with the Jade Falcons by inviting a large force to come clean up a 'domestic issue.' That fits." He nibbled on a stalk of local celery. "And if they're afraid the Blakists are as spy savvy as history paints them, all this cloak-and-dagger stuff to hide us makes sense, too."

"But they are unskilled at misdirection," Fiona pointed out. "Penetrating their deception was child's play."

"Which means if—//—Blakists are on Zebeneschamali, they probably know all about us," Jake said. "However, we don't want to openly discuss the issue with the Izar representatives in case they don't."

"If there is a Word of Blake enclave," Fiona said, following her own thread, "they would have been in hiding—in seclusion—over fifty years. We would face second- and third-generation survivors."

"In other words, fanatics who have been conditioned their entire lives for one last battle," Jake said. "They're going to need us."

"It may be wise to invite a representative of the Izar government to a picnic."

Jerry nodded. They needed to be preparing a coordinated response, not simply waiting to be thrown into a battle. On the other hand, there was no way to determine to what extent the Zebeneschamali government might be compromised. Working through Izar would be the way to go.

"You said some of my inferences were correct," Jerry said. "Where did I go wrong?"

"There is no evidence of any form of electronic surveillance in our compound," Fiona replied, finishing a last bit of fruit. "The Izari anticipation of our needs and moves seems to be based solely on close observation from a distance and competent analysis."

Jerry looked at her in surprise.

Ignoring him, Fiona wiped fruit juice from her hands and dropped the scrap of napkin back into his pack.

"So if there is no surveillance equipment inside the compound," Jerry asked at last, "why go through this charade?"

"I had never been on a picnic."

"Ah." Jerry glanced around, indicating the high, white sky, the rock formations, and the tourists. "What do you think?"

"I am concerned about distant observers recording our actions," Fiona said, shifting her eyes to cover the perimeter. "I recommend we couple to divert their suspicions."

29

Tennessee Valley Arena, Roland Fields

District Solaris City, Solaris VII

Lyran Commonwealth

26 February 3136

"Jazz."

"Sir?"

"Adrienne and the fire team need position here." Tomlinson pointed to a promontory on the topomap. "Bad news is, only a complete idiot wouldn't realize that's where they need to be. Worse news: Intel is Cenotaph company fields very few idiots. Known Cenotaph positions are here, here, and here. Which means unknown positions are everywhere else. Get Adrienne's team where they need to be and keep everyone off their backs while they work. Got it?"

Jazz took a long second studying the map. She'd have a small one on her field noteputer, but seeing the big picture at this scale gave perspective.

"Got it," she confirmed.

"Do it yesterday."

Jazz sketched a salute and bugged for her squad.

Tomlinson still talked like a holovid action figure, but he balanced company assets in his head and could revise tactics on the fly faster—and more intelligently—than soldiers with twice his experience. Giving him overall command of infantry matches had been a good move, and she felt good serving under him.

More to the point, she'd seen him on the live-fire range. She felt a lot safer out here knowing she was the one with the gun.

* * *

Tommy Gunn sauntered casually from the Sportsman's Club's infantry room.

With Canid firmly entrenched on the high ground, it was only a question of time. There were still a few side- bet issues hanging in the balance, but that wasn't enough to hold him. Being an owner's rep lacked the frisson of agenting. He no longer had individual clients to watch over; the cooperative's own analysts dissected the recordings of every match. And there was no hunting here at the club. Now other agents came to him—not the same thing at all.

A short stroll down a lushly soundproofed corridor to the BattleMech gallery. Until a few months ago unfamiliar territory. The shine hadn't quite worn off the experience, but Tommy could see it coming. In the not too distant future this was going to be a job. A job he hated. Agenting, the art of the deal, that was his life. He should never have taken on this midwife job. bringing a new- co-op into the world.

Tommy felt a stab of ice as his eye slid across the New DeLon rep, but there was no hitch in his casual survey of the room. He didn't know the predawn comm calls came from them. Just like he couldn't smell the oxygen in the air he was breathing. But New DeLon was just one arm of the shadowy cartel that ran the fringes of the Solaris Games beyond the reach of the gaming commission.

I'm trying, you bastards.

The BattleMech gallery was circled by a dozen large screens. With fewer variables to track, one screen per match was usually enough. The ticker crawls across the bottom and top of each screen were sparse and the data files on either side of the displays were simpler than the infantry boards. It was easy to see why the flash and boom of 'Mech combat was the joy of the tourist and why the professional gambler who liked to play the subtle spreads preferred infantry action.

On the Steiner Coliseum screen, Yulri was methodically pounding a Cestus to death with his Black Hawk.

Defeating opponents above his weight had become a tradition with the Clanner, hardly worth comment. It showed in the odds tables and the bottom line. Against anyone with less than twenty tons on him. Yulri was the favorite. Which meant less return for those who bet on the co-op. which meant fewer bettors—the off-the-books kind, the ones who kept Solaris running—which hurt the cartel, which meant Canid paid premium prices and waited longer for necessary goods and services, which cut into the profit margin, which . . .

No sense of strategy, that Yulri, no understanding of the long game. If he kept going at this rate, by the time the championships rolled around he'd be handicapped to fighting only assault 'Mechs. Tommy'd tried to explain how to pace his performance and profit from the betting/ marketing structure, but the Clanner hadn't been interested.

Concerns like budgets and bills didn't concern him. It was all about honor.

Typical Clanner arrogance. For all his talk of purpose and elevating humanity, taking responsibility for paying the people who kept his 'Mech running the wages they'd earned was beneath him. Like they should live on the pride they gained by being his slaves.

Thank God Simien Fox didn't mind operating at a loss.

Being a warrior type himself. Fox evidently hadn't tumbled to the fact that partnering up with a demigod who found the business side of Solaris contemptible was financial suicide. The clowns in the big walking toys were just widgets, commodities to be bought, sold, and traded by the likes of Tommy Gunn—the real warriors of Solaris VII.

Tommy shook the mood off with an effort, schooling his features to be pleased and interested in his surroundings.

He was in luck. On the New Hartford Gardens screen was a match he really wanted to see.

Julia Wallace was having one of the best early seasons of her career. Right now she was up against a Tandrek Stables' Bushwacker— Ling? No, Whuang. A slightly lighter machine, it was faster and better armed than her Merlin, but it couldn't jump. Tommy would have expected Wallace to pump that advantage, but she was staying low—going for the degree-of-difficulty points. Very frosty.

The Bushwacker uncorked a flight of missiles. Whuang twisted torso left as they cleared the tubes, bringing his autocannon up to catch Wallace when she tried to jump clear.

But Wallace never left the ground. Stepping high, the Merlin rattled through half a dozen sidesteps, turning as it moved aside with uncanny speed.

Jazz's stutter step! Tommy boggled.

The Merlin took two missiles low on the torso. Wallace ignored the hits. She extended the left arm straight from its shoulder and canted the right across the chest. Before Whuang could react, Wallace punched double lasers into the underside of the Bushwacker"s autocannon rotator assembly.

Scoreboards flashed and odds numbers spun on the payoff ticker across the bottom of the screen. An inset popped up, looping a slo-mo replay of the ammo feed to the Bushwacker's upraised autocannon shattering under the onslaught.

One for the highlights crystal.

Wallace had always been good, but she'd never had that flash. Or that nerve. She'd picked those up since joining Canid. Might actually be something to the Clan- ner's cross-training requirement. Tommy hoped it would be enough to make up for his lack of business savvy.

Actually, having heard the oath of honor speech a half-dozen times, he'd picked up a little sympathy for Yulri. If the lug nut really had believed that romantic load about the cowards who'd abandoned the Inner Sphere serving some noble cause, catching a glimpse of their true nature—which is what Tommy figured had happened—must have been quite a shock. Too bad the lesson hadn't extended to actually becoming one of those humans he was so determined to elevate.

Stop it!

Getting a grip, Tommy smiled at Adella Stevenson, part owner of a half dozen 'Mechs. Not a stable owner, she underwrote solos who wanted to keep their independence. She might need a good agent. Not yet; he'd committed to shepherding Canid through the 3136 championship season. But after that . . .

No more middle-of-the-night comm calls. No more reminders of where the real power of Solaris VII lay.

Signaling a waitress to meet him at Stevenson's table, Tommy slid into hunter mode and circled in.

30

Ur-Kabal, Kirikahmed

Zebeneschamali, Jade Falcon Territory

18 March 3136

Jerry Jamison tried to adjust to the experience of seeing his beloved Sagittaire go through its paces without him.

Though some would argue the 95-ton assault 'Mech was a shadow of the avatar of death it had been in his grandfather's day, the earth still trembled with its every step. Lack of funds, not neglect, had reduced the Sagittaire from what it once had been. The rare and valuable—and difficult to maintain—Stalker targeting module had been traded away decades ago, during the nadir of his father's career. Also gone were the extended-range particle projector cannon and the eight state-of-the-art pulse lasers.

His father had not left the massive BattleMech defenseless, of course. He had simply traded the high-ticket systems for needed supplies, including more common, low- cost, and easily maintained weapons. With its torso- mounted PPC, large laser-medium laser pair in the right arm and trio of mediums in the left, the Sagittaire was still a machine to be reckoned with. The head's rear-facing medium laser discouraged attacks from behind as well.

Shedding the heavy pulse lasers had freed up nearly ten tons of load capacity. Jerry's father had used it to swap out the too-vulnerable 285 XL engine for the tougher and more reliable standard version—keeping everything cool with thirty-two standard heat sinks.

Perhaps it did have to get a little closer to hit—and hit a little more often to do the same damage—than it once had, but today his Sagittaire could stand up to fire that would have crippled it seventy years ago. And fire all weapons—while riding its Hildco jump jets— continuously with no fear of overheating.

To Jerry it was the perfect fighting machine. And its spirit—lord of the earth—had inspired the "Juggernauts" name of his mercenary command.

What he did not like was standing at the edge of the windswept practice field with a handful of techs watching while someone else sat in his cockpit. But he had to admit it was an awe-inspiring sight.

The torso swung left with what Jerry knew was head- snapping speed. Certainly faster than anything that big had any right to move. The arms—more like stubby wings than true arms, devoid of hands or elbows, but bristling with weapons—spread wide. Right arm, torso, and left arm—Jerry would have fired the torso, then both arms—the three weapons clusters took out three standing targets.

A wall of superheated air washed over Jerry and the others standing with him, the tang of ozone triggering more than one reflexive glance to the heavens. The mind knew it was the particle projector cannon, but the body always read "lightning."

Pivoting on the balls of its clawed feet, the massive machine brought its legs around to align with the torso. The arms swung back close to the body, weapons still directed forward, as the pilot powered down.

After a pause the hatch—proportionally tiny and high on the broad, triangular back that rose above the visible viewport—swung open and Tal Sender scrambled across to the automatically descending chain ladder.

Jerry strolled over, reaching the foot of the ladder at about the same time as the Clanner, and tossed him the overcoat he'd brought. Tal's grin saved him asking what the MechWarrior thought of the Sagittaire.

"You didn't jump," he said instead.

"I have never flown a BattleMech," Tal answered. "I prefer to face my enemies with my feet firmly planted."

"Drop that 'Mech on top of one enemy and you won't have to face the rest," Jerry said. "All you'll see are their running backs."

Tal smiled, allowing the boast to pass unchallenged. "A formidable machine," he said.

"Doesn't have the weapons mix of yours," Jerry said, trading compliment for compliment. "Your gauss rifle. If I could think of a way to add one of those . . ."

It had been Tal Sender's idea that all of the Mech- Warriors qualify on every machine the Juggernauts fielded. Jerry had balked at the idea at first, but had seen the logic. You knew what to expect when you knew what the other guy was capable of.

His biggest surprise had been learning Molly Ling- strom's Sirocco didn't have seven separate targeting systems—one for each major turret. He'd seen her fire in multiple directions so often that he'd assumed a complex computer interface was controlling the weapons. Instead, he now knew, it was her superhuman ability to multitask.

Don Avison had listened with amusement when Jerry explained his revelation, then pointed out that the tankers had conducted the same cross-training from day one.

"You never know when you might need to wear more than one hat," he'd said.

Jerry had to admit he'd never considered the crew mindset would have BattleMech application. Now that he was considering it. the utility of Juggernauts being trained to handle the widest variety of weapons and equipment possible made a lot of sense. He wasn't about to suggest to proud Mech Warriors like the Clanners that they learn how to drive an APC or carry a rifle, but within limits the idea had a lot of merit.

He was still chewing on the idea as—after turning his Sagittaire over to the techs—he and Tal made their way to the compound they'd been assigned. Tal waved off the suggestion of a change to warmer clothes, indicating the path to the command center with a sweep of his arm.

Glancing at his chronometer, Jerry nodded. Samuel Abu Bakar, commanding general of the Zebeneschamali

Planetary Militia was scheduled—finally—to lay out the parameters of their mission this afternoon.

Arriving late might be the fashion in some circles— he'd met commanders who thought it implied power— but that wasn't his style. That the Juggernauts mounted more firepower on the ground than the entire planetary militia said all that needed to be said about power anyway.

If you leave out the Jade Falcons and that damned "no- shoot" contract, Jerry thought. What had Fiona called it? "A bastard freebirth of safcon and hegira."

Posturing and politics aside. Jerry always preferred arriving early.

The Izar agent on Carnwath had been amazed they'd deduced their true destination. His report had evidently gone a long way toward convincing the local powers that the Juggernauts were military professionals, not mere hired guns. They'd been presented to the planetary legate—now representing the Carnwath Coalition, not The Republic—and the governor, provided one of the best compounds Jerry had ever bunked in, and been afforded complete access to all practice and maintenance facilities.

He couldn't have demanded better treatment if they'd conquered the place.

Guess they're glad we're not Jade Falcons.

Early as they were. General Abu Bakar was waiting for them. A rapier-thin man, he very nearly matched an Elemental's height with one-third the mass.

Of course, most natives of Zebeneschamali were tall. Jerry suspected it was a side effect of the three-fourths- normal gravity that gave his step an unaccustomed bounce. He wondered how Sergeant Oscar coped with it.

Abu Bakar was dark even for a Zebeneschamali, his cheeks an almost blue black. Jerry imagined that was mostly a testimony to a life in the constant winds of the plains; he couldn't imagine the dim red sun having the power to burn.

Flanking the general were two aides with local rank insignia Jerry could not read. He mentally assigned them the ranks of captain and major based on their apparent ages. Which was probably higher than he thought, he reminded himself. Either the light gravity or the native genome resulted in almost everyone being a standard decade older than he thought they were.

He nodded to each in turn with professional courtesy, but—as the general made no introductions—left it at that.

The room's environment was set to Zebeneschamali comfort standards, which meant Tal was wise to keep his overcoat on in the near-candlelight dimness. The brightest light source was the three-by-four-meter holographic topomap table occupying the center of the room.

"You are, of course, aware of the legends of Blakist fanatics hiding on our southernmost continent," Abu Bakar began without preamble. "We had dismissed these as apocryphal for generations. However, recent surveys of the western mountains of South Arragon have caused us to rethink that position."

Jerry nodded, acknowledging the words as he surveyed the map table. There was no scale, but the general features were clear: a wide rolling plain that ended against a mountain range that rose in steady steps to towering cliffs that fell into the sea. Details of the mountains themselves were fuzzy and seemed to shift when he peered closely.

He sighed.

"Just once," he said wearily. "I'd like an opponent to not find metal-thick mountains to hide out in."

The Zebeneschamali Jerry had pegged as a captain barely suppressed a chuckle. Abu Bakar thought about it a moment, then he, too, smiled. His lips moved slightly, but the amusement in his eyes was genuine.

"It would make our jobs easier," he agreed. "But where is the sport in hunting a jaraal that impales itself on your spear?"

Making a mental bet that a jaraal was not a hamster. Jerry grinned his agreement. "Where do you think they are and why?" he asked.

The scale of the map changed, the sea, much of the mountain range and most of the plains disappearing. Now central was what looked like a series of roughly parallel rifts in the mountains, their vibrating outlines advertising the degree to which local metals fogged orbital scans, and a central, bowl-shaped valley. Several individual rock formations stood out from the body of the range. The formation looked unusual to Jerry, but he was not geologist enough to figure out what it indicated.

"These," Abu Bakar said as patches of prairie glowed faintly around and beyond the outriding hills, "are food crops. They do not appear to be formally cultivated nor do they show signs of systematic harvesting. But they are not native to the region. Some are not native to Zebeneschamali."

"A lot of off-world plants show up on every colony," Jerry pointed out, aware he might be talking himself out of a job. "And you say these are not cultivated?"

"They do not appear cultivated," Abu Bakar repeated. "These areas are large enough that, with careful husbandry, they could feed a population of several hundred—perhaps a few thousand—without obvious evidence."

"Okay," Jerry drew the word out. "There's food. What else?"

"The nature of the location." The general pointed out the central bowl and narrow fissure valleys. "It is not artificial, but this formation is concealed from all but the most intense scrutiny and easily defended. Geotherma! venting makes the valley significantly warmer than its surroundings, and density imaging indicates the surrounding hills contain many caves. There is also what appears to be a spring-fed stream flowing from here toward the sea."

"The mountains are higher toward the sea," Jerry said. "The stream flows uphill?"

"It follows a ravine," Abu Bakar said.

Jerry nodded sagely, aware he'd just lost some of his credibility.

Still making his case, Abu Bakar described the half- dozen species of edible herbivores that wandered the nearly frozen plains abutting the metal hills. While there was no evidence of concerted herding, none were particularly difficult to capture or kill.

Jerry found himself nodding again. Taken together, the plentiful game, the irregular areas of food plants, copious supply of fresh water and, most of all, the sensor-proof caves all gave credence to the legend of a Blakist stronghold on South Arragon.

However, while it was possible—just—that there were survivors on Zebeneschamali, there was no evidence the hypothetical descendants of these hypothetical refugees were still cultists.

Or Fiona may have had the right of it back on Carnwath. The grandchildren of fanatics, raised in isolation, may be rabid in their ideology.

Jerry abandoned the circular argument. Only finding the survivors would answer the questions. Until then there was no point in speculating.

"They've been there—if they are there." he said, "sixty years with no indication of activity . . ."

"That we know of," Abu Bakar interrupted. "The Blakists of ComStar were notorious for their ability to manipulate events without detection."

"If they were as adept as modern myth paints them," Jerry countered, aware of his unintended pun, "they would still be in power.

"I'm thinking our quarry, Blakist or no, lacks the resources to make war, or you'd have heard from them before now. On the other hand, if they are there, and if they are the fanatics you suspect they are," Jerry said, giving a bit of weight to the pronoun, "even outnumbered and outgunned, they are likely to mount a desperate defense."

Around the map table heads nodded.

"Traditionally, there are two approaches to a situation like this," he went on. "A small team of specialists to make contact and evaluate the situation. It's inexpensive, it's precise, and—if it's the wrong choice—it's a waste of a perfectly good special operations team and their attendant experts."

Again the nods. No surprises there considering the sort of force he commanded and the fact that Abu Ba- kar's superiors had hired the Juggernauts.

"Option two is an overwhelming assault force," he said. "Usually this will discourage anyone who might be there from even trying to resist. However, it also ensures—if they should choose to fight—it will be their own lives and not ours they'll be wasting."

"What do you propose?" Abu Bakar asked.

"We're deep with heavy ordnance," Jerry said, "but light with scout vehicles. A joint force, combining our strengths, would be best for making a quick end to this."

"And overall command of this combined force?" The general's tone revealed he'd guessed the answer and was ready to debate it.

"Your people will be scouting from vehicles," Jerry said, filling his voice with cold iron. "My MechWarriors will be breaching the stronghold, my infantry will be clearing the tunnels. If my people are going to fight and maybe die for you, they're going to do it under my command."

Abu Bakar had pulled himself to his full height at Jerry's first words, but rather than snap back he paused, clearly weighing the mercenary commander's point. After a long moment, the tension drained from his body.

"Agreed," he said.

Jerry concealed his surprise at the easy victory with a curt nod. Local militia forces were almost never put under a mercenary command. Then again, local militia forces usually had the might of the Republic of the Sphere to back them up. The closing of the Fortress was changing the rules by which everyone played. He supposed the real test would come if he and the commander of the attached militia contingent disagreed on anything.

"If you have all of your survey data available?" he asked. "And a breakdown of what resources are available?"

The ZPM officer Jerry had pegged as a major extended his hand, data crystal glittering in the dim light. Jerry took it and rolled it about his palm like it was a die he was about to throw.

"Give us a few days to look this over," he said. "And we'll get back to you with a detailed plan and timetable."

Abu Bakar dropped his chin to his collarbone in something between a nod and a bow. Collecting his two officers with a glance, he swept from the command center. Jerry had never seen anyone pull that off without a cape before.

Glancing at his chronometer, he saw there were still a few minutes before the meeting just concluded had been scheduled to start. He wondered if that said something about the culture of their employers or just the personality of General Abu Bakar. Either way, it was useful intel for dealing with the Zebeneschamali Planetary Militia.

31

Hanoi, Hsien

Former Prefecture VI

20 March 3136

"Irian was a waste," Green reported. "The Senate Alliance tried to bypass Senator Hughes and suborn Governor Syrmar and Legate Martinez directly."

Thaddeus waved him into a chair opposite his desk in the small office he'd been allocated by Planetary Legate Reed. There was nothing covert about the paladin's visit; the locals reacted as though it were routine.

"Didn't they realize the Hughes family spent the last century acquiring control of everything on that planet?" he asked. "They are Irian."

"I believe they tried to paint themselves as liberators." Green turned a hand palm up. "Then were amazed to get diplomatically booted off-planet." Thaddeus shook his head at the thought of seasoned senators making so obtuse a strategic error. The Senate

Alliance had let it be known from the beginning that Irian was to be within their borders. Evidently that bold prediction had been made without consulting Hughes.

With proper planetary defense forces—and Lord knew Irian had the resources to build or buy quite a force— Irian could probably stand alone, though its 'Mech- building ability would make it a ripe target. His hope had been to make it the capital of a six-world rulership stretching from Miaplacidus to Nathan to Connaught.

The bungled overture by the Senate Alliance did keep Irian in play. But it made the world leery of any treaties with other worlds. Without Irian, the other five worlds lacked the economic and military resources to form a viable unit.

"I underestimated Riktofven—and particularly Ptolomeny—in holding that alliance together," he said. "Even before Levin's damned Fortress, I expected internecine conflicts to pull them apart.

