MechWarrior 5 Origins

Installments 1–8

Randall N. Bills

1

The Calm of the Void

MULE-CLASS DROPSHIP PERDIDO

SOLARIS VII, INBOUND

WYATT THEATER, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

5 DECEMBER 2991

“Just need to find that actuator’s Motor Control Unit,” Nikolai Mason muttered to himself. He’d gnawed at this mantra for over two years of searching across scrapyards and tapping black-market contacts on dozens of planets. He was sick and tired of being a grunt on this crew. Despite the prestige of working on a Lyran Free Traders Association–affiliated JumpShip, he wanted more. Procurement officer—to range as far and wide as he wanted, forging contacts and making the deal. “What I’m best at,” he mumbled. Just needed the Merchant Captain to take notice. Which required something special. In this case, finding a rare, working Motor Control Unit for a specific BattleMech actuator. The logic always ran in circles.

Nikolai moved gracefully along the metallic corridor, despite his magnetic boots, heading toward the Mule-class DropShip’s bridge. He sucked in a lungful of canned, processed air. Subconsciously took in the unadorned, gray walls and deck plating—as much home to him as an alien flora-and-fauna-bedecked prairie of some backwater world was for a rancher. He wanted more. But it was always more of the void.

“Just need that MCU…”

“You know, the first sign of mental instability is talking to yourself.”

Nikolai sighed heavily at the barbed comment as Jules Vonic stepped into his peripheral vision. She was coming behind him—he could almost feel her cold emptiness running up his spine. But better to let her poke and be done than deal with being seen to flee the senior procurement officer. That would’ve given her more power, especially among the novice crew that didn’t know any better just yet. He stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned in her direction. Looked at her levelly, expressionless. He assumed some might find her physically appealing, with her lush hair and petite figure. But the soulless eyes? He’d seen too much of such depthless reflections already. He hated that someone like her had attained such rank, especially as she’d tried early on to take him under her wing. As if there’s anything she could teach me. You’re just jealous I’ll take your position. I’m better than you, you just don’t know it yet.

“I know you’re hunting for something special,” she continued, mockingly. She ran hands through her hair. Does she actually want me to be aware of it? “A piece of lostech you’re trying to dig up through some underworld contact, perhaps? Something to make the Merchant Captain sit up and take notice. But I’ll figure out what it is, and I’ll take it. Like I always do.”

Some bullies you had to meet with teeth and fist. But long ago were the days when he could snap to that judgment. Didn’t mean there still wasn’t a place for such a response. A knife in the dark, when needed. Especially when the Merchant Captain tended to look the other way if one of his procurement officers brought home the real deal—something incredibly rare and priceless. But not anymore. Sure, she was dangerous. She’d managed to steal several of his contacts, not to mention foil a promotion, after all. But he had her measure now. Knew where she’d push, where she’d pull. Just a matter of keeping ahead of her machinations with his own. Silence offered a better-armored rebuff against her ripostes than any rejoinders he could fire back.

“I see your usual silent treatment is the best you got.” Her derisive laugh echoed off the corridors’ walls, causing a few crew members moving along an axis corridor to glance up before avoiding eye contact and moving on. Amazing. I travel hundreds of light years to escape my youth and my past, yet adults are as senselessly power hungry and brutal as any group of children left to fend for themselves.

He counted ten heartbeats, knowing to the second how long he needed to endure her odious presence, before moving on. He was also just close enough to the command bridge that even Jules wouldn’t evoke a direct confrontation under the eyes of their DropShip captain.

“Don’t forget, Niki. I get what you want.” She laughed again, the sound impelling him forward, the heavy clang of his magnetic boots a comforting counterpoint.

Just then a piercing whistle split the air, accompanied by an address over the PA: “Beginning mid-transit maneuver in five, four, three, two, one…”

Nikolai made it to the command bridge and engaged his boots, just as the heavy transit thrust ceased. His magnetic boots kept him in position for the minutes-long weightlessness as attitude jets along the DropShip’s sides smoothly flipped it end-over in mid-system transit. He ran the numbers smoothly in his head: 243,949,831 kilometers traversed across sixty-two hours after leaving the star’s nadir jump point. The fusion drive in the bowels of the 11,200-ton ship ignited once more. The vibrations in the deck plating slowly increased to indicate the start of another sixty-two-hour burn for the delta-v required for eventual planetary atmospheric interface at this journey’s end.

He moved to a side monitor to stay out of the way, and pulled up a holomap display of the interstellar border between the Lyran Commonwealth and the Free Worlds League. The map slowly revolved before his eyes, and Nikolai traced their long path.

Despite wanting to ignore them, Jules’s barbs still stung. To take his mind off her, he fell back into what he loved best. The deal. The numbers. Started running calculations to bring the calm.

His eyes flowed to the far left of the holomap where their current spinward route began so many months ago. A resupply run for the mercenary command Narhal’s Raiders on the world of Poulsbo. Then a 21.3 light-year jump to the Galisteo system in the Free Worlds League; the others balked at daring to cross an enemy border, but he loved the audacity. There, the Star Lord-class JumpShip Talia’s Investiture—such a mouthful, with the Merchant Captain (always capitalized) mum about its origins—had deployed its massive, 1,140-meter solar sail. Then they waited 178 hours for the system’s F7V star to recharge the Kearny-Fuchida drive running nearly the full length of the needle-like spaceship’s 660 meters. They then furled the sail, jumped back over the border to the Timbiqui system, and initiated the same process of sail deployment, recharging, and furling as they did after every jump. Then onto Cavanaugh II, where two DropShips detached from docking collars along the Investiture’s spine and began the fast 1.96-day resupply run to the Thirty-sixth Lyran Guards and Ninth Lyran Regulars, the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces’ regiments stationed on-planet. Then three days spent downside there. Then back once more across the border for a series of recharge-only jumps through Nockatunga, Millungera, Alula Borealis and Bell I, before crossing into Lyran space. There they had hit Loric for another resupply run, this time to the Seventh Lyran Regulars and the Stealthy Tigers; he always enjoyed his interactions with the Tigers’ tech liaison. Then to Giausar, and onto Ford and another run for the Fourteenth Lyran Guards; not so good interactions this last run, since he’d pushed too hard in his hunt. A quick side trip to the Gienah Combat Vehicles plant on Gienah to load up numerous new vehicles and corresponding components. Then onto Hyde and Rahne. His eyes paused at their current destination, Solaris, for resupplying the Tenth Skye Rangers and Thirty-second Lyran Guards

After six solid months of work, Merchant Captain Cardian had granted the crew of the three now-decelerating DropShips—along with half the JumpShip’s crew accompanying them—a week of R&R on the gaming capital of the Inner Sphere; the other three DropShip crews, along with the other half of the JumpShip crew, would get R&R here the next pass through. The men and women onboard already salivated at the prospects of being mere days away from gaming, alongside experiments of drowning in flesh and alcohol.

Nikolai breathed in the stale DropShip air and the stink of too many people in too-close confines for long months…and knew he’d be staying aboard during that downside leave. The price for obtaining lostech on Solaris VII was always too high, with so many underworld crews running with an iron fist their various sections of Solaris City, a microcosm of the Inner Sphere. He’d learned that painful lesson last time. Knife in the dark, indeed. Besides, continuing to learn the technical specs for the MCU he hoped to procure was crucial—if he wanted to impress on Merchant Captain Cardian that he was worthy of becoming a full procurement officer and tech—among other things—he had a ways to go. So much to learn, so little time.

Almost of their own volition, his eyes continued forward in time. Next up would be New Kyoto and another in-system run for resupplying the Blackhearts mercenary command. Then he saw the future jumps to Algorab, Gacrux, and then Phecda, including another run there for the Fifth Donegal Guards. Then Wyatt and the stationed troops of the Eleventh Lyran Guards and Seventeenth Arcturan Guards; they’d also pick up a large resupply at the Bowie Industries plant, as per their usual long-term contracts. From there it would be on to recharge jumps at Alioth and another in-system run at Denebola for the Tenth Lyran Regulars. And then finally onto New Earth, which would include another large resupply at the New Earth Trading Company. And of course the Twelfth Star Guards mercenary command, who were desperate for the very Motor Control Unit he’d been trying to find, as they’d had no luck themselves in locating their own replacement as yet. Centuries of constant warfare made finding the best technology from the past difficult. Or an opportunity.

As he finished tracing the full breadth of their spinward trade route, he stretched, his singlet for space travel sliding smoothly across his skin. Once more took in a lungful of shipboard air, with all its stale qualities. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a the large holotank taking up the center of the bridge, displaying the entire Solaris system, with a bevy of carets denoting all space traffic. A half dozen crew members worked at their terminals in a half ring around the holotank space, while the DropShip captain sat ensconced in a larger chair, raised a half meter off-the deck plating, giving him a commanding view of his domain. They all ignored him, as they did any grunt of the crew.

Nikolai concentrated once more on the calm beauty of numbers. Quickly summed the figures that spun in stat blocks next to all of the data points on the holomap. Twenty-three star systems, a total interstellar distance of some 479 light years. Nine in-system runs from jump points well above the ecliptic plane down to the inhabited worlds, for a total of 208 days. (He shuddered at the memory of the 104-day round trip to Phecda’s surface, because their DropShip captain refused potential extra strain on the ship by increasing thrust.) Those times also included a three-day on-planet stint at each of those stops, for the usual off-loading and on-loading of supplies, as well as maintenance cycles better left for downside; each DropShip captain under the Merchant Captain was nothing if not sticklers. Not to mention the extra seven days of R&R on Solaris VII, plus 4,160 hours of recharge time, or some 174 days. He kept summing and merging the transit times with recharge times across the entire circuit, zeroing out times as appropriate, and came up with just about 341 days total. Just shy of a year of interstellar travel and commerce.

He was not a betting man. But if he was, he’d take any odds at any table in Solaris City that the Merchant Captain would manage that circuit within plus or minus seven days. Even with pirate attacks or a blown helium seal on the JumpShip, Cardian would still make up the difference. It’s why he operates one of the only independent family-owned Star Lord JumpShips; I’m lucky I earned this billet two years ago. He ignored the fact he’d not earned it.

At New Earth, it would be time to cycle back through the same interstellar progress in reverse, albeit with a few destination tweaks along the way, as usual, until they were back out at the edge of the Periphery and of the dregs of known space. Such was the glorious life of a merchant ship with military-resupply contracts.

The ordered efficiency of it all, mixed with the endless void, brought a calm he rarely experienced. He closed his eyes, reveling in the unusual experience. Some day I’ll build a trade route like the Merchant Captain and sail the void as master, with no one my master. The freedom denied him from his youth beckoned as a siren song across the vacuum of space.

So many endless, monotonous hours of waiting for solar sails to charge; dozens of weeklong in-system DropShip transits; the frenzied three-day sprint of off-loading and on-loading to liftoff once more. Others he knew would run screaming—had run, as quick as their feet could carry them back off the DropShip at its next port of call.

He cocked his head, tasting the sensation. Is this love? Do I love this? As much as I can love anything. Or is it just my thirst for freedom? Regardless, oh, how his parents would’ve railed at him for doing exactly what they’d raised him to after all of his years spent trying to get away from the apprenticeship and the horrors his actions had unleashed. But not in that way. Not on my terms.

He glanced away from the holomap, out at the million stars visible through the DropShip’s viewport—Solaris VII a bright orb, slowly growing. Whether love or not, there was immense satisfaction in his chosen job. He waited long minutes more, basking in the view and all the potential it held, as he did every in-system run, glad the captain allowed him the ritual. Then he made his way back to his bunk. Time for more studying.

BLACKHEARTS ENCAMPMENT

HIRIHITO, OUTSKIRTS

NEW KYOTO, RAHNESHIRE

LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

24 DECEMBER 2991

The frozen, white particles covered everything. Blake’s Blood, this stuff is annoying. The curse still felt like an ill-fitting space suit on Nikolai’s tongue, despite the years. He tried ignoring this snow everyone else found so appealing. And despite several days of standard-gravity transit in-system, so many years spent in zero gravity left an extra weight across his shoulders he always found unpleasant. Not much different than the weight of my life, though. He stretched his neck until it popped, finding it hard to fathom why anyone would prefer such strange, unpredictable weather over the magnificently controlled atmosphere aboard a spaceship. Why avoid such calm?

He shrugged, trudging on.

Nikolai left the city’s edge behind, crossing alongside the short side of the major planetary spaceport for a kilometer, and reached the edge of the Blackhearts mercenary encampment. He glanced over his shoulder. Did I lose Jules’s tail? He wasn’t sure—even if she figured his destination, he was still ahead of her—but he continued walking.

They’d been downside for just over a day, and his captain was anxious to keep schedule and lift off in less than two. And sure, Nikolai wasn’t a procurement officer—not yet—so he shouldn’t really have been out here. But if you’re pushing up, you have to push out. And that meant pushing boundaries, finding contacts. If he’d learned anything from his years spent among bandits, information could be more powerful than any gun or fist. (Though ignoring the threat of either was just stupid and would get you killed.) The hunt was on.

The heavy impact sound—and vibrations through the sidewalk—announced a patrolling BattleMech coming near his path. A 25-ton Commando reached the edge of the fenced Blackhearts compound, turned, and leisurely plodded along. He knew the pilot at the control of the nearly eight-meter-tall war machine was likely bored out of their mind. But security was security. And if you didn’t present a show of even light force, the underworld elements in the city behind him might find the military tech irresistible.

At the perimeter gate, he found the infantry guards decked out in red cloth hats, tapering to a curious white, fluffy ball. Right. Christmas. It was Christmas Eve. He glanced back over his shoulder. Though over a kilometer distant, and despite the falling snow, the lavish Buddhist temple of Tooshodai-ji was still visible at the nexus between the spaceport and the edge of Hirihito, the planetary capital. And even more impressive, the largest statue of Amida Buddha in the entire Inner Sphere (he’d asked); the towering figure clawed its way 110 meters into the darkening sky.

He shrugged it all off. He’d never believed in such things. To him they might as well have been strangely painted hats everyone worshipped. He glanced back at the guards. Especially those hats. There had been only one thing you worshipped, and if you failed, your life would become exceedingly…unpleasant. As mine did. Memories of being cast out from his family surfaced in a rush of pain. Of the harsh realities of the bandits he’d fallen in with. A particular, too-often served memory flushed his system with dread: the harsh, rattling gasp of an oxygen tank almost out of air, a spacesuit strapped to the outside of a JumpShip bulkhead, and a too-young Nikolai frantically wondering if this time they wouldn’t reach him before asphyxiation dragged him unto death. The torture had been…very effective.

But I survived. I always survive. He shook himself, as though a dog flinging off the memories like so much rain. He knew it would come again at some point; they always did.

He pulled out his identification badge and flashed it; though they’d seen him twice today, they still checked it against their noteputers and his facial features. He still felt uneasy around mercenaries, but professional was professional. He nodded his respect as he passed through the checkpoint and moved into the encampment proper.

The temperature plummeted as the sun set. His breath came in great, pluming clouds while he moved deeper into the camp, his nostrils trying to stick together as his cold gained a further foothold. The clean, well-lit avenues between the temporary huts and permanent fortifications spoke volumes. Might as well call this a base. Whether the Blackhearts or a previous command, this location next to the spaceport had long held this world’s defenders against possible incursions by Free Worlds League adventurism. Though he’d heard rumors the Blackhearts were hoping for a new deployment to another theater, soon.

Nikolai finally reached a small building—more a shack—and stepped in. Considering the information he’d gleaned in the city’s back streets, he’d expected more. He shivered. Is it actually colder in here? He pulled out a tissue and blew to try restoring some normal breathing, to no avail. Tucked it back away. The ramshackle appearance of the room—every surface appeared covered with some gadget or another—further bolstered his unease that he’d misread the information. This Chloe they described wouldn’t be so messy?

He startled as a voice spoke loudly from a door leading into a back portion of the small building. “Blake’s Blood! You are going to work. I’m sick and tired of your lazy attitude. Do I have to do everything?” A bang followed the diatribe. “You are going to work!”

Just then a short, late-twenties woman entered the room from that back area. She wore coveralls in the style favored by the Blackhearts’ technical teams, and her shoulder-length, dark-brown hair fell around a face whose thin lips were pursed into exasperation. She held a large, electronic device, which she muttered at. Is that what she was yelling at? A long, thick strand of myomer cable issued from it, draping over her shoulder, snaking back into that other room.

The woman moved to a large computer console, with an attached electronics-testing bank. After carefully setting the device down with another mutter about working, she rapidly plowed through a battery of diagnostics. He held his breath. While his strength lay in the contacts he forged, often with unusual sources—he did plan to be a procurement officer, after all—he’d pushed himself relentlessly the last two years to learn the ins and outs of the BattleMech: the war machines of star empires waging their continual wars. He knew the device she tested was an MCU: the internal brains of an actuator, one of the joints that kept the dozen-meter-tall avatars of war upright, like that Commando patrolling outside. And the attached myomer muscle allowed the multi-ton beasts to move with such alacrity and grace.

Nikolai held his breath as her fingers and eyes danced through a series of multi-tiered testing to discover why the MCU was malfunctioning. He watched in awe at her skill and speed.

My contact was right. The Blackhearts have no idea what they have here. She should be heading up all of their tech crews. And instead, they stuck her in this cold-as-a-morgue shack.

Might she join us? Even as the thought blossomed, he instinctively pulled back. Wait a minute. What am I thinking? I don’t know her from a hole in the wall. And what happens to me if I bring in someone who drops the ball? Yeah, I’m dropped as well.

She’s a contact. I’m looking for an MCU. That’s it. An MCU.

The woman finally let out a yelp as she noticed Nikolai, her hand sliding underneath the edge of the desk hidden from his view. A gun there. His estimations rose further. Especially as he finally got a look at her eyes. Brilliant green. And as determined and full of intelligence as anyone he’d ever met. All in once glance.

Magnificent.

“What in Blake’s Blood are you doing in my shack?” she said. “Who are you?”

Nikolai immediately put on his most disarming smile but abruptly changed course. She’s too smart for that. Direct approach.

He shrugged, his usual weary face intact. “Sorry. My name’s Nikolai. I’m with the resupply DropShip that’s bringing you a pile of new supplies. Including, I imagine, a pretty good batch of salvage for you to work over.”

She took in his much-less-flashy uniform, and the tension eased slightly. “Ah. Sorry. You startled me.”

“My apologies. I’m a…novice gearhead. Watching you work was a pleasure. Just couldn’t bring myself to interrupt.”

She blushed, which he’d expected from such a compliment. But there was something else there—a dark flash in her eyes before she hid it. What was that? He found himself even more intrigued.

“What exactly do you want?” she asked.

Normally he might dissemble for a time, but he knew immediately that wasn’t the right tack, here. “I’m looking for a Master Control Unit for a Champion’s right leg.”

She raised her eyebrow and whistled. “And I suppose you want a pony while you’re at it. Why would you need an actuator from such a rare Star League–era BattleMech? Those haven’t been produced in centuries. Gonna be heading into battle soon?”

He let the heavy sarcasm roll on by, like the bandit beatings of his youth. “Our final destination for this route is New Earth, and—”

“Ah, Twelfth Star Guards,” she interrupted. “Mercenaries. Ancient Star League origins. Makes sense.”

“You know your commands. And your deployments.” He nodded appreciatively.

She shrugged, her eyes glancing at the readout to follow the continued diagnostics as she split her attention. “Haven’t always been with the Blackhearts. And I may not always be here. Information is ammunition, so to speak.”

Exactly. He nodded his respect, even though she wasn’t looking. Who is this woman?

“You trying to make better contacts in that command?” she said. “Butter up your merchant captain?”

He smiled despite himself. “Something like that. Don’t suppose you’ve got any leads?”

“Nothing here. But I know a guy…” Her voice trailed off until the silence was broken only by the hum of the monitors where her eyes were glued. The minutes stretched and Nikolai’s lips twitched. She wields silence effectively.

“You know a guy?”

“Right. Yeah. Detlef Jorgenson is a master tech working for Bowie Industries on Wyatt. I assume that’s one of your future runs?”

“It is.”

The silence returned, and Nikolai surreptitiously wiped his nose. Very effectively.

“I’m willing to offer you a trade in kind,” he said. C-bills were C-bills, of course, but after centuries of endless Succession Wars, parts were often more valuable than cash.

The green eyes glanced up from her monitors. “I’m assuming you’ll be supplying the Tenth Lyran Regulars during your pass through the Denebola system?”

Again, her knowledge of trade routes and deployments impressed. “Yes.”

“The head tech there, Zardoff, he owes me a gyro.”

Nikolai’s eyebrows rose. “A gyro.”

“Yeah. Long story. Maybe I’ll tell you about it. Bring me that gyro.”

“That’s several months down the line since we’ll continue on to New Earth before starting back along this path. Not to mention, my Merchant Captain may decide not to stop at New Kyoto.”

She shrugged and abruptly typed furiously on the keyboard while adjusting the strand of myomer. “Not my problem,” she finally responded.

Normally he hated making such an open-ended promise. But this felt like the first break in some time. He would simply find a way to make it happen. “Agreed.”

She nodded once, sealing the agreement. “Well, the last time we got drunk and swapped stories, he mentioned having a Star League–era MCU tucked away; yeah, we both know you might make do with a current model, but its gonna have reduced performance, no matter how you tweak it. And I got an HPG message from him a few months back. Seems the Leaguers snuck onto Wyatt earlier this year and got away with six brand-new Chippewa aerospace fighters. Shot the place up again. Came a little too close for his comfort. He was bellyaching something fierce about company execs not willing to relocate the plant to the Commonwealth’s interior, to better protect their employees. Especially when they did it for their other primary plant. I think he’d planned on pulling that MCU out to impress the brass at some point. But I’m thinking now he’s probably hoping to make a pretty penny. Perhaps even jump ship.” She looked back at him, emerald eyes penetrating. “You got a pretty penny?”

“Something like that.” He cocked his head, sucking his teeth for a moment. Using ComStar’s hyperpulse generator network to send interstellar messages could be pricy. “If you don’t mind me saying, that’s a fair bit of cash to stay in contact with another master tech, especially from an interstellar conglomerate. Not to mention, that was an awful easy contact you just tossed in my lap, gyro or no gyro. What’s in it for you?”

She smiled wolfishly, that alluring intelligence dancing in her eyes. “Contacts are important in this line of work. The right part at the right time is often more about who you know, not how many C-bills you can spend. Especially when you don’t have ’em to spend. Besides”—her eyes scanned him up and down like she was evaluating a new piece of lostech she’d found—“I can read people pretty well. I know a good bet when I see it. You’ll just owe me. Beyond that gyro, of course.”

He was not completely convinced there weren’t more strings attached. Yet he wasn’t about to ignore the first good lead he’d had on this hunt for over a year. “Of course. Anything specific?”

“I assume you’ll be back.”

“Yeah.”

She smiled. “You sure are talkative, for a merchant trader. Or is it all just me?”

Another rare smile cracked in return. “Something like that.”

She cocked her head. “Well, then I’m sure I’ll think of something I can abuse you for next time.” And with that she turned fully back to her program.

He raised his hand, as though to say something more, but realized there was nothing else to add. He would be back. On that promise, he swept out into the bitter cold.

NEAR EARHARDT CITY

WYATT, WYATT THEATER

LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

10 MAY 2992

The engine of the large Škoda Growler service utility truck throttled effortlessly through the dirty sand that often buried the connecting freeway. The road snaked among the strange, towering rock formations of the desert that surrounded Earhardt City, its spaceport, and the Bowie Industries manufacturing facility—their destination—located some hundred clicks farther out. If Nikolai wasn’t so intent on running the plan through his head again, he might have noticed how beautiful the magnificent formations were in the late afternoon light.

“Gonna be a scorcher for sure, tomorrow.”

Nikolai glanced to his left, his hired driver sloppily chewing the nub of a cigar. Upon making the hire, he’d expected the usual bear-of-man with more gut than muscle. But this driver (Tom? Tim? Timothy?) was all legs and sharp angles. As though you could lose him behind a landing strut if you weren’t paying attention.

Nikolai turned away, embracing a thousand-meter stare as he traced the outline of what would happen today, but the man was unrelenting.

“You’d think our original colonists would have thought, ‘Desert…yeah, maybe not.’ Much less plugging it here in the southern hemisphere. I’m from the north. Feels proper upright. Down here always feel like my hat’s gonna fall off. Much less the blazing heat, here. Gonna top fifty-five by tomorrow, or my she-devil mother doesn’t still haunt me.”

Nikolai grunted noncommittally. He’d been polite. And then not so polite. And then not polite at all, telling the man to shut up so he could think. But the driver just shrugged, chewed on that soggy slug in his mouth, and kept jabbering on.