"The only light on the horizon is the Oriente Protectorate moving against Park Place." The paladin's smile was bitter. "The senators will be too busy fighting for their own security to worry about expanding,"

He stopped, eyes losing focus as he considered his own words. A damaged infrastructure might be the perfect reason for absorbing a high-tech world. And, on the other side of the coin, there were Hughes ruling Irian in fact if not always name, and there were cousins of those same Hughes in the ruling house of the Oriente Protectorate. And his own brother Frederick . . . Wheels within wheels within wheels.

"Our situation here is not much better," Green was saying when his employer resumed listening. "This close to the walls of the Fortress Republic. Hsien seems to not realize they're on the outside."

"I did notice the business-as-usual attitude," Thaddeus said. "When I was here prior to my mission to New Aragon, they had been excited at the prospect of being a staging world for The Republic's defense against the Capellans. All the economic benefits of a large military base on-planet with none of the dangers."

"The sudden withdrawal of Republic forces to Elgin should have produced an economic depression and military paranoia," Green agreed. "The locals are either remarkably self-assured or very good at denial. Either way, there's no crack in their facade we can turn to our advantage."

"Understood." Thaddeus waved away the apology implied in the man's tone. He knew Green was confident of his abilities and his assessment. He rotated his chair slowly to regard the view from his ground-floor window.

A screen of evergreens fronted by a low hedge in the process of being clipped—the worker's temporarily abandoned shears and sack of prunings marking where he'd stopped for lunch—and a high wall beyond.

He pulled his mind away from assigning symbolic values to each of the elements and considered the problem at hand.

"How about the other worlds in this neighborhood?"

Green smiled slightly at his boss' name for the strongholds they were establishing. But he agreed the non- threatening designation made sense from a psychological point of view.

"Tall Trees, Saiph, Menkalinan are all on board," he said. "No surprises considering their lack of defensive resources. They've already hammered out the ground rules for negotiating a treaty. But New Canton is a no go-"

"Why?"

"Balantine and Ling are both sure the Capellans are coming." Green shrugged. "Neither one—and none of their people I could reach—is interested in making any political moves that might make The Republic think twice about coming to their aid."

"That's ridiculous," Thaddeus said. "The Capellans are going to thrust well spinward of New Canton. The Zurich move was a feint. They're hungry to get back some of what they think the Federated Suns owes them—particularly with the problems the Feds seem to be having."

"The Triarii—those that remained outside the Fortress—did move off New Canton to support Alde- baran." Green's tone was thoughtful. "Then there's Zurich, Genoa, Nanking . . . Altogether the strategic landscape should seem obvious. But they still think of themselves as facing down Liao with The Republic as their backup."

"If House Liao really does have their eye on New Canton," Thaddeus said. "That's more reason to prepare to defend themselves, not look to The Republic. For all practical purposes they're staying inside their Fortress."

"There are stories of knights outside the walls of Fortress helping some of the worlds they value stay independent. And you yourself are proof there are paladins in play," Green pointed out. "There are even rumors that Exarch Redburn is taking a hand."

"Hoping for a wayward knight or wishing for a no- doubt-mythical intervention by a retired exarch is even more foolish." Thaddeus said. "And one knight or one paladin is still only one knight or one paladin. We have no superpowers. If New Canton is looking for protection, they need to look to themselves."

"I didn't say they were making sense." Green spread his hands. "I'm just reporting what they said."

Thaddeus nodded, conceding the distinction. No point in arguing with the messenger. "The other three can't stand without New Canton," he said.

"Granted."

Thaddeus sighed and considered the completely bare surface of his desk. He found a clean slate was more conducive to creative thought than a view of distracting potential symbols.

"Military intervention," he said at last.

"That didn't work on Phecda," Green pointed out. "And these worlds have even less military potential than those."

"Our mistake on Phecda—my mistake on Phecda," Thaddeus said, "was not anticipating they would hire mercenaries. Or that they would appeal to Milton for long-term help.

"New Canton has already appealed to a rescuer we know will not answer." He raised his eyes to meet Green's. "So when they are attacked, their rescue will come from an unexpected quarter."

He gave Green a long five count to figure it out.

"Hire mercenaries to attack New Canton," he said. "Then have the neighborhood militia fly to the rescue."

"Indeed."

"It would have to be a real fight," Green said. "Too easy and the New Cantonese would see through the ruse. The mercenaries can't be in on it. I can only think of a few commands that would sign contracts to have their own people killed staging a fight and we don't want any of them anywhere near a civilized world."

"I have a group in mind," Thaddeus said, pulling a data crystal from an inner pocket. He held it up to the light for a second before passing it to his agent. "I am already familiar with their fighting style. Impressive. But small enough that the combined forces of three middle- class worlds are enough to help the New Canton Militia throw them off-planet."

Green fed the crystal into his pocket reader. "This group's name has come up recently," he said.

"How quickly can you set up the invasion?"

"Without attracting notice?" Green asked rhetorically. "Five months. Six at the outside."

"I'm assuming from your report that the other three worlds need no guidance in aligning themselves?" Thaddeus asked. "Good. I'll be able to arrive in five months or so to offer assistance in organizing their mutual defense and be on hand when New Canton calls for help.

"In the meantime, I believe I will relieve you of one of those crystals," he said. "There's a situation I think 1 may be able to resolve in the interim."

"Six months to prepare for invasion," Green said, reviewing the timetable. "Five for the neighborhood to form and one for you to organize their military. Maybe an extra for safety's sake?"

"Seven months, then," Thaddeus agreed. "In seven months we take New Canton."

32

Plains of AI Jizah, South Arragon

Zebeneschamali, Jade Falcon Territory

7 April 3136

Jerry eyed the three-sixty over his viewport. The image was enhanced, yellowed to boost contrast. The orange- red of natural sunlight on Zebeneschamali robbed the world of depth and definition. Or, more accurately, his own eyes, trained to the light of a yellow-white primary, were unused to interpreting images that faded from salmon through umber.

The rolling Plains of A1 Jizah stretched away in three directions, with the ocean and the hardpan coastal plain where they'd left the DropShips lost below the eastern horizon behind them.

Ahead of them rose the abrupt foothills of the western range, at this angle concealing the higher peaks that rose behind them in successive tiers before dropping abruptly into the sea. The stone hills rose directly from the prairie with almost no transition from sod to bare rock.

Only a few hundred meters at their highest, the long ridge of barren rocks looked to Jerry like a scale model of a rocky mountain range. Or, with a slight change in mental perspective, they became a shoreline—cliffs rising out of the sea of prairies. The cones and ridges of exposed stone thrusting from the matted ground cover— some over a hundred meters tall—helped the illusion, needing only foaming waves and circling seabirds to become offshore islands.

Jerry pulled his head back inside the still, prebattle cool of his cockpit and made another visual check of his command.

The formation was holding its integrity, a broad triple line moving broadside across the undulating plain toward the wall of basalt hills. His Sagittaire, in the center of the middle line, was aligned with their objective— a deceptively narrow opening in the wall of stone before them. The largest of the "offshore islands" was a domed monolith of stone, reminiscent of the Carnwath ruins, flanking the defile, concealing it from anyone approaching from the south or southeast.

The placement of that hill was one of the arguments the Zebeneschamali Planetary Militia used to support their theory the Blakists had chosen the valley as a stronghold. If there were Blakists, Jerry would expect any trouble to happen in the narrow valleys of the range, where a smaller force could engage the Juggernauts piecemeal. However, if the battle did spill out into the plain, that rock was going to create a defensible pocket the enemy could exploit.

If there was a battle.

Jerry still doubted there were any survivors. Or, if there were, that they'd be in any condition to fight at all after over sixty years of scrabbling for existence in this wilderness.

Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

The first of the three lines was a mix of fast tanks and scout vehicles from both the Zebeneschamali Planetary Militia and the Juggernauts. Their job was to establish their quarry was in fact in place, making hard contact if necessary, then split. Moving north and south along the range of hills they were to quickly determine the extent of the quarry's defensive perimeter.

The second line—Don Avison in his beloved Schiltron and the heavy and assault 'Mechs of the Juggernauts ranged to either side of Jerry—would hit the hills. They'd go straight in if possible, but funnel toward the narrow central valley where they could not climb.

The third line was made up of lighter and faster machines, which would move in as needed to support the second line or to scout hills too steep for the heavy 'Mechs. Also in the third wave were the armored personnel carriers and the Juggernaut infantry.

The Zebeneschamali goal was unconditional surrender or total annihilation. Jerry favored the former option. Usually people who called for the destruction of an enemy had never faced a slaughter, or dealt with the consequences of carnage.

Of course, the whole debate would be rendered moot if they discovered no one at all in the valley beyond the gap or the caves riddling the hills.

Personally, Jerry expected . . .

A Demon tank upended in a fountain of flame and dirt.

The laser turret spun through the air like a thrown hubcap, arcing toward the Mithras on its flank. A dozen meters short of the other tank, the barrel of one medium laser hit, gouging deep into the sod. It bent, and the turret slammed into the earth with flat finality.

"Mines!" someone shouted needlessly.

"Hold position." Jerry ordered. Also needlessly, since the front line had halted as soon as the drivers realized what they were driving into. Had driven into.

Jerry surveyed the scene. At ninety-five tons each, his Sagittaire and Molly's Sirocco were the two heaviest things on the field, and from the size of the blast crater the mine would have brought down either one of them. The 45-ton Demon hadn't stood a chance.

The tank lay on its right side, its naked back angled toward Jerry. There was surprisingly little smoke trailing from the round throat of the turret collar. About a third of the body, radiating from the left front drive wheel, was gone.

There was no movement, of course.

More letters—

Widening his survey, Jerry examined the field between his front line and the ridge of metal-heavy stone. As nearly as he could tell, the grassland was undisturbed. The mines had been set a long time ago. Long enough for the ground above them to have healed. Years? Decades? It didn't matter. They were still there and still lethal and, judging from the depth of the crater, buried far enough beneath their triggers to be very hard to spot.

From up here.

"Elementals forward," he ordered. "Mark all mines."

Textbook would be for them to clear a path, but that took time Jerry didn't want to give the defenders. If there were defenders. Mines like this would stay effective years after the last survivor had died. Or left to mingle in with the native population.

"Front line, pull back in your own tracks two hundred meters," Jerry said. "Diverge for lateral survey of objective."

A little far for scanning. Particularly when the quarry had been eluding detection for generations. But he wasn't going to lose anyone else a little common sense could save.

The Svantovits moved forward. There was little risk their air cushions would touch off mines calibrated for BattleMechs. but still—

"Elementals deploy," Jerry ordered. "Everybody with reach, watch the hills."

Jerry's own weapons would be inaccurate to the point of uselessness at this range. But the Juggernauts packed enough long-range and extended-range ordnance to saturate the cliffs.

To his left. Don pulled the Schiltron forward a few dozen meters. Since the quad Artemis IV fire control system could place sixty long-range missiles with deadly precision at this range, Jerry knew the move was psychological. Let the Elementals, and anyone who might be watching, know that Jameson's Juggernauts covered their own.

Graceful despite their massive battlesuits, the Elementals fanned out from the fighting vehicles. With weapons at port, they were clearly unconcerned about possible threats from their surroundings. They focused instead on the ground, moving in a rapid but thorough search pattern that wasn't from the Juggernauts' playbook.

Jerry tried to discern Fiona by eye, but the suited shapes were too similar. With his own weapons useless against the hills, he set his scanners to making a detailed study of the prairie around them. No signs of trapdoors from which hordes of Blakist BattleMechs might emerge. Then again, there were no signs of mines ahead of them, either. He kept scanning.

In ten minutes the Elementals had made it halfway to the cliffs. The thickly matted groundcover behind them was marked with a dozen circles of fluorescent paint— the perimeters of danger areas above each mine.

Okay, where do they carry the spray paint?

A causeway through the minefield became apparent as the Elementals continued to paint the sod. A broad serpentine path led to the north before hairpinning to come back south in a nearly straight course parallel to the cliffs. The pattern fairly announced gun emplacements in the cliffs to the right of the opening, positioned to cover anything following the clear trail through the minefield.

Jerry cycled through channels to the command line he shared with Don and Tal Sender.

"Don, check the cliffs along the path," he said. "Target anything that might have enough metal to be a gun. Then target anything that looks like it might hide a gun."

The Schiltron would not be entering the narrow valley. The wheeled tank's wide turning circle would severely hamper its mobility, making it a liability in the narrow defile leading to the pocket valley orbital images had revealed. The best use of its massed firepower was indirect support, lobbing missiles over the cliff wall at targets painted by target acquisition gear. With its deep pockets, it was the best candidate for expending ammo on the plain.

"Nothing one hundred percent," Don answered after a moment. "Five spots with at least seventy percent possibility of being refined metals, four more fall between fifty and seventy percent and seven my gut likes."

"Any order you like," Jerry said. "Give each spot fifteen birds."

"On it."

The tank moved forward another handful of meters, turning slightly right so its nose battery could bear along with the turrets.

Cycling to the broadcast channel, Jerry warned the Elementals what to expect. He wasn't sure they would be as unnerved as he'd be by unexpected missiles suddenly arcing through the air overhead, but felt they deserved the courtesy.

A moment later the 80-ton tank was shrouded in smoke as the first flight of long-range missiles rose toward the distant cliffs.

"What of the cliffs to the left?" Tal Sender asked over the command channel.

It still startled Jerry that the Thor pointed in conjunction with Tal's words. For reasons they had not bothered to explain, Tal Sender and a MechWarrior named Moran had traded BattleMechs two weeks ago. He wondered if it had anything to do with their discussion about learning to fight in a jumping 'Mech.

Putting the thought aside, Jerry scanned the cliffs briefly. The plain before them was thickly mined with no apparent path. To him that was pretty solid evidence the cliffs above were barren. Depended on how subtle a game the defenders—if any survived—were playing.

"Your eyes are better than mine," he said. "See anything?"

"No," Tal drew the word out. "But as Major Don Avison's gut has selected points along the northern cliffs, my gut believes the promontory deserves special attention."

Jerry realized he meant the "island" hill jutting abruptly from the plain.

"Don?"

"Copy that," his XO answered. "Going with the gut."

The turret batteries rotated. There was a brief pause during which Jerry could see each set of tubes deflect as they were targeted separately. The big machine rocked and forty-five missiles arced to the domed tower of stone.

At this range the target was child's play for the Artemis targeting system and all of the missiles hit in a long, staggering row that climbed from midway up the promontory to its top. Great shards and sheets of rock fell away . . .

"Sweet mother of God."

That was Don on the command channel.

Jerry managed only one harsh syllable.

Peeling away, cascading with surreal slowness in the low gravity, the meters-thick shell fell to reveal a dull expanse of DropShip hull.

"Scanners," Jerry ordered. As though every probe in his command wasn't focused on the wall of metal. On the heels of that thought, Jerry swung his own scanners to cover the wall of cliffs. If ever there was a time for a sally . . .

"Dead and gutted," Don confirmed Jerry's initial guess. Still, it was good to know his command wasn't spread out under a DropShip's batteries. "Structurally sound, though. Anyone with a few billion to invest could have a nice little Mule here."

"Did you expect that?" Jerry asked Tal over the command channel.

"Neg, Star Colonel," the Clanner answered, his stress evident in his word choice. "It merely looked suspicious."

"Don, you've got the best eyes," Jerry said, his own eyes focused on the Sagittaire's screens. He'd never missed the old Stalker targeting system before. "Are all these hills DropShips?"

There was another pause as Don took his time, checking each hill in turn with his sophisticated sensor array.

"Wrong kind of sensors to tell for sure," he reported at last. "But from its shape and apparent metal content, I'd say that ridge is a Monarch. There's a good chance at least two others are cargo spheroids, but I'd hate to guess their class from these readings."

Jerry nodded. Matching naturally occurring formations made sense. The shells were evidently concrete loaded with metal filings. It had to have taken years—after years of gutting the ships with whatever tools they'd brought with them. He figured whoever had landed here had to have lived at least five and maybe ten years to finish the job right.

And done it a long time ago, judging from the weathering of the ersatz hills.

We're going to start weathering if we stand here much longer.

"Lingstrom. Moran. Waltra, Babcock," Jerry ordered, "pull up your topos."

He waited a moment, giving the MechWarriors a chance to activate their situational maps.

Another one of Tal's suggestions, and one Jerry had liked from the beginning. Instead of lances or Stars, each 'Mech was an individual unit equally familiar with working with all other individuals. Specialized teams could be constructed on the fly as tactical situations demanded.

"Round valley central, objective entrance at six o'clock," he said. "Note high ground above tree level near center, spring lake and river exiting at eleven o'clock. I'll go through first, heading right up the middle for twelve o'clock. Basic sniper bait."

With eighteen tons of armor, his modified Sagittaire could take hits better than anything else the Juggernauts had. He was the logical choice to draw fire while the others spotted gun emplacements.

"Babcock, you're in number two," Jerry said. "Step right when the valley opens up and hold. Cover me."

Babcock's Shugenja may have been stripped of its sophisticated C3 computer tech—it seemed everything these days had been stripped of something—but the 75- ton 'Mech's extended-range PPC and thirty-tube rack of medium-range missiles would be a deadly combination in the confines of the valley.

"Molly, you come through third and head for the high ground," Jerry said. "This will, a, make you target of choice for anyone not shooting at me and, b, give you clear field of fire on the whole valley."

Molly Lingstrom chuckled over the comm. Down the line Jerry could see her Ultra autocannon turrets independently elevate and depress rapidly. The Sirocco equivalent to waggling her eyebrows, he guessed.

"Moran, Waltra, hold by Babcock until I make the number twelve spot and Lingstrom's in position," Jerry told the two former Steel Wolves. "It's pretty tight in there, Moran. Once you're in the big valley, hot-load your LRMs."

Moran grunted, not exactly an acknowledgment of the order.

Half a second later Jerry realized his mistake. With its Clan tech, the Orion lie's long-range missiles didn't need hot-loading; they were always primed.

Just when I think I'm sounding professional.

"When we're set, you two go around the edges kicking rocks," he went on without acknowledging the slip. "Moran left and Waltra right. We'll stand ready to take down anything you flush."

"Your plan assumes the enemy is concealed in the rocks around the valley," Waltra said from the Predator, her voice thoughtful, devoid of challenge. "Could they not be in the center as well?"

"Unarmed and unarmored, yes," Jerry conceded. "But I'm more concerned about whatever 'Mech assets they brought with them. To hide those, or battlesuits, or tanks, they'll need the sensor fuzz of the rocks."

The lack of answer indicated Waltra had conceded the point.

"Tal Sender, organize as you see fit," Jerry said. "Bring the infantry through so they can do a thorough search of the caves and burrows. Might look to take any trap they spring on us from behind while you're at it."

"I suggest Trainne and Gale take the high ground," Tal said. "They can shadow from above."

Jerry considered. Gale's Havoc made sense—the lightest 'Mech they had, it was fast and loaded with lasers, a natural for the hills. But he would have thought Train- ne's Goshawk S2B too heavy for high-ground work. On the other hand, having her hefty mix of MRMs and lasers looking out from above would be a comfort.

"Make it so," he said, trusting Tal's assessment of Trainne's ability.

Jerry tasked the Zebeneschamali Planetary Militia with probing the hills in either direction, searching for other pockets of surprises. Apparently the militia commander had no problem with orders to avoid the central battle; the ZPM complied immediately.

Don Avison was already leading his heavy-fire-support group along the wide path through the mines, heading for a position from which to lob missiles over the ridge of hills. From the way they were scurrying purposefully about, Jerry surmised he'd set the other vehicles to scouting the plains for evidence of survivor emplacements.

Jerry didn't waste time ordering the marked mines detonated. Moving at its full fifty-four kph, his Sagittaire led a broken-field run through the painted circles. Behind him the wedge opened up as individual pilots chose routes that looked best to them.

As he cleared the last line of circles, an unexpected clang of metal on metal made him jump. A moment later he realized he'd picked up a passenger as an Elemental in battle armor swung past the cockpit on his way to the Sagittaire's broad back. Or her way.

All of the Juggernauts' BattleMechs had been fitted with special handholds, brackets, and hard points to enable the Elementals to attach themselves as needed. The most secure point on the Sagittaire seemed terribly exposed to Jerry—just above his head between the ferro- glass of his viewscreen and his escape hatch. But they'd insisted that once in place they were as secure as a plate of the BattleMech's armor.

The walls of the defile rose abruptly, cutting off the ruddy sunlight. He'd have appreciated that more if the cockpit had been hot, but after only a steady march and a few kilometers' run the cockpit of the massive 'Mech was still chilly. Even the anemic heat of the little sun had been welcome.

That may change soon enough.

More important than the thermal inconvenience, the metal-heavy walls threw back his sensor scans as white noise. His only clear vision was directly ahead, and directly behind, where Moran's Orion lie followed closely. He should have been in the number-four position, but apparently the Clanner had made it through the minefield faster than the others and been disinclined to wait. Jerry shifted as far left as the fissure allowed to give the deadly gauss rifle a clear shot.

The narrow defile gradually widened the deeper they penetrated. Formed by tectonic forces rather than erosion, it angled sharply through a series of turns before opening into a rubble-filled bowl. To Jerry's untrained eye it looked like an underground dome of some sort had collapsed. Long before the refugees—or even the first colonists—had arrived, judging by the weathering and the aged look to the low and twisted trees.

External temperatures climbed quickly; by the fourth step the air was twelve degrees warmer than on the plains. Thin wisps of steam rose from several fissures, testifying to geothermal heat. The heat source added credence to the survival theory. As did the stout doors covering the mouths of many of the caves riddling the cliffs surrounding the bowl.

Stepping up his screen's magnification, he examined a few of the doors. Rusted metal, broken panels of what might have been insulation from the DropShips' interior cabins. Dust-covered. Some tangled with roping vines. They clearly hadn't been used in years, but Jerry dared not take that to mean the entire valley was abandoned.

He also couldn't help second-guessing his plan as he stepped from the shadow of the rift into the orange-red sunlight of the open valley. There were two accepted tactics for taking a circular objective like this. The first was to stay tightly grouped to provide mutual cover and concentrated fire. The other was to separate rapidly, and quarter the circle to provide vectored support. While the separated 'Mechs were more vulnerable to individual attack, the grouped 'Mechs could fall quickly to concentrated combined fire.

Mindful of the weapons that might have been stripped from the DropShips, Jerry was more concerned about the possibility of massed fire. He had no idea how or if the ships' lasers might be powered, but he wasn't taking any more chances than he had to.

He was aware of the disconnect between that thought and his volunteering to be sniper bait.

Now that he was among them, he could see some of the trees were taller than his 'Mech. They were of a light wood similar to balsa—which made sense given the planet's light gravity—with broad leaves widely spaced to catch as much of the feeble sun's light as possible. The leaves were a chocolate brown against the orange of the trees. Jerry suspected that under "normal" sunlight the bark would be white and the leaves a perfect spring green. He wondered how old the depression had to be to have collected enough topsoil to support trees.

The vines and shrubs covering the ground were deceptive. After one step onto apparently level ground almost cost him his balance as the Sagittaire's leg dropped an unexpected meter into a hollow, Jerry slowed his pace.

Among the trees and shrubs were piles of rubble and upthrust monoliths of rock. More evidence of some great collapse long ago. That he could see no recent scars assured him the ground beneath him wouldn't suddenly drop away in a second cave-in.

Of course, there probably haven't been many 95-ton BattleMechs stomping about over the last few centuries, either.

"Lingstrom, take the mound," he ordered as he moved across the midline of the bowl.

The mound was just that, a central pile of barren rubble in the center of the bowl that rose above the thin- leaved trees. From that vantage, a multiple-weapons platform like the Sirocco would command the valley with an unobstructed field of fire. On the other hand . . .

So far no one had taken a shot at Jerry moving through the woods. Would Molly in her exposed position present a more tempting target?

If Molly had any concerns, she kept them to herself. Acknowledging the order with an "Aye, aye," she moved to the high ground with her 'Mech's lumbering lope.

Even as she took position, the BattleMech's seven turrets turned independently as she covered all directions simultaneously. Not for the first time Jerry reflected that managing a Sirocco's weapons systems required a specialized sort of multiple-personality disorder.

Taking their cue from Molly, the two Clan 'Mechs began their circuit of the perimeter. They moved in opposite directions, methodically probing every nook and cranny as they made their way around.

On his three-sixty. Jerry could barely make out Babcock in his shadowy position just inside the entrance to the valley. With its back to the stone wall, nearly the entire circle of cliffs was within reach of his Shugenja's medium-range missiles. The metal cliffs would fog his targeting system, preventing pinpoint accuracy, but a flight of thirty missiles even approximately on target could do considerable damage.

Watching the rim of the cliffs, Jerry almost missed the flash of movement to his left. The fogged targeting computer confirmed heavy metal in motion, but couldn't make ID, much less get a lock.

"Moran—"

But the former Clan pilot was already on it. The silver streak of a gauss rifle slug connected the right torso of his Orion lie to the center of the mystery machine.

Good free-hand shooting.

Twin shafts of large-laser light responded, followed by a trio of smaller beams. The firing pattern gave the Sagittaire's targeting computer enough data to tag the unknown machine as a Toyama. A heavy workhorse in the Word of Blake arsenal.

Jerry held fire, still not able to get a solid lock. A hail of autocannon fire chewing the rock around the enemy 'Mech announced Molly's involvement in the firelight.

"Watch wide," Jerry ordered, not wanting her too focused on the one enemy they'd found. "They ran six 'Mechs to the unit."

According to his targeting computer's data file, the Toyama should pack a twenty-tube long-range missile rack and an LB 10-X autocannon along with those lasers. Unless the pilot hot-loaded, Moran was too close for the attacker to use his LRMs. But the autocannon . . .

Maybe they're out of ballistic ammo. Jerry thought, dividing his attention between the dueling 'Mechs and the cave-riddled wall in front of him. Trusting his machine's heavy armor, he moved from cover, going for a wider field of fire. Only, what would they shoot at? They're conserving consumables.

"Assume everything works," he cautioned.

"Aff."

Explosions. Jerry slammed against his harness as his 'Mech lurched around him.

The BattleMech's damage-control computer identified five missile blasts along the back of the Sagittaire's right leg and lower torso. No weapons lock, of course; everybody in these hills was firing manually. No sign of where the sixth missile had gone, but five hits in tight cluster meant somebody close. His sensors gave back fuzz.

The wireframe flashed yellow a second time—another hit to the right leg. Jerry felt the 'Mech shift around him as the gyro adjusted for lost armor. The shaft of a large laser, bright in the twilight of local midday on his three- sixty, pointed to a cairn of rubble a few hundred meters behind.

As he watched, a BattleMech, maybe half the size of his Sagittaire, burst from cover behind the pile and charged toward him with an ax upraised. A Buccaneer. The machine was scraped and dusty and moving at something less than the ninety-seven kph his targeting computer told him to expect. But that uranium blade, hitting where the missiles and laser had stripped away armor, could seriously damage the knee actuator, maybe bring him down.

Activating the heads-up crosshairs on the three-sixty, Jerry tracked the oncoming 'Mech visually for a long second, then triggered his rear laser. The medium beam went true, a wonder in this metal morass. It slashed high across the smaller 'Mech's chest, just below the cockpit.

The Buccaneer stumbled sideways.

Jerry grinned, recognizing the stagger had more to do with a startled pilot than any damage his weapon had done. Didn't know I had that.

Snapping the Sagittaire's torso left with the speed he loved, Jerry unleashed his portside weapons. One medium laser went wide, but the other two skewered the Buccaneer midline, while the eye-searing blue fire of the particle projector cannon washed its lower body with destruction.

Temperatures in his cockpit shot from cool to hot with no pause at comfortable as the fusion generator spiked. Lifting his damaged right leg, Jerry completed the turn. The Sagittaire pivoted with more grace than a 95-ton machine should possess to bring its full array of forward weapons to bear.

The Buccaneer pilot—too far from Jerry to use his ax and too far from the cairn to dodge for cover—unleashed an alpha strike. The large laser and two of the five short- range missiles went wide, targeting systems confused by the surrounding ores. But the assault 'Mech shuddered as three missiles and four medium lasers—one with the double tap of a pulse—found targets scattered across the Sagittaire1 s broad delta torso and legs.

It wasn't enough.

Jerry unleashed an alpha strike of his own. At two hundred meters, only one medium laser missed. Three medium lasers, the large laser, and the PPC converged on the 55-ton 'Mech. The uncovered missile rack converted instantly to shrapnel as new rounds, already cycled into place, exploded in their tubes. The concussion threw the left arm up and back at a useless angle, the entire shoulder assembly torn from its frame.

That was the least of the MechWarrior's problems. Jerry's thermal imaging showed the Buccaneer dissolving into a white-hot bloom of light as the shielding around its XL fusion engine ruptured and split.

The viewscreen polarized to opaque, protecting him from the radiant blast, but his targeting computer tracked the Buccaneer pilot as he ejected to safety seconds before his reactor melted completely down.

There was a scrape and bump against the edge of his canopy. The targeting computer reported a second small bogie before recognizing the friend-foe transponder of the Elemental that had been riding just above Jerry's head.

How the hell had he stayed on?

As the ferroglass cleared, Jerry saw his forgotten passenger covering the floor of the crater in low arcs, arrowing toward where the Buccaneer pilot should come down.

Clear of immediate threats, Jerry scanned the wider picture. That Buccaneer had been in bad shape. One missile tube and one laser out, it had come apart too easily. But it had still been a viable threat and there were probably other snakes under the rocks.

On the mound, Molly pumped fire from three of her Sirocco's lasers into a twisted hulk of heavy metal Jerry's targeting computer couldn't identify.

"What have you got?" he asked.

"Tank," Molly answered. "Used to be. No power readings. Sensors said it had a target lock. Probably a scanner ghost, but why chance?"

Jerry grunted.

To his right now that he was facing the gap through which they'd entered, he could see Moran standing over the fallen Toyama. A more impressive victory than his, given how evenly matched the two heavy 'Mechs had been.

"Colonel?" It was Waltra. Jerry could see her Predator facing the cliff face some eighty degrees from his position. "You should see this."

Keeping his eyes on the three-sixty—trusting it more than his sensors—Jerry made a careful study of the terrain he traversed as he made his way to her side. No telling where the next surprise would come from.

In this case, it came from the ground in front of Waltra.

A 'Mech, maybe forty tons, overgrown with vines and shrubs, lay supine across the entrance of an alcove of sorts—a small box canyon in the wall of the circular valley. The 'Mech's left leg, twisted back and sideways at the knee, was wedged in a pit that had—from the looks of the surrounding debris—been covered with a thin layer of brush. There were faint blast marks, pale with time, around the broken knee and the ankle of the other leg. Measuring the soot streaks and damage by eye, Jerry guessed commercial-grade demolition charges.

Jerry couldn't place the downed 'Mech's design, though it looked familiar. It looked to be forty to fifty tons, with arms ending in multiple laser barrels and a missile rack above where the cockpit had been. But its most interesting feature by far was the boulder—at least four tons—where the cockpit had been.

"Cavemen brought down a mammoth," he said.

"I believe so," Waltra agreed. "The pit trap immobilized it, the placed charges felled it, and the boulder was dropped from the rim of the cliff."

She pointed with her left arm laser to a rock of similar size, nestled in a ring of earth and overgrown with the groundcover vines.

"That last took two tries."

Looking up, Jerry saw a scuttle of brown movement against the cliff face. The figure didn't hold still long enough for a detailed examination, but . . .

"Colonel Jamison, we are approximately halfway to your position," Tal Sender's voice crackled with foothill- induced static. "Infantry has encountered no resistance."

"Jameson to Juggernauts," he broadcast wideband. "Infantry, be advised quarry has low-tech weapons. Have observed one hostile armed with longbow."

No one scoffed. In the hands of an expert—and anyone who survived with one would have to be an expert— a longbow could be as deadly as an assault rifle.

Jerry wasted a second wondering what the bow had been made from; the local wood was useless. Anything from herbivore ribs to salvaged spring steel, he decided, dismissing the speculation.

"Have also found a—"

"Initiate." supplied Waltra.

"An Initiate brought down by a pit trap and boulder dropped on the cockpit," Jerry added. "It looks like it happened at least a decade back, but stay sharp. Tech like this will not show on scanners."

Jerry stepped up the magnification on his screen, examining the cliff face within the box canyon in detail. Definitely caves with doors. Well camouflaged, not easy to see, but there. And intact.

"Everybody do a visual on the cliffs," he said. "Look for caves with working doors."

Three negative replies, then Moran: "Four enclosed caves facing the lake. What looks like a trail following the river out of the valley."

"Infantry reports no evidence of habitation in caves along approach," Tal reported.

"I don't think there are very many survivors," Jerry said, continuing his own sweep.

Most caves showed no signs of ever having been occupied. But farther along he found a few more abandoned. Like the ones near the main entrance, the doors had a broken and weathered look.

Or maybe just broken.

"Colonel Jamison, I have found the ejected BattleMech pilot."

Sergeant Beral's voice. Jerry realized it hadn't been Fiona riding his brow after all.

"What does he have to say for himself?" he asked.

"Nothing," Beral answered. "He is dead."

Jake grunted. So much for getting answers the easy way.

"He is also gray and toothless," Beral added. "Old enough to be the BattleMech's original pilot."

He almost asked the Elemental if he was sure, but realized it was a stupid question.

A ninety-year-old man got the drop on me'!

"Tal Sender, what's your ETA with the infantry?"

"Ten minutes," Tal answered. "Why?"

"I suspect we have a situation that can't be handled from a cockpit," Jerry said. "Tell all hands: Keep response proportional. No lethal force unless absolutely necessary. We need to figure out what's what pronto."

Jerry turned his BattleMech in place, carefully eyeball- ing every inch of cliff he could see. Only the ones in the cul-de-sac above him had functional doors.

And missile damage. Weathered by time, but still sharp compared to the centuries-old formations around them, the chips and pockmarks of heavy weapons' damage stood out clearly once he realized they were there.

"Want to bet this pocket has its own water supply?" Jerry asked conversationally. "And an overland route to the food plants on the prairie?"

"A stronghold within the stronghold?" Waltra asked.

"I was wrong when I said any survivors we found wouldn't be in condition to wage war," Jerry said. "They've been fighting each other for decades."

Waltra turned her Predator in place, obviously looking over the situation with new eyes.

"What would they fight over?" she asked at last.

"Power, ideology," Jerry said. "Food, division of resources, which fork to use with oysters."

He shrugged in his harness, not caring that the gesture wouldn't transmit.

"If I had to guess, I'd say the old-timers couldn't convince the next generation to stick to the one true way," he said. "People busy with survival usually don't have time for a lot of esoteric doctrines.

"It looks like the colony was doing pretty well— maybe even growing—when the priests decided to enforce their will with the weapons they'd been stockpiling against attack by the ZPM."

A long silence was broken by a single coarse syllable. Moran, Jerry guessed. On the high ground, Molly's auto- cannon swept back and forth, daring a Blakist to show his head.

"I'm thinking this box canyon is where the young rebels made their stand," Jerry said. "The oldsters probably had the west end of the valley, near the lake."

"I'm reading no heat signatures," Moran reported.

"If there are any left, they probably headed for the sea when we wiped out their heavy ordnance."

He sighed heavily. Just the thought of a place like this—hopeless, fragmented, failing—was depressing. To be standing in the middle of it . . .

"We should have stayed home," he said, not caring if his voice sounded weary. "This was one mission the team of specialized ground pounders should have handled."

"You speak in the past tense," Waltra said. "The mission is not over."

Jerry's eye was caught by movement. A door above and to the right had cracked open. Two children, maybe four or five—with remarkably clean faces, all things considered, and braided hair—peered down with wide eyes.

"Tactical question, Waltra," he said. "What weapons mix would you use on the target bearing about thirty- seven mark sixty relative?"

It took a moment, but he knew she'd grasped the situation when her weapons powered down.

They'd done what they could. Cleanup was someone else's job.

33

Holovid broadcast transcript

Solaris Game Watch

Solaris Gameworld Broadcasting

19 April 3136

"Welcome back. I'm Gwen Klornax."

"And I'm David Parmenter. We'll be getting to aerospace finals and the upset at Liao Aerodrome at the quarter hour, but first it's time for Contender Spotlight. Tonight we'll be looking at one of the new faces on the circuit."

"Right you are, Dave. Yulri Wolf exploded onto the BattleMech scene in November of last year as an independent, his entry fees reportedly bankrolled by long-time agent Tommy Gunn. His first two bouts were back-to- back upsets against Taz Arman and Philip Roan, both seeded in the top 100. Too late for the 3035 rankings, Yulri Wolf nonetheless gained a following with the betting public."

"Those first bouts were clean and fast, Gwen. His recent combat experience defending Skye against the Jade Falcons manifested in a straightforward get-the-j ob-done fighting style. But that changed with his third professional matchup."

"Right you are, Dave. Let's go to November 13, 3035,

Boreal Reach Arena, for what was meant to be one of several opening bouts before the semifinal elimination between Herbert Jordan and Fatima Petrovitch."

"This is the first time Yulri fought under the colors of the new Canid Cooperative. A clever play on words as the stable led by Yulri Wolf is underwritten by industrialist investor Simien Fox."

"But what people remember about this match is this savage pounding of Huntsmen's Stables' Arstide Hiser and the loss of his Black Lenner."

"Before the bout began, with repair and cleanup crews from the previous match still on the arena floor. Hiser made this illegal preemptive strike. Those are ten long- range missiles and a bolt from his extended-range large laser. A substantial point penalty for the early shot, which the Huntsman must have thought was a fair trade for drawing first blood."

"A mistake in judgment that became apparent as soon as the last tech left the arena floor. Wolf makes this long jump to get in medium-laser range and: alpha strike, alpha strike, alpha strike, and—wait for it—alpha strike. The Black Hawk has to be close to thermal shutdown— note the jerky movements and the near stumble—but the Black Lenner has lost both missile racks and its left arm."

"ECM is no help when the other guy's close enough to throw rocks, Gwen."

"Right you are, Dave. Hiser tried to rely on his 'Mech's myomer accelerator system to get enough distance to escape the medium lasers and use his own ER large laser, but it was all over."

"Until Yulri Wolf earned some penalty points of his own in what has become the hallmark of the Canid Cooperative. Here you see Hiser has surrendered, but Wolf continues to methodically dismember the Black Lenner. Hiser escaped injury by ejecting, but Wolf did not cease fire despite officials' orders until he had reduced the Huntsman's BattleMech to useless scrap."

"From that point on, the word was out. You cheat against Canid—whether Yulri Wolf or one of the six other MechWarriors who have since joined the co-op— and you lose your 'Mech. Even if it costs Canid Cooperative the match."

"Right you are, Gwen. Yulri Wolf's three losses to date have all been judgments resulting from his vigilante tactics."

"And the game fans love it. Dave. MechWarriors from all over Solaris—even whole stables like Wraiths and Zellbrigen—have publicly declared voluntary compliance with the so-called Canid Code of Honor, a document of MechWarrior chivalry many critics—and admirers—compare to the precepts of the late Galahad Stables."

"Gwen, with the win streak mounting, the man many credit with reviving the original spirit of the Solaris games has crossed the magic threshold into the top sixty- four. The gaming commission's not talking, but betting parlors all across Solaris City have Yulri Wolf on the fast track for the final four."

"Right you are, Dave. And tomorrow noon we'll have live coverage of his nontournament match against Gemini Stables' Fatima Petrovitch. Rumor has it Silverlake Customs has worked the bugs out of her jump-jet equipped Maelstrom, so it looks to be quite a battle."

34

Tesla City, Miaplacidus

former Prefecture VII

12 May 3136

Ian Murchison stood for a moment on the stoop in front of the apartment building to which he'd been assigned watching a group of children play in the street. This was a borghetto, a poor neighborhood, with almost no vehicular traffic to disrupt their game. He could make out no rules to the match beyond that it apparently involved elements of soccer and dodgeball, but the preadolescent children played it with shrill abandon.

The buildings in the area were painted in a rainbow of complimentary and contrasting colors. The overall effect reminded him of advertisements he had seen for tropical island resorts, though the climate was not tropical and the area certainly not a resort.

The scent of uncollected garbage wafted past as the breeze shifted. From where he stood he could see three rusted and partially stripped vehicles parked against the cracked and broken sidewalk—though one had been painted with a mural of potted plants.

There were other watchers on other stoops or leaning out of upper-story windows, cheering the teams on or calling out friendly comments on a particular play. Mur- chison recognized the phenomenon. A sense of community that kept an impoverished neighborhood like this from sliding into the soul-numbing despair of a true slum. These were poor people, glad of the innocent diversion the children offered. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence that these were people with time on their hands.

There were several murals along the walls—evidently not part of the buildings' original designs—depicting forest, ocean, or mountain scenes. No doubt hugely exotic to people who seldom got beyond the confines of the city.

A flowering vine was carved into one side of the frame around the double door leading into his apartment building. The shallow grooves had been inlaid with bright metal that proved on close inspection to be nothing more than bits of scrap wire, silver and copper against the dark-painted wood. The other side of the frame and the lintel were covered with a similar vine painted in such detail he'd had to touch it to be sure it was not carved in bas-relief.

Murchison had discovered tiny symbols—stars and crosses and crescents—from every religion he knew. He suspected some of the other images represented faiths with which he was not familiar.

The Wolf Hunters had been on Miaplacidus for nearly a month. Anastasia had told them they were waiting for a rendezvous, but had not gone into any detail beyond that. This concerned no one.

On most worlds, a protracted wait would not have been a problem. They would have used the time honing their weapons skills on the live-fire ranges or developing new maneuvers on the practice fields.

But Miaplacidus was a peaceful world, a world devoted to the creative arts, and they quite deliberately had no facilities for housing a military unit. Remaining cooped up in the DropShips was not an option—the long period of enforced immobility would have dulled their reflexes and no doubt frayed their nerves.

Excursions were arranged. Not en masse, but in small parties, the Wolf Hunters explored the activities the artists' world had to offer.

Wilderness-survival camping—living off the land in the extensive natural areas—was a sport practiced by the peaceful Miaplacida. As was skiing, both downhill and cross-country. And rock climbing. And snorkeling along the great reefs. And kite boating—in which one stood secured to a shallow bowl about two meters across by stirrups and held the control cords to a small parachute tethered to the torso in both hands and traveled for kilometers over open water.

In short, the Wolf Hunters kept in shape with some of the most rigorous physical activity many of them had ever experienced. What was more, in the course of every group endeavor, no one was in charge. Cooperation came through seeing what needed to be done and doing it. Decisions were made through consensus and expediency.

While the value of these excursions was clear to all. the purpose of some of Anastasia's other mandates was not so transparent. They attended theatrical productions—a thoroughly novel experience for warriors raised in a culture that eschewed literature—and creative dance performances. both null-gee and traditional. They also journeyed to concerts and art museums.

A general cheer went up along the block. Apparently one of the young players had made a particularly exciting play. The champion of the moment marched proudly in a circle midfield, holding the ball triumphantly over his head before tossing it to the opposing goalie to resume play.

Across the street, a huge rat slunk from a storm drain and made its way to a broken basement window.

Only the physical discipline and gymnastic expertise of the dance seemed to make a lasting impression. The chief martial-arts trainer had gone so far as to suggest a dance instructor be hired to teach what she called transition movement.

Murchison had heard the classes were well attended.

The housing of the Wolf Hunters was of a piece with the rest of their training, though like the theater and the concerts, its utility was not immediately clear. Though their budget could have born better accommodations, Anastasia had gone to the Tesla municipal housing authority to secure blocks of apartments in the poorest section of the city, abutting both the DropPort and the cargo docks for the city's minor seaport.

Nor had she acquired an entire building that could be secured and defended. Wolf Hunters were housed in a dozen tenements scattered through the district. The only tactical advantage Murchison could see was that they could all reach the concrete expanse of the DropPort in minutes, having only to negotiate a drainage ditch and a wire-mesh fence to gain access.

Anastasia had taken an apartment like any other—a one-bedroom chosen at random.

Murchison's quarters had not been so randomly selected. He shared the apartment closest to her— immediately across the hall—with three MechWarriors who did not seem to mind rooming with the Alpha's coregn. Beyond the discovery that Rob Juergens snored at a decibel level that made him a threat at close ranges, the period spent in the city had been uneventful.

Until this morning when Murchison discovered Anastasia had already departed. A quick comm call revealed she had gone to the DropPort. Whatever the Wolf Hunters had been waiting for had arrived. In—he glanced at his chronometer—an hour, she wanted him and others she had selected to meet her at the pad adjacent to the Coeur du Loup, her Outpost-class flag ship.

A group of children—to his unpracticed eye somewhere between four and six—came chattering up the stairs. The Wolf Hunters had become such fixtures in the neighborhood that none took notice of him as they flowed past his legs into the building. Their smocked and embroidered clothes looked as though they'd come from an upscale folk-art catalog.

One of the children's arms had clearly been broken at a young age and never properly reset. "She does nothing without reason."