Nikolai purposefully rolled down the window, the blast of hot air stealing his breath away. And it’ll be hotter tomorrow? He could almost feel the ultra-dry air sucking the moisture out of his skin.

The other man prattled on, but the rush of wind cut the chatter to a point Nikolai could concentrate. The plan was in full motion now—nothing to do but hold on and hope it went well. Unless the Marik Militia decides to strike again! He smiled at his own sarcasm, knowing he was simply trying to drown out that incessant voice from the driver.

Chloe said Detlef might want to jump ship. But these corporations didn’t often let go easily, especially master techs. They could make life very difficult if they wanted to, and they usually did. So Nikolai had come with a pretty penny he felt confident Detlef would swallow. I hope this works. If it didn’t, he’d not only lose this contact, but would be out a rather large chunk of his secret reserve of C-bills.

After all, he only had the usual three days downside on this planet. And sixty-four hours to make contact and put Detlef at ease—even with a recommendation from Chloe—simply wasn’t possible. Despite what Nikolai had seen on holovid shows, you just couldn’t truncate forging a relationship like that.

Instead, he’d fired off an HPG message before leaving New Kyoto to introduce himself, with Chloe’s blessing. Then after their jump through Algorab and onto Gacrux, while the ship was recharging there, he’d sent a priority message to the space station at the nadir jump point, including a hefty electronic C-bill transfer fee. This beamed a priority message down to the planet, which was then fed into the local HPG and fired off for its interstellar trip, again to this master tech he was now heading toward. Then, during downside on their next supply run, on Phecda, he continued that correspondence, answering questions and disarming Detlef as much as possible. In fact, he’d never dipped so deeply, nor so quickly, into his C-bill reserve. Sure, the hunt had been long and he hoped to land that MCU and set the hook with the Twelfth Star Guards. Which would come around mighty sweet with the Merchant Captain, while back-handing Jules in the process. But there was something more.

As the truck took another swerving turn and the large, sprawling Bowie Industries manufacturing plant finally came into view, he tried to be honest with himself. No matter how often you lie to others, never lie to yourself. Those words echoed from a mentor from many years ago. A mentor he hoped to never see again.

It’s Chloe. Despite all he’d done, despite all he hoped to do—at that moment, he also wanted to impress her along the way. He saw her brilliant green eyes when he closed his. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. I’m such an idiot.

“And that’s how the head came clean off. Blood everywhere. Couldn’t believe it. And the cops wouldn’t either. Spent sixth months hard labor for that. But it wasn’t my fault!”

Nikolai shook himself as the driver’s words penetrated and drew him back to the moment. Timothy. Right. That’s his name. Timothy.

“Well, here we go,” Timothy continued. “Got ya here exactly like I said I would.” Spittle slicked his chin as he cheeringly chomped on that cigar nub, bobbing his head to the rhythm of the truck over the sand that still partially obscured the freeway.

The hot blast through the window picked up, even as they slowed down for the gate, whipping his hair and causing him to squint. He licked desert grime off his teeth.

After the buildup, passing through the gate was remarkably pro forma: a quick check of badges, a look under and through the vehicle, and they were in. Backing up to the docks, they met bored workers pulling over jacks to offload the supplies on their truck. After fifteen minutes of work, a master tech moved onto the dock, his presence not unexpected. The back of the truck contained extra-sensitive materials; carefully hidden eye rolls spoke volumes of what the dock workers thought of such a hands-on approach.

“All of you,” the man said loudly, arms flailing around like a short-circuiting myomer bundle, to get their attention. “I’ve got to verify these imbeciles didn’t harm the salvage we purchased. Go back to what you were doing before. I’ll have the drivers move it once I’ve confirmed it’s all in good shape.”

The workers shrugged at the usual prima donna response, while Timothy cackled and spit to the side.

The tech moved onto the back of the truck, and Nikolai followed. “Detlef Jorgenson?” he whispered. The physical description matched.

“Yeah. Nikolai?”

“Right. We move the last of this, and the false wall comes up easily. We’ll slip you in and get you away from here, no problems. You’ve got the MCU?”

“Right. We’ll need to wait here long enough to buy off the excuse. We can then make the switch as I complain about crappy salvage.”

“And your cover? Let’s go over it one last time.”

“The ‘accidental’ explosion will burn away my remains, exactly as you told me. And no one else will be harmed.” He looked around. “And this ‘company’ on the sides of your truck?”

Nikolai patted the side of the truck, as though to bring calm to the situation. “Totally bogus, with a random truck driver who’s never seen me before and will never see me again.”

“Good. Bowie’ll start an investigation, and it’ll lead to this truck before they’re done. Have to satisfy the insurance company to get their filthy C-bills back.”

“Excellent.”

Nikolai expected the man to be nervous over the nefarious actions underway, but instead, he seemed nothing but anxious to be on his way. Nikolai leaned against the inside of the large truck, feeling the time ebb away while they waited.

Abruptly Detlef started swearing loudly, banging against the top of one of the containers before stamping out, demanding Nikolai follow him. “That salvage is utterly worthless. I don’t trust anything you’ve brought. You’re taking it all back!”

The flamboyant driver remained on the dock, already striking up a conversation with a worker taking a smoking break. He would be remembered. Nikolai kept a low profile, following along subserviently; he wouldn’t. I hope. It took less time than expected to reach Detlef’s vacant offices, switch up the containers—including the all-too precious MCU—and hide him in the hidden compartment. Then Nikolai rolled the container back onto the truck, swearing softly—gotta sell it—and the driver and he were back through the gate and onto the freeway just as the wind picked up seriously, grit spitting in their faces.

Gonna be a serious blow. I hate downsides.

The truck picked up speed, but Timothy kept it to a minimum safe haul. As visibility dropped precipitously, Nikolai stretched luxuriously; a cat content with its mouse. He wasn’t vindictive by nature. Too much energy. Better to get on living. But the look on Jules’s face when he’d give this part to the Twelfth Star Guards and cement a relationship with such a respected and powerful mercenary command? Especially when the Merchant Captain would sit up and take notice. Perhaps a promotion on the spot? Yeah…almost as priceless as that. Not to mention…emerald eyes met his closed lids.

The long kilometers through baking desert stretched out before him. The haze of ever heavier curtains of sand wafting along the winding route merged with his consciousness as he slipped into light daydreams, as he glanced out at the surreal landscape. The hot air and soothing rhythm of the truck almost cradling him to sleep…

He abruptly shot out of his dream, adrenaline cascading fear through him as one of the towering rock formations moved! What in the name of the—

The deep-purple accents hiding the mechanical monstrosity blended into the darkening landscape as the sun set. That, along with the near blizzard of ocher particulates, took his brain too long to recognize what was happening. A seven-meter tall god of war-forged metal stepped onto the road, right into their path. The towering, 20-ton anthropomorphic avatar raised its right arm, which bore the barrel of a weapon that aimed directly at their truck. The aperture filled all of existence, his senses focusing on the inevitable he was powerless to stop: a sun sparked in the depths of that meters-wide hole, and a brilliant, scintillating ruby shaft leapt towards them.

The energy beam first stabbed into the asphalt of the freeway, superheating the tar and boiling away petrochemicals in puffs of black smoke as it tore a long scar across its surface before punching through the driver’s side of their truck. The thin metal of the civilian vehicle vaporized. Out of the corner of his eye Nikolai caught a glimpse of the driver cut off mid scream as he simply ceased to exist from one breath to the next. Blood and viscera exploded across the inside of the cab, covering Nikolai. The wash of excruciating heat limned his body in fire, while the beam traveled for another microsecond, hammering through the driver’s seat and back into the engine, causing another secondary explosion as the internal combustion engine tore itself apart. Meanwhile the driver’s side front tire melted under the heat, dropping the vehicle hard into the furrow the weapon’s discharge created on the freeway. That, along with the force of the engine’s explosion, imparting extra upward lift, launched the vehicle into the air. Abrupt weightlessness focused Nikolai’s agony, and his brain cataloged events at superluminal speeds…

He was no MechWarrior. He’d never been in actual combat, though he’d fueled many conflicts with his trade. And he’d seen combat from afar—plenty of it in his youth—much less his growing obsession with becoming a tech to service the BattleMechs that fought the Succession Wars across the Inner Sphere as star empires strove vainly to reforge the lost Star League. Yet the sight of even the smallest of BattleMechs—a 20-ton Wasp—brought a psychological impact he’d not expected when he was the recipient of its power and presence. The way its Diverse Optics 2 medium laser utterly annihilated the vehicle. No wonder we’ve worshipped these gods of war for centuries.

As the vehicle finished its rotation and neared impact with the ground, the Wasp came into view once more, and again Nikolai’s brain ran of its own accord, ignoring the coming doom. Purple. Chloe’s words from months past haunted with foreknowledge. I was joking about a new raid. Joking! The vehicle crashed into the ground at over forty kilometers per hour, and even before the twisting and rolling began, over a dozen Gs of kinetic force tore Nikolai from consciousness.

TWELFTH STAR GUARDS BASE

NEOASIA, NEW EARTH

WYATT THEATER, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

20 JUNE 2992

Nikolai looked out the window of First Regiment’s quartermaster’s office. In the distance he could see Colonization Park and its two massive statues. The first was a replica of the unmanned Magellan probe that reached the then-called Tau Ceti system. The much larger monument was an archaic-looking JumpShip, a replica of the TAS Pathfinder—the first manned craft to successfully reach another star system and spark the diaspora that eventually colonized thousands of worlds over the past several centuries. Hard to tell at this distance, but the park seemed mostly deserted, with a few wandering, desultory occupants. They look how I feel.

He eased from one position to the next as he leaned against the wall, trying to appear attentive to the meeting but wanting to be anywhere else. For once, I’d take downside and its inclement weather over this. Perhaps in the park he’d find the calm that seemed missing even in the void of late. He hissed between teeth, hiding a twinge as his body still remonstrated with him for the extensive injuries suffered at the hands of that Wasp back on Wyatt a month ago.

Been healing for five weeks and I’ve still a ways to go. Never mind the death of that driver (Tom?), and Detlef (never did find any other body, as he carefully asked questions), much less the destruction of the precious MCU he’d spent the better part of two years tracking down. He’d even tried to investigate the mysterious BattleMech, but he’d already had to dodge questions of why he was in a rented truck on a solo run to the Bowie Industries factory, apparently outside the standard chain of command. The Merchant Captain expected his procurement officers to go above and beyond to ensure the continued success of their trading. But this, apparently, had been too much. More than anything, he’s just pissed off I cost him an extra two days off his precious schedule.

Nikolai had ultimately let it go. He swallowed another major sigh, not wishing to draw attention. Especially since he could feel Jules’s eyes burning into him; if he glanced to the right, he could see her. She’d managed to be in the DropShip’s med bay when he awoke from his medically induced coma; she’d known he was up to something. Just not exactly what. But the gloating had started and never stopped.

“All the resupplies have been received and verified,” said Joshua, the Twelfth’s quartermaster. “And my clerk says all the paperwork is in order. As usual. If there’s nothing else, I believe our business is concluded. Until your next visit.”

“Not exactly,” Jules said, the triumph in her voice pulling Nikolai’s attention back to the meeting.

For such a large building, this office was rather small. Mundane, even. Drab walls, with no decorations. A small, utilitarian desk, immaculately organized. Twin filing cabinets bookended the desk. Joshua was just as small and unassuming as his office, with dark eyes and hair, dressed in soldier’s khakis kept as clean and pressed as any dress uniform. Nikolai appreciated professionalism and efficiency, but this seemed excessive. Yet the man was filled with the intelligence needed to keep a mercenary command of this size well supplied.

Across the desk from Joshua, Jules sat casually, a contemptuous smirk playing at her lips; a brief flicker of her eyes toward him, and he knew this entire part of the show had nothing to do with Joshua or the Twelfth. This was for Nikolai alone.

What are you up to, witch? You can’t possibly hurt me more than I hurt myself.

“Oh?” Joshua responded.

She casually reached down to her satchel and pulled out a sheaf of papers, carefully laying them on the desk as though so much gold. “I believe you’ve been looking for a rare Star League–era Master Control Unit for a long time? It’s currently being turned over to your master tech right now. Here’s the provenance paperwork to prove its authenticity.”

The previous twinge of pain returned tenfold, and another flicker of Jules’s eyes toward Nikolai brought back the memory of a fired medium laser: heat; pain and loss; endless, long weeks of rehabilitation and humiliation. His breathing came in small gasps of pain as he fell against the wall—the only thing that kept him upright.

Try as he might, he must have been louder than he imagined, as Joshua glanced over his shoulder toward Nikolai, a look of slight concern on his features. “Are you okay? You don’t sound so good…”

The pain and confusion tied Nikolai’s tongue, and he couldn’t find a response as his brain spun out the possibilities. It had been her. Somehow she’d been behind the Wasp attack. He’d known she was dangerous. Known she was tracking his movements. But the gaudy act of violence, the death of people, much less the terrible cost of hiring a MechWarrior and its Marik Militia ruse… The depths to which she’d sink took his breath away.

“Don’t worry, Joshua,” Jules said, unfolding herself from the chair with casual ease as she moved toward Nikolai. “He was wounded in a foolish endeavor a few weeks back. He’s still learning the ropes.” She neared, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are okay, right?” Her usual soulless look belied the concern painted onto her voice. Especially as she mouthed: I get what you want.

The room still spun, the knife in his chest white hot, but his brain flogged him relentlessly. He’d thought her a gnat. A grasping bully who could be ignored, with nothing to teach him.

Oh, how wrong he’d been.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Joshua said, turning back and leafing through the provenance documents. He stood up and moved to the door. “I need to review something. I’ll be back momentarily.”

“You could’ve destroyed the MCU,” Nikolai whispered at Jules. Her raptor look twisted into an ugliness he’d rarely seen on another human face.

“I didn’t care if the MCU was destroyed, Niki,” she growled. “I only cared about punishing you for getting in my way. Sheer luck you survived so unscathed,” she breathed as her eyes scraped their way up his form. “The fact the MCU somehow survived was a magnificent bonus. I told you, I get what you want.”

As Jules returned to her chair, triumph radiating from her very frame, Joshua returned and seated himself. “As usual, this looks in order. The commander is going to be exceedingly happy to have that Champion back in operation.” He laid his hand on top of the papers, fingers drumming a speculative beat. “So, what do I owe you for this…exceptional work?”

“Nothing,” she responded, a smile breaking wide. “Just your gratitude will be enough.”

Joshua smiled in return, nodding. He’d look even better to his commander, Leutnant-Colonel Albert Rivers. Meanwhile, Jules had secured a long-term resupply contract that moved well beyond the usual terms Merchant Captain Cardian previously forged. This was now personal. No more powerful connection in our circles. Exactly as I’d planned.

He closed his eyes, clenching teeth until black spots swam before his eyes. He reached out, desperate for some calm. The usual calm he found in the void, but this time he found a kernel within. Green eyes… And slowly let it go. As all the years ago in his youth. The beatings. The blackness and the despair. How many times did they almost kill me to achieve their ends? But I survived. As I did now. As I always will.

It got a little easier each time. A little. And he let it go. Opened his eyes to see the two officers firmly shaking hands to seal the unspoken deal. Knowing he’d never forget the look on her face.

Lesson learned, Jules. I always underestimated the animal within. It won’t happen again.

2

Vision’s Hunger

BLACKHEARTS ENCAMPMENT

HIRIHITO, NEW KYOTO

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

4 AUGUST 2994

“You are not a MechWarrior.”

There was no anger nor frustration in those words, despite the frequent repetition over the last half decade. Yet they still hit Chloe Reed like a particle projector cannon to the chest. The twisting sprouted in her gut and thrust out until fingernails dug into her palms as Major Jeffers turned and walked away. The pride of his footfalls wasn’t narcissistic, as found all too often among MechWarriors in any command: the jagged, twisted sense of worth that always led to waste and needless deaths. Instead, it was the sure understanding and pride of knowing you were the epitome of military life. A modern-day knight, bearing a millennia-old mantle of responsibility, power, and prestige into any battle, on any world, across the thousand light-years of the human-occupied Inner Sphere.

She closed her bright green eyes, head bowed as her shoulder-length, dark-brown hair fell across her face, her already thin lips stretched into a grimace. Sucked in a lungful of humid air as the region surrounding the city of Hirihito moved into its rainy season. And tried to settle the hunger that seemed to burn ever brighter, despite any other accolades that moved her from a lonely repair shack to ruling the tech roost among the Blackhearts.

Thoughts of the holovid message sitting on her noteputer flittered through her pain. The specifics of the contract were generous. But did she really want to be that person? It was one thing to accept the life she’d chosen as a mercenary. A whole other thing to allow the almighty C-bill to run her life. And her dreams. Someday….

“Yo, Cap,” a voice lashed across her misery, bringing a spot of stability to the wash of her emotions. She opened her eyes and turned to see a lanky young man trotting up towards her position. Tilo.

He glanced at the retreating major and turned hurt eyes on her. “You still trying to be a MechWarrior, Chloe? You’re a tech. The most obsessed, detail-oriented tech I’ve ever met. Why you keep poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”

Hunger. But she wasn’t about to engage the young man in her dreams, much less in public. Such things were private. “Tilo, what do you want?”

“You hear the scuttlebutt,” he said in a too-loud whisper at her side, glancing up and down the middle of the avenue that crisscrossed the large, Blackhearts mercenary encampment.

She eased her fists open, ignored the pinpricks of pain from fingernails dug deep, and stretched her neck to unwind the tension within, as though spooling out a strand of myomer to fix a wounded BattleMech limb. You’ve known this hunger for a lot of years. Stop being stupid, Chloe. You can deal with it.

“No, Tilo. What’s the scuttlebutt?” She was good at keeping a finger on the pulse of what moved through the merc outfit she served, much less the web of logistics contacts that stretched to distant stars. But Tilo had a gift for the rumor mill that even surpassed her long years. Perhaps everyone just wants to put a bandage on Tilo’s knee and tousle that hair. Such hair… She shook aside that thought. He’s ten years your junior!

“New orders just arrived. Looks like we’re being deployed. A raid.” The young man practically bounced in place, as though he could just keep himself in check from sprinting toward the DropShip that towered at the edge of the Blackhearts’ encampment; never mind there would be days of preparations and loading thousands of tons of equipment, personnel, and war machines before liftoff.

The pain of her latest failure with her immediate superior ebbed at the news, her heartbeat stitching up a notch. “Really? Any ideas where? Or against whom?” Her mind’s eye pulled up a local map of the Inner Sphere, centered around the world her command guarded, New Kyoto. The borders represented star empires: their employer, the Lyran Commonwealth, rendered in deep blue, and the rival Great House, the Free Worlds League, in a bright purple just over thirty light-years distance. Two bounds for a JumpShip carrying troops ready for a raid and counter raid. Continuing the endless fighting of the Third Succession War, which had stretched for more than a century at this point.

Tilo made to respond but waited while two individuals swept down the road. Their intricately embroidered white robes marked them as starkly as their shaved heads and the too-shiny eyes of the fanatical. Acolytes of ComStar, the techno-religious society that guarded the secrets of interstellar communications via their hyperpulse generator network spread among the stars. Tilo and Chloe moved aside, as did all on the street. ComStar creeped everyone out. Most folks avoided them because even accidentally insulting an acolyte could earn you—or your whole city, your whole planet—a communications interdiction, if you weren’t careful. At least that’s the legends most people whispered in their wakes. Chloe knew better; gritted her teeth and kept her eyes averted while the men walked by, apparently in their own world, refusing to admit anyone else existed.

As though a pent-up breath held, the sounds of the street and surrounding markets settled back into its usual humdrum after the acolytes turned a corner.

“I heard Kalidasa,” Tilo continued, finally, as though sharing a powerful secret.

Chloe whistled. Adjusted her mind’s-eye map. Two jumps: from New Kyoto, through Solaris—bypassing Rochelle altogether—to arrive at Kalidasa. The Silver Hawk Irregulars. Gryphons. She slowly shook her head. “Nope. Don’t see it.”

“Why?”

“The Gryphons are the dregs of the Free Worlds League Military. The Lyrans have been gut-punching them and stealing their lunch for centuries. What does that net ’em, here?”

Chloe walked on, motioning for him to follow. Might as well get out of the middle of the avenue and start packing. Her tech team would surely deploy with whatever command they detached for the raid. “Sure, we could fight ’em. And gut-punch them easily enough, again. But this is a raid. Unless I miss my bet, it’s not an objective raid, or a kidnapping, or even an assassination. They could want us to hit the Kali-Yama Weapons plant, but that would pit us against the Gryphons as well as the extra mercenary’s that trans-national corporation usual deploys directly at their facilities. But then there might be extra hazard pay the Lyrans would need to throw on the table. And you know how these merchant princes whine when they have to put their own C-bills at risk.”

Before they reached the crossroads of the two primary thoroughfares through the Blackhearts’ encampment, the ground began to vibrate, and a heavy-throated hum strummed the air like a thrash-metal band she’d enjoyed in a Solaris VII dive several years back. They both halted, squinted and covered mouths as a large Maxim hover transport moved down the crossroads, heading toward the tarmac and the waiting DropShips. Despite the recent rain, the fans kicked up a billow of dirt that caked clothing and slipped into their mouths despite covering hands. Another minute passed, and the interruption abated as the whine ticked down into the background hubbub. Was loading already underway? Had even Tilo missed the initial arrival of the orders? She picked up the pace (spat several times over the grit, while slapping dirt from her clothing), knowing her orders would be on the noteputer she’d left on her bunk.

“You were saying?”

She glanced over at Tilo, irritated at the interruption but couldn’t help but smile at his big-toothed grin and doglike hanging onto her words. Her fingers again twitched to tousle that hair.

“Unless I miss my guess, this is retribution, plain and simple. Remember those Wyatt raids? Back in ’91?”

“Sure. Everyone was talking about it.”

“The only memory longer than a bean counter’s is a House Lord’s.”

“Ah, which means the Marik Militia. Retribution for their strike on Wyatt?”

“Exactly. And where is that?”

He scrunched up his face, but she knew he’d never excelled at astrocartography, or remembering troop deployments.

“Wing,” she said.

He canted his head, still not getting there. Not yet. She’d keep teaching.

“Three jumps, Tilo. Algorab and Gacrux in the Commonwealth, and then crossing the border for Wing and the Thirtieth Marik Militia. I’m sure our employers are hoping we don’t net much salvage or potential hazard pay. And meanwhile, the high-and-mighty House Lords get to exchange glove slaps with each other, at our expense.”

“Welcome to being a merc,” he responded, wide-toothed.

She bellowed a laugh in return, slapping him on the back as they passed from the bright sunlight into the cool confines of their barracks and moved to prepare for their awaiting orders.

As she gathered up her kit, she saw the miniature JumpShip pendant swinging in her locker. Despite the sense of urgency and her own desire to deploy in action for the first time in years, she cradled the gift from Nikolai Mason. A JumpShip merchant trader she’d met several years back and now saw twice a year like clockwork. Their reunions were always…wonderfully memorable. And more. She ran a calendar through her memory. The Blackhearts should be across the border for the raid and back long before it was time for his trading vessel to reach New Kyoto. Even though months away, a large smile blossomed and she continued packing.

BLACKHEARTS BIVOUAC

GREINWALD, WING

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

11 NOVEMBER 2994

Chloe wondered if she’d ever feel her fingers again. Despite the best cold-weather gear the Blackhearts could procure, the gloves were simply too thick for tech work. Which meant thinner gloves. So while the rest of her was cold, her fingers flirted with frostbite…

She adjusted her goggles to ease the fogging on the inside, and glanced around at the snow falling easily through wan, dull orange skies. Around her the frantic activity of the Blackhearts’ bivouac belied the cold and the weather. After all, they’d just engaged in a firefight that morning and expected another engagement within the next day or so once they cornered the Marik Militia. How the dogs managed to hide their bright purple ’Mechs in white snow beggared the imagination. Yet their fox-and-hound routine had dragged a simple retribution raid into a nearly month-long engagement, with no end in sight. After all, they were on world to destroy a “significant portion” of the Thirtieth Marik Militia. What “significant” meant was left up to Major Jeffers, and he wasn’t yet convinced they’d satisfied the terms of the contract. And if they left Wing without fulfilling that contract, not only would the Blackhearts void any hazard pay and forfeit rights to battlefield salvage, they might just be in breach of contract.