Murchison turned to find Kyle Wolf at his elbow. Like Murchison he was dressed in the charcoal gray duty fatigues of the Wolf Hunters, no emblem or sign of rank other than the single bloody paw print. With a gesture the MechWarrior invited the doctor to precede him down the steps.

"Any thoughts on what we are to learn here?"

"No," Murchison said, stepping around what appeared to be the remains of a cooling system compressor. "Or, perhaps, is this to remind us of who the people are? That no matter what we do, the final purpose of the Wolf is to save the people?"

"Doubtful," Kyle said. He jumped a box rather than walk around it. "Perhaps housing us in a district taxis avoid is part of our physical fitness training."

Murchison snorted. It was just over a dozen blocks to the secured parking garage where the Wolf Hunter troop carriers were parked. The DropPort itself was a similar distance beyond. Hardly a trek by any standard.

He noticed that a forest mural he'd admired the evening before had been altered. Waves of seawater now washed around the boles of the trees. Small forest creatures had been added, some fleeing the onrushing water, others apparently greeting it with great joy.

"That is a cohort." Kyle said.

Murchison followed his glance to a group of local youths—male and female, in early adolescence—who were regarding the altered mural with apparent anger. He was about to ask what the MechWarrior meant when he realized for himself. All of the young people wore a bit of forest green—whether a scarf, hat, or armband— that matched the leaves of the redwood trees in the mural. Apparently their art had been altered without their permission.

"You mean a gang," he said.

As he said the word, it triggered an unaccustomed flashback to the slums of Tara on far away Northwind. Scurrying back to the apartment from some errand his mother had sent him on too late in the evening. Needing to know which streets were safe when, reading the graffiti, looking for the gang signs to know when the turf lines had changed.

If those grimy streets had been as festive as these, would he have worked so hard to get out? Worked so hard to ensure he never went back?

The pylon supporting the traffic lights at the intersection had been supplemented. Bits of scrap metal—some hammered into convoluted shapes, others apparently just as they'd been found—had been welded up its length. The utilitarian pole had become a fanciful abstract sculpture.

These people were trapped in a slum every bit as bad as his had been. But where the ugliness of his had driven people like him to work their way out, here people had worked to make the community beautiful. Perhaps the decorative arts improved the quality of life for the slum residents, but didn't the art also remove the horror that motivated the residents to work their way out?

He explained his insight to Kyle.

Kyle thought for a moment, then said. "Give the common people food and entertainment and they will cause the ruling elite no trouble?"

"More like a gilded cage," Murchison answered. "If the prison is pleasant enough, the prisoners don't mind being prisoners. There has to be some level of discomfort before people make the effort to improve their lot."

"A critical mass to trigger motivation?"

"Something like that," Murchison said. "Until it's hit, people don't change."

By unspoken agreement, the two men passed the garage, continuing toward the DropPort on foot.

Their choice had been anticipated.

Toran, an Elemental who had proven surprisingly adept at piloting a BattleMech, fell in step with them on the next block. Two buildings later Aurora, one of the few aerospace pilots who had remained, and—Ping, Murchison thought his name was—a scout-sniper of Ca- pellan heritage who had joined the Wolf Hunters on Galatea, joined them.

Still considering the issue of beauty and poverty, he noticed the twining vine pattern that had adorned the doorway of their apartment house also framed the doors of the two tenements the other Wolf Hunters occupied, the local primary school, and the municipal free clinic. These buildings were also free of murals. He wondered what sort of artistic sensibility decreed vines could not share buildings with mountains, oceans, or forests.

The new arrival at the DropPort was apparent as soon as the five Wolf Hunters cleared the block building that enclosed the pedestrian-traffic service entrance to the field. An Overlord-C towered over Anastasia's Outpost as though crowding it, the effect emphasized by the fact that the two vessels were far from any other craft on the field.

"Clan Sea Fox," Kyle said, reading the newcomer's markings.

There was a DropPort personnel carrier parked near the door of the block building, its diesel engine muttering. Murchison glanced at it and met the eye of a blond man wearing a dress uniform of some sort peering out the passenger window. The stranger seemed fascinated by the Wolf Hunters, but other than nodding stiffly when he realized Murchison had seen him he made no effort to get their attention.

From the puddle of water beneath the air-cooling unit, Murchison surmised the personnel carrier had been sitting there a while. Following the others, he put the vehicle and its curious passenger out of his mind.

As they approached the two DropShips, Murchison wondered if they were to board the Coeur du Loup, wait in its shadow, or proceed to the entry ramp of the Overlord-C. Before he could voice his question, however, Anastasia herself, with Alexia Wolf at her elbow, appeared on the Outpost"s ramp.

The pair strolled in a leisurely manner, not pausing at the base of the ramp. Alexia carried a case similar to Murchison's medical kit, only more square, on a shoulder strap. Neither glanced toward his group, yet somehow their saunter and the businesslike pace of the group from town converged exactly at the base of the Overlord's gangway.

Without a backward glance, Anastasia led the party up toward the open cargo bay door.

Looking past Anastasia, Murchison saw an olive- complected man of holovid-star build and ravaged looks standing arms akimbo, front and center at the top of the ramp. There were rank and maybe faction insignia he didn't recognize on the man's collar, shoulder, and breast, and while his uniform did not look significantly different from those around him, it hung as though professionally tailored to his figure.

Those around him were worthy of note, as well. Mech Warriors, Elementals, and infantry, their differing uniforms clearly marked, were ranged behind their leader in positions that no doubt reflected their places in the pecking order.

And all were armed.

Murchison almost glanced around at his companions to confirm what he already knew, but he kept his face forward and blank. None of the Wolf Hunters carried a weapon.

This was wrong. This was not how one Clan leader went calling on another. They should be armed, perhaps in a vehicle of some sort. Reckless driving was traditional, as he recalled. A show of force—or at least parity—with neither side admitting that was what they were doing. That was how Clan met Clan.

The leader of the Sea Foxes was evidently as confused—or at least bemused—as Murchison. The plasma or chemical burns that had scarred his face, scalp, and neck, had miraculously spared his eyes. Clear and sharp they ran over the Wolf Hunter party, seeking every detail. His mouth, still as holovid-star perfect as his physique, was curved in a quizzical smile as though trying to sort out the mismatched group.

No, not mismatched, Murchison corrected. Exactly matched. Medical technician, infantry specialist, aerospace pilot, Elemental, and MechWarriors—all of the Wolf Hunters wore exactly the same gunmetal gray fatigues with the bloody red paw print. Only the alpha and omega pins on Anastasia's collar and her position out front set her apart from the people she led.

From a Clan cultural standpoint, there was literally no way for the Sea Fox leader to sort out what he was looking at.

And as for walking into the DropShip unarmed—after approaching over open ground under the DropShip's guns . . . The corner of Murchison's mouth twitched as the penny dropped. Nothing could have announced disdain for the newcomer's military might more loudly.

Perhaps going to those theatrical productions hadn't been such a waste of time after all.

"Petr Kalasa," Anastasia formally identified the Sea Fox leader by way of greeting, "OvKhan of Spina Khanate."

"Anastasia Kerensky," the ovKhan responded, then paused, a question in his dark green eyes.

"Alpha," she supplied. "Of the Wolf Hunters."

"Alpha Anastasia Kerensky of the Wolf Hunters," he said formally.

"You have something for me."

The ovKhan grinned, an expression rendered disconcerting by his disfigurement. Turning, he invited Anastasia to accompany him with a sweep of his arm.

Without waiting to see where the ovKhan's people felt they fit in the entourage, Murchison stepped off in Anastasia's wake. He was pleased that the other Wolf Hunters fell in step. Seeing the Sea Fox leader from behind, he was surprised to note the man wore the black hair that still grew from the left side of his scalp in a ponytail that reached halfway down his back. Unusual for a man who spent most of his time in space.

The party turned a corner and Murchison felt the MechWarriors around him go to point. He thought a small "ah" might have escaped Kyle. Pristine in gray primer, lit by banks of lights from every angle, stood a BattleMech.

"The Savage Wolf" ovKhan Kalasa announced. "Fourth generation of the Timber Wolf design."

The machine towered nearly eleven meters high, with a jutting cockpit and two forward-thrust arms. Above and behind the shark shape of the central fuselage rose two rectangular cases Murchison knew were missile racks. Murchison thought the general design was similar to 'Mechs he had seen in the Steel Wolves' forces, but the Savage Wolf seemed leaner, more aggressive.

"Seventy-five tons, maximum armor, hip assemblies moved back and up for better mechanical efficiency and protection." Kalasa pointed to each feature as he spoke. "There are four six-tube racks of short-range Streak missiles, two of them pointing aft. The missile rack housings elevate and depress independently. Each arm has full rotation and an extended-range particle projector cannon."

"You don't have to sell it to me, Petr Kalasa," Anastasia said dryly.

The Sea Fox smiled, conceding the point.

Anastasia extended her hand toward Alexia. The young MechWarrior produced a neurohelmet from the case over her shoulder.

With no other ceremony, Anastasia took possession of the new BattleMech, climbing the chain ladder without a backward glance.

Murchison noted she wore no cooling vest, but neither did technicians when they maneuvered 'Mechs about the service bays. Evidently she was not planning an extended mission.

The Savage Wolf came alive, announcing Anastasia's hands on the controls with a forward cant to its long fuselage and a slight widening of the arms. The difference between menacing machine and menacing presence was subtle but real.

Everyone but the ovKhan made way without ceremony as the BattleMech stepped forward.

Murchison wondered at how quickly Anastasia had made the Savage Wolf so completely hers. He had thought a protracted period of synchronization was necessary to match MechWarrior to machine, but the 'Mech did not move with the stiff tramp of a technician's limited control.

It prowled forward, a predator ready for blood.

Either he did not understand the process, or the Sea Foxes had used a recording of Anastasia's brain wave patterns to precalibrate the Savage Wolf. What did having that recording say about their relationship to the Wolf Hunters?

For his part, the Sea Fox leader showed the same disregard for the threat the machine posed that the Wolf Hunters had displayed in strolling into his presence unarmed. He did not flinch as one massive foot of the war machine came down meters from him. Turning casually, he watched the Savage Wolf negotiate the turn and disappear in the direction of the cargo ramp.

Murchison decided Petr Kalasa either already understood the finer points of theater or was a quick study.

Aurora, closest to the exit, stepped off first and the

Wolf Hunters fell in around her. Murchison caught one exchange of glances as the Sea Fox warriors tried to sort out their fluid pecking order.

Halfway down the ramp he realized Anastasia had bypassed her flagship. The Savage Wolf was several hundred meters away, evidently bound for the pedestrian entrance they had used. He wondered what preparations the unarmed security guards were making for her arrival.

"Where is she going?" Kyle asked.

"An Irian general arrived last night," Alexia answered. "Apparently with a job offer."

Murchison remembered the man in dress uniform watching them from the parked personnel carrier.

He ran through his information store on Irian. BattleMech—general ordnance—production, high mean temperatures, inedible local vegetation . . . That was it. Nothing that would require specialized medical supplies.

He wondered what problem the Iriani faced that required the Wolf Hunters. Probably another turf war between gangs that had sprung up since the collapse of The Republic. They'd just have to go read the walls, check out the gang signs, and see what was up.

His chuckle caught the others' attention.

"We missed what we were looking at because we were looking at it," he said. "We weren't considering how others saw it."

"Come again?" Ping asked.

Murchison would have expected a man used to convoluted Capellan culture to follow him. Then again, he had no idea what the others had been discussing while he was lost in thought. No doubt his outburst was a complete non sequitur.

"It's like birdsong," he said. "What we hear versus what birds hear."

"We hear music, they hear territorial challenges and war cries," Toran said. "What has that to do with the Savage Wolf design?"

"Nothing," Murchison admitted. "I was thinking of the decorated slums."

"Meaning they are not decorated," Kyle guessed.

"The mural we saw of ocean waves washing into a forest," Murchison said, "was a declaration of war.

"On a world that esteems art above all else, is it any wonder their gang signs are beautiful?"

"The vines with all the symbols combined mark neutral territory," Ping said. When the others looked at him in surprise, he pulled up his left sleeve, revealing a geometric pattern of scars. "Foundry District, Bellings, Sar- maxa. Gangs, I know."

"You mean to tell me Fve lived six weeks in deplorable conditions," Aurora asked, "just to learn—all over again—that things are not always what they seem?"

"So it would seem," Kyle Wolf answered.

35

Solaris City, Solaris VII

Lyran Commonwealth

31 May 3136

Tommy slowed as he approached his limo.

No Clarence.

His eyes slid to the corners of the garage, checking shadows—and there were a lot of them despite the sodium lights ringing every pillar. No parking attendant in the booth. No other drivers in the glass-walled chauffeurs' lounge. No nobody nowhere.

Tommy spun for the elevator. And found himself face- to-face with Garnet.

For a half second he considered reaching for his pocket comm, but as quickly decided he liked having two arms. He opted for a friendly smile instead, making it clear the New DeLon Stables manager was the most welcome sight in the world.

Garnet responded with a micromillimeter smile of his own, a twitch at the corners of his mouth. He was flanked by two local goons who towered over him. Tommy figured those two had a real good idea what had happened to Clarence. Of course, the heavy-worlder between them could've folded them both up and put them away without breaking a sweat. But physical power wasn't what made Garnet dangerous.

"The Commission's got some concerns," Garnet said by way of greeting.

Tommy knew he didn't mean the Solaris VII Gaming Commission, the governing body charged with keeping the Games and the gambling industry honest. He meant the Commission, the one that kept things profitable. Using the same name as the agency that was supposed to be keeping them out of the business was as close to a joke as anyone on the Commission ever got.

"Anything I can do to help relieve those concerns," Tommy said. "You know all you gotta do is ask."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Tommy," Garret said with no sign he was pleased. "Because our concerns have to do with that co-op of yours."

"It's not my co-op, Mister Garnet, you know that." Tommy's smile was sincere. "I'm an agent and they are my clients."

Garnet's glassy stare tipped him verbal hair-splitting was not the way to go.

"Of course, if that's a problem—"

"No," Garnet forestalled the offer. "We like having you in position. It's good to have someone familiar involved."

Tommy nodded at the wisdom of this and kept his mouth shut.

"A lot of interesting innovations," Garnet said. "Requiring all 'Mech jockeys to be scrappers, sort of a vertical consolidation of assets, is very interesting. Opens a lot of spread options."

He paused, inviting comment, but Tommy knew better than to volunteer an opinion. He continued to beam his profound interest in Garnet's monologue with deeply felt sincerity.

"That code-of-conduct thing they got going, that's been getting a lot of good press," Garnet went on after a moment. "S.C. Game Beat has been drawing parallels with the old Galahad Stables and their code of chivalry. Yulri Wolf is getting mentioned in the same breath with Kai Allard-Liao. Contenders at every level have noticed the PR value. We've got grunts, kiters, can men, and jockeys—independent and contract—publicly announcing they're following the code."

Tommy frowned thoughtfully. Like it takes an Einstein to figure out where this is going.

"It does play well with the public," he said. "But it is a bit inflexible."

"Inflexible," Garnet savored the word. "Well put."

It's what I do.

"There's no problem with 'Mech jockeys saying they're going to act like knights in shining armor—that's half the sizzle we sell to begin with," Garnet was saying. "There is a problem with jockeys who actually start believing the hype."

Tommy's mind boggled slightly at the thought that contenders were actually taking the Clanner's code seriously. If they were interpreting integrity to mean not accepting direction on point spread or damage order— the unregulated side bets that paid for half the mansions in Solaris City—things were more serious than he'd thought.

He'd better make it real clear he was no part of the madness biting the hand that fed the business.

"I honestly had no idea the effect had spread that far," he said truthfully, knowing Garnet would probably believe him. Agents can't gamble, so there would have been no reason for Tommy to track something like that. "It was just supposed to be a publicity gimmick. Something to make the new co-op stand out with the fans."

Just made it sound like I was in on the plan.

"Personally, I thought it was a waste of time—might backfire and make them look self-righteous," he segued smoothly. "But I never thought it would interfere with business."

Garnet held his pose for a lifetime, waiting for Tommy to squirm under his level gaze. Tommy wasn't a squirmer. True, there was icy sweat trickling down his ribs, but nothing showed in his face but sincere concern for any inadvertent inconvenience caused by an innocent act.

"There's worry your Clanner might take this conduct thing one step further," Garnet said. "Talk he might be thinking of organizing. We won't have another Morrison."

Tommy nodded sagely. It had been almost a century since Daniel Morrison, founder of the Dismal Dispossessed cooperative, had tried to organize the MechWarriors of Solaris against the stables. He'd disappeared without a trace.

"Don't think twice about it," Tommy said with an easy confidence he could only imagine. "That's not his style, doesn't even sound like him. He's got some ass- arrogant Clan idea that some special quality separates real warriors from the rest. He likes to meet folks face- to-face, looking for that warrior aura or whatever. But organizing? Pffft/"

Tommy waved the notion away. "That's too much like a labor union," he said. "And the only thing a Clanner hates worse than bad genes is being mistaken for someone who works for a living."

"Perhaps," Garnet said. "But just to be safe, you might want to tell him the history of Morrison. Explain to him that the world is not kind to those who would interfere with the way things are done here."

"Good point," Tommy said with sincere appreciation. "He's a Clanner bottle baby. Doesn't know how the world works. Maybe I'd better do what I can to keep him from making stupid mistakes in his ignorance."

"No maybe about it," Garnet corrected. "You do exactly that. And make sure Fox understands the situation as well. A new co-op stable is a shaky thing. The loss of its best contenders—and its agent—could bring the whole thing crashing down."

Tommy nodded again, agreeing wholeheartedly. He was still nodding when a limousine pulled smoothly up and whisked Garnet and his silent partners off to places unknown.

It took him two minutes to find Clarence stuffed in the trunk of his own rented limo with a bloody toy rabbit posed on his chest. They'd broken a few parts to make him fit, but he was still alive. Barely. Tommy rode to the hospital with him, bloody toy rabbit in his lap, holding the unconscious man's hand as the ambulance argued its way through tourist-choked traffic.

36

Kirin Valley DropPort

Irian, former Prefecture VII

2 July 3136

Trelane Brody focused on not screaming. Experimentation had proven it didn't help.

Nobody had said two days in a crated 'Mech would be comfortable. In fact all of the Senate Alliance MechWarriors had been through weeks of simulations— and special low-waste diets—to prepare for this mission. There had been no illusions going in.

Still, he couldn't shake the conviction that something had gone terribly wrong with his chronometer or the mission or both. Surely he'd been in the box looking at his ghostly reflection in the canopy for weeks, not the fifty-two hours his chronometer insisted on.

Perhaps he'd been accidentally shipped to the backside of the Raven Alliance. Or sent to recycling without inspection—his only warning of danger being dropped, crate and all, into the smelter.

His schedule said he should be sleeping now. Activation was in six hours.

He closed his eyes. His eyeballs scraped back and forth against the insides of their lids as he searched the darkness. That was not working. He had sleeping pills, but the time to take those had been yesterday. With only six hours to go. he didn't dare now.

He ran his forty-third diagnostic and logged his forty- third all green.

Nothing to do now but wait.

* * *

Civilian Tower Operations Control Agent Jessica Cambridge looked across the field at the row of Savannah Supercargo Interstellar DropShips and shook her head. It had taken guts to start up a shipping co-op in these days—even before The Republic had done whatever the hell it was that it was doing, things had not been good for the little guy.

Over the last six months, SSI DropShips had been in and out of Irian Kirin DropPort. Specializing in heavy equipment transport, they'd picked up the marginal accounts. IndustrialMods being traded in or scrapped; bulk loads of salvage materials for recycling/remanufacturing; surplus loads for major carriers who'd overbid their ability to make a goal. They weren't getting rich—in fact they were likely to be operating in the red for another year at least—but she respected their spunk.

It was a damn shame the home office data core collapse had stranded their entire fleet on Irian without manifest. The contracts were being researched and regenerated in hard copy by hand, but it was taking weeks. Meanwhile half a dozen ancient freighters—mortgaged to the last rivet and crewed by guys and gals who'd invested their last stone in making the company go—were sitting empty in front of warehouse row. Nobody said anything, but the way they were working on the ships and the loading equipment and hauling sleds, everyone knew they were getting them ready for sale.

Sometimes the little guy didn't get a break.

"Boss?"

Cambridge winced. Bailey was a good scanner tech, but he tended to jump at every little thing. Any variation in routine was a crisis by his standards. But he was good and, at these salaries, good techs were hard to find. She made the effort to smile and keep the annoyance out of her voice.

"What ya got. Bailey?"

The tech scooted his chair back, letting her see his screen.

Cambridge hit the emergency button.

"Go," said a voice as the hot channel to Irian Planetary Defense came live.

"Cambridge, Civ Ops," she self-identified. "We've just had twelve incoming DropShips go dark and break standard approach pattern."

"Which vector?"

"Both—make it fourteen, IPD—it's a coordinated maneuver from what we can track." She glanced at the other three screens for confirmation. Same numbers. Defense had to have these same pictures. "They're coming in ballistic, transponders off. We aren't set up to track cold ships. We're losing them."

"Understood, Civ Ops." The voice sounded damn calm to her ears. "Initiate standard shutdown and get your people to shelters."

Cambridge made a circle in the air above her head with one finger, then drew it across her throat. All around her techs went down their emergency call lists. She didn't listen too closely, knowing they'd be breaking regs by calling their families—warning them to get to safety—before telling the ships on the landing field they weren't going anywhere.

She squinted up at the innocent sky, then across the expanse of ferrocrete to the stranded SSI freighters, their bay doors open and ramps extended, ready and forlornly waiting in hopes those lost manifests were found. All of their trucks and loading sleds were laid out in neat rows, already looking like a used-vehicle sales lot. They were sitting ducks.

No matter how bad it got, somebody always had it worse.

* * *

Brigadier General Blatz was simply amazed.

He had known the former planetary militia and IrTech security were not all idiots. They had only acted like idiots when he had tried to mold them into a single force—under the former Dragon's Fury Brotherhood regiment—to defend Irian. He had expected them to be professional, or at least competent, and hoped all would manage to pull together when their home world was attacked.

What he had not expected was the way they had all pulled together so well in the four hours since the Alliance DropShips had landed.

They were not always using the plans he and Sanders and Greene had devised—more often he had devised and browbeaten the others into accepting—but in every case the field commander's changes were for the better. At every point from the heart of the Kirin Valley to the Bruin outback, Irian forces were turning back the invaders.

Even as he watched the battle for Irian unfold— issuing orders to reroute materiel or align unengaged assets—Blatz had to credit the Wolf Hunters for part of this. They had been hired on to defend the core of Irian's shipping infrastructure, however once on site they had determined only a fraction of their forces were required for that duty. The remainder of the mercenary group had become a de facto cadre unit.