She shuddered, from far more than the cold, at the idea of her command getting that type of black mark on a Mercenary Review Board report. It’d tarnish their record for decades. And every warrior in it. Which would tarnish my dream…

She shook off her ruminations, knowing she had a job to do, despite disagreeing with Jeffers. She ignored the nine meters to the ground below the cold grate of the repair hoist she stood on, and studied the gaping wound in the chest of the 65-ton Thunderbolt standing before her. A gust of wind and swirling snow momentarily blinded while her frustration mounted. How in Blake’s Blood can I fix this in a day? Field repair was one thing. But to think she and her team could work a miracle without moving the ’Mech back to their DropShip—which the Major kept safe in orbit—well…that was just stupid for stupid’s sake.

Chloe slammed her thin gloves together and ran in place for a moment, heavy-footed boots banging loudly on the grating, both to bring warmth and stave off more of her internal biting commentary. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start unconsciously muttering under her breath, and there’d be hell to pay if her mic picked it up. Like last time.

She finally moved to the edge of the gantry grating, further inspecting the hole. Hard to tell whether it was laser, PPC, or autocannon fire that had done the deed. Then again, the scorch marks and deep rents in the armor—even outside the gaping hole—probably meant a mishmash of all three. She moved the bright halogen lamp, at the end of a bending, telescoping tube, into a better position to see the damage.

A dunce could see that two of the three medium lasers jutting from the left torso were simply gone, blasted away in the debilitating damage that left the beast of a BattleMech in her care to fix. The third laser might still be operable, but she wouldn’t know until she ran some diagnostics.

Though her eyes told her all she needed to know, she loved the feel of a ’Mech between her fingers. Part of why she wore such thin gloves; several days back, she’d tried taking them off to touch a component and had lost a layer of skin to the ice-cold metal. She reached out and traced through the damage, trying for her usual feel despite the cold and gloves.

All four layers of ’Mech armor were fully breached across almost a meter of chest plating. The first two layers represented aligned-crystal steel over a layer of boron nitride impregnated with diamond monofilaments. Despite her exacting knowledge of the engineering involved, the notion that only a mere centimeter or two of armor plating could protect a MechWarrior against the horrifying kinetic energy of ballistic weapons and the kilojoules from lasers and PPCs never ceased to amaze. She felt below those two layers to the titanium alloy honeycomb that kept the armor in place and prevented too much flexing under stress, and the final layer, the polymer sealant that kept the ’Mech air- and watertight. She breathed a sigh of relief as she noted the hole only traversed through two panels of armor. That would cut down on repair time and require fewer armor plates, which they were starting to run low on. After all, they’d come supplied for a raid, not such a long hunt. I would’ve brought a lot more supplies. Always bring more supplies.

Despite the good news on the armor, the ribs of the internal structure through the right-hand side of the chest were rather mangled. She knelt onto the grating—ignoring the spike of cold even through the cold-weather pants—and pushed the end of the lamp through the hole so she could better see the damage.

Once more her fingers traced the giant-sized skeleton ribs that made up the internal structure of every BattleMech. The honeycombed, foamed-aluminum core wrapped with stressed silicon carbide monofilament and sheathed by a rigid, titanium-steel shell was a brilliant combination of strength and low weight. But the weight savings meant weapons fire mangled easily once past the external armor. Three of the ribs were shorn off, their foamed-aluminum cores standing out like diseased stumps, while the other half on the left side held stress fractures.

“Blake’s Blood.” This was gonna be a hefty price tag. The damage looked far worse across this whole portion of the chest. Did the stupid pilot fall down? Several times? She’d have a talk with the idiot to remind him he needed to stop destroying her work.

Chloe breathed deeply in frustration only to cough momentarily as the cold bit into her nose and throat, all the way to her lungs. There has to be a beach on this stupid world. Somewhere.

She shimmied farther into the hole, unplugged a noteputer from her belt, jacked it into the connector plate for diagnostics, and ran a check through the monster’s fusion reactor. They’d already run Geiger counter checks on the machine to know if any large breaches had occurred, but it was time to run the full algorithms on the heart of the metal titan. Even a hint of a stress fracture on the fusion-engine’s outer casing and she’d be done, ordering the machine decommissioned until they could get it to the repair facilities on the DropShip, which might let her fix any such issues. And if not then, she’d hold off until they were back to their full tech facility back on New Kyoto. The major would yell like a banshee, but when it came to this, Chloe’s word was law. She loved it.

After several minutes she finished the diagnostics. The fusion reactor was in fine shape and had avoided all of the damage. She tapped in her security code, double-verified with a quick retina scan she had to lift up her goggles to access—much to her displeasure as a flurry of snow streamed into the hole behind her—and she initiated the fusion reactor. Woke the heart of the machine and cycled it up to full activity. She then ran a sequence where the reactor spiked hot—within well-established safety parameters—which allowed her to access the system of coolant and heat sinks, which kept the substantial waste heat generated during combat under control. Once again the system reported nominal, and she nodded at how many C-bills she wouldn’t have to move to the spent column in her mental ledger.

Finally, she ran a system diagnostics on the Thunderbolt’s weapons. The Sunglow Type 2 large laser, Delta Dart 15 long-range missile rack, Bical Twin-Rack short-range missile launcher, and paired Voelkers 200 machine guns all reported systems nominal. (Ammo was pretty low, though.) However, despite hope, the remaining Diverse Optics Type 18 medium laser was nonfunctional. She’d have to strip the laser out and see whether they could salvage it instead of having to replace all three. As it was, they only had one spare medium laser on hand, after she’d had to replace all four on Captain Jorgenson’s Grasshopper. She’d argued against it, but the major’s call held, leaving them unable to fix any other such issues on other BattleMechs. Unless they secured some good salvage in the next engagement. Fat luck that’s been doing us of late. New leadership is what we need.

She was about to crawl back out of the hole when she realized that her growing frustration with the major’s poor choices and the endless cold made her forget to run diagnostics on one of the most important parts of the BattleMech: the gyro. “Stupid woman,” she berated herself as she settled back in.

“What’s that, Cap?” Tilo’s voice exploded in her earbud, causing her to jump and hit her head.

“Blake’s Blood, Tilo. Warn a woman.”

“Sorry, Chloe,” he responded in his best kicked-puppy voice. “Thought I heard you asking for something. I’m just about done loading the armor plating on the J-24. It was two, right?”

She smiled, even as she rubbed away the pain. The boy would be a serious tech someday. “Good eye, Tilo. Two plates indeed. However, there’s a pile of internal structure damage. Far more than we thought. We’re gonna need to graft some sections. Reseal others.”

“I’ll load on some structure segments, sheathing composites, and the sealant extruder. That’ll take another twenty, at least.”

“Get it here earlier. I’ll finish the rest of the diagnostics.”

A long-suffering sigh. “You got it, Cap.”

Her endearing smile broadened. He shouldn’t call her “Cap”; she wasn’t an officer, let alone a captain. And if the major—much less the colonel—heard such a nickname, there’d be hell to pay. But she liked it. Liked it a lot.

She finished cycling the reactor back online, at its lowest levels, which allowed her to access the gyroscope. If the fusion reactor was the heart of the machine, and the MechWarrior the parietal lobes of the brain, the gyroscope was a combination of the amygdala and the inner ear: a system of balancing sensors with a multi-ton, brute-force assembly of reaction wheels, to keep the dozen-meter-tall avatars of war upright. And while a damaged gyro didn’t include the scare of nasty nuclear materials that could permanently ruin your day, it would still end a battle quicker than anything this side of a headshot that killed a MechWarrior outright. Hard enough to sit in the head of a BattleMech and pilot it into battle. (Memories bubbled, which she quickly pushed away.) But without a gyro, a ’Mech was a ludicrously expensive, high-tech puppet with its strings cut. Luckily, this crucial element was undamaged. More C-bills kept in the reserve column. While tracking repair costs for the entire mercenary command certainly wasn’t her responsibility, she couldn’t help herself. She kept track of expenditures in columns far beyond her own tech-related sphere.

She wiggled back out through the hole, just as the crunch of snow and growl of a diesel engine announced the arrival of Tilo’s J-24, ahead of schedule. A cousin to the J-27 ammo carrier, the low-slung vehicle was a large flatbed truck armed with a whole series of adjustable sides and short cranes that allowed for transporting a variety of components, including lifting said components easily onto and off of its bed.

She gave a wave as the young man leapt from the J-24’s cab and excitedly undid the securing straps on its cargo. Like a puppy frolicking in the snow. She smiled and dug into her reserves after weeks of too-little sleep, knowing days’ worth of work lay ahead to get the Thunderbolt back into fighting shape—despite the order to only make it one day—and back in the hands of a MechWarrior who could help fulfill the outfit’s contract.

Ah, the glamorous life of a mercenary. Still her dream, just not exactly how she wanted it to be. Yet.

BLACKHEARTS BIVOUAC

GREINWALD, WING

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

21 NOVEMBER 2994

“You gave your report on the status of our repairs. Why are we still having this conversation, Tech Reed?” Major Jeffers demanded, accentuating her title as though a whip to her back. Standing in the corner of the command tent they’d just erected after their last move to keep the Thirtieth Marik Militia off their trail in their continued fox-and-hound fighting, Chloe tried standing taller. The height difference—much less the gap between their ranks or the MechWarrior versus technician divide—made her self-conscious. Why won’t he listen to reason?

“We’re wasting away out there, sir,” she continued, trying to keep her voice reasonable. “We should be striking at the city of Wyvern. That’ll pull some of their forces away from Port Wyvern and allow us to bring in our DropShip for a low pass, guns blazing. We time it with our own ground assault, and we can take a chunk of the Militia now and be done with it.”

Despite the cold, the man had just entered the tent straight from his Orion’s cockpit, so he stood in a cooling vest, shorts, boots, and not much else. He doesn’t even have the decency to have goose bumps on his arms!

His voice grew rougher, if possible. “So, Tech Reed, let me get this straight. You want us to attack a civilian center—”

“It’s not a full attack, sir,” she interrupted. “It would just be a surgical strike that will force them to deploy to protect the city. If we…” Her voice trailed off as her commander’s eyes grew fierce, as though PPCs flickering with a desire to incinerate.

“Tech Reed, I have done you the courtesy of listening. Now you will pay me the same courtesy. Especially to your commanding officer.”

“Yessir.”

“First,” he grated out, holding up a finger as though the hand of God to write on a stone tablet. “Even a ‘surgical strike,’ as you call it, can be exceedingly dangerous around civilians. You know this. You’ve been at the edges of such actions before. So easy for soft-target damage. And once civilian blood flows, everyone gets angry. Especially at mercenaries. Second,” he continued, another finger jabbing into place, “you want to split our forces in the face of our enemy. Not out here, where perhaps we might find some advantage in terrain and the sweeping snow, but cozied right up next to their base’s defensive positions, as though we’re hoping to steal a kiss and be away without any problems?” The third finger jabbed into the air, like a punch to her gut. “Third, you want to take our Overlord-class DropShip, our only ride off this cold continent, and risk it in a crazy maneuver over such defensive positions?” All three fingers rotated to an accusatory triad of judgment. “And you know this, because you’re a MechWarrior and have field-command experience, Tech Reed?”

She tried to find her tongue, and despaired at its betrayal in a moment where she could finally face this arrogant bastard down.

“That’s what I thought, Tech Reed. You. Are. A. Tech. Not a MechWarrior. Not a field commander. The sooner you stop playing at such antics, the easier all our lives will be. I keep you around because your skills are unparalleled at keeping my men in their rides. But you keep pushing me like this, and I don’t care if I have to take a lashing from the colonel that will leave me standing for a week, I will terminate your contract and leave you stranded on this hellhole. Do you understand me, Tech Reed?”

Anger boiled, but she could not find her voice against the towering fury of her commander, and she simply nodded her head, moving to leave before she said something that would enact such punishment. Major Jeffers was already speaking with a communications officer that had attempted to hide at his terminal during their fight, Chloe forgotten.

“You arrogant prick,” she muttered as she moved out into the snow, strapping on her goggles and pulling up her hood against the cold; it also hid the sight of the crimson stain that washed her face over such a public humiliation. I could be a MechWarrior if you would give me a chance. And I can damn well see what’s right in front of me. You’re going to get us all killed out here…

Yet she was as trapped as anyone else in the Blackhearts battalion stuck in the snow. She hiked through the muddy slurry stamped by too many moving bodies, vehicles, and BattleMech footfalls as she wondered how they might all get out.

BLACKHEARTS BIVOUAC

GREINWALD, WING

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

5 DECEMBER 2994

Chloe lay on her back, hanging at a terrible angle, half off the deck of the repair platform while her upper body was wedged into a small hole. She knew she appeared utterly ridiculous. But at the moment, overheating yet freezing as the winter on the Greinwald polar continent of Wing continued to worsen, she couldn’t care less. She also tried to ignore that their “raid” still dragged on. Feels like we’ve been here for all three Succession Wars. No wonder they’ve been dragging on for centuries. Everyone just goes through the motions, endlessly stuck in a cycle they can’t break. “Pssh, there ya go, thinking philosophy while hanging seven meters in the air. Perfect. Just perfect.”

“Um, Cap, you okay?” Tilo said in her earbud. The tone spoke volumes.

“Ignore me, Tilo. I’m just feeling philosophical today. Someday, during the Sixth Succession War, archeologists are going to find our corpses in ice, frozen solid to these machines. And they’ll wonder why we didn’t just, you know, lift off-world!”

“Cap, you know why.”

“Yeah, yeah, contract, bylaws, defaulting, blah, blah.”

“You’re just mad because in a couple months, if you’re not back on New Kyoto, you’re gonna miss your merchant trader beau. Nikolai is scheduled to make planetfall for a supply run soon, right?”

The flash of embarrassment warmed her until the cold was almost forgotten. “How did you—” she sputtered.

“You really need to watch what you mutter when you’re in the bowels of a ’Mech. Luckily you keep it G-rated. ’Cause, you know, I got innocent ears. But still…most of the crew knows you got a man coming. Good on ya.”

She didn’t think it was possible to further overheat in this frigid weather, but she was attempting that feat.

“Shut up, Tilo. I’ve got work to do.”

His laughter both infuriated and settled her racing heartbeat. Just can’t stay mad at that kid.

She ignored the sweat starting to trickle up her chest and back, and got to work once more. The damage to the upper right arm of the 45-ton Phoenix Hawk really wasn’t too bad. But it had left the appendage dangling, with the pilot unable to affect much movement. Since the machine’s largest weapon lay embraced in the ’Mech’s right hand, that didn’t allow for precision aiming, let alone destroying the enemy.

She’d stripped out the damaged polyacetylene bundles of electrified, twisted strands that acted as the BattleMech’s muscles, contracting anytime electricity was applied. She’d restrung several refurbished bundles (she’d not seen brand new in ages), and was working the last, heavy strand into its connection point with the elbow joint that represented the lower-arm actuator. Luckily the Motor Control Unit for that section hadn’t been damaged, as she wasn’t sure she had a replacement. Memories surfaced of her meeting Nikolai for the first time years ago while he was hunting for a rare, Star League era MCU. With their involvement not broadcast to the world, she held such memories close and let the pleasing warmth (despite sweat!) carry her through the last, meticulous work that returned the arm back to a full range of motion.

The explosions were deafening, even shielded as she was by the BattleMech.

Pain tingled up her back as the entire Phoenix Hawk shook, her legs flopping outside the hole like a fish out of water. For a horrifying moment of terrible vertigo, she thought the machine might topple, but it settled. She scrambled out and to a standing position, just as another rain of missiles fell across their field position, several slamming into the repair platform itself. A flash of motion showed an entire company of purple-painted BattleMechs sweeping in from the heavy snow. Lasers, PPCs and autocannons crisscrossed the air in a scintillating skein of death. The concussive force of the missile blasts, combined with the abrupt rush of blood to her head after so long at a downward angle, forced her vision into wavering lines of narrowing blackness. Her stomach heaved as she realized she was in free fall, dropping several meters to the ground after momentarily blacking out and falling off the edge of the gantry.

I never got to share my dream with Nikolai…

Chloe hammered into the ground with a searing impact, and she gasped desperately for breath, as though drowning, unable to reach the air all around. Explosions and screams spread around her but remained a background cacophony to her desperate need to drag in just one lungful of air and live…

After a long, endless eternity, her lungs finally gasped, painfully drawing in air filled with spent propellant, burning diesel fuel, and the smell she wished she simply would never remember again: burnt flesh.

She lay dazed for several minutes before belief saturated her being that she was not about to die. Not yet, at least. She slowly pushed her awareness out, until she saw she’d landed in a heavy snowbank, which had saved her life. A scant two meters away, the toppled Phoenix Hawk lay across the destroyed repair gantry, fresh wounds pockmarking its rear armor.

Beyond, she could see the black, white, and grey tiger stripe-painted BattleMechs of the Blackhearts finally creating a cohesive response, their superior numbers repelling the bright purple of the Thirtieth Marik Militia. But she knew instinctively the Militia was already withdrawing. They’d done their damage, having finally tracked the roaming bivouac of the mercenaries.

Perhaps, just perhaps the Militia might lose enough forces in this engagement to fulfill the Blackhearts’ contract. But regardless, they were through. The battalion detailed to this raid had been pushed beyond its capacity. Despite everything she’d done to try forcing the major into a more sustainable raid, he’d wasted too many lives and C-bills. As soon as this zone could be secured, she knew he’d have to call down the DropShip and finally leave House Marik their world and return to New Kyoto.

Tears from acrid smoke turned to wracking sobs as she finally became aware of Tilo’s hair, tousled by the wind, face caked in blood, dead eyes accusing her as he burned under the collapsed repair gantry.

HIRIHITO, NEW KYOTO

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

2 FEBRUARY 2995

“I don’t care about an additional five-percent pay increase, or your robust indemnification clause that protects me from any malfeasance involved in dereliction of my duty,” Chloe said. She took a sip of the offered cognac, the mellow taste of flowers and citrus on her tongue warmed away the cold outside. Though compared to the horrors of the arctic fighting back on Wing, it was practically a summer’s day outside on the streets of the busy Hirihito city, as the sun set.

She glanced back from the window, and her deliberate casualness refocused on the man sitting across from her. Perhaps in his sixties, well past his prime as a soldier, he was still fit and trim, his suit showing that off to good measure. His large, handlebar mustache—not to her taste, but impressive—framed a thin, tall face, with knowing yet kind eyes.

“You don’t find those generous?”

She took another sip, placing the heavy glass back on the edge of the diminutive table that fit well in the small office they occupied. Through the interior window she could hear several people talking and the clatter of rather loud typing, which she could only assume was a secretary.

“Liaison Jamal,” she continued after once more savoring the expensive drink. “Of course I find them generous. However, your initial offer was generous.”

“Yet you didn’t accept it.”

“I was happy with the Blackhearts.” Then. She barely managed to keep her voice from trembling.

“We assumed you were content with your current employer. Hence, some additional encouragements to see if perhaps you might find a better place.” He took a careful sip from his own glass, somehow managing to not look ridiculous in doing so with such facial hair.

She leaned back, looking at the recruiter for several long moments. She couldn’t go back to working for the Blackhearts. It simply wasn’t tenable. Not anymore. “You already gave me a twenty-percent pay increase. Not to mention a very generous signing bonus.”

He nodded. “Only what you’re worth, Tech Reed.”

She nodded at the compliment. “However, I neither seek to be rich, nor do I ever intend to be derelict in my duty.”

He quirked an eyebrow, waiting. The game of negotiations was always so delicate, and this was a man who could walk on eggshells and not make a sound. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

She’d terminated her contract with the Blackhearts the moment she stepped back on New Kyoto. But that meant there was no home for her among her old mercenaries. Some of them might welcome her, but she couldn’t bring herself to visit the base for fear of running into Major Jeffers, who’d suffered no real ill will from the raid, as far as she could tell. After all, he’d fulfilled the contract in the end, destroying enough of the Thirtieth Marik Militia to leave the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces happy and continuing to pay the bills.

I cannot lose this. She’d tried three other commands, only to be turned down. If she lost this one as well, she’d have to figure out how to get off world, and she was practically broke. (A mistake she would never make again.)

A mercenary life was all she’d ever known. All she ever wanted. But she needed it on her own terms. It was time to start taking those terms in hand.

“I will pass on the additional raise, and the indemnity clause. However, I want a new clause added. I will be trained as a MechWarrior and allowed to fight.”

A small change in his posture and eyes, and she knew she’d reached too far, too fast.

“You can put as strict limits on that as possible,” she rushed out, knowing she was starting to lose the battle—again. “I will pass every test your instructors place in front of me before I’m allowed into combat.”

“Tech Reed, you are a superb tech.”

“With exceptional contacts,” she interjected, desperately trying to find a firm footing in the quicksand now pulling her down.

He held up large, weathered hands that showed old calluses of a MechWarrior long used to battle, hands that were still working as best they could for the command they would serve until the day their owner died.

If only I could find such a place.

“I’m well aware of your contacts. That is why the contract was so generous. But you are a tech. Not a MechWarrior. You’re asking us to hire you for one job while also footing the bill to train you for a second job?”

“I’ll not only waive the additional percentage raise, but will also waive thirty percent of my standard salary to cover such costs. As well as flip that indemnity clause and bear the weight myself if I inflict any damage beyond the standard parameters while piloting said BattleMech.” She hated the edge of desperation she heard in her voice. Her mind kept casting about for something, anything, to salvage the situation.

Liaison Jamal drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, taking on a stare as though seriously thinking through the offer. But she could already tell by the set of his shoulders. She’d not won him over. It wasn’t enough.

Nikolai. I should be seeing you any day now… Could you help? What could you do to help me?

“Tech Reed. That is a generous counter offer, but it is not enough. I know my commander was more than willing to bargain hard to secure your contract. But I have only so much leeway. He’d dock my pay if I were to bring him back such a poor deal. Are you sure that must be a part of the contract? We’re happy to return this offer,” he continued, tapping the set of papers between them, “and I’ll even move the five-percent raise on the second offer to a seven-point-five.”

A dangerous thought had blossomed in her mind while he spoke. The kind of thought that only sprouts out of desperation. And she was desperate. After four years of friendship that had blossomed into love, she thought she knew Nikolai. But would he do this for her? She would be dropping this on him out of the blue, after not seeing him for six months. They’d talked about their dreams together, and his had always centered around becoming a Merchant Captain. But underneath it all, wasn’t it just freedom he sought? Freedom they could both find in a different path, together?

She realized Jamal was getting a concerned look on his face at her continued silence. She would either make their dreams a reality or destroy them both. She simply didn’t have a choice.

“Jamal, I have a counteroffer for you…”

HIRIHITO, NEW KYOTO

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

5 FEBRUARY 2995

The sex had been frenetic and loud, with a primal urgency, as it always was after such a long absence. Now they lay among tousled sheets, bodies still intertwined, breathing returning to normal, as they drank in the essence of each other.

If only this were enough. The blissful, companionable silence stretched, but her heartbeat picked up several notches as she realized she couldn’t wait any longer. She dragged herself out of his tender embrace to sit at the edge of the bed.

In the dim light of the hotel room, moonlight dappled through the curtains. She loved every curve and line of Nikolai. Her eyes met his, and they shared a long smile before she turned away. Will this be the end?

“Chloe, what’s wrong?” he said.

This moment… Can I let it stretch just a little longer?

“I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw you,” he said. “I gave you space and time. But I’m not sleeping until I know what’s wrong. How can I help?”

Those last words were a spike to her heart. Such kind, selfless words. The most kind voice of anyone she’d ever known. And she was about to put a stake in it. She took a deep breath, faced the fear and turned back to him.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Anyth—”

“No!” she interrupted, the harshness in her tone surprising them both. “Do not say anything. Not until you’ve heard me out. Because it’s the greatest favor I’ve ever asked of anyone in my entire life.”

Nikolai cracked a smile and sat up against the headboard. “More than the favor when we first met? Is this you finally calling that card?”

She drank in the love in his eyes, terrified of what would come next. “Yes. And more.” She swallowed in a suddenly dry mouth and stood up, heedless of her nakedness, and got a drink of water before sitting back at the edge of the bed. “Nikolai, I love being a mercenary. The life, the freedom. It’s all I’ve ever known. But it’s not real freedom. Too many others are in control of my life. I’ve left the Blackhearts.”

He cocked his head. “Oh? Who’s your new command?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you?”

Confusion moved over his features as he crossed his legs under the sheets and leaned forward to bring his hands together. “I’m confused.”

“I want my own command someday.”

“Sure. Doesn’t every mercenary?”

“I mean it. Someday I will have my own command. But to get here from there, I need to become a MechWarrior.”

Surprise worked its way past confusion. “Um…okay.”

“I’ve…” She paused, feeling far more naked than just her skin in the moment. “I’ve had training before. A lot, in fact,” she finished, giving up something she’d never told a soul since. If I’m going to ruin his life, he deserves to hold a part of my life in his.

“Um, okay.” There was a legion of questions in that tone, but so much trust as he voiced none of them.

“But it’s been awhile. And, well, it’s not really the same thing here. I need current training as a MechWarrior. But I still have to hold down my position as a tech.”

“I can see how that would hold down even you.”

She smiled sickly, past the sarcasm, her nervousness carving an ache in her stomach. Time to tear off the bandage.

“I offered them two people for the price of one.

“Um, what?”

“I told them that a superb trader, aspiring tech, and someone building their own network of logistics contacts would join me under a slightly expanded contract.”

Nikolai’s surprise shifted to shock. And then she watched it slowly morph to anger.

“You had no right. That may be your dream, but I’ve got my own dreams. You’ve no idea the pain and hell I’ve lived through to reach where I’m at.” He stood up abruptly, moving to slide on pants and tug on a shirt. “And I’m supposed to just, what, give that up because you asked? No, you didn’t ask. You’re telling. I might’ve been able to deal with asking. But you just told me. ‘Hey, hon, that sex was good, right? Well, that was payment for trashing your dreams, because mine are more important!’” His raging words tore at her with their truthfulness.

He stormed out the door without even putting on his shoes, and her dream turned to ashes in his wake.

RED STONE CITY

BONE-NORMAN

TRELLSHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

15 JULY 2995

Chloe’s hand rested on the foot of the ten-meter-tall avatar of war. Glanced up, eyes watering at the too-bright white sun of this new world, as she made out the distinctive shape of the 55-ton Shadow Hawk, then stepped back forlornly. Reached down, hefted her toolkit, and hiked back across the tarmac. Perhaps someday….

“Tech Reed,” a voice called out.

She stopped and turned as a MechWarrior in his togs trotted up to her, while another figure, much further away, waved in her direction and walked toward her as well. A waft of hot, hard air swept across the tarmac, bringing the heat and grit from the deep deserts of the badlands that straddled the entire equatorial region of this desolate, backwater world. Beyond the tarmac, sweeping up from the DropPort, was the sparse but hospitable-looking Red Stone City, which festooned the flanks of the sweeping, titanic rock that sprang up out of the desert as though the wind had etched everything else away over countless millennia. And at the peak, even at this distance, she could see the Red Stone Palace, a massive edifice carved directly out of that brilliantly red native rock, housing the planetary government and the station of her new mercenary home.

“Yes?” she replied.

“I’m Lieutenant Dawson Clarmont.”

She couldn’t help the surprise that swept her features. The young man laughed, and the tone and smile mirrored Tilo for a moment, sparking a wistfulness. I’m gonna miss you, my puppy.

“I know, I know,” he responded. “I’m much too young to have lieutenant’s bars.”

Chloe nodded carefully. “Hard to think otherwise.”

“Yup. But I bet you’ll learn quick enough.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Um, are you here to greet me? We already got the welcome wagon.”

“Sure, sure. All the official orientation stuff. But has anyone just come up to say hello?”

“No,” she admitted. “Not yet.” Amazing how much that helped.

“Well, let me be the first. After all, how far did you come for this fabulous station and beauty at the center of nobility and high society?!” He practically bellowed, sweeping his arms to encompass the stark, harsh environs all around.

“Almost five hundred light-years,” she responded sheepishly.

He whistled, eyes widening. “Hot damn, even farther than I thought. From the center to the very edge of the Periphery. You jump once more and you’re out in the boondocks. Pirates’ll eat ya for dinner if you’re not careful.”

She laughed in response to his natural warmth. “I’ll be careful.”

“Chloe,” another voice broke in.

She turned, and despite five months of journeying, it still felt newly fresh to fall into his eyes. Five hundred light-years and giving up everything, to follow her dream. Now their dream. “Nikolai, I was wondering where you’d gotten yourself to after the orientation.”

He smiled back, the flash of emotions a match for any heat of the deep desert. “Just finding the local bars. Gotta start making contacts.” He glanced down at his feet and then back at her. “If we’re gonna be here a while, I guess I’m glad its lower than standard Terran gravity. All this weight is gonna take some getting used to.” They laughed at the shared joke.

“I’m Lieutenant Dawson Clarmont,” the other man spoke up. He and Nikolai saluted before shaking hands.

“I noticed you eying the Shadow Hawk,” Clarmont continued towards Chloe.

“Always been partial to a good mix of maneuverability and firepower,” she said.

“It is that…but, you know you can’t start there.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, still looking longingly at a ride perhaps years away.

“We’ve got a beat-up twenty-ton Stinger with your name on it. Held together more with spit and baling wire than anything else, but in your off-hours, the colonel’s given me permission to start teaching you. Maybe someday you’ll work your way up to that ’Hawk.”

She smiled, glanced at Nikolai, knowing the price already paid. She’d make it. And a lot faster than a couple of years. They both would.

Clarmont joined their laughter, and he companionably threw his arms over both of them as they began walking toward their new home.

“Welcome to the Grave Walkers.”

3

Endless War

DEFIANCE INDUSTRIES BATTLEMECH FACTORY DROPPORT

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

5 APRIL 2997

The air came alive and tried to throttle Ryana Campbell as the building-sized DropShip slowed to a crawl on a quartet of hundreds-meter long fusion tongues of flame. Their exhaust blasted the air with a concussive force that almost made her rib cage quake, and she was glad for the ear protection she’d thrown on. The largest DropShip able to land on a world, the venerable, 52,000-ton Mammoth-class DropShip inched towards the ground, its four giant thruster nacelles on it sides expertly maneuvered by the pilot until it touched down in its cradle at the Defiance Industries BattleMech Factory DropPort. Despite the five kilometer distance, she squinted against the blast of detritus and dust washing past her position.

Almost before engine shut off, a massive, Gienah-Durapaq Elite Series 3 land train began trundling towards the DropShip and its three companions that had landed prior to this final grounding. This was a large-scale resupply. The Mammoth alone carried nearly 20,000 tons of cargo. Between the four DropShips, some 60,000 tons of materials to unload. And they would not leave empty-handed, as the precious cargo of new BattleMechs and combat vehicles spewed out by the titanic Defiance Industries factories would spread back to the stars and waiting clients, be they House Lords, nobles, mercenaries, or even a corporation that could afford the extra security. Such land trains as the G-D were usually reserved for long-distance travel across sparsely settled worlds. That they were employed for simply moving supplies across such a short distance showed the almost unimaginable wealth centered on Hesperus II, within the Lyran Commonwealth, wealthiest star empire of the Inner Sphere.

Ryana realized she was avoiding her duty and swung up into the passenger seat of the cab for the Iveco Burro truck, closing the door and stripping off the sound dampeners. The sergeant at the wheel gave her a thumbs-up to her nod and drove toward the waiting DropShip.

By the time she arrived, a veritable army of personnel had already descended on the four DropShips. Large port doors along the sides of the vessels began lowering to the ground for easy access, and cranes were moving into position to offload cargo.

She was grateful for the taciturn driver; he pulled up next to one of the smaller bay doors, where a handful of people milled about, unsure of where to go.

She clucked her tongue at her own woolgathering. Should’ve been here the moment the doors opened. That’s how we do it in the Eridani Light Horse.

She hopped to the ground and moved over to the two women and four men who perked up at her arrival. One of the women immediately caught her eye. Short of stature, but bright-green, intelligent eyes framed by shoulder-length, dark-brown hair. She held herself with both grace and an air of authority. Ryana glanced at the noteputer in her hand. Was she the new recruit from the Grave Walkers? Great marks there, despite the short tenure. She looked back up to see an unassuming man sidle closer than mere happenstance would allow. Right. She’s married, and even has a kid. The husband’s Nicholas? She glanced at her chart again. Right, Nikolai. He also had good marks. But such connections often brought baggage she didn’t care to let into her company. She glanced at the other names, and sucked in a large breath that brought an avalanche of sensory overload of superheated air, unwashed bodies, and more, before starting her drill-sergeant impression.

“Recruits. My name is Captain Ryana Campbell. Normally others, far more capable, would be placed in charge of your introductions to your new command. But by God, I am here, and you will present yourself.”

“Jasmine Carmine.” The taller woman immediately stepped forward, snapping a salute. “I am excited to be here!” Ryana discounted her almost immediately. Too much excitement got you killed.

“Jeho Rahamad,” the large, swarthy man said. His hands and build spoke of infantryman. Major Keller will find a good home for you.

“Dawson Clarmont,” a towheaded young man said, brilliant smile flashing. Capable stats, but you use that smile too much like a tool. We’ll see.

“Chloe Reed,” the shorter woman spoke. Direct, to the point. Looks me right in the eye. And no salute, since you’ve not been officially transferred. The woman immediately went up in Ryana’s eyes. Knows the details.

“Boris Tuls,” a shorter man said, pushing past Chloe rudely. There’s a place for forthright and a place for decorum. Ryana discounted him.

“Nikolai Mason,” the final man said, whom she assumed was Chloe’s husband. He too kept his expression close and answered as minimally, as requested. Good.

She nodded, knowing she’d request both Chloe and Nikolai be placed under her command. If they were going to break or flower, it would be under her guidance.

“Grab your gear, recruits. It’s time to move you into your billets and put you through your paces. Welcome to the Eridani Light Horse.”

She pointed to the back of the truck and heaved herself back into the cab, wondering if Chloe, Nikolai, or any of them might last. Their new home was very hard on recruits.

DEFIANCE INDUSTRIES BATTLEMECH FACTORY

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

21 JUNE 2998

The heavy throb of the siren echoed throughout the cavernous ’Mech hangar, while the kicked ant hive of personnel swarmed within. Despite her years with the command, Ryana struggled to keep the contempt off her face as she calmly walked towards her towering avatar of war. You try to save a few minutes, but you always forget something in your pre-operational check list. Or you simply hit the ground running without thinking the situation through. Calm, methodical, think it through. She never understood why it appeared so difficult, even for veteran soldiers.

That didn’t mean you walked without purpose, of course; her long-limbed stride quickly ate up the distance, while wafts of air from the open titanic doors at the hangar’s end tickled the shaved sides of her scalp and caused her topknot to flutter. Arriving at the base of the berth holding her beloved Claidheamh-mór—“claymore” in Scottish Gaelic—she placed her hand on the huge, steel-clad foot, bowed her head for a moment amid the clamor, and said a quick prayer before stepping to the gantry hoist where her head tech stood waiting.

“How’s she doing, chief?” she asked the short man in overalls while her eyes drank in the towering presence of her beloved claymore. The lift vibrated, then began the climb up the side of the 90-ton BattleMech, while other MechWarriors throughout the ’Mech bay rode similar hoists to their waiting steeds; her company readying for battle.

“Just finished repairing the plating along the left foot actuator. If you’re going to keep trying your “Highlander Burials” to dispatch your enemies, I would solicitously request you take better care of her. There’s only so many times I can fix that foot actuator assembly. And when she is gone, there is no coming back. I care not to contemplate where I would find such a replacement for your rare ride, Captain.”

She usually ignored the reprimand heavily clogging his words, but today she managed to tear her eyes off her ancient BattleMech and glanced at Chief Tech Olfson. When she first heard such high-minded language, she’d assume a gangly pencil pusher. Instead, he was almost as round as he was tall, with a slovenly look that should’ve gotten him cashiered out of the Light Horse ages ago. That he still stood here, employed by one of the finest mercenary outfits found anywhere across the more than 2,000 worlds of the human-occupied Inner Sphere was a powerful testament to his skills at keeping MechWarriors in their cockpits. He and Chloe are like two peas in a pod when it comes to the tech side of things. She cocked an eyebrow, before returning her gaze to Claidheamh-mór as they passed the thighs of the anthropomorphic avatar of war, and the beginning of the giant weapon aperture—a Mydron Class B heavy autocannon—that encased the massive right arm.

“I was not jesting, Captain. All of these machines are old,” he continued, sweeping his hands to envelope the entire ’Mech hangar. “But few are as old, or as rare. For near-on four hundred years she’s been marched into battle. And endless Succession Wars have lost us ancient Star League tech, meaning her beautiful accouterments have been savaged. Replace by inferior equipment. She’s magnificent. But she’s a shadow of her former self.”

Ryana’s anger spiked as she looked at him again. “I know my history. And no need to insult her. Even without that tech, I run rings around any MechWarrior.”

He raised a hand to placate her ire. “I mean no disrespect. I love her as much as you. So please, take care of her. There’s only so many more miracles I might perform before the lostech spare parts I need either cannot be found, or are a king’s ransom that not even Brevet General Kerston will authorize.”

She turned away again and let her irritation go, knowing his words came from an affection that almost matched her own.

Nearing the end of the ride, the lift slowed as it passed the chest. The olive-drab camouflage of the BattleMech was interrupted by the large yellow disk set with a prancing horse: the banner of the Eridani Light Horse, known the Inner Sphere over. And next to that, a blue circle, with a yellow star, its oversized rays shooting to the right, the insignia of her own Twenty-first Striker Regiment. There were times she felt she could still see the blue-and-green tartan underneath that olive drab, hearkening to a previous life. But today, pride repulsed such usual memories. She’d acquired this billet on her own. This command. Her company.

Her commander, Major Nigel, had made noises about promoting her to XO of their Seventh Striker Battalion sooner rather than later. She’d let him know in no uncertain terms she was a MechWarrior. And she’d lead, but a captain was all she ever cared to be. Still expendable enough to be sent into the teeth of any fight. Exactly where I want to be.

Almost before the hoist came a stop fifteen meters above the deck plating below, she ignored the gate, slipped over the side and took a hop to the Highlander’s shoulder.

“Careful,” chief spoke in farewell.

Why do they always assume I’m not careful? I’m always careful…just not how they want me to be.

Unlike many BattleMechs, the Highlander’s shoulders were rather flat, allowing for easy maneuvering around to the ingress hatch located at the back of the square-shaped head. She didn’t need to key in a code as the chief had already prepped that stage, and she spun up the hatch, slipped inside, and dogged it tight.

Aromas more familiar than her own body engulfed her senses: burnt metal, well-worn leather, cleaning-solution residue, the tang of blood not completely removed. In that instant between shutting off the rest of the world and moving into her element, she felt as though she had a form of synesthesia, as the echoes of terror and elation from the dozens of pilots that occupied the cockpit over the centuries settled their mantle of responsibility on her skin. Goose bumps flared, and her heartbeat quickened. She stood at the event horizon between the two worlds for many long seconds before letting the euphoria pass, and she sidled past the bulk of the conn chair and settled into the seat. Though the interior was pitch black, she could be half dead and still walk through these motions more familiar than eating or breathing.

She reached forward to the console that wrapped nearly 180 degrees in front of her and tapped in the initiation protocols for the fusion reactor. Her chief had already started a warming sequence within minutes of the raid’s announcement, as a cold start could often take time they might not have. So her code simply brought it from a sleep state to awake. A Christmas tree of lights came to life as the Highlander’s heart pumped its power to every portion of the machine.

She snapped open a compartment on the side of her chair, and pulled out wires and med pads. She pulled the adhesive strip off each pad and firmly attached them to the inside of each thigh and arm. Then connector clips attached to each of the four medical monitors, and she strung the ends up through a loose loop of her cooling vest at her neck. She then reached up and to the right for the small shelf that held her neurohelmet. Pulling the heavy device down over her head, she settled the bulky item onto her shoulder pads, making sure she could see well. She then fished out the dangling cable ends and by feel socketed them into the part of the neurohelmet that rested against her chest. She then pulled another cable out of a self-winding slot in the other armrest and plugged it into her coolant vest, after which she synced the five-point restraining harness tight; she liked it tighter than most, as launching 90 tons in a heavy ballistic arc jostled more heavily than lighter ’Mechs did.

She then flipped a sequence of toggles, and her skin prickled as the numerous tubes of coolant jelly in her vest began cycling, ready to combat the deleterious heat of battle. Dizziness momentarily washed her senses as the neurohelmet came online and started syncing with the massive, three-ton gyro nestled just above the fusion reactor in the belly of her beast. She reached forward and keyed through two more sequences, carefully and methodically ticking off each item in the startup sequence and verifying all readouts before inviting another occupant to her party of solitude with a final flick of a switch.

“Voice authorization required,” the computer spoke. She knew a hundred warriors who customized the voice, from male to female, accent or none, and everything in between. She’d stayed with the original default it’d retained from the moment it walked off the assembly line and into the Star League Defense Force; it somehow seemed blasphemous to do otherwise.

“Captain Ryana Campbell,” she responded clearly.

“Voice recognition verified. Code phrase authorization.”

“Cha togar m’ fhearg gun dìoladh,” she spoke softly. Her Scottish Gaelic, though not her native tongue, was still as good as the day she’d left the Northwind Highlanders to forge her own destiny, out from under the too-helping arms of her adopted parents. No one can harm me unpunished. She shouldn’t still be using a motto of the Highlanders regiments. One of the longest histories of any combat command in the Inner Sphere, stretching as it did back more than 1,500 years to Scottish Highlands regiments on ancient Terra; a legacy their modern descendants (both in blood and spirit) fiercely protected. She’d left, of her own accord. And they’d given her a grandiose honor in allowing her to take the Highlander that had been in the regiment for nearly four centuries; she was still breathless anytime she contemplated the gift. But she no longer had the right to that legacy. And she’d come to terms with that, especially as she walked down paths of her own making, finding a home in the storied Light Horse. Yet she couldn’t completely let go of her youth and the comfort it brought in these moments of solitude.

The computer voice interrupted her reverie: “Reactor online. Sensors online. Weapons online. All systems nominal.”

The previously locked joystick, throttle, and pedals unsealed under the correct verification protocols, and the rest of the banked machine came to life; fifteen meters of war-forged majesty moved at her command. A smile of savage joy blossomed; her hands and feet found their true extensions as the machine took a cumbersome step out of the berth and toward one more battle.

DEFIANCE INDUSTRIES BATTLEMECH FACTORY

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

7 JULY 2998

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ryana spoke, teeth aching from clenching her jaw through the insanity.

The middle-aged officer flicked his eyes in her direction before returning his attention back to Colonel Charles Winston. Even though only his eyes moved, the medals on his bright blue-and-white dress uniform still jangled slightly as they collided with each other. There cannot be that many medals in any army. Did he just make some of those up?

“Colonel,” Leutnant-General Wilhelm Mouttheim continued, ignoring her interruption, his sonorous voice filled with enough condescension to drown anyone within its vicinity. “You will deploy your forces and eliminate the on-world threat.”

The tension in the command room stretched like a ’Mech’s contracted myomer muscles.

In the command center, across from a holotank showing the terrain of the Myoo Mountains for 500 kilometers in every direction, Leutnant-General Mouttheim of the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces faced off against Colonel Charles Winston, commander of the Eridani Light Horse’s Twenty-first Striker Regiment. The colonel’s Spartan field togs made the ostentatiousness of the general’s uniform all the more ludicrous. Beyond the two, a room of soldiers backed their respective leaders; half circles of Light Horsemen facing the Lyrans. The enemy’s out there, but Blake’s Blood, this prick is trying his best to make an enemy of the outfit that’s going to save his bacon.

Major Nigel, her direct commander, caught Ryana’s eye from across the half circle, imperceptibly shaking his head to keep her quiet. The resignation already in his eyes spoke volumes of how much he knew his best captain.

“Colonel,” Ryana spoke up again, trying to keep acerbity from coating her words in equal measure to the general’s condescension. “We already probed the initial attack. This is a reconnaissance in force. Somewhere north of six to eight companies. Fast, light, and good. Very good,” she admitted. And from any Light Horseman, that was praise indeed. “Our only advantage is numbers. And they have to come to us. Why split up and go hunting when we know exactly where they want to go? Let them come to us.”

The force of the general not looking at Ryana was palpable. “Colonel, you would let others speak for you?” The question was practically a slap. But Colonel Winston, nearly the same age as the general, remained impassive. The fact he was nearly fifteen centimeters taller than the Lyran, and built like a tank, allowed such passivity to be a slap all its own.

Silence stretched, only filled with the light hum of the holotank, and the shallow breaths of those awaiting a storm.

The general finally rotated his head toward Ryana, eyes halogens attempting to illuminate some vermin in the garbage heap. This vermin bites, Elsie.

“Instead of obeying a direct order,” the general spoke, “after failing to initially repulse these Free Worlds League invaders, you would invite them to our doorstep? In case you have forgotten, Captain,” he grated on, “this is the Defiance Industries BattleMech Factory. The single most important military contractor within our Commonwealth. This world is the single most important world in the Commonwealth. No, it’s the single most important world in the entire Inner Sphere. No other facilities can match our BattleMech and vehicle output. Its loss would deal a blow to our economy, much less devastate our military’s capability to defend against the stellar empires of House Marik and House Kurita ravening at our borders. And you would what? Ask them over for tea?”

He glanced around, lips turned up in what she assumed was a smile, if that twisted caricature could be called that. The bevy of sycophants that accompanied the general smiled, and some even chuckled in return.

Ryana easily faced down the man. After all, she’d stood in front of charging armies. This pathetic man only held his role due to either his blood or a bribe that would make the dirtiest merchant blush with shame. Either way, this “social general” easily showed his colors with such stupid tactics.

“It was your command’s decision that stripped three regiments off this, your most precious world, and sent them adventuring into Marik space. So what, Colonel Steiner and your Archon could pull down their pants and measure against the League’s new Captain-General?” The tailor-made insult evoked the outrage she hoped for; she ignored Major Nigel as he held a hand over his eyes as though he couldn’t watch the train wreck any longer. However, she also noticed amid her tirade that Colonel Winston’s impressively impassive blue eyes were on her, his thoughts inscrutable as ever. For a moment she balked, wondering if she’d crossed a line. But then forged on, having the bit in her teeth.

“So now you’re left with us. The Light Horse, to protect your prize while the cats are away to play. Mercenaries you specifically trusted with the entire defense of the planet. So why are you hamstringing us? Let us do our jobs, and not only will your precious Defiance Industries remain untouched, but House Marik will get a bloody nose they won’t forget.”

Leutnant-General Mouttheim’s mouth had slowly dropped open under the onslaught, features filled with incredulity, though anger quickly replaced it. He swiveled back away from Ryana to Colonel Winston. “Colonel, I do not appreciate you letting one of your dogs snarl insults at me while you obviously support her insubordination. By the contract you signed, you are under my direct command when it comes to the immediate defense of these facilities. As you were not able to dispatch the attackers beyond the designated two-hundred-kilometer range, and their reconnaissance probes have been spotted less than a hundred and fifty klicks from the outer garrisons, you have no choice. This falls under my command. You will deploy troops to hunt down and destroy these invaders. That includes your forces deployed at the city of Tallowrand.”

Bated breath held around the entire room at the forceful announcement, before Colonel Winston nodded his acquiescence. “We will deploy.”

Ryana felt gut-punched, especially at the self-congratulatory look that swept the general’s face. As though he’d personally placed a bridle on the wild Light Horse and had just broken the merc outfit to his command.

Colonel Winston looked at Ryana momentarily before turning toward the other commanders in the center to start giving orders.

What was that look about? Why did he let me run my mouth if he wasn’t going to support me? Just to insult the Elsie? Did he not care at all for my strategy? Seemed as plain as the fact the general’s mother obviously never took that brat over her knee. The questions cascaded in a confusion of loops that tangled and frustrated. She stomped out of the room, knowing she’d be in the thick of it again.

Blake’s Blood, I hate command.

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

21 JULY 2998

Ryana grasped the throttle with her left hand and pushed it full forward. The fusion reactor at the heart of her BattleMech thrummed as she tapped power for maximum speed. The 90-ton BattleMech surged forward, steel-shod feet tearing up large chunks of the high mountain meadow she traversed. The enemy BattleMech lance, in distinctive Marik purples, wove a zigzag pattern as the reconnaissance probe, having found more Light Horse than they expected, attempted to escape. Again.

The rhythmic sway of her ride as it galloped smoothly at over fifty kilometers an hour brought a savage pride. Her feet carefully caressed the twin foot pedals, steering the running Highlander around berms and pits that might cause it to stumble.

“Do not let them escape,” she growled, her voice loud enough for her throat mic to open the comm channel to her company. The others in her command, in far faster ’Mechs, quickly outdistanced her, trying to bracket the fleeing light and medium machines on the run, like a pack of wolves corralling their prey.

She couldn’t possibly catch them. The slowest of the enemy BattleMechs could walk faster than she ran. But she wasn’t attempting that. Instead, she was arrowing at an oblique angle from their travel across the high plateau, with the sun sparkling brightly across the lake at the far end, set against a rearing, snow-packed peak. If not for the unfolding battle, she’d pause to appreciate the picturesque scene.