Traveling in squads or lances or Stars or apparently random groups of six or eight or eleven, the Wolf Hunters had visited every defensive site on the planet more than once. In every case they had demonstrated techniques and tactics—often suited to the specific terrain or tactical situation—for the area commands to consider.

On the heels of that thought, he split a support battalion, sending each component company to bolster a different hot spot. He would not have been sure enough of their abilities to risk that tactic a month ago.

The tours were not completely altruistic, of course. He knew that a MechWarrior Greene considered the finest IrTech employed had abandoned his job to join the Wolf Hunters. He himself had lost his best artillery commander and an infantry gunsho he was ashamed to say he didn't remember.

Also, once they'd seen what Irian had to offer, the Wolf Hunters had activated the "in kind" clause of their contract and taken much of their payment in the form of tech and military materiel. Primarily advanced 1MB electronics.

The situation boards confirmed every beachhead was either being turned back or contained. It wasn't going to be a one-day victory—perhaps not even a one-week victory—but it would be a victory.

The only major target the Alliance forces were leaving alone was the commercial DropPort at Kirin. Perhaps they'd had intel the Wolf Hunters were based there and chosen to bypass it as too well defended. A logical assumption given the state of the Irian Planetary Defense just weeks ago.

Alpha Kerensky—there was a rank that brooked no confusion—had released the IPD troops attached to the DropPort and many of her own 'Mechs to support the defense of the Irian BattleMechs Plant and Hathorpolis. She'd said she could hold the DropPort with the few she'd retained, but that anything below would be cut down.

Blatz wasn't sure what that last phrase meant, but from the looks of things, simply locking the gate and posting a "do not enter" sign would have been sufficient to protect the civilian port.

* * *

Trelane ran his three-seventy-five series extra light fusion drive up to full cycle—more power than he needed—and straightened his leg actuators. The paired twenty-tube missile launchers on his shoulders drove up—shattering the wooden planks above to flinders. The arms, heavy with their large and medium ER lasers, swung wide, hurling the fragments of crate away in a shower of boards and splinters.

He laughed, nearly delirious to see something in his cockpit viewscreen besides his own reflection. The three- sixty and scanners came online, confirming he was right where he should be.

Trelane was aware of warehouse workers scurrying for cover as the massive box labeled seventy-five tons of scrapped farm machinery gave birth to a Mad Cat, but they weren't really his concern.

Angling his lasers up, he sighted on the giant overhead magnetic crane and pressed the trigger. Unarmored, the soft metal of the only thing in sight that could hurt him ran like wax before a blowtorch under the four beams.

Trelane paused long enough to let the last of the molten debris fall before stepping out. He was tempted to simply walk though a wall, but he didn't know how it was reinforced and he didn't want to risk damage before he'd had a chance to engage the enemy.

Again his paired large and medium lasers lashed out and the soft steel hangar-sized double doors fell away from their frames. A hole blasted in the wall of the recycling warehouse across the service road told him France was already on the move. Premature as always.

Most of the BattleMechs in the task force company were lights—Falcon Hawks and Panthers passing for scrapped IndustrialMods through their packing crates— but his Mad Cat and France's Shockwave were on hand to provide serious firepower should the need arise.

Which it might. Even five hours into the planetwide diversionary assaults, some diehards might have stayed on post at the one quiet spot on Irian. It was their tough luck they'd chosen to avoid combat by hiding out at ground zero for the real raid.

The short-term heavy-equipment warehouses held crated BattleMechs—legitimate ones, without MechWar- riors in their cockpits—bound for the Oriente Protectorate, the Marik-Stewart Commonality, and The Republic. BattleMechs the Senate Alliance needed in order to defend—and expand—its borders.

There was more beyond 'Mechs, of course. Tanks, weapons systems, ordnance, and materiel crated, labeled, and ready to go. The location of every vital crate was cataloged for quick loading on the six Alliance heavy freighters open and waiting on the ferrocrete.

Turning south, he picked up speed, moving to cover the loading operation against the Irians' belated response.

* * *

As quickly as Anastasia thought the move, her Savage

Wolf pivoted right, its missile launchers depressing slightly, its left rear-hinged knee flexing to alter angle. Good tone. She pressed the secondary stud and the world beyond her canopy disappeared in blue smoke as a double flight of Streak missiles launched aft.

Twelve solid hits on the Alliance Shockwave that had thought it was sneaking up on her. The 50-ton machine dipped as a leg buckled, but didn't quite fail. Two of the missiles hit close to the cockpit tucked under the mass of its autocannon. Though they hadn't penetrated it was clear from the 'Mech's staggering recovery that the pilot was hurt. Its weapons were still viable, but at the moment tracking nothing as he struggled to keep upright.

Not ignoring the stricken 'Mech, but keeping her back to it. Anastasia stepped forward, rounding the block building at the edge of the DropPort's sea of concrete, and lined her paired ER PPCs on the nearest wave of hover transports skimming toward the warehouses.

Her azure bolts of death were nearly invisible in the noon glare, but two of the heavy-equipment carriers tumbled. One was a smoking ruin before it veered, the other a cartwheeling wreck disintegrating into shrapnel as it tumbled. The others scattered, abandoning their objective to avoid the unexpected defender. Defenders. An Ice Ferret and a Nova—both bristling with medium lasers—stepped clear of cover and began tearing into the lance of light 'Mechs defending the transports.

A heavy 'Mech icon appeared on Anastasia's heads- up display, distorted by intervening buildings and the heavy metal they stored, but clear enough. She grinned at the targeting computer's ID of a Mad Cat.

"Feeling fratricidal?" she asked the air in her cockpit.

Turning from the rout of transports, she went hunting the 'Mech the Clans called the Timber Wolf.

* * *

Trelane's targeting computer refused to identify.

Something new, a heavy coming his way.

He cut left down a narrow alley between metal-heavy buildings, staying dead center as his Mad Cat pushed sixty kph to keep his missile racks from hitting the fire escapes. No point in getting involved in a one-on-one slugfest with another heavy until he knew the op sit.

France didn't answer, which left him in command of the 'Mechs and answering to the mission leader and or DropShip captains. Only the DropShip captains were focused on getting their panicked cargo handlers in line and left 'Mech deployment to his discretion. Infantry reported multiple contacts pinning them down. On the company channel he got confirmation of one unknown heavy and four other 'Mechs breaking up the run on the warehouses. Light and medium Clan omnis in gunmetal gray with red paw prints.

His database gave him Wolf Hunters, mercenaries, present location unknown. "Need to update that."

Trelane dodged left, moving to get behind the mystery heavy. A wider thoroughfare let him step up to eighty kph. His cockpit was still cool, the sunlight on his face actually warmer than the air around him. That would change very soon.

Five 'Mechs and undetermined infantry. If the Wolf Hunters followed Clan organization, this was a Nova— maybe five 'Mechs and a hundred twenty-five foot soldiers. Unless they had vehicles. Or Elementals. Could be anything.

But no matter how you divided it, they had the meres outnumbered and outgunned. And they were professional soldiers, not hired guns. This was going to be brief.

Slowing as he reached the end of the service road, he scanned wide. Metal echoes for the warehouses around him. But heat to his left, fading as it moved away. He had gotten behind the unknown heavy.

Weapons ready, he pivoted around the corner.

"Another Mad Cat?" he said aloud. How many of these variants are there?

His mind cataloged the differences that had confused the targeting computer—lower, more angular, leaner, legs higher and back—as he brought his right missile rack to bear.

Wound this one, bring it down. He'd take it home for the Alliance engineers to study.

* * *

Anastasia's computer hooted its incoming warning. She pivoted, presenting her Savage Wolfs narrowest aspect to the flight of missiles.

Twenty LRMs pounded into the ground in front of her. the wall beside her and her right arm.

Glancing through the canopy, she visually confirmed what her diagnostic computer told her: loss of armor, no structural damage.

Extending both arms forward, she unleashed her ER

PPCs. Without waiting to assess their effect, she charged, pushing her 'Mech to the top of its acceleration curve in a few steps.

The best way to get close enough to use her short- range Streaks was to get close enough to use her short- range Streaks fast.

Surprised by her tactic, the Timber Wolf pilot was a half second late in launching a flight of long-range missiles as she ran into their target area. The missiles passed over her head. The second salvo—or second half salvo, since the pilot was repeating the pattern of firing first one side and then the other—was right on target.

Anastasia rocked against her harness as missile impacts dotted the upper legs and torso of her heavy 'Mech. She shouted her defiance as some hit close to the canopy.

Bringing her targeting computer online—one did not target missiles manually while running—she focused a double flight of missiles and both PPCs on the Timber Wolf.

Her cockpit was hot. Not burning, yet, but hot enough for her to appreciate her cooling vest. The neoleather and plastics had not had the years to soak up odors, so everything smelled brand-new as it cooked.

The Alliance 'Mech jockey stood his ground, ready to finish the fight quickly.

Anastasia grinned. It was exactly the wrong move to make against her.

Optimal range, good tone, and twelve Streak missiles were away.

Just as her missiles cleared their tubes, the Alliance pilot unleashed a full strike of his own. Anastasia's first instinct was to stomp her pedals, but this was not her Ryoken II—this Alpha didn't jump.

There was no dodging the lasers, of course. Three solid hits, two mediums and a large, with the second large a raking burn across her back. But a twist and lunge left most of the missiles behind, flying uselessly out over the DropPort.

Most.

An explosion staggered her 'Mech. Metal and salt—- blood—filled her mouth. On the diagnostic screen her right SRM launcher housing went black. Fore and aft, twelve tubes gone.

Completing the twist, Anastasia brought the Savage Wolfs six remaining rear tubes to bear. Targeting computer—

Reported white heat.

Anastasia threw the throttle open in a dead run.

Daylight streamed down from above, but the black shadow of her 'Mech stretched ahead as the Timber Wolfs fusion reactor flared in a final sunburst.

* * *

"Irian is a loss," he said into the darkness. Actually a commercial comm booth with all lights and displays extinguished.

"How so?" The voice on the handset was distorted. He'd long ago given up trying to deduce if the speaker was male or female.

"Our assault force was repulsed and our raid on their BattleMech stockpile failed," he reported. He suspected the other already knew the details. He was just following up with his tally of events. "Heavy loss of life; heavy loss all around."

"The DropShips?"

"Lost."

There was a pause. He imagined the speaker at the other end of the link hurriedly consulting with confederates. Or perhaps staring into space with thoughtful focus.

"Revert to status one," the voice said at last. "Resume normal activities. You'll be contacted when option two initiates."

Without bothering to acknowledge, he broke the connection. Inserting a band of thin metal into the credit slot, he ran a trickle charge through the 'phone's memory core. All evidence of the call disappeared. Resetting the machine to standard operation, he let himself out of the plastic booth.

"Everything okay at home?" Cambridge asked.

Bailey gave his stocky supervisor his best brave- through-adversity smile.

"Everything's about as good as we can expect," he said.

37

Ishiyama Arena

Solaris City, Solaris VII

Lyran Commonwealth

11 July 3136

The noises of the stone-walled 'Mech hangar echoed around him as Tommy hung back, watching Jazz wish Yulri luck in the shadow of the Black Hawk. No deep kissing or anything, in fact they didn't touch. But the way her body yearned toward him was embarrassing. Sweet, in a way. But sad, too, when you considered the Clanner didn't have a clue what to do with honest emotion.

He was vaguely aware of Jackson Silverlake beside him. talking. Canid had subcontracted the primo 'Mech customizer to give Yulri every edge today. Like that was going to help.

Silverlake was a large man. Not fat, not muscular, and not particularly tall, but something about him filled whatever space he occupied with presence. Right now he was also filling the space with words, nattering on about the job he'd done. Tommy tried to make appropriate noises at the right times.

“Your man Yulri's choice on the ER PPC and large pulse laser—classic combination of alternate configs A and B—is solid," Silverlake was saying. "Long-range punch may be a bit counterintuitive in the tunnels of Ishiyama, but keeping away from a melee 'Mech with a thirty-ton advantage is always sound tactics. But dropping the jump jets is the real genius to this setup."

"Herbert Jordan drives the UB variant of the Neanderthal, standard weapons mix," Silverlake said. His eyes never stopped roaming the Black Hawk, inspecting every line and joint. "One autocannon, one standard PPC— and the hatchet, of course. But what he loves are the two SRM6s. Even dropped a double heat sink to add a ton of missiles. He's a master of using them in confined areas: the scrap yard, the factory, and of course these tunnels."

Tommy nodded and hmm-ed.

Today had taken a while to set up.

Not Yulri going up against Herbert Jordan for a slot in the top tier going into the championships. That had been inevitable since his narrow victory over Petrovitch. (A Maelstrom had no business jumping.) The championships were still five months away, but getting into the sweet sixteen by midsummer meant a fifty percent boost in endorsements and a free pass through the first three elimination rounds.

But pairing this evening bout up with a high-profile night match for Jazz and her elite scrapper team—that had taken some juggling. And pulling in a few favors.

After that footwork, suggesting the scrapper squad come along to watch Yulri from the owners' box had been easy. Bringing along their van, packed with all their gear, had solved the logistics problems. Plus, after his win, Yulri could unwind watching Jazz and company take down the top-seeded Wraiths Stables' scrapper squad. The stage was set for a pleasant evening of kicking butt followed by a double victory party lasting into the predawn hours.

"Freeing up those two and a half tons boosts the Black Hawk's advantage." Silverlake proudly pointed out details on the BattleMech that meant nothing to Tommy. "Two extra double heat sinks means your man Yulri fires long-range bolts all day long and still needs a jacket. And an extra half ton of antimissile rounds takes the shine off Herbert's joy."

Tommy shared a meaningless chuckle and stepped off, headed for Jazz, now alone in the stone hangar.

The chain ladder was at last wound into the cockpit. The Black Hawk came alive, the body canting forward that few degrees that announced a live pilot aboard and ready for action.

Tommy put his arm around Jazz's shoulder in a fatherly fashion and led her toward the elevator to the owners' boxes. She was one of the few women short enough for him to pull that off; most times he felt like a kid reaching up to hold on to mother.

The owners' boxes were simple four-by-five-meter rooms with one long wall entirely devoted to holovid displays. Canid didn't have its own box, of course, but was renting one of the "generic" boxes available to smaller stables. This one was laid out very like the Sportsmen's Club, with comfortable chairs on risers facing the display.

Small talk in the box was light and general, the scrappers ignoring the commentators ("Right you are" Dave and Gwen) explain the complexity of Ishiyama Caverns. The exact extent and layout of the tunnels under Stone Mountain were closely guarded secrets, so there would not be an overall display showing the relative locations of the combatants. Viewers would see the match via hundreds of pivoting holovid cameras positioned throughout the caverns, remotely aimed by operators in Central Control.

Tommy was struck by the similarity between this arrangement and the Black Hills Urban Combat Zone. Ttoe first time and the last time he would see these two fight would be on holovid feeds from inside the action.

Dave and Gwen agreed their way through a summary of the sort of booby traps and obstacles—physical and electronic—the MechWarriors would have to contend with in addition to each other. They just had time to squeeze in a sixth recap of the importance of this bout before the starting horn sounded.

The conversations around Tommy faded as the Canid scrappers got their first look at Herbert Jordan's Neanderthal.

The 80-ton hulk filled the tunnels, its broad, stooped shoulders gave it an apelike mien; or that of a troll. One almost expected its melee weapon to be the thighbone of some gigantic beast, though the uranium-edged hatchet was imposing enough. Herbert was going to have to be wary of headroom if he intended to swing that thing.

Starts at Ishiyama were notoriously dull—or fraught with suspense, depending on the watcher's perspective. The contenders entered separately, with a general idea on how to find their opponent. Both were hunters, but metal-heavy walls, electronic noise, and projected false sensor images made contact as much an issue of luck as tracking skills.

With ebullient accord, Gwen and Dave filled the time explaining the point handicapping involved in a medium BattleMech engaging an assault, confirming for one another that it was possible for the Black Hawk to be destroyed and Yulri Wolf still declared the winner. Unless, of course, he made several piloting errors or was otherwise disqualified. Interestingly enough, while the bulk of the betting centered on how long the smaller 'Mech stayed viable, there were a significant number of people betting on Yulri making a clean win—carrying the points and disabling Jordan's Neanderthal.

Tommy sighed.

On the split-screen display, Yulri could be seen making casts down side tunnels, evidently trying to catch some scent of his quarry. Once he found a pit trap, invisible in shadow, and once destroyed a trip-wired SRM2 with his medium laser. But there was no sign he had any idea where Jordan was.

By contrast, the New DeLon Stables MechWarrior was moving through the tunnels with evident purpose. Whether he had some indication of Yulri's position or was simply maximizing his search radius through speed wasn't clear.

Tommy's pocket comm buzzed. Not looking away from the screen, he fished it out with an icy hand.

"Tommy Gunn," he said.

"Now." Garnet's voice. Then the signal went dead.

"What?" Tommy exclaimed. Leaning forward in his chair he waved at the others to be quiet. Someone muted the audio feed.

"Say again?" Tommy asked the dead instrument in his hand. "No, no, no. Don't do nothing. I got some people here. We'll talk and I'll get back to you. Don't do nothing."

Slipping the comm into his pocket he looked around the circle of expectant faces. On the screen behind them Jordan's Neanderthal stepped on a flash mine that detonated in harmless silence. Tommy focused on Jazz.

"New DeLon has slipped some sappers into Ishiyama," he said. "They're going to set a trap and Jordan's going to lure Yulri into it. It's going to look like a natural fall, like Yulri screwed up. When he's down, Jordan's going to pound him to scrap."

"We've got to call the refs," said Clayton, the scrapper team's heavy machine gunner.

"The DeLon squad's got comm," Tommy said. "We call the refs, the sappers fade. No evidence for our claim and we forfeit the match, maybe face discipline."

"I thought the Caps blocked all comm in the tunnels." That was Petersen, the new guy.

"I'm telling you what I was told," Tommy snapped.

A couple of others added their two percent, but Tommy didn't bother to track or answer. He was watching Jazz.

Jazz wasn't talking, she was thinking. And, poor kid, everyone else knew she was thinking what they wanted her to think.

"Tommy, do you know any way into the tunnels?" she asked. "Not the 'Mech entrance."

Tommy considered, his heart an icy lump in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes," he said at last, drawing the word out. "Parking deck, not far from the van, there's a service entrance of some sort. I don't know exactly where it goes, but I've seen techs carry holovid cams through it. Only thing they 'vid is the arena."

Jazz nodded. Collecting her squad with a glance, she headed out the door.

Tommy waited a three count.

"Wait a minute," he called, keeping his voice low to not alert the other owners in their boxes. "Where are you going?"

Jazz paused at the elevator door until he was near. Grabbing his arm, she pulled him in and keyed the parking deck.

"The sappers can keep off camera, so can we," she said. "From the way he was moving, Jordan was headed for a specific location. Anyone paying attention?"

"Yeah, straight two hundred meters, right, left, left again, then straight," Chin said, narrowing her eyes in memory. Two of the others nodded agreement. "If we can find where he started from, piece of cake."

"Entrance seven, from the look of it," Tommy said, ignoring the bile in his throat. "Supposed to be a secret, but the way I hear it, that's the south side, not far from the boxes."

"Find entrance seven, go after them," Jazz finally answered Tommy's question. "If we can persuade them to quit without stopping the game, great. They don't persuade—well, the shooting will alert the refs and we'll have all the evidence pinned down for them."

Tommy blathered ineffective pleas for wisdom as the squad popped the van and geared up. Without a word, they shed all their ammo packs, tossing them back into the van. Petersen pulled an unmarked case from under the seat and began handing out fresh magazines.

"Please tell me those are just improved paint rounds," Tommy said.

"What you don't know," Jazz answered, "you can't get charged with."

"We should just call the refs," Tommy said, knowing it was way too late.

Jazz cocked her head, catching him with her wide left eye, and grinned. The daughter he never had excited about her first date.

The service door's lock yielded to a knife blade and the scrapper team was gone.

Tommy gently shut the van—there was still enough valuable Canid Co-op equipment inside to outfit another team—and headed for the elevator. The ride up was long and uneventful and over too soon. Making his way down the owners' hall on leaden feet, he stopped at the door to New DeLon's box.

Garnet opened the door himself a long minute after Tommy's knock.

"They're in," Tommy said simply.

Garnet nodded and stepped back, inviting Tommy into the room. It was empty except for Garnet's two goons—or reasonable facsimiles thereof. Tommy was reminded of his theory about Clan cloning.

"I anticipated your success," the New DeLon assistant manager said, turning his attention to the holovid display.

Gwen and Dave were center stage, looking decidedly less chipper than usual.

At a nod from Garnet one of the goons ticked up the audio.

". . . is certainly their right and covered under the escalation conventions," Dave was saying. "Though those conventions have never been applied to mixed- unit combat."

"To recap," Gwen said without a right-you-are, "Canid Co-op, in a flagrant violation of their own much- touted anticheating stance, has inserted an anti-'Mech team into Ishiyama Arena . . ."

An inset box showed Jazz and her team moving with cautious determination along a rocky tunnel. That they were not equipped to meet a BattleMech was obvious even in the dim light, but that didn't seem to affect the commentators.

"In response to this Canid anti-'Mech team, New DeLon Stables has elected not to stop the match," Dave was saying. "Instead they have enacted the escalation clause usually reserved for infantry matches. They are sending in a squad of their own to prevent the anti-'Mech squad from crippling Herbert Jordan's Neanderthal—"

There must been some signal, for the screen was suddenly mute again. The inset box above and between Dave and Gwen continued to track Jazz while a new inset below showed a squad Tommy didn't recognize.

Then he did. One of the most vicious teams on the illegal full-contact circuit.

"Wait a minute," Tommy said. "Wait a damn minute. You were just supposed to blow the whistle on them. The deal was Yulri and the Canid scrapper team get disqualified and the damn honesty oath get discredited. You never said anything about—"

About killing.

Garnet regarded him with blank disinterest.

"Here's a thought," he said. "Why don't you go to the refs? Maybe go to the gaming commission. You could explain to them that you illegally conspired to disqualify your clients, working for a cooperative you also represent, but decided to complain because you were double-crossed by your coconspirators."

He turned his back on Tommy and eased into a wide- backed chair facing the silent screen.

"New DeLon could survive such a scandal; we've survived worse. We have resources," Garnet said. "But you. Tommy, all you have is your reputation. Any of this gets out and—between penalties, lawsuits, legal fees, forfeit commissions—you'll be on the public dole before the quarter finals."