Her right hand eased into the joystick at the end of her conn chair’s right armrest. As though a hand to a lover’s back, it fit like a glove she’d always known she would wear. This. This is what drove her. Not some command her superior officers kept trying to force down her throat. This drive, with the soldiers at her back. Where she could make a difference, get the job done, and protect her company.

She twisted the stick, which moved the targeting reticule across the forward viewscreen, bringing it to bear against the 20-ton Locust that sprinted at high speed—well over 100 kilometers per hour—the heavy forest at the edge of the plateau rapidly approaching. They’d been chasing this reconnaissance team for three days straight, playing cat and mouse through the mountains. Despite their lack of numbers and overall tonnage and firepower, they’d inflicted damage far out of proportion. More importantly, like all of the enemy companies ranging through the mountains, they were simply driving the Light Horse to distraction, costing them precious Light Horse blood. Much less the time, money, and lost face in front of their employer.

The targeting reticule touched the fleeing Locust, burned gold, and hummed a tone of target lock in her ears. As much as she wished to rashly let fly with the rack of twenty long-range missiles, she had bigger plans. She moved the reticule off to the left, leading the Locust by a good measure, while her thumb toggled through several target interlock circuits before settling on one that isolated the LRM 20 for its own shot. She pulled the trigger, and listened to the satisfactory blast of exhaust as the missiles launched from the Highlander’s left torso boomed through the confines of her cockpit.

Long seconds passed as the munitions spiraled through the air before detonating in a wash of explosions directly in the Locust’s path. Instinctively the pilot veered their machine to the right, angling away from the explosions. And she knew, due to those days of tracking, that the lance commander piloted that Locust, and where it went, so went the lance. The other three BattleMechs moved to the right as well. Which moved them farther away from the edge of the forest. She launched two more flights of long-range missiles to keep up the corralling, hoping the Marik MechWarriors didn’t realize their line of march was now longer than before, with her Light Horse catching up.

Lieutenant Jacobson launched his 45-ton Phoenix Hawk into a harsh jump-jet arc that leapt a meandering river, and came down, the large laser in its right arm stabbing out a ruby beam of energy that slashed armor along the back legs of a fleeing Jenner. Her other lieutenant, Chloe, moved her 55-ton Shadow Hawk into a flanking position. Their oblique angles lined up, Ryana’s Light Horse on the shorter side of the converging triangle. Meters-long muzzle flash leapt from the autocannon riding over the Shadow Hawk’s shoulder. The stream of shells chipped the armor on a Jenner’s leg.

So close. So close! She didn’t know if her thoughts ranged more to the armor on that leg or how close they were to catching the fleeing ’Mechs. Despite her best efforts, however, they were going to escape. Corralling or no, they simply had too much speed on their Light Horse chasers. She’d hoped to take most of the lance. But between one pounding footstep and the next, as her heavy neurohelmet practically bruised her shoulders while she sprinted on the verge of toppling her Highlander straight into the ground, she made an instant decision to at least capture one.

Just one…

She immediately moved her crosshairs to that enemy Jenner and toggled over to her large-bore autocannon in her right arm. She carefully watched the distance narrow as their angles converged. Just before she reached the longest range of her AC/10, she pulled hard into the trigger. Her Highlander vomited out a stream of death that found its mark and savaged the last of the leg armor. More explosive shells ate into the internal structure, sending stress fractures racing up the Jenner’s leg bone. The enemy machine’s next step hit the ground and sheared the now mortally wounded limb clean off at the shin, tossing the BattleMech brutally to the ground, where it rolled and flipped, tearing up huge furrows.

From one moment of frantic activity to the next—sweat tickling her sides, her breath coming in ragged gasps from the rush of adrenaline—her company was pulling to a halt, the remaining three enemy BattleMechs slipping into the forest. She wasn’t going to follow. Not again.

As her Highlander came to a complete stop, she couldn’t help but pound the armchair.

You’ve got to be kidding me! How long do we have to keep chasing these miserable Mariks?

DEFIANCE INDUSTRIES BATTLEMECH FACTORY

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

27 AUGUST 2998

Ryana loped aimlessly through the hallways of the base. Exhaustion gnawed her muscles and mental acuity; she stifled an expanding yawn with the savagery of putting down an opponent. These endless raids are gonna be the death of us. As if the terrible failures by the incompetent general weren’t enough against the light recon companies already on world, what appeared to be four more Marik regiments were currently in-bound to the planet on a flotilla of DropShips.

She passed from hallway into the cafeteria and almost turned and left; she didn’t care about eating just then. However, she spotted Chloe Reed chatting up an individual she didn’t recognize. A civilian, by the look of things. How in the world? She changed orientation and zeroed in on the two.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Chloe was saying as Ryana walked up. “It appears to be a sensor system, but the size is far too small. Where did you get this?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” the man responded. His tone was both educated and proper, but Ryana caught a subtle lilt of Swedenese, meaning a Draconis Combine upbringing, that the man tried hard to bury. She always had a good ear.

“What in the hell is going on here?” she demanded. They were in the middle of a war, and yet this civilian somehow appeared on base, and didn’t have a security detail? Much less talking to one of her pilots without even a by-your-leave from her?

She’d been training Chloe well, taking her good MechWarrior skills and honing them, while ensuring that a tight order of military customs and “following orders” were well instilled, even though she’d come to all of this much later than most. Chloe had long been a technological savant. Whatever this situation was, she’d fallen back into the old habit of ignoring her commander while obsessing over some piece of tech. This time she was focused on her noteputer and a small diagnostic machine that was plugged into the small, burned-out husk of some kind of electronics bank.

The man flowed to a standing position as though a dancer, despite his age, and offered a hand. “Sebastian Spears, Captain,” he responded. The friendly smile matched his open face and bright eyes.

Ryana ignored the hand. “Who are you? What are you doing with my pilot? What is that thing? How are you here without a security detail? How in the hell are you even here when we’re in the middle of combat?” She looked around, wondering if the man had somehow slipped a detail and if she’d be forced to secure the man herself.

He chuckled and raised his hands as though to ward off an assault. “Please, Captain, let me answer a few of those questions before you toss more on the pile.” He eased back onto the stool, taking a moment to sip from the water bottle on the table next to whatever broken piece of tech Chloe was mooning over

“So, starting from the top. I believe I said my name is Sebastian Spears. I’m talking with your pilot. That thing…well, we’re not exactly sure. Despite Lieutenant Reed’s desire to be a MechWarrior, her tech skills came to our attention. That’s why I’m here for, shall we say, a consult.”

His easy, confident manner started to displace Ryana’s concerns, until she realized what she’d heard. “What do you mean, ‘came to your attention’? Whose attention? And again, how are you on the base?”

He waved toward a stool next to the table. “Please, Captain, take a seat. We are in the middle of your base. And despite the coming regiments, this might be one of the most secure places in the Inner Sphere.

She shook her head, raising her chin to challenge the man to finish answering.

“Okay,” he responded, an easy shrug placing the burden squarely back on her for ignoring his niceties. While still wary and irritated, such a move by most should’ve brought out her worst, yet his easy manner managed to kill most of her anger.

“I represent a consortium of concerned citizens who are attempting to track down and save mankind’s artists treasures, as well as various lostech.”

She glanced at the item on the table. “Military applications.”

He smiled easily. “Sometimes. But often it’s simply about trying to preserve knowledge. We have lost so much of who we are during the last two hundred years of Succession Wars. Our art, culture, and yes, even technology. We are trying to safeguard what we can and rediscover the rest.

“What’s the name?”

“Interstellar Expeditions.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. We don’t exactly advertise.”

“And how are you on-world in the middle of this fight? Much less on this base?”

“I happened to be passing through on an errand, and knew that Lieutenant Reed was on world. I decided to kill multiple birds with one stone, so to speak, so I stopped off in this system.”

“That doesn’t explain—”

“Captain,” he kindly interrupted with an upraised hand. “I have certain connections. They allowed me to speak with Wilhelm and your Colonel Winston. They graciously allowed me to land and chat with your lieutenant to see whether she might have some insights. I apologize that I did not ask your permission. The next time through, I’m happy to extend such a courtesy.”

Her mind spiraled at the statements. In the midst of what was quickly turning into the Eleventh Battle of Hesperus II, over one of the most important worlds of the Inner Sphere, he simply asked permission and was given it? This meant either he was incredibly foolhardy—and he didn’t strike her as the type—or he’d also contacted the on-planet Marik commander and received the same promise of safety. That smacked of immense connections. Another thought struck. Or he’s incredibly wealthy. Or both.

Who the hell are you?!

“Oh…wait a minute,” Chloe finally spoke up, coming up out of her deep dive into a trance of electronics and diagnostics only she could experience. “This appears to be a phased-array sensor system.”

Sebastian abruptly shifted focus. “Are you sure? Our techs extrapolated that it might be so, but couldn’t ever get it to fire up.”

A self-congratulatory smile erupted on Chloe’s face. Ryana couldn’t help but smile in return at Chloe’s giddy, enthusiasm. She quickly become a fan of this bright, driven woman.

“Not surprised,” Chloe said. “Almost all of the components are utterly shot. So you’ve got to piggyback a signal through several subsystems and use that to coax it back to life. Well, not really life. It’s still an utter loss. But you can extract an…echo of its previous state. And I bet anything there’s a phased-array sensor here. Or at least there used to be one.”

Despite the insane encounter, Ryana felt herself drawn into the situation. “I’m no tech, but I’ve never heard of that.”

“I’ve only read about it. In some ancient textbooks. If this is what I think it is, well…it’s Star League tech. But not just any tech.” Chloe lovingly reached out to caress the machine, as though it were the most sacred relic on any cathedral altar. “This is as cutting-edge tech as anything the Star League produced. It occurred right at the end…right as it was all falling apart. Don’t even know if a production run was ever mounted on any BattleMechs, or if they just field-tested the prototypes.”

Sebastian typed furiously on his noteputer before folding it up and tucking it into his jacket pocket. He then stood, lifted a case, and carefully rewrapped the burnt artifact and placed it in the case. “Lieutenant Reed, you are every bit the gem I was led to believe. I’ve doubled the consult fee we discussed. It’s already in your account.”

Chloe stood up, dumbfounded as the man finished and stood up to leave.

“That’s it?” Ryana and Chloe said almost simultaneously.

“Yes. I’ve the information I required. You’ve pointed us in exactly the right direction.”

“We don’t even get to know where you got that, or if it really is what I think it is?” Chloe demanded, the shock of the abruptness of it all washing her face red.

“I’m sorry, no,” Sebastian responded. “You agreed to the details of the consult at the very beginning. Including your discretion.” He glanced at Ryana. “And while I do not have your signature on a contract, I know your code, Captain. I would expect you to honor the discretion of the deal signed by your subordinate. We’ll be in touch.”

With that, he marched off, leaving them both stunned.

“What the hell?” Ryana finally responded.

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t realize ‘consult’ meant thirty minutes and then he’d whisk it all away.”

They stared after Sebastian’s departure and then at each other as though to verify it had not all been a dream. Ryana had been through a lot of strange scenarios in her life, but that ranked as one of the most surreal.

They both burst out laughing at the ludicrousness of it all, Ryana’s exhaustion momentarily forgotten as she threw her arm over Chloe. “You hungry?” Ryana said. “Because I’m suddenly starving.”

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

9 SEPTEMBER 2998

“You will advance. Immediately!” Leutnant-General Mouttheim shouted into the comm channel. “Or your precious honor will be shredded when the Mercenary Review Board is informed of your violation of the contract.” The commline went dead, and an uneasy silence fell across the emergency field-command tent. Colonel Winston stood across the small holovid table, his large frame as impassive as ever, as Ryana struggled to keep her anger in check. She saw Major Nigel edging towards her as though he might tame her outburst. No one would ever contain her. She’d known from the moment she was old enough to know herself.

“You cannot be considering accepting those commands!” The colonel’s cool eyes moved to burrow into her and she added a belated “Colonel.” However, once more, the bit was in her teeth and she couldn’t hold back. “There’s no possible way to contend their landing zones. And while they’re only Marik regiments, we’re outnumbered more than two to one. It was lunacy to go hunting their raiding parties, and it’s lunacy to face them now that they’re so heavily reinforced.”

“What would you do?” Colonel Winston asked, his voice as calm as a placid lake. The question shocked, and she took a step back. The colonel had listened to her rant plenty of times. Had even answered now and then. But he’d never directly questioned what she would do in a large command position. On the verge of answering, she bit her tongue, sensing a trap of some sort. Every regimental Light Horse commander was an expert strategist. He had no need for her input. So why was he asking? She searched for a tell, but that façade might has well have been an endlessly deep pond, for all she could read. And she did really want to show that dirtbag Mouttheim what real strategy looked like. So…

She stepped to the edge of the holotank—again, ignoring her major’s look of horror—and punched up the surrounding terrain, zooming and panning it to just the right set of coordinates for her liking. The Myoo Mountains thrust up, until she could see three passes through it to the heart of the mountain range and the Defiance Industries factories nestled in their breast. She traced her fingers through the air of the projection, following the passes. “Three routes through the mountains to the factory complexes. We don’t have enough forces to blockade all of them. And they could send BattleMechs through all three, but I doubt it. Marik commanders are never that inventive. So sure, they’ve now got four regiments on world to throw at us. But we’re the Light Horse. And they know it. So they’re not going to split up their forces. Which means they’ll choose this route here,” she said, indicating the lowest pass.

“Why?”

She glanced up to find the colonel’s impassive face still staring her down, a match for the heavy-handed tone, and she flushed slowly as she realized the command staff of the entire Twenty-first Striker Regiment was gazing on her with mixed reactions of humor, skepticism, and outright hostility. Despite the cool night air sweeping into the tent, she fought a heat rising in her face and a trembling of panic, as though in an overheating cockpit. On the verge of losing control, she spotted Chloe in the background, always with a smile and nod of encouragement. She’d never had a good friend before. Not since leaving the Highlanders all those years ago. And Chloe was quickly becoming that. Perhaps even a sister she never had. She fought down the heat, ignored the hostility, and unstuck her tongue, forging on with her knowledge of how to beat the Marik invaders.

“Because it’s the surest route. It’s the widest, so they’ll be able to bring a larger front to bear. They won’t be as piled up behind each other as they’d be in the higher passes. And the sides are much steeper, making it almost impossible for us to jump ’Mechs onto ledges to try striking from hiding. They’ll play it safe and come through here.”

She took a deep breath, filled with her own unease and the stench of warriors several months into heavy combat. Looked the colonel full in the face to read whether he agreed.

“If that’s the surest path for the Marik troops, how do we respond?”

She smiled, as the idea she’d been toying with for days came to the fore. “It’s about dividing and conquering. And doing the unexpected. Especially when the Marik commander knows any such move will infuriate Hesperus’s commander, so he won’t expect it. We place only a company here,” she said, pointing to a spot in the middle of the lowest pass. “The bait. Once they’ve reached this portion of the pass, they’ll have several kilometers of visibility and know we cannot hide any other troops along this route anywhere close. They’ll assume we split our forces to cover all three passes. If needed, a few well-placed taunts might just get a company or two to surge forward out of position, knowing they’ll have heavy hitters follow up if they get into too much trouble. However,” she continued, drawing a line along a ridge nearly fifteen kilometers behind the position, “here, we place every artillery we have at our disposal. Once the initial company is through, we launch an artillery barrage the likes of which we’ve never done before, directly at the walls of the pass. Destroy it. Seal it completely. Yes, Leutnant-General Mouttheim and the duke will howl, since trade routes use the pass. But there’ll be no retreating, and then it’ll be our turn to engage them, while our own heavy hitters finish off any forces left on this side of the pass. That’ll give the Marik forces plenty of time to think about whether they even want to try the other two passes. Or perhaps they’ll decide we Light Horse are just a little too ruthless and unpredictable to mess with.”

She couldn’t help the smile that turned into a wolf’s grin as she glanced around the table and back at Colonel Winston.

He stared at her a moment longer before he turned to Major Nigel. “You were right.”

“I know. Been telling you that for months.”

“I needed to see it without preamble.

“Seen enough?”

“I have.”

What?!

Totally blindsided by the unexpected conversation, Ryana tried to keep up as the two men rapid-fired between them. She couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m standing right here. What the hell are you two talking about?!”

The colonel swung his eyes back to hers, and she cursed her willful tongue. “Colonel,” she once again belatedly added.

“It’s a good thing you are so capable, Captain. That gives you a measure of discretion. But not even you are allowed insubordination. You will keep a tone of respect,” he continued, his calm, quiet tone a lashing ever the equal to her worst outburst. “Even when you’re calling me to account.”

How did he punch so hard with such a soft voice? Wait, what?

He smiled slightly as confusion settled across her senses. “I believe you have a battle to flesh out,” he said. “The Marik forces are likely to hit that pass in less than three days. You have twenty-four hours to present a complete battle plan, with all logistical requirements.”

Wait, what? He was accepting my plan?! The elation began at her toes and shot upward with dizzying speed. The entire regiment will be deployed under my plan?

At the height of her euphoria, just as it was breaking, the colonel closed his trap. “You’ll be here, with me, as ops commander, ensuring your plan brings us success.” She crashed, realizing the major and colonel had outmaneuvered her. After laying out the plan in front of the entire command staff, she couldn’t possible step back down now. But in stepping up, she’d removed herself from direct combat. She’d no longer be in the thick of the fight.

Can it possibly be worth it?

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

11 SEPTEMBER 2998

The first artillery shells fell with expert precision on their pre-plotted points along the walls of the pass. The concussive blasts hammered into the rock face. Though it had withstood countless millennia of rain and wind, the granite wall was nevertheless unprepared for the massive energies that sent shattering, jagged breaks deep within the rocks. Each successive shell struck and unleashed its torrent hundredths of a second after the shell before it, spreading the skein of destruction with lightning speed, widening cracks into fissures and fissures into breaks. Within seconds the hardened wall desperately tried to stay upright, but with all its anchor points sheared away, the pull of gravity overcame the mighty strength of the rock. Even as additional shells arrived, pulverizing rock and sending down a shower of heavy stones and particulates into the pass below, a monolithic slab of granite some hundred meters wide, about fifty meters tall, and nearly twenty-five meters deep, picked up speed as it pulled away from the face and plummeted into the pass. Nearly 350,000 metric tons of rock, traveling 250 meters per second, imparted over ten terajoules of kinetic energy to the surface. The rock never came close to reaching its terminal velocity, but that made little difference for the company of BattleMechs caught beneath the fallen wall—they simply ceased to exist in any recognizable form. The impact registered as a six on the Richter scale, felt more than 500 kilometers distant, and the tiny BattleMechs that the impact missed were tossed to the ground. House-sized boulders bounced down from the wall as the final artillery volleys finished their terrifying business, hitting amid the BattleMechs as though thrown by a petulant child at toys they no longer wished to play with. The cloud of thrust-up detritus mushroomed into the air and filled the pass, immediately blocking the view of the horrific scene. Interminable minutes swept past before the last sounds from the massive avalanche died off and an eerie, nervous quiet settled across the scene.

Captain Ryana Campbell breathed out heavily, the tang of blood announcing she’d bitten the inside of her mouth. She unclenched hands that hung desperately to the sides of the field-holotank that displayed the battlefield through a looping aerospace recon flight. Despite the grainy picture, the horrific nature of what she’d unleashed still reached their position more than fifty kilometers distant and throttled her with its power.

I can face someone and kill them ’Mech-to-’Mech, but this? I just slaughtered dozens, and doomed double that to an easy defeat if they don’t surrender. Is this what it means to command at this level?

As Colonel Winston refocused the visuals of the feed, she could already see the company of Light Horse ’Mechs designated as the bait were moving forward, knowing some two companies of Marik troops trapped on this side of the avalanche would be relatively easy pickings. She could see Chloe’s Shadow Hawk as it smoothly crossed the terrain, taking the lead Ryana had given her as a temporary field promotion to captain. Frightening how fast and far she’s come.

And of course, if the Marik forces proved too much, nearly a battalion of mixed Light Horse and Steiner forces were already on the move and would meet up in less than an hour. Leutnant-General Mouttheim had indeed thrown a fit when they informed him of their plan, but he wasn’t about to have his troops sitting on the sidelines if victory was imminent.

The battle was almost anticlimactic at that point. The minutes trickled out into an hour, and the Marik forces signaled their surrender after losing half their number in short order. Another aerospace fighter reconnaissance on the other side of the pass showed the bulk of the Marik forces in a disarrayed retreat. She knew instinctively they would be pulling off world. Silly, really, considering they still outnumbered the Light Horse. With some brilliant leadership they could still make a determined push and maybe, just maybe, damage some of the Hesperus production lines. But “brilliant leadership” and “Marik” didn’t often go hand in hand. She’d dealt them a stunning blow, in a completely unexpected manner, and that left most commanders more than willing to pull back across the border and lick their wounds. After all, there would eventually be another raid. And another. And another. Endless war encapsulated the Inner Sphere in its throes of desperation for a Golden Age that would never come again.

She slowly looked up and met Colonel Winston’s eyes. Those impassive, knowing eyes. She raised an eyebrow and clenched her fist, her eyes asking the unspoken question as those surrounding them in the tent called out congratulations on such a brilliant, unorthodox defense. Is this command?

He nodded imperceptibly. Yes.

Her stomach still clenched harder than her fist from the tension and horror of that moment. And yet…and yet….

The wash of congratulations moved her. It wasn’t about her. It was about those around her. Before, she’d been able to protect the soldiers of her company. But now, she could protect so many more. Her Light Horse.

The tension eased as she straightened her shoulders. She would never enjoy killing anyone, much less slaughtering dozens like that. But she was a soldier. A mercenary, born and bred. And she was here to do a job. And if that job meant she was to be an ops commander, then she’d get the job done and protect her family all the more effectively.

No one can harm us unpunished.

4

Contested Dreams

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

17 JUNE 3005

“Are we really striking out on our own?”

Nikolai Mason’s voice fell amongst the room’s occupants like a stink bomb at a summer cotillion, while his hands reached out carefully to touch the stack of documents on the table as though they were a viper coiled to strike. Sitting across from him, Chloe’s face closed up until her thin lips nearly disappeared. His stomach did a slow flip-flop of distaste. I’m sorry, my love, but someone has to ask one last time. For us. For our child.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” an acerbic voice struck from the right-hand side of the small room. “Haven’t we discussed this to death? We all made the choice. We’re here to follow her. Stop second-guessing it all.”

Nikolai glanced over to the window of the small second-floor apartment they currently rented. A warm spring breeze wafted into the room, bringing Galatea City’s scents, including a heavy dose of lilacs that rode the front of the apartment building like some mad clown who’d run riot with their personal love of purple.

The tall, muscular woman that owned the harping tone leaned against the window case, the wind ruffling her brunette topknot and showing off her close-shaven head. He met her deep brown eyes and matched her distaste with his own. He and Ryana Campbell didn’t exactly dislike each other. That was too strong a word, especially after all the years spent together under the Eridani Light Horse banner. But they didn’t exactly like each other. He’d never been able to put his finger on the cause, but it was a point of distress for Chloe, who loved them both. Perhaps it was simply a lack of respect. He could never quite shake the feeling she didn’t respect what he brought to the table, much less their current wild endeavor. Despite his desire for a stinging rebuke, he glanced back at Chloe and the hurt he’d already placed there, and let it go.

“Sorry, Nikolai, gotta agree with Campbell, here.” Dawson Clarmont leaned against the wall opposite Ryana, shuffling a deck of cards with a hustler’s expertise. “We’ve talked it to death. We’ve all agreed to roll the dice, fate be damned.”

Nikolai tried to be annoyed, but Clarmont had been fast friends with him and Chloe from the moment they’d stepped onto the world of Bone-Norman as they’d joined the Grave Walkers ten years ago. He’d cemented that friendship when he left the Walkers with them to join the Light Horse for the last several years, and he’d following them here as well. Despite nearing thirty, his boyish looks made him appear as though barely past his teenage years. Along with good skills and quick wit, he used his suite of physical accoutrements to devastating effect when dealing personally with anyone. It was incredibly difficult to stay mad at Dawson.

Nikolai leaned back, closed his eyes, and stretched his back against the hard, wooden chair until vertebrae cracked, then he slumped forward, running hands through his hair vigorously. He was exhausted and wrung out. He’d not slept a solid night in the half year since they’d left the Light Horse’s employ. After the years spent raiding House Liao and House Kurita worlds with the ELH, and the substantial bonuses for such extravagantly hazardous deployments, they’d decided the time was right. But was it really?

“Okay. Okay. I just…this is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken. I think I’ve a right to be a little nervous.” And that’s saying something, considering things I’ve never told you, Chloe. Yet. He always had another ‘yet’ whenever the time to open up came close.

“Worse than when you left your billet on that Lyran Free Traders Association JumpShip to follow me into the mercenary life?” Chloe finally spoke up, her eyes brightening, lips twitching with the humor she tried projecting into the tense moment.

Despite nervousness and exhaustion, he couldn’t help but respond to the needling, and quirked a smile in return. “Something like that. Really though, now that I think on it, that was way worse. Do you know how long it took me to get used to downside all the time?”

Ryana groaned in the corner. “Please, not those stories again.”

“Hate to sound like a broken holovid, but gotta agree with Campbell,” Dawson said, walking toward the table while he smoothly made his deck of cards disappear as easily as breathing. “We’ve all heard that story way too often.” He reached the table, flashed his famous grin, and rapped his knuckles on the old, worn wood. “We’ve all signed here,” he said, pointing at the pile of documents on the table. “Let’s go file and be done with it. Got a heap of work ahead of us. Let’s not delay any longer.”

Nikolai’s chest slowly tightened, as though starving for oxygen. A memory, kept at bay by the loving embrace of his wife for long years, slipped into visceral existence: a youth in a spacesuit with a tank almost out of air, strapped to the outside of a JumpShip’s hull—the bandits’ torture had always been…very effective. As he fought it down, another memory surged. This one a warm companion he kept as a burr under his foot to spur him on. Nearly fifteen years ago he’d underestimated one of his crewmates, and in return, Jules Vonic had nearly destroyed him, just because she could. He’d spent all that time since striving to ensure he never underestimated any situation again. And despite all their careful planning, they were now reaching into fields of exceptional uncertainty that summoned those memories like dark, spectral warning signs.

He breathed deeply, focused on Chloe, and held her bright green eyes with his own. Took another deep breath to shunt the echoes away, another to focus. And another to breathe in her scent, her very presence. He slowly nodded, accepting the plunge into their deepest waters yet as they embraced a new step in their dream together.

You’ve told us we have to keep all of this on the up-and-up. And I’ll try your way, Chloe. I’ll try. But I’ll do whatever it takes to make your dream a reality.

He picked up the paperwork and stood as Chloe joined them, and Ryana moved closer. All four looked at the announcement letterhead that would be transmitted via hyperpulse generator around the Inner Sphere. The paperwork they were about to file with the Mercenary Review Board on Galatea, also known far and wide as the Mercenary’s Star:

Notice is hereby given that articles of incorporation establishing the Cavaliers as a mercenary combat command have been delivered to the Mercenary Review Board in accordance with the laws and codes of ComStar, the Great Houses, and the mercenary guilds. The Cavaliers, currently in good standing with the MRB, is available for immediate hire.

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

7 OCTOBER 3005

Chloe Reed stalked down the street thronged with bodies in the late afternoon. The sunlight slanted as it neared the horizon, sparkling off a hundred mirrored surfaces, making her squint painfully every few steps. Why did I forget my sunglasses?

She stepped to the side as a line of grade-school kids made their way in a chain down the busy sidewalk, holding hands to keep from being lost. Wheeled and hovercars jockeyed for positions in the nearby heavy traffic like thoroughbreds at the races. School’s out, already? Wonder which school?

Twin rumbles bounced around the canyon of metal and glass as two new stars reached over the edge of a building to the northwest. Despite long months on-world, she couldn’t help but glance in that direction. Two DropShips clawed their way into the sky, their hundred-meter-long drive plumes painfully bright, the cone of their launch hitting Galatea City proper with a roar. It’d been over half a year since she’d first arrived at Galaport, the massive sea of ferrocrete that was the most sophisticated and largest spaceport in the entire sector. Huh. A Union and a Leopard. A reinforced company? She squinted harder against both the sunlight and those drive plumes, despite the long kilometers of distance, to see if she could make out the insignias. Why are we not on those DropShips?

She shook herself like a dog with an itch it couldn’t scratch. Bowed her head, shoulder-length, dark-brown hair falling across her face, and closed her eyes as her thin lips stretched into a grimace. Blake’s Blood. Stop being stupid, Chloe. The going gets tough for a few months and you’re as distracted as a greenhorn rubbernecking at every BattleMech that marches past.

She started walking abruptly, as though she’d slammed her own throttle full forward, ignoring the curse of some poor civilian she shouldered aside—despite her diminutive stature others moved for her—and stalked toward her waiting meeting. Others come hunting for my tech skill. I’ve hungered to be a MechWarrior for more than a decade, and I’ve now lived through years of heavy fighting with one of the finest mercenary commands in the entire Inner Sphere. Get a hold of yourself, Chloe. Dig in. Get it done.

Before she knew it, she was entering the campus of the hiring halls at the north end of Galatea City, making her way around a massive BFFL “Buffalo” hover vehicle in the process of unloading tons of supplies for the entire complex. The large series of buildings were the very heart of the Mercenary’s Star and its trade of hiring merc outfits to every type of employer under the sun, be they one of the great star empires, single world nobility, transnational corporations, or even the dredges of humanity at the Periphery of known space. Pairing such employers with the best and brightest multi-regiment combat commands, some with legacies that date back to the Star League and beyond. Eridani Light Horse. Blue Star Irregulars. Twenty-first Centauri Lancers. All the way down to the newest commands, of just a lance of BattleMechs, trying to scratch out a living amongst such giants. Us…

She swept into the largest building, past the huge, rotating doors and the massive rotunda with three long hallways that marched off into the distance. Screens filled almost every available surface on walls, while a massive holo of the Inner Sphere slowly rotated above the heads of those in the reception area: blinking pinpricks of light, showcasing worlds, grouped into various shapes, sizes and colors of conflict zones, along with corresponding agencies seeking contracts. The wallscreens—along with any authorized noteputer—could access such data at a moment’s notice, bringing up the particulars of any contract. From there, digital or face-to-face negotiations—depending on the employer, reputation of the mercenary command, the size of the contract, and so on—could begin.

A cornucopia of people of every size, gender, and ethnicity filling uniforms of all stripe and color, moved up and down the halls. Some exuded as much energy as her own stride—pride in their posture, arrow-straight creases down pant legs—as they moved with confidence to a negotiation they believed would lead to a healthy contract and future work. Others leaned disconsolately against walls—a wide berth of no one else near—forlorn eyes reviewing screens of recent hirings that didn’t display their outfit’s insignia; their desperation for a contract that might never come emitted a stink others avoided like a plague. Her belly ached each time she saw one of these: the contractless. A sourness of conflict between sympathy and revulsion stained her tongue. She shuddered. In another six to twelve months, she might find herself there. No contract. No money. Selling off her dream one piece at a time; here a hire, there a BattleMech, desperate to stay solvent just long enough to land. A. Contract.

Chloe neared the door of her afternoon meeting and saw Sergeant Brooklynn Jales standing nervously, her ever-present clipboard in hand. While older than Chloe, her mannerisms made everyone assume she was much younger. Not to mention, even though she had the same height as Ryana, she lacked that muscular frame. And she hunched all too often, her right hand always absentmindedly pulling on the long, brunette braid of hair looping over her shoulder. Though even in that mannerism Chloe caught a hint of something in Brooklynn she couldn’t put her finger on… Stop it, Chloe. You’re just getting to know her. You don’t need to critique everything about her. Well, at least not everything.

However, in just the month since they’d hired Brooklynn to be administrator of the Cavaliers, Nikolai’s and her relationship had improved immeasurable, as the pencil-pushing details both of them hated were now handled by this immensely capable woman. But you’d never think that looking at her.

“Captain Reed,” Brooklynn said with a salute—one of the only people in the Cavaliers to always formally address her, no matter how many times Chloe tried to ease their relationship into something a tad more comfortable.

“I won’t be needing you for this one.”

“Oh.” Brooklynn tried to hide her disappointment, but her crestfallen features always spoke volumes. In some ways, she reminded Chloe of Tilo; the ache of loss over her dead friend had lessened over the years, but he would never be forgotten. However, while Tilo’s playful use of such dramatic displays was endearing, Brooklynn’s was…not. Then again, before Chloe hired her she’d been flailing on Galatea for awhile, unable to find anyone that would give her a chance. Like us. I’ll get used to her. She’s exactly who we need in that post. But…just can’t handle her now. And the interview. And…everything.

“I’m sure Nikolai will have work for you to do. But I’ve read this candidate’s dossier, and I think it will be better if there’s just one of us in there.

“Oh. Um. Okay. Thank you, Captain Reed,” Brooklynn said, saluting, and walked away down the corridor, shoulders somehow even more hunched.

Chloe watched Brooklynn leave the busy hall. Once again she realized people depended on her, and her frustration and anxiety mounted.

Most commands fail in the first year…

Stop that!

She pounded her thigh to dislodge self-doubt and finally found the door leading to her next appointment. Yanked it open as though she would tear it off its hinges, setting the JumpShip-shaped pendant around her neck swinging violently. I know I’m late. I hate being late. This hunt, with no end in sight, is throwing me off my game!

Inside the small office was a young man. Tall, thin, with dark hair and complexion. His deep brown eyes met her own, and he quirked an eyebrow. He lounged in his chair as though he owned the place, and his posture spoke loudly: you’re late to my meeting.

She instantly disliked the man, and almost turned to leave. But they’d been struggling to find a head tech. Sure, she could handle all of the repairs. But then she’d be a tech, not a pilot. And she’d still be responsible for all the necessary command decisions. Both now, and hopefully soon when they were in the field. Hopefully very soon.

Which meant they needed a new head tech. All of their previous interviewees were either way out of their price range or couldn’t recognize a Motor Control Unit from an auxiliary myomer dampener, and she’d kicked those out of the room before they’d said three words. She took another breath. Let him at least hang himself so I can tell the others I did my due diligence. She slid into the only other chair, pulled out her small noteputer from her satchel, and called up his credentials. Decided to go straight for the throat and see how he responded.

“Fahad Arazad. Originally from the Azami worlds of the Combine. Arkab Legions. Serious soldiers. Long history.” She looked up from the screen. “Says here they kicked you out. I’m not really knowledgeable about the Azami worlds, but pretty tight-knit community there, as far as the rumors go. They toss you out, must’ve been for something pretty spectacular.”

The smiling, insolent look slipped momentarily, a dark, brooding memory sparked deep in his eyes before he masked…something. He shrugged, his devil-may-care half smile sliding back into place. “I remember it differently, mate.”

His accent didn’t seem to match the origin, but Chloe decided she didn’t care; waited expectedly, and when he failed to respond further, she continued swinging hard as she tapped the screen with irritation. “Says here you’ve since worked for the Plague Boys, Tamara’s Black Sword, and Vinson’s Vigilantes. Less than a year each, with long months between contracts. Either you’ve got a silver spoon somewhere, or you’re living on the southside in a flea-bitten flat that makes this office look spacious.” She glanced at the sizes and ratings of each former employer and let out a slow whistle. “Not exactly a sterling record. Some pretty low-rated commands here.” She looked at him directly. “You gonna start repairing tanks next?” She let the sarcasm drip while chuckling at her own joke.

“At least they’re mercenary commands…” He pulled out the last word, like a slow-motion slap.

Her laugh choked off, and she leaned back, heat rising as she flushed with the excellently landed riposte. This interview is done…

His insolent smile quirked up before something changed in his expression, and he leaned forward, almost…earnest. “Look, gov… Sorry about that. Can’t help myself most days.” He swallowed reflexively several times, eyes skittering away from hers before he locked back on to her as though holding a reticule on target in rough terrain. “It’s what got me canned last time. No boss likes to get called down. Much less in the military. Even as lax as some of those outfits are. Plague Boys were practically just a boys’ club. But apparently, this boy didn’t fit in. As always…” His voice trailed off and he looked way, but Chloe still glimpsed an ocean of pain behind those words.

Her own years of never fitting in, of always being told what she could and couldn’t be, bubbled to the surface from her own ocean. Major Jeffers’s stinging rebuke, over a decade gone, echoed in her ears: You are not a MechWarrior.

“I’ve got the skills, mate” he responded, looking at her once more, while leaning back, some of his insolence leaking back through.

But Chloe now had his measure. A façade. Another lost soul, just looking for a chance to be themselves…

“You’ll not regret hiring me. I bring far more than my fabulous tongue to the table. Far more than what you’ll find marked in my previous records. After all, if you don’t leave on good terms, think they’re going to put in all the times I kept their rides intact and marching? Nope. Nothing but glory for the high-’n-mighty MechWarriors, while us real heroes go unlauded.”

She cocked an eyebrow, starting to warm to the man, despite first impressions.

He held up his hands. “Right, I know. You’re a high-’n-mighty MechWarrior yourself. But I do my own research. You’re a tech as well. And one that’s made a name for yourself. You get me, right? I’ll keep your ’Mechs in the field, no matter what comes. Just…well…you’ll have some rough edges to deal with is all.”

The tone remained light, but there was something in his eyes. Some…desperation. The contractless from down the hall arose in her mind’s eye. How long before he loses all hope like that? She suppressed a shiver. How long before I do?

She came to one of her abrupt decisions, knowing Nikolai would hate the man while grousing that they shouldn’t be spending more money; all the more infuriating since she balanced the sheets in her head far better than her husband. But she couldn’t help herself. He was as much an orphan as she. Besides, she had a good feeling about him. As she’d had with Nikolai, and Dawson and Ryana. Good people all. He would fit in.

She typed quickly on her noteputer, then hit enter with an extravagant flourish, stood up and extended her hand. “Welcome to the Cavaliers.”

The look on Fahad’s face was all she needed that day.

PROVING GROUNDS DELTA

GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

14 NOVEMBER 3005

Dawson Clarmont slammed his feet down onto his Griffin’s foot pedals so hard he momentarily lifted himself off his conn chair. In response, electronic beams within his BattleMech’s jump-jet chambers vaporized reaction mass and vented the superheated plasma out vectoring ports that launched the fifty-five-ton war machine into a heavy ballistic arc. He leapt 150 meters—the maximum distance he could squeeze out of his ’Mech before the jets needed to cycle—over a mangled corpse that had been some office complex before the entire area had been turned into a proving ground. As he touched down with ample grace—or as graceful as several dozen tons of BattleMech could be—he pushed the throttle forward, sending his eleven-meter-tall, anthropomorphic avatar arrowing forward with ground-pounding precision.

His targeting reticule flowed across his forward viewscreen in answer to his right-hand joystick, and he lined up a brilliant shot against the back armor of the enemy Jenner. The Griffin raised the particle projector cannon mounted in its right arm, and azure fire lashed out like a bolt from Zeus’s own hand, ready to savage the enemy target.

The low-powered beam painted the Jenner with a killing stroke, and alarms in both cockpits announced a “kill.” Despite the training exercise, Dawson let out a whoop. “That’s how it’s done, ladies and gentlemen!”

The Jenner pilot was a potential candidate. Despite the added costs of these tests and hiring more personnel, they’d all agreed (after much bemoaning by Nikolai) that expanding to two lances might unlock additional contract opportunities. Not to mention it helped Dawson immensely to be back in the cockpit of his BattleMech, where he belonged. Where his best card tricks were always appearing where the enemy least expected.

His grin faltered, and he eased up on the throttle as the enemy Jenner slowly toppled to the ground, right on top of a sensor buoy. Dawson winced at the crunch of armor plating and the additional cost he’d have to pay the proving grounds for lost electronics. Such cheapskate rules were why they called this the “delta” proving grounds. All they could afford. Dawson’s ride came to a complete stop while his jaw dropped.

He finally opened up a commline to the pilot he’d been sparring with. “Um…Jackson. The PPC was powered down. You didn’t really take any damage.”

“I know, I know. You just startled me. I’m sure I’ll do better next time.”

Dawson’s shoulders slumped, his momentary glory gone in an instant. I was a member of the Grave Walkers. And now I’m interviewing kids I wouldn’t have trusted to wash my ’Mech? What are we doing here?

He stayed in the cockpit, hoping he could think of something that would distract him from the despondence he hid so well; of late it seemed he could only quench it in dens found in the darker corners of Galatea City.

He was there a long time.

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

11 DECEMBER 3005

Ryana Campbell sat in her closet of an office, scanning contract listings. She stopped at one and intently reviewed the contents.

Contract FWL 46503-001-1

MRB Rating: C–D

Employer: Baron Geric Keeling

Location: Ruschegg

Type of Action: Pirate Hunt

Length of Contract: 6 mo.

Type of Command: BattleMech

Size of Command: Lance or larger

Pay Rate: Average

Support: Negotiable

Transport: Half the cost to Ruschegg

Salvage Rights: Negotiable

Command Rights: Integrated

She wanted to immediately click past, but forced herself to continue studying. It was within their command type and size, after all, which was a pretty shallow end of the pool, despite Dawson’s attempts to expand their options. Additionally, the Mercenary Review Board Rating fell within their own D category. After all, they were a brand-new mercenary command and hadn’t an ounce of reputation among them. Despite their excellent work history with such renowned outfits as the Northwind Highlanders, Grave Walkers, and Eridani Light Horse, that simply gave them a D rating upon incorporation. But as the Cavaliers, they were an unknown. Plenty of crappy contracts for D-rated commands, and yet here they were, half a year into this slog, and still nothing.

She had no idea who Baron Keeling was, or where the Ruschegg system was located. She pulled up an astrocartographic program of the Inner Sphere and typed in Ruschegg, which brought up a best-route path immediately from Galatea. She choked to the point she coughed hard and had to take a long drink of water from the glass on the small table of the small, stinking room she sat in.

Eighteen jumps. Eighteen! And yeah, only half the cost of transport covered. Half! Ha! Three months of transit alone, not to mention that’d likely wipe out a tenth of their remaining funds. She noted there was no clarification on returning transport. Contract’s done, and they’d likely strand us there unless we paid a full fee to return.

The pay rate was at least average, though their low rating would eat into that some. They might break even if they were able to hunt the pirates down quickly enough. And at this stage, it was about breaking even and building a reputation for fulfilling contracts. The start of that track record was more precious than C-bills at this point, even as the coffers dwindled each day.

And pirate hunting? We can do that in our sleep. She clicked on the expanded details, reviewed for several minutes, and then slowly leaned back and stared at the ceiling, the cascade of her silky brown topknot whispering against her back.

Support: Negotiable. Salvage Rights: Negotiable. That set off some alarms. Sure, plenty of contracts required negotiations over such valuable stipulations. If they got in trouble, could they call on any local forces for backup? And of course, the all-important salvage rights: how much of what they destroyed would they be able to retain. Many a mercenary command dropped their principal C-bill payments to what might appear embarrassingly low rates, because it allowed them to pump up the total percentage of salvage. And if you had a tech whiz under your belt, that could be far more valuable. And we’ve a Chloe.

But for such a far-flung contract, from an independent world in the armpit of nowhere in the Free Worlds League? They should’ve at least thrown on a 20 percent guarantee for salvage. Something to sweeten the stinking pot a little.

Yet the real stinger sat at the bottom of the info block, a poison pill that could easily destroy any merc outfit: integrated command rights. When things go sideways—and they always go sideways when hunting pirates—we’d be under the direct authority of this Baron what’s-his-name. And he was going to be a moron. They all were. Like General Mouttheim years ago on Hesperus II.

She straightened, stretching her neck. Removed an elastic band off her wrist and leaned over to the side, working her topknot into a tight stand of hair that she bound into place, pulling the skin of her scalp in a painfully pleasurable way. The ritual a calming salve to tired, angry emotions.

Can’t believe I’m even looking at a House Marik contract. But this. No. Just no. Might as well disband here and save the pain. She glanced at the date of publication. Stupid. Should’ve looked there first. It’s been sitting in the database for over a year for a reason.

She tiredly closed down the noteputer, turned off the light, and waited in the darkness, letting it soothe away the…anger, before she marched into the hiring hall. Yeah. Anger. Not desperation. No…not that…

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

2 JANUARY 3006

Snow swirled in eddies down the nearly vacant street on the southside of Galatea City, occluding and then revealing Nikolai to a few others huddled in heavy coats as they made their own solitary ways down the darkened streets. At most times of the year, even here, on the seedy southside, there’d be plenty of people. But during such a cold snap, with unusual snow, and at half past midnight, Nikolai found his way through nearly empty streets, shivering alone. He’d been downside just enough years that he almost enjoyed such weather. Almost.

A smile tried to slide onto his face, until he once again contemplated the lie he’d told Chloe earlier to enable this night’s work. Dammit, he hated lying to her.

Whatever it takes.

He finally turned a corner and spotted the dimly lit sign across the street. Despite the thin outline of neon tubes, the impression of a drunkard on a horse still came through. He’d found the Lazy Lighthorseman, just where his contact said it would be.

Nikolai crossed the street and pushed through the doors into the seedy bar. Despite the late hour, it was crowded, with loud conversations, a karaoke machine in the back—with several people screeching into too-loud microphones—and what appeared to be a well-stocked bar, alcohol flowing freely. Bars loved cold nights.

He stomped his feet to dislodge some of the snow while he unzippered his own heavy coat against the burst of heat from dozens of bodies in the small, well-warmed confines.

Nikolai scanned the thick-packed bodies, trying to spot his target. There. But he didn’t move directly to the man’s table. He was alone, after all. And heading straight there? Nah, way too direct. He instead spent several minutes edging into the bar, waiting as several dozen orders were quickly filled and the patrons rotated out, while others rotated in behind. A seemingly never-ending line feeding at the bartender’s trough of liquid ambrosias.

He finally reached the front and grabbed the bartender’s attention. On the verge of ordering a Marik PPC, he remembered at the last moment this was a bar filled with tech-heads. Not a one of them would order a drink beloved by MechWarriors. Might as well start punching now as order that drink here. “Timbiqui Dark,” he said instead, loud enough to reach over the hubbub, slapping down a 100 C-bill note. The young woman grabbed the bill and flicked it, as though verifying it was real; subtle, but quick—she’d never seen him before, and it was the southside, after all. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several looking in his direction. Let them think I’m a little foolish to come in here, flashing cash.

The bartender returned, placing a large glass of beer in front of him, the froth spilling slightly, and moved as though to generate his change. “Keep it,” he said. “I’ll be back. And if not…” He shrugged with a smile and a wink and turned away. He felt her return the smile at his back while additional eyes followed him. Right. Perfect. Time to make a fool of myself.

He walked right past his target, without even a side glance, and moved up to the small stage—more just a raised platform—in the back where two karaoke singers were hard at work peeling paint off the rafters. “What’s the favorite?” he practically shouted to the too-young man sitting at the machine.

“Gotta Ride Some Lightning.”

“Synth-pop, right.”

“Yeah. As pop as it comes.”

“I’m next. Fire it up for me.”

The young man looked him up and down as though he was too old for synth-pop, then shrugged and nodded.

Nikolai immediately proceeded to quickly imbibe the tall glass of dark beer, and he finished it off just as his turn came. He sidled past the two women, nodding his head with an open invitation they shook away, and he grabbed the mic. The synth-pop began with its usual cascade of discordant rhythms, and he tried to mimic a young feminine voice ranting about a too-tough life driving her to alcoholism and abuse. He tried desperately to keep up, knowing he was making an utter fool of himself as the whole bar seemed to turn toward the quickly-getting-drunk, too-free-with-his-money, forty-year-old man.

By the time he was done, most of the bar had moved back to completely ignoring him, leaving one or two he’d need to be careful about. But claiming center stage, and embarrassing yourself spectacularly until others hurt in sympathy, moved you immediately into anonymity, despite none of them ever having seen him in this bar before.

Always works like charm. He handed the mic back to the young man, who nodded to him as though he’d passed some test of idiocy, then moved back to the bar to grab another Timbiqui Dark—flirting outrageously with the bartender the whole time. Then, after drinking down several gulps, he slumped down into the chair next to the man he’d come to see.

“Man, what a rush,” he gushed, finishing off his second drink. Most knew how potent Timbiqui Dark’s particularly high alcohol content could be. Good thing Nikolai almost never got drunk, despite whatever he put in his body. Drove Ryana to distraction that she could never outdrink him.

The other man, around his own age but with a fine scar slashing across a milky right eye, sized him up in a look, and sniffed before contemplating his own cup as though it were scripture.

Nikolai glanced over to the two women a table over, the ones he’d followed at karaoke, and spoke loudly to catch their attention. “Want to try another song together?” They weren’t so young that the whole situation was creepy. But they actually seemed to contemplate, whispering to each other quickly, before saying no with a smile that eased him off the hook. Good. Not sure my voice could keep up with them. Not to mention what happened the last time he’d tried to ease out of someone coming onto him while he was trying to establish a contact. Chloe had not been happy about the knife wound.