"But—"

"Good-bye, Tommy."

He was in the hall, looking at the blank wall opposite the New DeLon door with no clear memory of whether he'd moved under his own power.

He pulled out his pocket comm. keying in a number with shaking fingers. His thumb hesitated over the "transmit" button. Licking his lips, he looked both ways down the short length of the empty corridor. Time seemed to be rushing and he wasn't even breathing.

With a curse, he jammed the comm in his pocket and headed for the elevator. It was empty, door still open right where he'd left it, and within the minute he was in the parking garage. The van unlocked to his thumbprint and he stood for an age, looking at the racked weapons and the unmarked case Petersen had pulled out, still a third full of magazines.

"Right."

He resealed the van.

Armed with the only weapons he'd ever known, he headed into the tunnels of Ishiyama Arena.

* * *

Weapons lock from behind.

Yulri pulled the joystick, sidestepping into an alcove. Not a good move tactically, but it got him out of the way of the flight of short-range missiles that spent themselves against the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. Six, his computer told him, at the end of their range. Jordan was conserving ammo for a long fight. Or a final barrage.

Reversing position, Yulri sidestepped until his right- arm extended-range particle projector cannon had a clear shot down the corridor. He hated relying on the targeting computer in these metal rocks without confirming with his own eyes, but he had no intention of exposing his cockpit if he was close enough for Jordan to unleash an alpha strike.

Good tone and he fired. A second time, taking advantage of the reduced recycle time the extra double heat sinks afforded. If Jordan had dodged then stepped out, counting on normal recycle time for his return shot, he would have gotten a nasty surprise.

Yulri followed the second PPC bolt with a quick sidestep into the tunnel center, both weapons trained back the way he had come.

No Neanderthal. He grinned at a fresh puddle of melted armor on the stone floor. A glancing hit. But first blood was his.

Choosing a tunnel that doubled back some sixty degrees from his original course, Yulri stepped out at a steady forty kilometers per hour. Fast for the uncertain footing of the caves. But he wasn't going to follow Jordan around any blind turns only to find himself toe-to- toe with the assault 'Mech. Long, straight corridors were his friends.

This one became less friendly as it bubbled into a cavern, the floor and ceiling sloping away into shadow. It wasn't completely dark, of course; there had to be enough light for the holovid cameras to capture the action. But Ishiyama's designers favored reddish lights that generated enough heat to fog thermal imaging. And directed lighting produced inky shadows that hid pits, ordnance booby traps, or—potentially—his enemy's BattleMech.

The floor of the cavern was dotted with massive stalagmites, many taller than his 'Mech. False magnetic- imaging signals—a platoon of light tanks—were being transmitted from somewhere. Yulri ignored the urge to move toward them and investigate. Trapping him required better bait.

Running from Jordan was not going to win the battle. The objective was not merely survival but victory. He would need to either hunt the assault 'Mech and attack it where he found it, or find a setting that favored his Black Hawk and entice Jordan into attacking him there.

He'd been looking for an open area—the Lake Cavern, if possible—where he could fire from range while avoiding the bulk of the Neanderthal's weapons. However, given the cagey game of cat and mouse Jordan was playing, it was not likely his opponent would cooperate.

However, this place . . .

Yulri made a partial circuit, getting a feel for the cavern. A dozen stalagmite islands in a sea of rock and cinder stone, two entrances and an arch opening into a second bubble chamber in the hundred and twenty degrees he could see. Not as wide as he would like, but. . .

The Black Hawk's sensors reported heavy metal approaching along the corridor Yulri had used. It might have been a sensor shadow or a projected phantom, but he doubted it.

Taking a position between a hot light source and a metal stalagmite, he cut his targeting computer so no weapons lock would alert his prey. He manually aimed his ER PPC and large pulse laser on the tunnel opening and crouched in wait.

* * *

"Damn!"

Jazz glanced to see Clayton's left leg buried to mid- thigh in what looked in the red glow of the tunnel like ordinary sand. It would be the heaviest guy.

"Dry stuff," Clayton said.

Sanders looped a grapple line around a tree-sized knob of coral as Chin cinched the other end around her waist. Stretching herself flat along the suddenly treacherous ground, she wormed her way toward the motionless Clayton. Any sudden move in a dry-sand trap—even a lunge for a thrown rope—could send its victim plunging to the bottom; and there was no telling how deep a sand trap meant to snare BattleMechs might be.

"This isn't right," Petersen said quietly. "We got stalagmites, coral formations, and a volcanic-glass slope leading down to a sand trap. These are mutually exclusive geoforms."

Jazz looked at him for a long second out of her right eye. The kid looked back blankly. He was one of the best snipers she'd ever seen, but sometimes she wondered if he thought.

"This is an arena," she said slowly, as though to a child. "Artificial. The Dracs built it—they even rearrange it every couple of years. Nothing in here is natural."

Petersen nodded, oblivious to her tone. "That explains much."

"None of the electronics on your rifle are going to work," she added, just in case.

"Low-light glass optics." Petersen ported his machine pistol and unslung the rifle to show her. The sniper rifle was a seven millimeter that—now—fired hypersonic armor-piercing rounds. The barrel was an untapered sixty-two-centimeter tube with no suppression or venting to affect accuracy and power. Deadly out to a kilometer and a half, but too unwieldy for general defense in the tunnels.

"Secure that," she said. "Keep your eyes sharp."

Unchastised, Petersen obeyed and moved off, short gun at the ready.

Distant explosions sounded from somewhere ahead. They were on the right track and evidently closing, even if echoes made range estimates impossible.

Too far away to smell them, anyway.

"Stick close to the wall," Jazz ordered as the reassembled squad moved out. Better to insult their intelligence than to lose time fishing another out of a trap. There should be plenty of room for foot soldiers to skirt 'Mech- scale booby traps.

* * *

Yulri backed quickly behind the stalagmite, letting it take the bolt from Jordan's PPC. The metal-rich rock flexed the beam off true, sparing Yulri's Black Hawk some of its impact. Worms of static writhed over the stone, brilliant blue-white in the ersatz lava glow of the cavern.

The antimissile system hadn't been one hundred percent effective. The same false signals that haunted his main weapons' targeting systems affected them as well. Jordan's reputation for mastery of the short-range missile was well-founded. Yulri's left leg had lost its double heat sink along with nearly half its range of motion to a pair of manually aimed barrages. That loss of mobility might become loss of the battle if he did not manage to stay away from the Neanderthal's hatchet. His Black Hawk had hands, but it was by no stretch of the imagination a melee fighter.

If Jordan got close enough to use that uranium blade, the match would be quickly over.

Crab-stepping out from cover at exactly the point he'd gone in, Yulri caught Jordan angled away—targeting the other side of the stalagmite. Alpha strike—even the torso-mounted medium pulse laser—at a much closer range than he would have liked. All three beams hit, though not together. The blue fire of the ER PPC chewed into the armor around Jordan's right SRM rack, right on target, but the two lasers went high, vaporizing armor just below the right arm.

An unexpected bonus: A spray of gray-green liquid gushed from the new hole. Counting the one Jordan had sacrificed for additional missiles, that meant he had only eight double heat sinks left. Perhaps not a major consideration, considering the Neanderthal's weapons load out, but everything that added to the assault 'Mech's troubles was welcome.

Yulri's own cockpit was unnaturally cool, which was to say merely steaming instead of blistering. Even with one of Silverlake's extra double heat sinks gone, the Black Hawk had fifteen left. Overheating was not a concern.

Mobility was. The Neanderthal pivoted to engage and

Yulri didn't waste time trying to get out of the way. Instead he unleashed a second alpha strike and was rewarded by all three energy bolts converging on the right missile rack.

The assault 'Mech rocked, almost stumbling, as the missiles already in the tubes exploded. Yulri paused a half second, hoping to see the stumble continue as a chain reaction tore through the remaining missiles, but the Neanderthal righted itself and responded with a PPC bolt of its own that carved armor from the Black Hawk's lower torso—dangerously close to the cockpit.

Yulri cursed, slamming his controls. The crisp sidestep to cover was a painfully slow shuffle.

The bigger machine either had CASE or a well- designed ammo feed system to prevent a rack explosion torching all remaining missiles. There was a slim hope that the right-side magazine couldn't be switched to feed the left rack, denying Jordan half his reserves, but given the quality of the design, that wasn't likely.

As he nudged the reluctant left leg through another step, Yulri missed the ability to jump. Then he grinned. From the looks of the jagged ceiling visible through his canopy, jumping was the best way to become a sticky paste between a stalactite and his command couch.

Keeping the massive stalagmite between himself and Jordan, Yulri backed as fast as his 'Mech could stumble, moving to get as much distance as he could. He had the better range weapons and his antimissile system needed room to stop the short-range missiles before they reached him.

Jordan hadn't used his autocannon. Was it damaged or was he holding it in reserve? Assume it worked.

The New DeLon pilot had evidently decided against direct pursuit. Probably moving on an oblique to head Yulri off if he made for the exit. Logic dictated Yulri get out of this chamber; the dozens of 'Mech-hiding rock formations gave Jordan too many opportunities to get close.

Passing a second mass of iron stone, Yulri faded right, making his way toward the unknown region of the second bubble cave. Trading one maze of stalagmites for another was a move Jordan might not anticipate.

On the heels of that thought, the sensor jammers sent him false images of an infantry squad entering the far side of the second bubble cave. Silly distraction to throw at BattleMechs. Ignoring the false reading, Yulri cut right, his dragging left leg adding seconds to the move, and made for the other cave.

He'd make his final stand there.

* * *

"Tsssst!" Sanders on drag.

Silent, the scrapper team dropped to cover.

A moment later Jazz heard running feet crunching on cinders and, as whoever was running drew closer, ragged breathing.

The guy came around a bulge in the wall, churning past Sanders without seeing him. Jazz registered his size—barely taller than she—and his civilian clothes before her mind provided the ID. The pocket comm clutched in his hand dropped the penny. She blamed the delay on having never imagined Tommy Gunn running.

She stood up in his way.

"Jazz." Their agent staggered to a stop, leaning against the wall of the tunnel, his chest heaving.

"Not supposed to happen." His words came in gasps. "Set you up. A trap."

"Who set us up?" Jazz asked.

Tommy slapped his chest.

"You?"

"Had to. Garnet. Phone call. Two numbers."

Jazz held up her hand. She couldn't judge the dark man's color in the ruddy cave glow, but Tommy looked to be close to hyperventilating. Watching in all directions, the scrapper squad let him catch his breath.

"I asked what they meant," Tommy said, still breathing heavy. "Garnet said if I didn't act smart I'd never have to worry about them again."

Tommy was together enough now to look around. Jazz knew without turning her head that Chin and Hassad had her back while the other four were invisible, covering the perimeter.

"Then Clarence got trashed."

Jazz nodded. Tommy and Clarence had insisted it was a robbery attempt. Nobody'd bought it, but the two had stuck to their story and there'd been no follow-up.

Mistake.

"Stuffed in the trunk with him was a plush rabbit," Tommy's voice cracked. "It was one I'd bought Rachel."

Jazz's mind skidded.

"Your niece Rachel?"

"That's when I figured out the numbers. They're from my gift file." Tommy looked sick. "Rachel and Rhian- non's shoe sizes."

Behind her, Chin growled—a feral sound—and Has- sad muttered what sounded like a curse. Or a prayer.

"God, Tommy."

Tommy should have come to them, told them. But he couldn't. He knew none of them had the skills or the tools to fight Garnet at that level.

"Garnet had me tell you DeLon was cheating, get you to come into the tunnels." Tommy kept his head up, locking eyes with Jazz. "Then he was going to tell the world you were here to sabotage Jordan. Get Canid disqualified from the championships. Undo all that code- of-honor crap."

"That's not what happened," Jazz guessed.

Tommy shook his head. "You guys are broadcasting, every move going out live," he said. "Garnet escalated. He sent a killer team in after you. Off-the-books guys."

"So?" Jazz felt the right corner of her mouth twitch up. "Now it's a fair fight."

"How do you think I found you?" Tommy demanded. He held up his pocket comm. though Jazz couldn't read the screen. "Same way the cameras are following you. You're wired. The killer team can track you."

"Damn." Jazz glanced around, as though she could see the other killer team closing in.

"Take your vests off," Tommy said.

"What?"

"How do you think the wires got there?" Tommy demanded. "I put them in the back pad. Yank 'em."

Propping her assault rifle against her leg, Jazz shed her vest. Slipping her hand between the sealed cell pad and the armor fabric, she found a thick metal disk, slightly larger than a two-kroner coin. Pulling it free, she put it in Tommy's extended hand.

"Do it," she told her squad.

By twos, never dropping their guard, the squad retrieved the transmitters and handed them to Tommy.

"I don't know what the killer squad will do now," Tommy said. "They can't have comm beyond the trackers in these tunnels."

Jazz nodded at the logic. She was surprised they even had trackers. Must be piggybacking on the holocam control signals. If she lost primary target . . .

"Do they have anti-'Mech gear?"

"I don't know," Tommy repeated. He looked down the tunnel, toward a renewed burst of heavy weapons fire, then back the way they had come. "You guys do what you need to do."

"Where are you going?"

Tommy jingled the metal disks in his hand. "I'm going to wander as far and as fast as I can," Tommy said, looking for all the world like he was discussing a stroll in the park. "Someone will collect me sooner or later."

"What about your nieces?" Chin asked.

Jazz kicked herself. How had she forgotten them?

"I told you, we're going out live over the network feed," Tommy reminded them. "Maybe nobody will believe a word I said. But nothing's going to happen to Rachel and Rhiannon now."

Especially since he made it sound like Garnet was acting alone, Jazz realized. The Commission would cut its losses, maybe literally. She wondered if the New DeLon assistant manager—former assistant manager—was even now trying to get to the cops.

Pulling her favorite twelve millimeter, she offered it to Tommy butt-first.

"You know what to do with this?"

"Just enough to avoid the hole in the end," the agent said, waving it away. "Get."

Reholstering her weapon. Jazz jerked her head in the direction of the 'Mech battle. Her team got.

38

Zenith jump point

Wasat, Senate Alliance

16 September 3136

Watch duty at the zenith recharge station had become more interesting since the HPG blackout. Where once it had been a dull routine of shuffling DropShips from JumpShip to JumpShip and logging in scheduled arrivals and departures, now there was an element of uncertainty; some anticipation about what might happen next.

True, there were still scheduled transports making their rounds, and familiar independents who came through routinely, if not regularly, but with no advance communication, the chance of an unscheduled jump-in kept everyone on their toes.

Which is why Jenny Matheson was not as surprised as she would have been a few years before when a jump signature opened dead center in the zenith "sweet spot." Something big, she realized reading her displays, with that dilation and displacement a Tramp or even a Star Lord.

She smiled slightly at her own precognitive powers when the Star Lord appeared, five DropShips firmly attached to its hull. Her smile faltered when two of those

DropShips—one of them huge—detached almost immediately, in violation of safety protocols.

"Be advised space is not yet stable," she broadcast, without waiting for the transponder to give her a name to address. "Do not deploy until all-clear signal is given."

Her screens showed the third and fourth DropShips clearing the Star Lord while the huge DropShip seemed to be having puppies. Puppies that looked like . . .

"Oh," Jenny began.

The data screen came alive, having received and deciphered the JumpShip's transponder code. Ship's name: Stalin; owner of record: Steel Wolves.

"Shit," she finished.

By the time the captain made the bridge, the Star Lord and two DropShips were closing on the station behind a screen of aerospace fighters. The other three DropShips had begun a descent toward the yard and Wasat beyond.

Beyond the Stalin, the jump point rippled, announcing the arrival of another JumpShip.

* * *

"The recharge station is ours." Xera's headset made Varnoff's voice sound as though he was speaking from just behind her in the cockpit of the Scytha as she sat awaiting launch. An unnerving thought.

"The DropShips awaiting transport opened their holds immediately for our inspection." The Steel Wolves' leader chuckled. "Apparently they did not trust our rogue Clan to respect the ban on destroying recharge stations."

Xera's smile was twisted. The advantages of Varnoff's carefully cultivated bloodthirsty reputation.

"Did they get a message off?" she asked.

"Of course," Varnoff answered. He had developed the practice of letting their prey get off one panicked cry for help before jamming the comm waves. Psychological warfare was another page Varnoff had copied from the Jade Falcon lorebook. "No doubt the shipyard is already cowering in anticipation of your ravaging horde's assault."

"No doubt," she agreed. Though her horde in this case consisted of the Carrier-class Havik with her Command Star, the Leland, a Union-C with a boarding tri- nary of Elementals and the Mule-dass Burgaw for transporting isorla. The Roofvogel, a Titan carrying nearly half of her Cluster, and an Overlord-C had remained to defend the Star Lord at the jump point. By now the Invader-class Acero with its brace of suckling Mule-class DropShips had already joined the flagship of the Steel Wolves.

Between them the two forces were combing every DropShip at the busy commercial hub. These would be divested of their most precious cargoes. In some cases, less valuable cargoes from the holds of the Steel Wolves' vessels might be left—jettisoned to float in space. The Steel Wolves' long, circuitous journey back to their former stronghold on Tigress had taught them to live as nomads, which meant picking and choosing what they carried.

"Star Colonel Xera," Sardin Wolf, the Carrier-class DropShip's captain, interrupted her thoughts. "Long- range scans show something large moving away from the Wasat repair facility. Bearing two seven three mark three two oh relative.

"Its extreme range indicates it launched shortly after our arrival in system."

"Define something large," she said.

"Mass readings unreliable," the captain answered. "Approximate volume—extrapolated from rear aspect cross section—consistent with a large DropShip or JumpShip, Merchant-class or smaller."

Xera almost demanded why they couldn't identify the ship by its rear aspect alone, but stopped herself. The captain was obviously giving her his best assessment of incomplete data. Insisting on one hundred percent accuracy on guesses was one way to guarantee that expert speculation—often invaluable—would not be available when she needed it.

"Not a WarShip?" she asked aloud.

"A WarShip would not move away," Sardin said as though explaining the obvious.

Xera was not so sure. They were, after all, taking a shipyard that repaired DropShips and JumpShips; why not a WarShip? Even a badly damaged corvette could be an invaluable addition to the Steel Wolves' touman.

"Mark its course well." she said. "We'll want a closer look when our work here is done."

"Aff," came the acknowledgment. "Five minutes to launch point."

Xera made a final check of her weapons systems. It pleased her that this Scytha omnifighter had served the Jade Falcons against her people before being captured a generation before. Using a weapon snatched from the broken fingers of one enemy to strike down others appealed to her sense of fairness.

For this mission she had chosen an all-laser configuration usually used in ground attacks. She appreciated the combination of precision and devastation provided by the five large pulse lasers slaved to a single targeting system and firing as a single weapon.

And it was far more difficult for her prey to evade an attack that was speed of light and line of sight.

"One minute."

A row of nine green lights on her command panel told Xera the rest of her Star was ready for launch. Jaga- tai and Jengiz, all traditional Wolf omnifighters, each equipped as its pilot saw fit. None was as large as her Scytha, but any one of them would give a lightly armed civilian DropShip pause.

And that was all she wanted—that pause.

Much as she enjoyed combat—testing herself against the mettle of her enemies—taking civilian targets left a bitter taste. She hoped the Wasat Planetary Militia was present and ready for battle. She wanted to meet whatever forces the Alliance of Senators they'd heard rumors of could field.

But if all that faced them were civilian technicians fighting to defend their homes, she hoped they'd surrender without firing a shot.

At seven seconds she cycled her reactor up to full bore, timing it so pressure hit the red line just as the bay doors opened. She released. The blast wall caught her thrust and an invisible hand shoved her deep into her couch as the 90-ton warbird leaped free of its nest.

Arcing out and ahead of the DropShips descending on the shipyard, she took her screen position. She checked, though she knew she didn't need to. and confirmed Ramos and his 70-ton Jagatai were firmly on her wing.

Once the Star of omnifighters was in position—a convex shield preceeding the grouped DropShips—they cut their engines. Physics would carry them to their objective, pulling slightly ahead of the decelerating DropShips as they descended on the Wasat Repair Yard.

Their silent and inexorable advance could be more unnerving than a fiery descent, but its true purpose was to conserve fuel. Anything they saved on the approach prolonged their ability to fight once battle was joined.

She keyed open her comm on the universal commerce channel.

"This is Star Colonel Xera of the Steel Wolves." she announced as though the shipyard keepers didn't know who confronted them. "We come to take what we will. With what will you defend yourselves?"

Silence.

Why? After generations, why did the Spheroids still turn combat into an unnecessary waste of lives by refusing to declare their forces? Was common sense truly such an elusive concept?

"Weapons lock!" Poulin, nearly opposite her in the screen. "Faded."

"Bearing?" she asked.

"Neg," the pilot answered. "Gone before my system could lock on."

"Weap—" said another voice. "Gone."

"Xera to task force," she began and stopped. Her first suspicion was of an enemy using a stealth technology their targeting computers didn't recognize. But it was equally possible something was interfering with their sensors.

"Continue on target but scan wide," she continued. "These could be false readings—ECM noise—or a new type of stealth tech."

Switching back to the universal commercial channel, she hailed the repair yard again, offering them a second chance to either surrender or declare their defending force. For a second time they remained silent.

"Star Colonel, we read very little energy coming from the repair facility," Sardin reported.

Xera cursed under her breath. Capturing a repair yard was of little use if the repair technicians were not there. They might have to reberth the omnifighters and go after the retreating "something large" if they were going to get the Stalin back to full efficiency.

"Weapons lock!" Ramos broke in on her thoughts. •"Bearing forty-seven mark oh five relative. Gone."

"Did you get an ID?" she demanded.

"Database says targeting system used by Shiva omnifighters," Ramos said. "Don't know that one."

Xera pulled up the stats for the unfamiliar craft on her own flight computer. Five tons lighter than her Scy- tha and marginally slower, but with weapons pod space to rival a 100-ton Kirghiz. A truly formidable design.

She almost whooped. Here was an enemy worth fighting.

"Sardin, Rome, Stansel," she addressed the three DropShip captains on the command channel. "Detailed scan immediate area. We are looking for S/nVa-class omnifighters, either stealth-equipped or lying doggo."

She glanced at her chronometer. Nearly a minute had passed since the first weapons lock. A lifetime in aerospace combat.

"Sardin," she asked. "Could your large bogie have been a carrier?"

"Aff," he answered. "But it could have been almost anything. It was at extreme range and we were reading through its exhaust trail."

"We are reading metal," Rome reported. "Not armor and not all in one place. A debris field, perhaps. Geometric center of field is thirty-nine mark three-five-two relative. Irregular shape extends eighteen to twenty- four degrees."