He chatted on with the gentlemen across the way, filling the void with inanities while another thirty minutes slipped by and the bar finally lost a steady stream of patrons as the night moved past local one and headed toward two. It was a workday, after all…some of them would be paying with a pounding headache in just a few hours as they strained in showers to get ready for another day.

One last surreptitious look around, then he eased into the real conversation with a much-lowered voice. “I hear you’re the man for contracts not found at the hiring halls.”

Nikolai immediately knew he had the right person when the man didn’t flinch, despite the abruptness of the question after almost an hour of blather. He finished off his fifth drink and contemplated his glass, as though wondering why it was suddenly empty.

“Not sure I know what you’re talking about,” the man mumbled, without giving anyone else an indicator he was talking.

Nikolai palmed the token he’d spent two months tracking down, and slapped it onto the table. “I need another drink,” he announced. After another trip to the bartender, he wobbled carelessly back to the table and sat again, noticing the small token was already gone, even though the man was still a statue.

“There’s a drive under the table,” the contact said. “Several contracts for…discerning employers. No guarantees you’ll find what you’re looking for, or that they’ll accept your offers.”

“Of course,” Nikolai responded softly amid another long gulp. Despite this being his sixth glass, the light, crisp taste of the Timbiqui Dark, with its mellow, smooth aftertaste, really was remarkable. There was a reason it was such a prestigious beer for hundreds of light years around. While drinking, he expertly stuck a chip of electronic C-bills on the bottom of the glass before placing it back on the table. “My thanks,” he said just as softly.

He extravagantly leaned back, yawning as wide and loud as he could, slipping the disk from under the table and into a pocket with an ease that would’ve made even Dawson jealous. “Thanks for the great conversations,” he said loudly, “but work waits for no man. Here, feel free to finish my Dark, my friend.” He pushed the glass across the table and stumbled to his feet, then waved extravagantly to the bartender. “Thanksh for great night!” he stammered, and then stumbled out into the night without even putting his coat on.

He was hardly drunk. But even if he had been, the blast of frigid air by contrast to the cozy warmth inside would’ve shocked his system. He quickly limbered into his coat as he remembered to keep stumbling, and moved back along his previous route of a few hours gone.

Two blocks later, he knew he’d slathered on the drunk middle-aged-man routine too thickly. Blake’s Blood.

Two men rushed out of the swirling snow, wielding knifes. Luckily. Hard to fight a pistol. Thank heaven for tight gun controls in Galatea City, even here on the southside.

He waited till the last possible second, knowing surprise his best defense in the moment. Just as the leading man moved to stab him in the back—Blake’s Blood, straight up murder without even asking me out first!—he sprang to the left, felt the blade slash across his right side, sending a line of flame on his flank, despite the thick coat. The man, expecting to hit resistance, stumbled heavily forward, taking him momentarily out of the fight. Nikolai continued his leftward gyration and dropped to his knees as the shocked second man came into range. Nikolai planted his right fist into his left palm, and using the full gyration and all his body weight, he hammered the back of his forearm into the side of the man’s left knee. A crunch and scream, and the attacker immediately dropped to the ground, flailing at a broken joint.

Nikolai jumped back to his feet just as the other man returned, and they both crouched, arms out. “Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,” Nikolai said in the calmest, most disarming voice he could muster as the adrenaline cascaded. “What can I say? I like going out and pretending to get drunk with strangers. But as you can see, I’m not drunk at all. And two against one doesn’t seem very sporting. One against one just…well…that seems a bit more fair for this situation, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the blade. He’d been a fair hand-to-hand fighter in his youth. The bandits—and others—had taught him that real quick. But sparring sessions with Ryana had honed that considerably. He’d learned the hard way that she was not just an expert in a ’Mech. That woman could fight off twice this number with just the elastic band from her topknot!

Even in the dark, the scene lit only by a lonely street light many meters away, he saw the nervous flicker of the attacker’s eyes, a quick lick of his lips.

Careful…could go either way.

“Look,” Nikolai continued casually. “I could’ve killed your partner there. But I didn’t. My fault. I get it. I slathered on my performance a little too thick. I get that way sometimes. So, not your fault. I’ll even forgive you trashing this expensive coat and the stitches I’m gonna have to explain to the old lady. Just…let’s leave it at that. I walk away, you both live, we’re good, right?”

The other man’s eyes flickered toward his fallen comrade and the speed he’d been dispatched before glancing back at Nikolai’s utterly calm face. He slowly nodded.

“All right then,” Nikolai said. He carefully stood and backed away, keeping full eye contact at all times until the other man turned away to see to his friend. After another dozen paces backwards, Nikolai moved on into the night, keeping a careful watch.

He had what he’d been trying to find, after all. He winced as he fingered the wound under his shirt, finding it still oozing blood. Ryana would scoff and call it a scratch. And Chloe was not going to be happy, again. For so many reasons.

GALATEA CITY, GALATEA

ISLE OF SKYE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

2 JANUARY 3006

“Blake’s Blood, Nikolai. How could you!”

Not happy at all.

Nikolai straddled one of the apartment’s chair, Chloe fuming across the table. Dawson sat on the floor, leaning against the door; he’d just arrived. Brooklynn hunched in a chair near the wall, refusing to look at him (as usual), and Ryana practically lounged on the small couch, a look on her face he’d never seen, her eyes focused on a thousand-meter stare. They’d called Fahad, but he’d not yet shown up.

Nikolai finished putting on a bandage—was not for a moment expecting Chloe to help, in her mood—and pulled on a fresh T-shirt while trying to gain a little advantage with more time. He then pointed at the noteputer on the table, its screen lit up with a logo he’d never seen and details of a sprawling contract for them to review. He’d only seen a small portion of it before Chloe had stormed in, demanding to know what was going on, what with all the blood and such.

“Right there,” Nikolai said. “There could be a contract. A real contract. We’re likely not gonna last much longer, Chloe. We’ve spent years—years—socking away every C-bill we’ve earned. And even when your gambles on some stocks paid off much better than we imagined, it’s still only a nest egg. An egg. And it’s getting smaller every day. Pretty soon we’re going to have to let go all those people we’ve hired. Maybe even someone in this room. Or we’ll have to start sliding on maintenance fees. Or training runs. Any of which will be noticed. And then we might as well slap on contractless signs for all the job offers we’ll get. You wanted this dream, Chloe. This is it. This is where we’re at. We either take one of these, or we admit we couldn’t make it work.” He finished up his rant breathless, realizing his voice had risen to a shout. Dawson looked dumbfounded, as though it were the first time he’d ever seen his parents fighting, Brooklynn shrank into her chair trying to vanish, while Chloe’s look of hurt and the tears edging her eyes cut him deeper than any knife. He expected Ryana to launch at him for crossing Chloe so blatantly—that they were husband and wife often didn’t seem to mean a thing to her—but a side glance showed she was still off contemplating her own world. Strange.

He reined in his anger, realizing he might have woken their child as he glanced at the closed door. Then he took a deep breath. For the both of you. For all of you. “Chloe,” he began, trying to make her see sense, “I hope we can be as legitimate as you want us to be. I hope we can walk those mercenary halls someday with contracts falling at our feet. When we’re known. Respected. But we have to start somewhere. And that means taking contracts that we might not like. Or maybe even ones we hate.”

She refused to look at him—she’d always wielded silence so effectively—but Dawson spoke up at that point. “Um, Nikolai. I get what you’re saying. But we’re not gonna…you know…go killing or anything.”

“Good grief, Dawson. Of course not. I’m not a killer. We’re not assassins. But some contracts are just flat illegal. By any stretch of any law. Which means we’re illegal for taking them. But if we do it right, it’ll be fine. It’ll be a contract. Nicely sealed behind such wonderful euphemisms as ‘state secrets.’ It’ll give us the start we simply cannot find any other way.”

Dawson still looked troubled, and glanced at Chloe. Nikolai’s eyes wandered for a moment, and he found Brooklynn, who had not yet said a word—with him there, she might not—and her entire body was oriented away from him. They all knew who they followed. Chloe. If I can’t win her over….

“We should take it,” Ryana said.

He’d been waiting for the haranguing, biting reply, and her abrupt support for his outrageous move shocked him to his core. The others in the room swiveled toward her as though she’d grown an extra head.

Nikolai finally recognized a hint of her expression as she locked eyes with him momentarily before turning to Chloe. Respect. He was thunderstruck, never for a moment believing he’d ever see that expression from the tall, amazing warrior.

“We cannot go on, Chloe.” Ryana smoothly rose from the couch and crossed the short distance to rest her hand on Chloe’s shoulder, forcing her to look at her directly. “We really to give up on our dream? Or are we going to make it happen, even if we have to go down some dark alleys to get there?”

Nikolai held his breath and the tableau stretched, the near-sisters facing each other.

Finally, Chloe slowly nodded, reaching up to take Ryana’s hand. “No,” she whispered. “I’m not ready to give up on this dream.” She heaved a huge sigh that practically rattled her body, before she nodded at Nikolai and the noteputer. “Fine…fine. What’s so secret about this contract that it’s not listed in any MRB database?”

Nikolai reached over and slid the noteputer closer. “It’s an extraction. Though not a raid, with a protection element. The description is…odd…to say the least. From a Sebastian Spears. Some organization called Interstellar Expeditions. Never heard of them.” He glanced up to find a pair of shocked faces. “What?”

Chloe and Ryana slowly shared a glance before shaking their heads, Ryana holding hers while Chloe laughed softly.

He glanced at Dawson and Brooklynn, and found his own incredulousness staring back from both. “Um, ladies? Mind letting us in on the joke?”

“We know him,” Chloe finally responded.

“How?”

“Many years ago. Back on Hesperus. He visited the Light Horse base.”

“What? In the middle of that fight? That’s not possible. Wait, why didn’t you tell me?”

She held up her hand to stave off his avalanche of questions. “Because I signed a pretty scary nondisclosure agreement. And, well, I still can’t tell you about it. I still really don’t know anything about him. Didn’t think I’d ever seem him again. But…his contacts are…crazy, as far as we can tell.”

“Crazy. And likely rich, rich, rich,” Ryana mumbled, still holding her head as though unable to believe the situation.

His previous anger rekindled. “Wait, so you’re telling me the two of you had this contact we could’ve approached at any time for a contract?”

“Seriously, do you believe that?!” Chloe shot back, her bemused expression shifting back to match his anger. “Of course we had no idea. Didn’t know who he was, or how to contact him. Or even if he or his organization hired mercenaries. It was an…unusual consult. As it is, whatever they’re doing, they don’t want ComStar or anyone else to know about it.”

That dropped a sobering curtain of silence, and they stared at one other. Then Dawson finally broke the ice with his quick smile and flourish of cards he always managed to extract from somewhere. “I bet, ladies and gentlemen, that we don’t really care. We take the contract, we do the job, and move on to the next contract. And the next. And the next. We get it done.”

They all took a last moment to size each other up. Nikolai took an extra second staring at Ryana, and her nod to him contained a volume of unspoken words far beyond most of what they’d shared over the years. I finally did something she respected. Did it for Chloe. For all us.

“We take the contract,” they all said in solemn unison.

“So,” Dawson piped up, his cards flashing once more, his grin a meter wide, “Fifty C-bills says this is just some rich guy wanting some help to sneak into a Canopian pleasure circus.”

For the first time in what seemed like months, Nikolai heartedly joined in the burst of laughter.

5

Dissimulate Wanderer

SIROCCO

ST. JAMES, MATAMORAS

BJARRED PREFECTURE, PESHT MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

2 JULY 2995

The sun crouched, bloated in the sky, baking the landscape in an oven that soared above fifty-five degrees Celsius this day, high summer.

Fahad Arazad had worked alongside his father for over three years now, his slight frame carefully navigating the Arkab Legion’s maintenance facilities as he learned the arcane art of being a BattleMech astech. Despite such tough work, Fahad’s fifteen-year-old muscles struggled against the brutal 1.46 standard gravity of Matamoras, nearly double that of their home world. Combined with the temperature—Fahad swore he felt the wavering lines of heat sucking the moisture straight out of his pores—and the grinding weight that felt like both his older brothers were sitting on his chest, he was already exhausted. He stopped for a moment, adjusted his anti-glare goggles, feet sliding in the unfamiliar, smooth sands, and then unslung a pouch of water around his neck and took a deep draught.

“Careful,” Jabal Arazad said as he hopped down into the defile from the waist-high ledge, despite his large frame that cast a long shadow Fahad knew he could never fill. “That is all the water you will have until tomorrow night, when they pick us up.”

Fahad coughed at the surprising interruption and almost spewed the contents. The horror of wasting the resource—much less in front of his father—just kept it in. He stoppered the pouch and picked up the latticework of carbon-fiber tubing he’d been assembling.

“Aasif, Father.”

“We all have moments when we are sorry. What we do afterward is what matters.”

A companionable silence fell as they continued working. The two parts of the latticework slowly formed into a tear-shaped half shell that they pushed into the sand once fully assembled. His father pulled out the anchor gun, placed the pronged muzzle over the bottom frame rod, and fired. The thump was shocking after the long silence only filled with occasional wind and the whisper of sand particulates grinding their endless dance on each other. Compressed air shot ceramic-sheathed darts down deep into the sand, trailing a mix of spider silk and molecularly aligned synthetic thread. Two meters below the surface, the darts exploded, the embedded, viral-like crystal growths budding and shooting off in every direction. Within seconds it crafted a root system of hundreds of threads, each of which now oozed drops of epoxy that rooted it to the ground with a thousand anchor points. His father scuttled around the edge of the frame, ignoring the heat of the sand, setting seven more such powerful anchor points.

So much work just to be “safe.” Fahad watched, mesmerized by the remaining darts, desperate to actually see the working of such magical high technology. Even he knew how incredibly rare and expensive this must be. And yet they were shooting it into sand on this horrible world? He remembered, months ago, before they began, the shouting between his parents over this “once-in-a-lifetime trip.” Shrugged the ugly memories away, and kept working behind his father, wondering if he’d ever be able to understand him.

He started pulling out the elastic sheets of polymer, and flash-heated their edges within each pane of the frame by pinching the tape capsules they’d carefully placed and packed before traveling the nearly 500 light years to the world of Matamoras.

Soon, the impressive tent was finished, its fabulously smooth, white sides a flashing brilliance that almost made it past their anti-glare goggles. So low-slung and enmeshed now with its surroundings, it almost appeared like the cockpit canopy of a Sholagar aerospace fighter that Fahad had seen racing down the runways and into the skies of his homeworld of Al Na’ir. If I kick the sand, will we uncover a buried fighter?

“Abnay,” his father spoke, voice filled with reverence. “My son, isn’t this one of Allah’s greatest works?”

Fahad glanced away from the tent and saw his father encompassing the region all around them with a sweep of his arm; Fahad matched his gaze, taking it all in. As far as his sight carried, towering, intricate sculptures rose hundreds of meters into the air. Sinuous, graceful lines and arcs and flanges stabbed at the cobalt sky with abandon. Striated rocks, embedded with a variety of rare crystals and metals precious to heavy-industry, twinkled in the blazing light. A shimmering cloud of multihued, gem-colored spots of light wafted over the sandy dunes, and ethereal, towering, minaret-like protrusions of stone seemed to sit in midair. A brilliant, breathtaking kaleidoscope, carved across tens of millions of years by terrifyingly powerful winds that ravaged this world year-round. Such relentless windstorms made Matamoras a living hell for the poor souls consigned to work the more than four dozen mines and processing sites of one of the most valuable industry worlds in the entire Draconis Combine. But every two decades—for reasons not even the scientists from the golden age of the long-lost Star League could explain—the winds stopped for just a few brief weeks, fully revealing the glory of this treasure.

Fahad looked away from the magnificence so few human eyes beheld, and witnessed the first tears he’d ever seen his father cry, a look of glory and transcendence on his face. While his father worked in the dirt and grime of a maintenance shop, he was an artist to the core: with a loving touch, he performed repairs for the dozen-meter-tall avatars of war under his care, which made him the envy of every tech throughout all of the Arkab Legions and even among other Draconis Combined Mustered Soldiery regiments that knew his work.

They’d make a lot more profit if they mined this region instead of just charging admittance to gawkers. Fahad abruptly glanced away from father at such a sentiment, as though he would know instantly what Fahad thought, and punish him appropriately for what he would deem blasphemous insolence. But it’s true…

A strange change in the atmosphere caused Fahad to glance around uneasily. His father finally looked away from the beauty of the carved desert, surreptitiously wiping away his tears. “Let’s get inside.”

Fahad heaved a sigh of relief. They’d get inside, blocking out that angry ball of hate, and he could read his tech manuals and nap, waiting out the next twenty-four hours for the return of the vehicles that would extract them from his father’s “paradise.” I can keep quiet. I can survive this.

His ears abruptly popped, causing him to start. “Something’s different,” Fahad said. He looked around again, feeling something off in the air from what he’d grown accustomed to in the last week on-planet.

His father nodded as he moved to the edge of the tent and slid the only loose panel aside far enough for him to worm through. “It’s almost time,” his voice echoed from within the low tent.

Time? Time for what? Fahad looked around once last time, then easily slid through the same aperture. The abrupt dark and chill shocked him, and he was momentarily blinded while he fumbled his goggles off. A few long seconds, and the bioluminescence of the algae that’d sprouted in the sand via the anchoring shrapnel darts provided plenty of light while also ensuring ample oxygen for the coming day’s hibernation. He looked to his father for confirmation, then pulled the panel inward against the frame and carefully squeezed the twin nodules that flash-sealed this last bit in place. His ears popped again at the continued change of atmosphere.

A shift in the sound outside made him shuffle away from the wall’s edge, on his knees, glancing nervously at his father. “Time for what?”

His father drew in a deep breath as he knelt in the sand, eyes closed, then let it out slowly and a smile blossomed. “To watch Allah’s hand. Put your goggles back on,” he finished, adjusting his own back into place.

What? Fahad did as he was told. “Father—”

He was choked off as his father touched a control stud on the ceiling and the entire structure flashed transparent, with only the carbon-fiber frame disrupting an unimpeded view, as their heads were just above the lip of the defile where they’d built their tent.

The whickering of sand increased fitfully, and it started to lash against the tent. He slowly looked over his shoulder to follow the direction that held his father’s gaze. A wall of churning blackness, carried from horizon to horizon and towering half a dozen kilometers into the stratosphere, rushed towards them.

Thoughts burst with instant clarity. They were not here just for that brief respite when the winds died every two decades. Nor was the tent just a precaution. His father had timed it perfectly, so that they might see the calm in the eye of the storm. Only transparent, micro-thin walls stood between them and the monstrous, 600-kilometer-an-hour sirocco that gave this region its name. The storm stamped its ravaging hand on the sculpted land, making it a mecca for artists—especially those of the Azami—from across a thousand worlds and as many light years. Horror roiled inside as he glanced back at the rapturous anticipation on his father’s face.

You…are…insane…

Fahad Arazad pushed the terror down deep, looking calmly at his father as the sirocco fell upon the land with untold ferocity.

HOMAI-ZAKI, AL NA’IR

AL NA’IR PREFECTURE, DIERON MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

3 MARCH 2999

Fahad slalomed through the traffic of Homai-Zaki. Finishing a long day of BattleMech maintenance, he unwound taut muscles in the race of wind and speed as he expertly piloted his hoverbike through gaps that left honking horns and vulgarity in his wake. By the time he reached his friend’s apartment in the lower end of Al Na’ir’s capital city, he felt almost refreshed, ready to tackle a night of lively political discussions and some good beer, and maybe, just maybe, Alita would be there.

He careened into the small parking lot, slid in between two vehicles, and jumped the machine up onto the curb—he loved how much it irritated Joseph’s landlord. Then he leaped out, already heading toward the door before the last of the dust billowing out from under the hoverbike’s skirt settled. Long legs bounded up the three flights of stairs, and he burst through the door without even a knock.

Joseph, Omar, and Alita (yes!) were camped around the small living-room table, smoke rising from an ashtray of cigarette butts, and a row of empty beer bottles already making its way across the table’s glass surface. A flash of smiles and waving hands were a balm to his nerves. He only managed to get away from his work and family once a week to meet his friends. And despite being the military, the Arkab Legion—at least those on Al Na’ir—scrupulously adhered to the laws of the Azami worlds. No smoking, no alcohol, no premarital sex. Good gods, how could you have any fun like that?! Right…they don’t have fun. He frowned for a moment, thinking of his father. Ever.

He settled his long frame onto a pillow, caught a beer tossed his way, and accepted a cigarette from Omar. He took a long drag, cracked open the bottle, and sloshed a long drink down a dry throat, before sighing delightedly. Heavenly.

“Long day, my friend?” Omar said. Unlike Joseph or Alita, whose families were minorities on Al Na’ir, Omar’s were strict religious adherents, as his own. He understands. It helped that they both shared a passion for computer programming, though Omar’s knowledge far outstripped his own. They shared a knowing look and a smile as they clinked bottles in a cheer of getting away from it all.

“Long week,” Fahad said.

“Has it already been a week?” Joseph flashed a smile in a white face that stood out on the city streets of Homai-Zaki. His lineage, from the Rasalhague Military District, originated from immigrants of the Nordic countries back on ancient Terra. White as white can be.

Fahad smiled at their wonderful friendship. “It has. It has. Too long.” He glanced at Alita, her own garnet-colored skin only a shade or two darker than his. While of the Azami worlds, her family had rejected strict compliance with their religious laws, taking a far more secular path with their lives. He envied them. And felt a delicious warmth in his belly at her shy, return smile. There was a reason he’d learned to understand her love of etymology, as she’d begun studying linguistics. Wanting her—and being able to wield her as a knife at his family—all wrapped into a wonderfully, burgeoning relationship. Perhaps tonight?

“You heard the rumors?” Joseph said. “About the Coordinator?”

“Yeah, a few days ago.”

“Combine newsfeeds are spinning it, but dig a little in the right places, and the truth emerges. Someone tried to assassinate him.”

“Word says it was a member of the Order of the Five Pillars,” Alita spoke up.

Fahad took a long drag on the cigarette before blowing it up into the air in one, large waft. “I don’t care who tried. I just wish they’d succeeded. In fact, I wish they’d killed the lot of them. Every…last…stinking…noble Kuritan. Then maybe, just maybe they’d leave us alone.” He hated his family’s religious zeal. But he was still Azami and always would be. And that meant his hatred of all things Combine was a wonderfully bright spark he loved fanning with such treasonous talk.

He looked back as his friends’ voices fell silent, to find three sets of shocked faces peering over his shoulder, and he glanced there. Horror, shame and rage swept over him as his father’s large frame filled the doorway like an avatar of doom. He dropped the cigarette and beer bottle, its sloshing mess forgotten as it slowly stained the carpet; despite his nineteen years of age, he abruptly felt half that, scrambling to his feet, excuses on his tongue to try pardoning his missteps.

The silent stretched, brittle and taut, waiting to shatter. The look on his father’s face darkened as his judging eyes swept the room. Fahad could almost see the checklist of infractions filling those eyes.

“You bring shame on your family,” his father finally grated out between clenched teeth. “Your brothers have whispered for some time, but I ignored them. Told them my son would not do such things. Would not hide such blasphemy from his family. From his mother. From me.” The last word trembled with strong emotion, but those eyes remained dry.

Fahad abruptly remembered the only time he’d seen his father cry. Over some rocks. You can’t even cry over me. Not even now.

“This is my life. I will—” Fahad began angrily, but cut off as his father’s impressive frame surged into the room, crossing the short distance in one eyeblink, hand descending into a stinking slap to his face, sparking flashing lights and the tang of blood.

“You will what? You who blaspheme and commit treason in the same breath?”

Anger quickly ate through the fright. He spit blood on the floor, his friends forgotten, and he faced his father, tongue running away for the first time in his presence.

“We have a right to our freedom! For nearly five centuries our people have bent our necks to the boot of House Kurita. And we’ve shamed ourselves by offering our blood so the Arkab Legions can fight the Kuritans’ wars, to live and die on forgotten worlds. Where is your god in that?”

He expected the slap, and still the flash of it caught him off guard. More stars and blood. Then his vision cleared, and he faced the monolithic menace of his father. Despite his previous burst of anger, he wilted before such towering familial and righteous fury.

“You. Will. Not. Speak. That you throw such words to the wind while stinking of those poisons means you know nothing of our people. We sent the delegation to House Kurita in 2516. We made a pact, knowing the rapacious growth of the Draconis Combine would swallow us if we chose inaction. It is our honor to fulfill the obligations of our forefathers with complete fidelity. It is our honor to affirm fealty to our liege lord, Coordinator Hohiro Kurita, and to his Heir-Designate, Takashi Kurita. It is never about what others do to us. It is about the words we have spoken and the actions we take. It is always. About. Us.”