Xera balanced factors. Eight minutes until planned burn to close and engage an objective that was beginning to look deserted. An unknown number of hostile omnifighters using a debris field to the right of their objective for cover. And one large something, now out of sensor range, last seen moving away to their left, no doubt on a long ellipse to Wasat itself.

It wasn't a question of whether she checked out the debris field, or occupied the shipyard, or captured the fleeing stranger, but of how much of her force and in what order she committed to each task.

Whoever was hiding in the debris field was green— overanxious—or they wouldn't be spoiling their cover with needless sensor locks. Or they might be deliberately trying to pull the Steel Wolves attention away from the apparently deserted shipyard.

They were also a significantly smaller force, or they'd have made a more open challenge. Perhaps a single point—lance to use the Spheroid term. A squadron of six craft at most.

"Rome." He had found the hiding place, he deserved to lead its investigation. Besides, his Union-C was well able to take care of itself in a firefight. "Poulin, Smith, cover."

The point of omnifighters burned plasma. Breaking from the shield, they moved to cover the DropShip's route to the debris field. The remaining points adjusted their positions to keep the shield intact.

The DropShip itself rotated twenty degrees, then pumped a three-second burn on its main drive. Just enough to change its course. Then it rotated nearly one hundred and eighty degrees, lining its bow up with its direction of flight. This orientation would make stopping when it reached the debris field impossible, but it did bring its thickest armor and major weapons arrays to bear. Within the tight confines of the engagement area, the Leland was committed to plowing through whatever it found.

Xera nodded. She appreciated an aggressive response to challenge.

Dismissing the side sortie from her immediate concern. she focused on the main objective. At this range even her targeting system should be picking up heat and energy signatures among the three-dimensional web of gantries, pylons, grapples, and platforms. Sections of the frame were as cold as space, obviously long vacant, but the habitat section . . .

"Multiple weapons lock!" Sardin barked over the command channel. Xera was glad he had not made the panicked announcement over the general band. "Fourteen— No. Twenty—twenty-six weapons locks!"

"Where are they?" Xera demanded. "What have you got?"

Without waiting for his answer, she switched to the general channel.

"All units, come right forty degrees, down seven," she ordered. "All weapons hot. Not free until ordered."

"Scanners show scattered metal, no energy signatures," Sardin was saying in her ear as she spoke. "Computer confirms Ramos' reading. Targeting scanners consistent with Shiva heavy omnifighter."

Twenty-six heavy omnifighters?

The number made no sense. If the Wasat militia—or the Alliance of Senators they'd been warned about—had assets like that in place, there should have been a raging battle at the jump point. Not the leisurely plucking of cowed prey Varnoff reported.

Kicking her throttle to max, she jumped ahead—her Scytha shoving her into her couch with over four gravities of acceleration as it closed on the debris field. The Leland and its escorts dropped behind her right wing and—

One. Three. Six weapons locks.

Cutting main thrust, Xera toggled her attitude thrust- ers, swinging the nose of her Scytha until it bore twenty degrees down from its former plane and thirty degrees left of its line of flight. When her sensors told her she was lined up directly on the nearest targeting array, she punched her drive and lunged straight for it.

Her own targeting computer showed refined metal in unfamiliar patterns, nothing it recognized. Overriding its search for a known threat, she slaved it to the sensors, targeting her large pulse lasers on the source of the incoming signal. Good tone.

She thumbed the trigger.

The lasers fired their deadly double tap with no satisfying report or visceral thud of recoil. Just her cockpit temperature spiking to parboil and the targeting luminescence of five destructive beams lashing out ahead of her.

A flash, and a soundless explosion as something blew apart. Goosing her nose thruster she presented the Scy- tha's armored underside to the spray of freshly minted meteors. The patter of metal fragments was the only response to her attack.

Eight weapons locks.

Kicking her attitude thrusters until the Scytha was pointing nearly ninety degrees up relative to its direction of travel, she punched the main thrust again, bearing down on the next nearest targeting array.

Again the good tone, again the five beam traces ghostly against the void, again the parching wave of heat, and again the impotent hail of gravel in response.

Five weapons locks.

Xera laughed, throwing her comm open so her command could hear her. She knew that would inspire questions, but she didn't bother to illuminate.

Skew flipping one hundred and eighty degrees, she fired the main thrusters. Not wasting fuel on high-gee she brought her Scytha slowly to zero relative to the "debris" field.

Four weapons locks. Three. One weapons lock. By the time she was motionless in space no targeting system was locked on her.

"Technical question," she broadcast over the main channel. "If a targeting system is active but not connected to a firing computer, what is its default program?"

The silence lasted only a few seconds before it was broken by a mixed chorus of laughter and curses.

"Lock on to the nearest moving object," someone answered at last.

"I am floating in the middle of what looks like a field of storage containers," Xera reported. "My thought is some of them have been fitted out with batteries and targeting systems that were on their way to wherever Shivas are built."

"Why?" asked Sardin.

"Our reputation." As terrorists she almost added. "They abandoned their shipyard to avoid capture and set this diversion to cover their escape."

"They didn't have time to evacuate and set the targeting systems," Rome pointed out. "Someone stayed behind."

"Aff," Xera agreed, calculating. Whoever had stayed needed to be piloting something big enough to deploy the targeting systems and fast enough to deactivate whatever broadcast markers the storage containers used to prevent collision.

"The shipyard isn't going anywhere," she said. "We are looking for a doggo DropShip."

"Probably gave themselves enough boost to be moving away, then rotated to cover residual heat in their main tubes to coast dark," Rome said. "Not in the direction of the retreat, not toward Wasat, not toward the debris—container—field."

"Plot a search pattern," Xera ordered. She had her own ideas on where to look, but Rome's thinking was close to her own. And he had shown the initiative.

Thirty minutes later the second point had refueled aboard the Carrier—with the thirsty Scytha depleted after the assault on the container field, hers had been first—and she had ordered the third in when hard contact with the Wasat DropShip was made.

Rome, of course. In part because his LelandCs sensors were finely honed and in part because he had taken the most promising third of the search area as his due for devising the plan.

As fortune would have it, Xera and Ramos were closest when the DropShip fired its main drives, charging toward the oncoming Union-C. A maneuver that made little sense until Xera realized the Wasati was forcing the Steel Wolf DropShip to reverse course, overcoming its forward inertia to pursue. With the other two DropShips out of position, occupied with their own areas of search, the apparently foolish charge offered the best chance of escape.

Except for the omnifighters.

"Wasati DropShip," Xera broadcast on the commercial channel as she and Ramos vectored to match course and speed. "Power down or be fired on."

The DropShip continued to power ahead, passing within a kilometer of the slowing Union-C. Xera blinked as its thrust curve climbed past four gravities.

That could only be an—

Her databoard came to life as the Wasati activated his transponder.

—Octopus.

"This is Anson Monteith, master of the Diligence," said a firm voice in her headphones. No trace of laboring under four gravities of pressure. "If you're familiar with the weapons load out on an Octopus, you might want to rethink that threat."

Xera grinned. This was the man behind the Shiva bluff.

"Anson Monteith, you are master of a civilian vessel registered as a rescue tug in the Republic of the Sphere," she said. "The Diligence was declawed long ago."

On the other hand, an Octopus, properly rearmed, would be an extremely useful addition to the Steel Wolves. To her Cluster.

On her situation screen she could see her Havik had come about on a vector that would bring it within weapons range of the Octopus. Though the smaller vessel would eventually pull away, it would be under the Carrier-class DropShip's large lasers and gauss rifles too long to hope to escape.

More to the point, her omnifighters were closing on the Diligence from all sides.

Firing on an unarmed vessel didn't appeal to her. But letting this potentially valuable prey escape appealed less.

"I am taking your vessel," she announced formally. "How will you defend your claim to it?"

The Octopus adjusted course slightly, a little toward her and the Carrier. The gripping arms of the Octopus deployed, unfolding from the hull to form an eight-pointed star.

"Arm wrestle."

Xera laughed.

"Anson Monteith," she said. "For that answer I am taking you as my bondsman."

"Slavery doesn't appeal to me," the Wasati said. "And my people deserve better than vacuum."

He expects us to space his crew?

"Star Colonel," Sardin's voice cut in on the command channel. "He's spiraling to ram. Twelve minutes to impact current vectors."

Xera cursed. The curving course of the Octopus had concealed its terminus. The Wasati wasn't trying to escape, he was trying to take as many Steel Wolves out as he could. He'd bypassed the Union because destroying the Carrier could strand the omnifighters. And he'd used humor to distract her from his death run.

"Anson Monteith, we are Steel Wolves," she said, mentally cursing Varnoff and his notions of psychological warfare. "We do not murder civilians.

"To be a bondsman is not slavery," she added. Explaining dezgra and bondsref did not seem wise— besides, neither applied to civilians. "A bondsman is more than a prisoner. It is a first step in earning honorable release or being adopted into the Steel Wolves. Right now your alternative to being a bondsman is having your DropShip destroyed and all your people killed."

"Will my crew be bondsmen with me?"

No change in the DropShip's course and speed.

Xera squelched the commercial channel.

"Target drive systems," Xera told her onmifighters. Then, on the command frequency: "Sardin, prepare to lay down a focused spread of missiles on its present course. As soon as we hit the drives, move against the curve of its spiral. Present bow-on to reduce aspect and follow up with large lasers."

With reasonable accuracy the Octopus would be a lifeless hulk before it was close enough for the Havik to use its autocannon.

"To comply, physics requires I begin full thrust in four minutes," Sardin answered.

"Understood."

She reopened the commercial channel.

"How many in your crew?" she asked.

"Twelve."

The normal crew of an Octopus was forty, but this was not a normal DropShip. It had no weapons, thus no gunners. And it had operated as a shipyard tug, which meant any specialized technicians needed for boarding or repairing vessels came aboard only when needed. If she reequipped this Diligence, all combat and boarding personnel would be Steel Wolves.

Could those Steel Wolves work with the bondsmen crew?

If she commanded it.

"Bargained well and done," she said over the commercial, command, and main channels. "The Diligence is isorla, the crew and officers my bondsmen. Stand down weapons."

The last was a gesture—all weapons systems could be brought to bear in seconds—but the Wasati had to see some tangible response.

For a long five count the tableau held. Then the Diligence abruptly cut its drives and tumbled end for end. Xera would have expected the arms to retract before any maneuvers, but realized they were constructed to take much more brutal stresses in stride. Once reversed, the DropShip's drives poured flame in a two-gravity braking burn that brought it to a relative halt a kilometer from the Havik.

The omnifighters formed up around it. In the time it took Xera to dock her Scytha and transfer to a shuttle for boarding her new DropShip, the Mule and Union-C had arrived. All three DropShip captains joined her for the inspection. DropShips were their area of expertise; decisions about the nature and extent of refits depended on their assessments.

Also, the Diligence would be crewed by people assigned from their vessels—as well as the Hibou and the Roofvogel. She doubted there would be Trials of Position for duty aboard the Octopus.

Anson Monteith was much younger than Xera had expected and—at over two meters tall—clearly not of aerospace stock, though his lithe build and otterlike grace in zero gravity bespoke a lifetime in space. His coarse black hair was oddly braided into long strands that were bound together into a clublike ponytail.

The helm officer was the darkest human Xera had ever seen, with luminous brown eyes and a completely blank affect Xera recognized as a combat visage. To a greater or lesser extent everyone aboard the Diligence had the same mien. Not defeat, not defiance, but readiness for whatever happened next.

Good spirit.

"Anson Monteith," Xera said after completing her inspection. "Why did you believe the Steel Wolves would slaughter your crew?"

He stared at her for a moment down the length of a twice-broken nose. Then, evidently deciding defiance served no purpose, he shrugged.

"Your cousins warned us about you."

"Cousins?"

"The Wolf Hunters," the former Wasati answered. "Paying customers. They came through a few weeks ago on their way to New Canton."

39

Holovid broadcast transcript

Solaris Game Watch

Solaris Gameworld Broadcasting

2 October 3136

"The Solaris VII Gaming Commission announced its decision in the New DeLon Stables-Canid Cooperative scandal today."

"No real surprises, Dave, as both organizations were banned from this year's championship."

"No surprise in New DeLon's protest either, Gwen. The stable continues to insist former assistant manager Tybalt Garnet acted alone."

"Interestingly enough, that claim is supported by the two surviving members of the full-contact team sent in after the War Dogs. Both insist New DeLon was never mentioned when Garnet hired them."

"Speaking of survivors, Canid Cooperative has announced that Suki Chin will make a complete recovery and that, despite the loss of his hand, prosthetic variance rules ensure Charlie Petersen will continue to be an active member of the War Dogs."

"Garnet continues to elude authorities. New DeLon today doubled the reward for information leading to his arrest and conviction."

"Good luck there, Gwen."

"Indeed, Dave. Canid Cooperative responded to the news of their ban by stating their entire stable is available for exhibition and nontournament matches. They stand firm by their Code of Honor commitment and renewed their call for all competitors and stables to adhere to the ideal of the Games."

"Gutsy move, considering the ongoing investigation."

"But a popular one. Both Overlord and Gemini Stables have announced their formal compliance with the voluntary standards. Though Canid Cooperative's combined infantry and BattleMech victory at Ishiyama will never be part of the official record of the Solaris Games, it's already the stuff of legend. Licensed Canid Cooperative merchandise is flying off the shelves."

"Speaking of licensed merchandise, Gwen, Rachel and Rhiannon dolls have begun appearing. Marketing analysts predict they will be the premier collectables of the season."

"A silver lining if ever there was one."

"Right you are. In other news . . ."

40

DropShip Roofvogel

New Canton orbit

Former Prefecture VI

20 October 3136

Where is Anastasia Kerensky?

Star Colonel Xera sat in her aerospace command chair on the bridge of the Titan-class Roofvogel frowning at the repeater screens that gave her an overall panorama of the space around New Canton. She wanted to pace— a silly reflex in null gravity. She was harnessed firmly to her chair against the vagaries of air currents and the subtle push of station-keeping adjustments.

Ninety percent of the time, chairs at control stations made no sense on a spaceship. But during those ten percent when the human body needed all the help it could get against the forces of physics, a well-constructed acceleration chair was worth a spacer's life. So Xera appreciated the chair, even as she appreciated that she looked ridiculous strapped to the thing in zero gee.

"Last of Triarii aerospace has yielded the sky," Star Commander Roche reported.

Xera acknowledged with a click of her microphone.

The Steel Wolves should not have been facing Triarii—they had come to New Canton to annihilate the

Wolf Hunters. They had spent weeks at Wasat preparing—her newly acquired Diligence now bristled with its proper weapons—only to discover the dezgra mercenary group was not on New Canton.

Had their stated intent of coming been disinformation? Or had it been accurate and their interpretation wrong?

She frowned at the watery world below.

If they were not defending New Canton . . .

"Star Colonel Xera to Hibou," she said on the aerospace frequency. "Star Captain Pele Wolf, dispatch a nova to close fly-by primary moon. Search for grounded DropShips."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, she changed channels. "Star Colonel Xera to Diligence. Star Captain Liam Leroux, make close scan of planetary asteroid field. Search for doggo DropShips."

Click of channels. With Varnoff still aboard his DropShip waiting to determine the best place to land to engage the Wolf Hunters, she did not have to rely on the RoofvogeVs comm officer to locate him.

"Star Colonel Xera to Galaxy Commander Varnoff," she said over the command channel.

"Aff."

"The Wolf Hunters were not hired to defend New Canton," she said. "They are preparing a raid."

Varnoff grunted. "If she's repeating her underwater trick, she has plenty of ocean to play with."

"Aff," Xera agreed.

She did not point out that the Steel Wolves were here because Anastasia Kerensky had made a point of letting them know where she was. Deducing the leader of the Wolf Hunter's play before all the cards were on the table was a waste of energy. Xera focused on the tactical situation before her.

"If New Canton is a prize she wants," Varnoff said, "she'll have to try to take it from us."

"Galaxy Commander Varnoff to all Steel Wolves. Begin assault."

Port City, Java Island

New Canton

"What the hell is happening?" Thaddeus Marik's voice was loud in Green's earpiece.

"New Canton is under attack," he said, glancing from screen to screen around the New Canton Planetary Militia command center. He shifted the strap of the comm unit on his shoulder. The powerful radio was disguised as a standard executive shoulder bag. As long as he didn't let anyone suspect it weighed eleven kilograms, it would pass casual inspection.

He'd been called to the command center in a panic less than an hour before when the Triarii had admitted to the NCPM that unidentified aerospace fighters had driven them from the sky. The fact the militia turned to him for help confirmed his suspicions that his well- documented cultural attache identity had fooled no one. Either New Canton had very good intel or there was a local leak.

That didn't matter at the moment. Right now the DropShips descending on New Canton required his full attention. He saw that the skies directly over his position remained clear, while DropShips were descending all over the globe.

"Transponder codes identify them as Steel Wolves," he said into the tiny microphone of his direct comm to Marik. "They started dropping without batchall. Coming down heavy on what's left of the Triarii and the main industrial DropPorts. Ignoring political targets."

The bypassing of an economic center like Port City was significant. The hub of the planetwide agro-fishing industry that provided forty percent of the world's employment, it would have been a prime objective for forces planning a long-term occupancy. This was a raid— which meant long-term collateral damage was not a concern for the invaders.

"Could the Wolf Hunters have called them in?"

"Doesn't fit," Green said. Looking around, he confirmed no one was within earshot. "Bad blood."

"Damn." Pause. "Our hiring the Wolf Hunters drew them here. It's them they want."

"Along with whatever they can grab while they're here," Green said. "Looks like a full-scale raid."

"We're still six hours out," Marik said. "New Canton can't afford the kind of damage those barbarians are going to do. Order the Wolf Hunters in."

"To do what?"

"Fight the Steel Wolves," Marik said. "Let's use that bad blood to tie up the situation until we can come to the rescue."

"Sir, our combined forces outnumber the Wolf Hunters, but not the Steel Wolves." Green moved farther from the nearest scanner tech. "Even with Wolf Hunter support, it will be a near thing. And if the Wolf Hunters tumble to what we'd planned for them, they'll turn on us."

"We've got no other options," Marik pointed out.

Green couldn't argue the logic. Switching channels, he entered a code.

DropShip Coeur du Loup

Asteroid field

New Canton orbit

"We've been ordered to attack the Steel Wolves," Anastasia Kerensky said. "We're to defend New Canton."

"To do what?" Surprise made Alexia Wolf's question a demand.

Anastasia ignored the tone and the question. She cocked an eyebrow at Murchison.

Somehow her coregn managed to float neatly, his ever-present med kit tucked under one elbow. She knew the man had never been in space before she took him from Northwind, but so far the universe had not devised a way to shake his competence.

"We are being played," he said simply. Anastasia nodded. Whoever had hired them to take New Canton now wanted them to keep it safe from the Steel Wolves. At one level it made sense—their employer didn't want the Steel Wolves to rob them of what they were after. But at a deeper level ... it stank of a double cross.

"And what would you recommend, Doctor?" "We can make jump point in seven days," he said.

Anastasia grinned. "You're thinking like a Spheroid," she told him. "As is our employer."

She tapped the intercom. "Star Captain Raphael, communicate to all ships that they are to maintain cold status," she said. "Then pick a DropPort far from the assault and set us down."

"Zellbrigen," Alexia Wolf guessed.

"That's where the rest of us sit around and watch you and Varnoff hurt each other one-on-one?" Murchison asked in his usual deadpan.

"It is time Varnoff and I settled this," Anastasia confirmed.

Murchison nodded slowly. "I'll get the infirmary ready."

DropShip Northchase

New Canton orbit

"She wants what?" Varnoff demanded.

"Zellbrigen," Star Commander Sorrell repeated, glancing again at the noteputer passed to him by the ship's comm officer as though to confirm.

Varnoff chuckled, deep and low. The chuckle grew to a laugh.

"Of course!" he said. "Welcome the challenge. Tell her I will meet her alone. Single combat in our Battle- Mechs. Leave place to her choice."

Sorrell nodded once in acknowledgment of the order and turned to propel himself from the cabin.

"Then prepare your Nova."

Sorrell let his turn to go become a full circle, rotating in the air until he faced his Galaxy commander again.

"Sir?"

"Zellbrigen is a duel between equals," Varnoff said. "It is honorable combat between Clan warriors. Anastasia Kerensky has proven she is without honor. She has turned her back on all things Clan. She is not in any way the equal of any Steel Wolf warrior."

He chuckled again.

"She may ask for zellbrigen," he said. "But she does not deserve it.

"When she is clear of her dezgra thugs, we will destroy her."

DropShip Diligence

New Canton orbit

Helmsman Carlos Mehta watched the Coeur du Loup— Anastasia Kerensky's flagship—on his main screen as the DropShip reversed for final descent burn. The leader of the Wolf Hunters had been granted safcon to the Java Island DropPort to face Varnoff in zellbrigen for New Canton.

Fifteen months ago leaving Anastasia Kerensky to follow Varnoff Fetladral had been a clear choice of honor. Now. having seen how his Galaxy Commander led the Steel Wolves, he was not as sure. If it were not for Star Colonel Xera—

The Coeur du Loup upended. One set of the Outpost- class DropShip's main engines had shut down while the others were boosting at maximum thrust, flipping the vessel end-for-end and turning its landing descent into a crash dive.

The bondsman Wasati pilot sitting in the auxiliary control post gasped, breaking Mehta's stasis.

"Star Captain Leroux," he reported, keeping his voice professional. "The Wolf Hunter DropShip is out of control."

"He's got some control," countered the Wasati bondsman—the former master of the Diligence—from the operations post.

Mehta did not like being corrected by a cargo handler, but could not deny the accuracy of the observation.

"Confirmed, Star Captain," he said. "They are attempting to redirect their flight using attitude thrusters."

Which would not be enough this deep in the gravity well of a planet. As they watched the death plunge became a wobble, almost a turn upward, then a shallow arc toward the ground.

"They're slow," the Wasati pilot said.

Mehta resented the bondsman pointing it out, but could not refute him. The Coeur du Loup was making all the right moves, but always a few critical moments too late.

The Wolf Hunter ship got its drives pointing down one last time. But just as they were doing some good, the engines shut down.

"Is that orbit?" Star Captain Leroux asked.

"Ballistic arc," Mehta said before confirming from his boards. "They're clear of the atmosphere, but not for long. Maybe a third of an orbit."

"Can we—"

The falling DropShip's attitude thrusters began firing, apparently at random. They didn't generate enough energy to affect the vessel's trajectory, but the venting jets of plasma imparted spin and yaw.

"What the hell?" Mehta asked.

The thrusters stopped, but the damage was done. There was no way for anything to match air locks with the tumbling DropShip.

"Star Captain Leroux," Star Colonel Xera's voice came over the bridge speaker. "Is the Diligence in a position to help the Coeur du LoupV

Leroux looked to Mehta. The helmsman rechecked his readings to be sure before shaking his head.

"Neg, Star Colonel," Leroux reported. "Their mass and tumble—"

"We can do it!" the bondsman at ops interrupted.

"That would be bondsman Anson Monteith," said the Star colonel.

The Wasati seemed to take that as permission to speak.

"The Diligence was a rescue tug before you loaded it up with frickin' guns," he said. "Still is."

"Star Captain?"

"If it were a Union or a Lion, Star Colonel," Leroux answered. "An Outpost is too large."

"Look," the Wasati said, directing his voice at the overhead microphone as though he had every right to ignore the Star captain and address the Star colonel directly. "You guys kick butt, you're good at that. We save lives, and we're good at that. How many of your cousins on that DropShip?" "Perhaps a hundred former Steel Wolves," the Star colonel answered.

"Don't they deserve a shot?" The Wasati looked to Leroux, at last including the Star captain in his plea. "Let us do our job."

The Wasati was a bondsman, but he had been a ship's master—had been master of this ship—and Mehta thought something passed between him and his Star captain.

"What do you need?" Leroux asked the Wasati.

"Night on the stick," he answered, indicating the pilot beside Mehta. "Me on the claws."

"Bargained well and done," Leroux said. Then to the overhead microphone: "Star Colonel, we are going to retrieve the Coeur du Loup."

"Good hunting," Star Colonel Xera answered.

"May I sit there?"

Mehta turned, surprised to see the Wasati pilot already floating at his Shoulder.

As they traded posts, he caught her scent—something woody and spicy—and remembered her name was not Night but Nyota. He wondered if that had a special significance.

Realizing where his thoughts were going, he reined them in. His purpose at auxiliary control was to be ready to support the pilot, not be ready to couple with her.

"We got guns, we got crew, we got cargo, we got storm troopers in steerage," said the Wasati at operations.

"We got extra mass," the pilot confirmed. She fastened her high-gee neck brace a second before Mehta thought to offer and studied the readouts as she adjusted the chair and arm supports to her reach. "Numbers are good."

"All sections report rigged for high-gee maneuvers," the engineer said. "All drive systems optimal."

There was a moment of stillness. All preparations were complete.

"Helm: Best course to target DropShip," Star Captain Leroux ordered formally. "Close to grapple position."

"Rabbit out of hat, aye, aye," she acknowledged crisply.

Mehta wondered at the meaning of the Wasati idiom.

It did not sound appropriate to the situation. However, Star Captain Leroux's half smile indicated he understood and approved.

Then the pilot initiated the main thrusters. The false gravity of acceleration pushed Mehta into his chair. Gravity of another sort settled over the bridge as the Diligence dove toward the Coeur du Loup.

DropShip Coeur du Loup

Above New Canton

"What the hell happened?" Murchison asked as he bandaged the chief engineer's scalp.

"Control circuits went out," she said. Murchison noted the slight slur to her speech.

"You should lie down," he said, then realized how silly that sounded in zero gravity.

Treatment for shock in null-gee involved gentle centrifugal force to keep the brain fed with blood. Somehow, unstrapping the engineer and swinging her by her heels in the crowded bridge did not seem practical. He checked to confirm she was firmly webbed to her chair and moved on.

The bridge was aswarm with techs. Every panel was open—most of the covers properly secured—as control circuits were traced, repaired, or replaced. Tracing a constellation of blood droplets to their source, Murchison unhooked his safety strap and launched himself toward the auxiliary control pilot.

Carter, floating like a wide-eyed zeppelin, floundered past him on his way to the chief engineer's station.

Just short of the aux pilot, Murchison noted a free- floating finger—evidence of the source of the blood globules. Hooking a foot on the lip of an open access hatch, he caught the finger in a med bag. It had been cleanly severed—a good candidate for reattachment.

The former owner of the finger was trying to rewire some arcane panel one-handed, the other hand in his mouth. It took Murchison a moment to convince the man to let him have the hand—actually, it took a hard tug, he was so focused on making the repair. Applying a pressure dressing, Murchison saw there must be another wayward digit. Someone would find it.

Scanning the crowd for someone else in need of his services, Murchison found himself eye to eye with Anastasia. A dark mark, sure to be a massive bruise, stretched from her temple to the corner of her jaw.

"Thought you were in your 'Mech."

She was not amused. "Raphael?" she demanded of the captain.

"Port drives went to full burn, starboard drives shut down," Raphael reported crisply. Then he sighed and shook his head. "We tried to realign with attitude thrust- ers, get the thrust under us, but controls developed a variable delay between command and execution, impossible to compensate. Port drives got shut down in engineering, we couldn't do it from here.

"Present status is ballistic arc—long fall. Maybe long enough for us to get engines online."

The communications panel banged into Murchison's hip. His inner ear told him he was spinning as unsecured tools and people all over the bridge began falling toward the wall and ceiling.

One-tenth gravity, Murchison estimated inexpertly. The steering thrusters?

"What the hell did you do?"

Recognizing the slurred speech, Murchison snapped his head to the main engineering station. Carter was clinging to the edge of the open console, looking terrified and—victorious.

"Bloody hell!"

Murchison was peripherally aware of Anastasia's startled glance at his curse, but he ignored her. Pulling himself against the spin's angular acceleration, he clawed his way toward Carter. She must have followed his focus. Faster and stronger, she flowed past him toward the little computer specialist.

Alerted by the chief engineer's shout, a repair tech grabbed Carter—one arm around his throat, the other gripping a stanchion.

Carter's eyes were fixed on Anastasia, his face contorted.

"I only wanted you," Carter said, his voice literally strangled by the other tech. "But your damn luck."

"I've got him," Murchison said, grabbing his arm. "Get back to work."

The repair tech loosed his grip and turned back to an open access that was now "up" in the gentle gravity of the spin. The rotation seemed to change. Murchison guessed the thrusters were still firing, tumbling them as they fell through space.

Carter stank of urine.

"What is going on?" Anastasia demanded.

"Did you kill anybody in a planetary militia driving an AgroMech recently?" Murchison asked rhetorically. "She was pregnant, this is her husband."

Anastasia stared.

"You're Clan," Murchison said. "No Clan warrior would ever put bond cords on his own wrist and walk into an enemy's camp. And no Clanner would question a bondsman who said his bondholder had ordered him to work maintenance—especially if the bondsman was highly skilled."

A new technician shouldered Murchison aside— ignoring the drama and his commander in his determination to save the falling ship.

"Carter's a civilian, never held a weapon in his life," Murchison said, making way. "He came at you the only way he could.

"I've been Clan so long I missed it." Murchison looked at Carter's profile. The man was dangerously gray. "He told us he was here because we'd killed his wife."

"I did not waste fire on an unarmed AgroMech," Anastasia said, pulling herself out of the way of a tech pushing a new control assembly ahead of her.

"Your command," Carter said.

To Murchison's amazement, Anastasia nodded, conceding the point.

"I only wanted you," Carter repeated, his voice still strangled. "Now we all go together."

Murchison braced himself against the engineer's chair and thrust two fingers against Carter's neck. A flutter, a vibration like a bee in a bottle.

"He's in fib," Murchison said. Then explained: "Heart muscle spasming, no blood circulating. If we weren't in zero gee—"

He pushed off the console, pulling Carter against the dizzy spin.

"I need to get him to the infirmary . . ." Anastasia did not move out of his way. "It looks like you go first," she said to the technician. He grinned, a sickly look as motor control failed, but his eyes were triumphant. "I go to my wife," he said. "You go to hell."

DropShip Diligence

Above New Canton

The Wasati pilot's eyes were wide in her dark face. She did not look at the controls as her long fingers moved, tapping contacts, adjusting knobs with the speed and subtlety of a concert pianist. Mehta knew what she was doing, could have done it himself, but not as quickly— and not with his eyes fixed on the wildly gyrating images on the viewscreen.

The Diligence lunged right and the restraint harness cut into Mehta's left shoulder and ribs.

On the screen the Outpost seemed to slow in its wild dance as the stars beyond it began to jig and jump in no apparent rhythm.

A slam forward, the blood rushing to his face, then a giant hand pressing him so hard he could not breathe. One side of the viewscreen hazed red. then white, blotting out the stars. Alarms hooted.

Mehta realized the Octopus was burning through the upper atmosphere. Too fast. And at the wrong angle. The DropShip was designed to descend atop the column of its main engines' thrust, not slice in parallel to the ground. If the air caught hold they'd tumble helplessly until they broke apart or hit the ground.

He felt a tremor building in the pit of his stomach, a vibration he hoped was imaginary—until a loose lighting panel began rattling in sympathy. He could see status lights across the engineering board go yellow as sensors throughout the ship reported impending disaster.

The pilot continued to watch the screen, ignoring the cacophony around her as her fingers continued to shift, adjust.

Mehta hit the release on his restraint harness, determined to reach her, to try and pull the ship out of its death dive. Angular acceleration held him, turning his arms to lead and the air around him to molasses. It was all he could do to pull himself to the front edge of his chair.

Reaching the madwoman at the controls was beyond him.

The staccato rattle of the light panel faded, the trembling in his gut subsided. On the viewscreen the fiery glow retreated from the frame as the wildly spinning stars reasserted themselves against the blackness.

Centered, the Outpost turned in leisurely loops.

"Next round does us," the Wasati at operations said. "Eighty-three seconds to hard air."

"Then let's do it now."

"Impetuous hussy."

"Just remember what to do with your hands."

Mehta looked to Leroux. His inner ear told him the DropShip around them was spiraling through two axes, while it was clear from the tumbling image on the screen that they were not fully synchronized with the larger vessel. By all he understood of physics and navigation, trying to grapple now was suicide.

Star Captain Leroux met his look with one of calm resolve. Almost. Though composed, his face was without color and the knuckles of the fingers gripping the arms of the command chair were white. Physics and navigation. Angular acceleration held them immobile and, even if they could reach the controls, neither of them was pilot enough to get the Diligence out of the mess the Wasati had put them in.

On the screen New Canton appeared behind the Outpost. Mehta's inner ear could not ignore the sight of the madly spinning quilt of blues and browns and white and he had to look away. The pilot's dark face seemed to glow with a silver sheen in the reflected planet light.

"When it clears the horizon," she said.

"Ready and willing," answered her partner in madness.

"Coeur du Loup, this is Diligence," Star Captain Le- roux announced, his voice raised for the bridge microphone. "Brace for grapple."

"Liam?" answered a voice. "Do you know what the hell you're doing?"

Leroux opened his mouth, then closed it again.

A fist punched Mehta in the pit of his stomach, slamming him back. The arm of his chair gouging into his kidney reminded him his safety harness was undone. He grabbed hold as the deck slid up and out from under him.

The Outpost-class DropShip suddenly bloated, filling the screen.

Mehta lost his grip as gravity suddenly reversed. Sliding out of his chair he slammed into the edge of the console. He grabbed his shoulders, taking the impact on his arms across his chest rather than risk touching a control.

The clang of metal on metal rang through the bridge. Someone cursed.

Mehta got his arms out from between his body and the control station with difficulty and, reaching wide, was able to grip a pair of vertical supports. Unable to hold his head up against the angular acceleration, Mehta rested his chin on the panel in front of him, trying to keep his spine aligned. His inner ear told him the Diligence was weaving and dodging through impossible maneuvers.

They had to be twisting against three types of rotation, fighting physics and fate to keep their main drive between the ship in their grasp and the hungry planet below. His aerospace reflexes identified acceleration curves of half a gravity to twice normal—and three terrifying heartbeats of negative gee while every engine and thruster on the Diligence burned full bore.

The stuff of legend and his view of the action was restricted to the pilot's left hand as she nursed the controls.

He was fascinated to discover she could adjust fuel flow with her thumb and index linger and toggle a secondary thruster with her little finger at the same time. If he lived through this he was going to have to get longer fingers. Which thought alerted him to the fact that blood was not reaching his brain. Perception and judgment were slipping—common dangers in high-gee maneuvers that lasted . . . Hours? Days?

He wondered if being aware of dementia meant the oxygen starvation wasn't severe. He didn't realize he'd relaxed until gravity reversed again and he became a projectile. Midtrajectory, the gravity dropped to a fraction of standard long enough for him to rotate end for end and grab a safety ring. Breaking an emergency restraint out of its wall pouch, he strapped himself to the bulkhead before the next maneuver reinvented down.

From his new vantage, against the rear bulkhead and sideways relative to the deck, Mehta could see the emergency was winding down. Thrust was constant as the tug pushed the DropShip into orbit, the engineer was speaking into her throat mic, apparently telling off repair crews, and the tall Wasati who had been crouched over his controls at operations was straightening up. rotating apparently kinked shoulders.

The pilot sagged in her chair, still flying the ship but no longer in hyper focus.

The viewscreen was divided, showing several views from waist cameras since the nose recorder's view was limited to the Coeur du Loup's hull. The stars beyond the DropShip were steady—they were in level flight. One of the arms of the Octopus was bent backward and—Mehta had to count twice to be sure—one was missing completely.

A shark shape appeared at the edge of one image. Mehta recognized a Broadsword moving in to rendezvous. That had to be a Wolf Hunter DropShip. Anastasia Kerensky was not going to be aboard the Coeur du Loup long.

"Orbital insertion," the pilot announced, her voice weary. "Rig for zero gee."

A final slap at the controls and Mehta became a balloon bumping gently against the bulkhead.

"Captain Leroux?" Star Colonel Xera's voice came over the bridge speaker.

"Aff, Star Colonel?"

"Was that the act of bondsmen?"

Leroux didn't even pause to consider. He turned his head to catch Mehta's eye and nodded.

As Leroux undid his restraints and floated to the tall man at operations, Mehta pushed himself from the bulkhead, sailing toward the woman at helm.

Hooking his leg around a stanchion, he caught her arm as it floated above the controls. The flesh of her wrist felt smooth beneath his fingers, as though lightly oiled.

She was limp, exhausted from the crisis, and looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. Eyes that flickered in alarm as he drew his dagger.

Without bothering to reassure her, Mehta slid the flat of the blade along her skin, slipping it beneath the bond cord. With a flick of his wrist, he welcomed Nyota into the Steel Wolves.

Epilogue

Port City, Java Island

New Canton

Former Prefecture VI

22 October 3136

Thaddeus Marik considered the circle of faces at the conference table. The planetary governor had taken over the executive meeting room of the corporate headquarters of one of the major agro-fisheries to discuss the future. This meeting was a far cry from the triumphal entry he'd anticipated, but that they were having it at all indicated the situation was still salvageable.

"While we appreciate your fleet coming to our rescue," Governor Balantine was saying to General Renee Beauchamp of the Tall Trees Unified Task Force, "we are not in need of rescuing. Though it appeared there was an assault on our world, it apparently was a conflict between two Clan factions, which had no bearing on New Canton."

Thaddeus boggled slightly at the woman's ability to overlook the fact that they were meeting here because the Steel Wolves still occupied their industrial center— and planetary seat of government—in South Port.

True, there was no fighting taking place, but that was because New Canton had agreed to let the Steel Wolves take what they needed in exchange for promises of no collateral damage. They would have to wait until after the raiders were gone to assess how well they'd kept their end of the bargain.

"Your mobilization on our behalf when you first heard of the impending conflict is admirable both in its selflessness and its alacrity," the governor continued. "And we are indebted to you for your intent. However, we do not see that this incident provides a reasonable basis for a more formalized agreement between New Canton and your government."

"Madame Governor, it was your luck these raiders were only after supplies and not wanting to take over your world. You can't count on that happening every time," Beauchamp replied, the woman's naturally blunt speech pattern contrasting with the governor's for- malese. "We were on hand, ready, and willing to come to your aid. The Republic was in no position to be any of those things. If y'all were to come on board, though, this kind of response would be the norm."

"However, your response was not—if I understand my military advisors correctly—sufficient to the situation," Balantine said. "Is it not true the larger of the Clan factions outnumbered your force by a significant margin?"

"That, I think, speaks to how New Canton joining the Tall Trees Union could benefit all parties concerned," Thaddeus spoke up for the first time. "Your industrial base and robust economy would make possible a more effective military for mutual protection.

"Your commitment to the defense of the region is well known. An alliance of this type would only serve to strengthen your position both militarily and politically."

"Do you speak for The Republic, Paladin?" the governor asked with unaccustomed directness.

"I speak as one who knows The Republic," Thaddeus answered carefully. "The need of worlds to defend themselves until The Republic restabilizes the region is understood."

"Faint assurances, Paladin Marik."

"However, all that I am at liberty to give."

The governor considered him for a long moment before turning back to Beauchamp.

That was as it should be. Let them sort it out on their own, with as little input from outside as possible. If they should become a little less trusting of The Republic in the process—a little less blindly loyal—so much the better.

Thaddeus' mind was already on other worlds—and data crystals in Green's keeping—as he half-listened to the negotiations around the table.

DropShip Roofvogel

New Canton orbit

Former Prefecture VI

"Varnoff Fetladral." Star Colonel Xera said, raising her voice to the overhead bridge microphone.

"Aff."

If Varnoff noted the lack of title in her address, his tone did not reveal it. He was on the surface of New Canton, ostensibly overseeing the stripping of South Port. She still could not believe the New Cantonese had meekly submitted to the sacking of their industrial capital. The logic of Spheroids continued to elude her.

"I have learned your promise to Anastasia Kerensky of zellbrigen was false," she said. "That you intended to betray her."

"She was not Clan—worse, she had betrayed all that was Clan." Varnoff's voice grew louder. Xera listened to the lack of self-control, knew others heard it, too. "She did not deserve zellbrigen."

"Then was not the honorable course to tell her so?" Xera asked, not bothering to look at the assembled Star captains around her. "Refuse and meet in open combat rather than betray her with false oaths?"

"She did not deserve honor," Varnoff responded. "And she proved her cowardice by turning and running when her boasts were put to the test.

"You were wrong to release her ship to her," he added. "The Coeur du Loup was my isorla."

Now Xera did lower her eyes, meeting the gaze of several Star captains in turn.

Varnoff had made the same accusation of cowardice when Anastasia Kerensky informed the Steel Wolves of the sabotage. She had requested the zellbrigen be delayed only until she could be sure her BattleMech was not similarly booby-trapped.

"A warrior's honor does not depend on others," Xera said aloud. "An oath is binding on the one who makes it because of his honor—not his opinion of another."

Varnoff chuckled—a low and dangerous sound.

"Are you challenging me to a Trial of Grievance, Xera?" he asked. "Or a Trial of Position?"

"Neither," she answered. "By your own testimony your oaths are without value and your trials based on treachery. If ever we meet in combat, it will be melee. All that I have against all that you have."

"You would never make such a threat in public, Star Colonel," Varnoff said. "All that you have is poor match for all that I have."

"I did make that declaration in public, Varnoff Fetla- dral," Xera answered. "You are on the command channel, but our conversation is being simulcast on every frequency of the Steel Wolves. Every MechWarrior, Elemental, aerospace pilot, ship's crew, infantry trooper, and technician with a radio can hear our every word.

"I suspect many more are listening now than when we first began."

There was a pause. Xera was impressed. She had expected him to dissolve into bluster and curses.

"And what is the purpose of this general broadcast, Xera," he asked at last, "if you do not intend to challenge me for leadership of the Steel Wolves?"

"We are seven days from the zenith jump point," Xera said. "In eight days the Steel Wolves will leave the New Canton system. Those not with us—and that will include you, Varnoff—are no longer Steel Wolves."

She looked to the communications officer.

"End transmission."

"Aff, Galaxy Commander."

DropShip Coeur du Loup

En route, nadir jump point

New Canton system

Former Prefecture VI

Murchison found Anastasia in one of the viewing lounges. He knew she was there, though he could not see her in the shadows. She had a scent and a presence he could never miss, never ignore.

He stood inside the light-tight revolving door, held firmly to the deck by the Coeur du Loup's steady one- gravity push. The Irian supplies they had expected to last for years had been put to good use. Every control panel and circuit had been replaced from crated stores— a pull-and-plug process that had taken a fraction of the time repairs would have.

Beyond the ferroglass was darkness pierced with uncounted points of cold and distant light. As his eyes adjusted, he picked out her silhouette, a shadow on shadows occluding the stars. She was unmoving.

"This was not part of the plan." he said at last.

"What do you know of the plan?"

"Nothing," Murchison said. "But you always have one."

The silence stretched.

"I've been thinking about Carter," Murchison said.

Anastasia stirred, but said nothing. Because of Carter, every command circuit on every piece of equipment the Wolf Hunters possessed was being tested and double- checked.

"He was so terrified of you, the sight of you threw his heart into arrhythmia—confronting you directly stopped his heart." He paused, but she did not comment. "Yet he came after you with everything he had. He was, in his way, indefatigable.

"Was that Wolf?"

Anastasia chuckled—a dry, bitter sound. From a change in her shadow he knew she had turned to face him. but he could not make out her features.

"Ian Murchison. I knew you were Wolf when I first saw you, fighting to save the life of a woman I had killed," she said. "And you do not understand what Wolf is?"

Murchison said nothing.

"Carter had courage," Anastasia said. Murchison raised an eyebrow at the rare praise. "But courage is not Wolf. His motive was too small."

Murchison considered how much of human history had been motivated by love and vengeance, but decided not to pursue the point.

"So Wolf is motive?" he asked instead.

"Purpose," Anastasia corrected. "Our purpose makes us Wolf."

Her shadow shifted and her back was to him again, her eyes on the stars.

"And our purpose has not changed."

About the Author

Kevin Killiany has been the husband of Valerie for a quarter of a century and, for various shorter periods of time, the father of Alethea, Anson, and Daya. Over the years he has worked as an actor, a college instructor, a drill rig operator, a teacher of exceptional children, a high-risk intervention counselor, a middle manager, and a paper boy. He currently works for an agency that supports people with special needs living independently, and is an associate pastor with the Soul Saving Station of Wilmington, NC. Kevin's short stories have appeared in three Star Trek: Strange New Worlds anthologies, and he has written two Starfleet Corps of Engineers e-books (Orphans and Honor). He has contributed articles, write-ups, and stories to several CBT sourcebooks and technical readouts. Kevin's Classic BattleTech™ stories are available from BattleCorps (www.BattleCorps.com) and his MechWarrior™: Dark Age fiction can be found at WizKids Games (www.wizkidsgames.com/publishing).