Against the fusillade of words, Fahad had no defense and slowly bowed his head, waiting for the ax of his father’s judgement. The sound of his friends’ quiet, fearful breathing filled the room. That they also refused to speak up in the moment of chastisement alleviated none of his misery.

“You are still Azami,” his father finally said. “You will never see…these again. And I will double and triple your work until you are redeemed from this…lapse.”

Utterly alone and dejected, Fahad could not even bring himself to look at his lost friends as he shuffled outside. The door slammed behind him with a bang, like the closing of a prison gate.

HOMAI-ZAKI, AL NA’IR

AL NA’IR PREFECTURE, DIERON MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

3 AUGUST 3001

On the massive parade grounds of the military headquarters on Al Na’ir, the pride of Azami stood resolute. Over 100 BattleMechs ranked at attention, the entire Second Arkab Legion—along with their supporting armor and infantry regiments—stood at the ready, with the colonel’s 100-ton Atlas as the central focus, its hulking, sixteen-meter height making it one of the tallest BattleMechs ever produced. Their tan- and dark-green camouflage was vibrant in the sun, as the yellow-and-black flag of the Arkab, emblazoned with a six-pointed star, snapped in the light breeze.

Across from the ranked soldiers, the command companies of both the Eighth and Fifteenth Dieron Regulars assembled—focused on their colonel’s Marauder—their own flags planted. Their commanding officers marched toward the middle as the Arkab officers, in matching crisp, white-and-red DCMS officer uniforms, moved forward to meet them. The official exchange of commands was underway, with the Second shifting their home base to the world of Tannil, and the two Dieron Regulars regiments replacing them. A grand, time-honored military tradition for commands stretching back thousands of years.

Off to the side of where both groups of officers met, a stage had been erected, the fresh paint vibrant and alive, as the auspicious observers kept their steely silence. The Warlord of the Dieron Military District—his dress uniform somehow larger and brighter than any other—was actually in attendance this day. Arrayed around the Warlord were MechWarriors from the Fifth Sword of Light—the crème de la crème of the entire Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery.

They could be standing naked and their arrogance would still slap you in the face. Fahad watched from the shadows of the large BattleMech assembly center that blocked in the southwest side of the grounds. He and his father’s team of techs were not directly attached to the Second Arkab, and instead were permanently stationed at the assembly plant and military headquarters, so they would not be leaving Al Na’ir. How I wish those regiments were marching to battle against each other. I wish I was anywhere but here. Anywhere has to be better than here.

Fahad toed a clump of dirt at his feet and glanced askance at his father and the group of men and women that made up their team. He was exactly two meters off to the side. Not enough for his father to use words but enough for an eyebrow raise. He’d been taught the hard way exactly the boundaries he could push, and where. Especially when it came to his friends. He’d learned to be very careful there, only seeing them directly every few months. While his fling with Alita hadn’t lasted, the group’s dialogue of freedom for their people had only grown. Not in volume—they’d left that behind as they’d moved beyond their teenage years—but in sophistication. In dedication.

Soon the entire affair wound down as the duty station exchange was finalized. The large gathering slowly broke up. The massive relocation efforts would span the next several weeks, including dozens of DropShip lifts that would exchange over 5,000 individuals, along with some thirty thousand tons of gear and equipment. He wanted to be gone from this place, packed with so much Kurita, but knew he couldn’t leave until his father dismissed the group. Abruptly they snapped to attention, and Fahad barely matched their form, sidling close to the group as the Warlord and his retinue of soldiers walked by.

“They wear our uniforms better than I expected,” one of the officers said, nodding toward the Second Arkab Legion troops breaking formation.

“Dress them up how they may, they can never be fully trusted,” the Warlord responded casually, as the group continued walking. “I am glad the Dragon has seen fit to listen to my advice and move their kind off this all-important world and bring in my own warriors.”

Despite his best efforts, Fahad felt his face flush bright red as the group moved out of ear shot. They speak as if we don’t even exist. As if vermin that aren’t smart enough to understand. His fists slowly clenched until his arms ached. We’ve worn your uniforms for half a thousand years. Have bled and died on countless worlds through the Succession Wars. Always honorable. Always with the highest skills. The Arkab are more than a match for either of your Regulars regiments. They might even give your Sword of Light a run for their money. His mind stormed with spiraling epithets and challenges.

His father turned and looked at each of them, eyes full of resolve, as though to say “You heard nothing.” Each tech nodded before moving away, their features clear of contention. Fahad had no idea how they did it.

At last, his father looked at him. Fahad desperately tried to hide himself—still struggled around his father—but something must have leaked through. “Remember, my son, what matters is what we do,” his father said softly, raising a hand as though to touch Fahad’s shoulder. But then thought better of it and dropped it, before moving away.

Fahad stayed rooted to his spot, the anger slipping past his placid safeguards as his father walked out of sight. He shot daggers at the retreating Warlord’s retinue and their towering arrogance. They hate us as much as I hate them. And that was just fine with him.

He couldn’t wait to tell his friends. But he would wait another month or two, especially since he’d slipped up recently and allowed his father to see he was still not the perfect son. His father would be looking over his shoulder with extra care.

He finally unclenched fists, smoothed his features, and turned back to the long work shift that lay ahead. Still needed to work on hiding myself.

HOMAI-ZAKI, AL NA’IR

AL NA’IR PREFECTURE, DIERON MILITARY DISTRICT

DRACONIS COMBINE

25 FEBRUARY 3002

The automated cutter’s accelerated jets of hot plasma knifed through crystal-aligned-steel plates backed by a cubic boron-nitride layer, sparks flashing amid the searingly bright actinic light. The massive, industrial-sized cutter moved through its precise, servo-directed motion across large sheets of BattleMech armor, which it sliced into computer numerical control–programmed facets for the BattleMech under refit—in this case, a 65-ton Catapult.

An overworked operator nodded off at the controls as an alarm sounded on the hour of 1 a.m. local, startling him awake. He immediately checked the parameters of the program to ensure all was proceeding appropriately, then nodded off once more. The rest of the warehouse in this final-assembly center of York MechWorks was in the late-night shift, and mostly automated for such hours. Very few other souls occupied the structure.

The computer program, set in motion weeks before, abruptly initiated its coded attack.

First, a large oxygen-flow valve—carefully delisted during multiple months of maintenance checks—turned on at full capacity. It would later appear to have broken due to faulty maintenance.

Second, the operator’s alarm was disabled. Later investigation would lay significant fault on the overworked, underpaid, and unsuspecting employee.

Finally, an armor sheet laid down months before, but ignored by the computer, abruptly appeared in the system. The logic brain of the machine verified the falsified date lasered into its edge, and cycled other sheets out of the way on various conveyor belts to ensure the oldest sheets always fell in proper order for immediate CNC work.

By 5 a.m., the ratio of oxygen to other constituent gases in the warehouse air had reached an almost perfect mix. The plasma torch then cut through the specialized armor sheet, igniting the accelerant woven in alongside artificial diamond fibers into the cubic boron-nitride layer, causing the sheet to explode in white-hot shards of shrapnel that tore itself, the machine, and most of the nearby structures to shreds. Milliseconds later, the secondary detonation of the volatile air ignited a titanic fireball that shredded the primary warehouse, killing five, wounding a dozen others, and sent a shockwave that turned connected warehouses inside out and knocked over two dozen nearby homes off their foundations.

The resulting chemical fire burned for nearly a week before valiant firefighters could reach the center of the blaze and use inert chemical foam to finally douse the last of it.

While official inquiries concluded that an accelerant was responsible for the incident, the investigation team labeled it an industrial accident and refused to believe that the accelerant had been maliciously embedded in one of the steel sheets. The investigator who ruthlessly pursued her conviction that this was a deliberate act of sabotage would eventually be publicly disgraced under false charges of bribery over a decade later, and Yori MechWorks carefully swept the whole affair under the rug in an effort to get their refurbished assembly facility fully back online and staffed by willing personnel by 3009.

While rebuilding, Yori MechWorks would not only deal with that lost revenue for years to come, but the Warlord of the Dieron Military District was obliged to make a public statement surrounding the catastrophe; the CEO and numerous board members were forced to resign due to the Warlord’s loss of face. (In any other realm, the company would likely pay out billions of C-bills in civilian litigation over faulty maintenance practices and the chemical fallout from the fires that spread to the nearby city, but in the Combine, the Dragon—and his Warlord representative—is the truth.)

The night was still alive with secondary explosions, lurid lights, and blaring emergency vehicles racing by as Fahad’s father burst into his room. Fahad turned, voice anxious. “Has there been a raid? House Davion?”

His father’s eyes scanned his face with brutal intensity, as though he would scrape away his skin to peer at the consciousness beneath. “Tell me you did not do this.”

“Do what?” Fahad asked, screwing his face up in confusion.

The silence stretched again, as the hubbub of awakened neighbors pouring out into the night grew with their shock and ever greater numbers. He stood up from his bed, opening the window to let in a rush of loud voices in the street and the stench of burning petrochemicals already engulfing the city, though they were long kilometers distant.

“I am shamed. Al-Taqiyya is our ancient custom that has allowed us to hide in plain sight, dissimulating our faith to protect our people against others. Yet you twist it to hide yourself from your own family. Do you even know who you are? What happened to that boy who journeyed with me to Matamoras?”

Anger slid up past Fahad’s carefully laid façade, and despite the futility, his tongue ran with indignation. “I never wanted that trip. You wanted it. And what you want, you get, regardless of the rest of us.” He glanced back at his father—no, only at a man whose genes he carried—and lashed further. “Do you even know the etymology of that planet’s name? Matamoras. It’s a derivation of ‘Matamoros,’ a title given to St. James, Spain’s patron saint, during the Middle Ages of ancient Terra. It means ‘Killer of Moors.’ You tried to find your god on a planet celebrating the killing of our ancestors in the name of their god.”

The commotion outside increased as secondary explosions continued to thump in the night, and the sounds of sirens, now stretching for kilometers in every direction, converged as a veritable army of emergency personnel moved toward the unfolding catastrophe.

Fahad hunted for the anger he expected, yet found only a stony, empty pit in those eyes. “I know your skills,” his father said. “You are careful, so there is likely nothing to be found. Which I pray is true. If there is even a breath of a hint connecting the Azami to an act of sabotage, the Dragon with lash out with claws that could destroy us, sending their regiments marching against our worlds.”

Fahad managed to keep his lips sealed. Let them come. Better to fight and die than live in servitude to an unlawful lord.

“And if our family name reaches the ears of the Internal Security Force, we will all simply…disappear. But for all of that, I care not. I would see you brought to justice, except your mother…she would be undone. Destroyed in heart and mind by your treason and blasphemy. For her and her alone, I will tell no one.”

Fahad suddenly knew what was coming, as though he could see the blade of his father’s righteous judgment slowly cleaving towards his neck.

“But you are no longer my son. Or part of this family. You are no longer Azami. Altayih.” As his father turned away without another word; Fahad marveled that he didn’t seem to fill that doorway as he once did.

Wanderer. His father meant it as a curse, but he would embrace it. Thousands of worlds of opportunity amongst the stars.

He began quietly packing. Fahad wondered if his father cared that his elation had slowly turned to horror as the full scale of it registered. Did we mean for it to be like this? He wanted to contact his friends, to see if they had second thoughts as well. But knew his father was right. The ISF was everywhere. The chance at discovery exponentially increased if he tried to get in contact. Will we ever see each other again? Or will I bear this burden alone the rest of my days?

Soon enough, a short duffel bag over his shoulder, he slipped out the back door while the rest of his family jostled among concerned neighbors watching the ongoing emergency; they wouldn’t notice him missing for long hours.

He’d expected it to hurt more.

PLAGUE BOYS COMPOUND

ST. EDWARDS, LAYOVER

ACHEMAR COMBAT REGION, CRUCIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

1 JANUARY 3005

Despite the protection offered by the rebreather mask everyone wore on Layover during extended outings to keep the planet’s pervasive microbials from gaining a foothold in their system, the punch still broke skin and dropped Fahad to the ground, his ears ringing. Despite the years, the mocking laugher always hurt more than the punches. Always.

He knew staying prone would not alleviate the torment, so he pushed up off the ground. How in the world do these drunken idiots operate a mercenary command? Then again, calling the Plague Boys a merc outfit was generous in the extreme. Just this side of bandits, hanging onto their Mercenary Review Board D-rating by their dirty fingernails. Then again, perhaps he was the idiot for accepting their short-term tech contract.

Lieutenant Corals sucked at the blood on his knuckle like a leech, with far too much glee in the gesture. The short, mean man’s face reminded Fahad of a pug, his beady eyes craving a violence no battlefield could ever quench. Especially at their current posting, where the last raid was a dog’s age ago. And so, instead of PPCs against an enemy, its fists against me.

“Ready for more stomping, ’Zami?” the lieutenant said.

Fahad sighed. He could do nothing about the color of his skin, but he’d been careful to not speak of his upbringing. His dialect had given him away. His two previous commands hadn’t been enjoyable, but at least they weren’t this bad, with such virulence directed at who and what he was. Was? Still am? He wasn’t so sure anymore.

He glanced around for an escape, but knew none existed. Beyond the short perimeter of the Plague Boys compound stretched nearly 500 square kilometers of raid-ravaged and age-dilapidated factories and storehouses that encapsulated the bright but distant past of Salvatore, Inc., a once major manufacturer of space vessels. A past destroyed by the depredations of the Succession Wars. But if he sought refuge, he’d likely have a wall collapse on him or he’d fall into a pit where he’d never be discovered. Better to deal with the here and now.

“Look,” he finally said to the lieutenant and the other two lackeys. “You hired me to do a job. Keep your ’Mechs in good, working order. I’ve been doing that. Is it my fault you pilot your BattleMechs like drunken Canopian pleasure circus rejects?”

His stomach dropped precipitously, and he slowly closed his eyes against the gleeful rage his words ignited in all three pairs of dull eyes. Stupid tongue. It always betrayed him.

As he fell back to the ground, pain enveloping his nerves and blood splattering the dirt, he knew, if he lived, it was time to wander on. Again.

COPELAND HIGHLANDS

TORLIA, LUNGDO

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

11 DECEMBER 3006

Fahad leaned against the service utility truck. Even in the bright light of Lungdo’s sun at full height, the arc of the world’s numerous rings was heavily visible. He’d craned his neck for long minutes as they’d first debarked from their Union-class Dropship in the distance. How are they not mining that?

Then again, no one could likely afford it. Not that he’d been on a lot of worlds. Yet. But so far, this might have been the most backwater planet he’d ever walked on, with a population not even breaking a million. No metropolises and really just a handful of medium-sized cities, and most of those just fragmentary settlements spread haphazardly throughout the single continent that hugged the equator. An independent world, just outside the Protectorate within the Free Worlds League, it was a place that apparently cared little for the outside universe. And the Inner Sphere responded in kind; shipment tracking and ports-of-call manifests had painted a picture of a planet visited by very few. I guess if you were going to try hiding something, this would be a good place.

The column of dust he’d spotted earlier grew into a truck mirroring the one he leaned against, while a Highlander BattleMech kept up a steady accompanying trot, beating rhythmic tremors that grew ever more powerful as it approached. The two arrived together, and, still getting to know everyone—despite the time together, he’d learned the harsh way to be very leery—he watched with a critical eye as the Cavaliers’ XO, Ryana Campbell, powered down the 90-ton BattleMech, extended the chain ladder from the chest, and egressed out the back of the head before shimmying down to the ground with ease. She then took a step to the BattleMech, placed a hand on its massive foot, and bowed her head to say a prayer, her lithe figure still, her top-knot fluttering in the light breeze that carried the odd, sickly sweet aroma of some local flora.

He’d been surprised at her prayer the first time he’d witnessed it, with memories of his father striking hard at emotions he avoided. But while prickly, Ryana seemed okay. She never foists that on anyone. More importantly, in his eyes, she was a warrior who any Arkab Legion soldier would’ve lauded with respect.

“Nothing,” Ryana said toward their group as she stalked across the small clearing, disgust in every line of her form.

“You sure?” Nikolai Mason responded. (He refused to accept any rank, Fahad noted.) The brooding but intelligent man stood at a field table, a small holomap open, making annotations on the connected noteputer; one of his favorite knives stood hammered into the table, a testament to frustration. He was a warrior-tech-trader-agent extraordinaire; a jack-of-all-trades who always seemed to have something up his sleeve to solve a problem. He should’ve suffered for spreading himself so thin, but that never seemed the case. Nikolai and he had immediately been at odds, often clashing over personalities. He didn’t really like nor dislike Nikolai, but none of that mattered. He was married to the boss lady, and she did matter.

Captain Chloe Reed, despite her short stature, always dominated the conversation, even when she spoke not a word. She kept silent as the troop of tired, dusty men and women, wearing gear affixed with the Interstellar Expeditions logo, stomped up from the other truck, dropped their gear onto the grass, and collapsed straight to the ground alongside their packs, despite the patchy grass coverage.

“It’s simply not there,” the lead archaeologist, Jolinda Hays, responded. Her dark skin made Fahad’s own seem light, and her large halo of black hair was almost as loud as her personality.

“You sure?” Chloe spoke, mirroring her husband’s words—much to his annoyance, if the crease on his forehead was any indication.

Fahad watched Sergeant Brooklynn Jales slide up to Chloe, trying not to interrupt the conversation, and hand her a clipboard. He swore she loved that thing more than breathing. Chloe glanced at it a moment, nodded at Brooklynn, handed it back, and the other woman slunk away, her long braid of hair swinging. He liked the sergeant, though he’d not found a way to say much to her just yet. Her shyness reminds me of Alita. He frowned and instantly pushed those memories down and away.

“Of course I am, Chloe,” Jolinda continued. “We’ve been digging in those caves for over two months. Even using your BattleMechs to help dig out some sections. Spears’s contacts were simply wrong. The Chalice and Tablets of St. Kamen DeGruen are not here. And by the gods, I’m gonna make him pay for sending me on this fool’s errand.” She finally joined her cohorts, flopping down onto the ground to stretch fully out on her back.

“Now tell me again why we’re on this backwater world hunting a cup and some slabs of rocks from some saint executed a couple a hundred years ago?” Dawson Clarmont spoke up. While older than Fahad, he had a boyish exuberance that left everyone around him smiling. Even I can’t resist the man.

“It is a Chalice and Tablets,” Jolinda said, not even opening her eyes, the long-suffering in her voice splattering everyone with its aggrieved tone. “St. Kamen DeGruen was executed in 2183,” she continued, instantly becoming a bored professor teaching recalcitrant students, as though she somehow missed the rhetorical tone of Dawson’s comment. “Not a ‘few hundred years ago.’ At the height of mankind’s first diaspora to the stars, the wealthiest member-states of the Terran Alliance colonized the closest worlds. The poorer nations, already have borne the financial brunt of the Alliance discovering and then manufacturing faster-than-light travel nearly a century before, would no longer be cowed. St. DeGruen was a true believer in the Terran Alliance and tried desperately to stave off what he saw as a coming catastrophe for the Alliance in rebellions. Some were already occurring on Terra, and others that would spark soon enough off-world. He was captured in Turkey as a spy by rebels, given a kangaroo-court trial and executed. But it is said that his Chalice and Tablets were actually part of a much more ancient treasure trove from the Near East. Perhaps as old as ancient Babylon itself. They’re valuable enough just being associated with DeGruen. But if such rumors are true, they would be a find beyond measure.” Her words slowly trailed off as she opened her eyes, leaning up on elbows to find everyone staring at her. “Right, already told you all that.”

“Mate, you’d be an insufferable professor,” Fahad responded. He’d worked hard to scrub away the linguistics of his youth, adopting a House Davion Outback dialect he’d carefully researched. Despite all of that, he couldn’t bring himself to change his name; he’d shorten it, or not provide it until he got to know a person, but he simply could not completely self-erase his past in that fashion. He dug into a vest pocket and pulled out an energy bar, tearing at the wrapper and taking a large bite.

Jolinda shrugged off the barb. “That’s why I’m out in the field and not teaching.”

“What does that mean for us?” Chloe spoke for all of them. “Is our contract…fulfilled?” The slight hitch in her tone matched the odd looks on the Cavaliers’ faces. After all, this entire contract had been strange beyond belief. Secretly hired off the Mercenary’s Star, the world of Galatea, nearly a year ago by Interstellar Expeditions, a consortium of fabulously wealthy and connected individuals from all around the Inner Sphere. The job: to go find some dusty old artifacts that might not even exist, and safeguarding the pack of archeologists tasked with their mission. To, as their employer said, “protect the knowledge of mankind.” The whole thing was strange beyond their experiences.

“Yup. Mark off a big, fat ‘mission accomplished,’ Chloe,” Jolinda said, falling back onto the grass. “You got a great, cushy paycheck. If Spears still likes you and isn’t too disappointed, maybe you’ll get another contract. And perhaps then you’ll get to fire your big, bad weapons.”

Chloe looked carefully at Nikolai. Even in his short time with the Cavaliers, Fahad knew the tension between those two surrounding the spirit of the law versus the letter of the law; had heard the philosophical discussions. Nikolai walked with a foot in the shadows while Chloe always felt the call to keep both feet in the light. He knew what Chloe was thinking: had they completed their contract? Fahad wasn’t sure he even saw a nod from the man, but Chloe turned away, and he knew a decision had been made. He marveled. I wonder if I’ll ever have a relationship like that?

Chloe then looked at Dawson, and he smiled that big, infectious grin. “I bet we get a bonus. Just, you know, ’cause Sebastian likes us.”

Chloe shifted her gaze to Ryana. The other woman tossed her long topknot, as though a thoroughbred shaking her mane in anticipation of running. “I didn’t like this rock anyways.”

Chloe nodded, then looked at Sergeant Jales. “Brooklynn?”

Fahad watched her fingers tighten on her all-important clipboard, eyes unfocused, lips moving as though she were reading some internal document.

“Brooklynn,” Chloe spoke again, with more force.

“Captain, there’s no clause in our contract that precludes this scenario. If Dr. Hays believes we’ve fulfilled said contract, we can consider it completed without a risk of penalty.”

“Brooklynn,” Dawson said, “did you have the whole thing memorized, or just the clauses that could cost us money?” Laughter burst out among the group as she turned bright pink.

While the tired scientists slowly stood and, ignoring the Cavaliers, started loading their vehicles and supplies back onto the DropShip for liftoff, Fahad braced for what was still utterly unexpected.

Chloe switched her gaze to his. “And Fahad, your thoughts?”

Despite less than a year in their employ, he was floored at being included in the common decision-making. He’d known his answer before she’d asked, but it was the asking that was a treasure.

“There’s another contract out there for us. Thousands of worlds of opportunity amongst the stars.”

“Didn’t know your tongue could be so poetic, Fahad. It’s usually throwing knives,” Dawson said, and another round of laughter burst out. One in which Fahad wonderfully joined.

He was not sure he’d ever truly fit in anywhere: no matter how he hid it, he would always be an Azami without a people. But for now, at least, his wandering feet could rest for a while.

6

Knives in the Dark

PALACE OF MIRRORS

REGULUS CITY, REGULUS

PRINCIPALITY OF REGULUS, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

17 NOVEMBER 3003

I’ve never been summoned like this. Why am I being summoned?

Lady Cameron-Jones walked nervously through palatial corridors large enough to accommodate a BattleMech without the pilot worrying about damaging the walls or ceiling. The wood patterns in the floor were mesmerizing as they marched in variegated, glossy patterns. After a dozen steps, she moved past a set of parallel doors—leading who knew where—and the floor transitioned into a new pattern. Nothing jarring or disruptive. In fact, the first time she’d noticed this, she’d paused, wondering how her eye for detail had failed to realize the change. But the intricate wood inlays simply moved from one pattern to the next in a way that pleased the eye yet dazzled the mind with the hidden puzzles within the design.

She pulled her eyes from the floor, only to have the tall, marching windows on her left catch her attention with patches of bright sunlight between. The lower halves of each framed the picturesque paths and gardens beyond as though paintings of idyllic beauty. The upper reaches of each were stained-glass masterpieces, displaying a myriad scenes of Free Worlds League history. In one window, three leaders held an eagle, depicting the founding of the League as the first, true Great House–led interstellar empire in 2271. In another window, the five Great House sigils surrounded the Cameron Star on a nebula backdrop, the Marik eagle larger than the rest—an obvious nod to the quintessential aid Albert Marik gave to Ian Cameron that allowed the forging of the Star League in 257l. In a third stained-glass window, a ComStar logo with its downward-facing points skewered an eagle, a dire reminder of when Captain-General Charles Marik militarily opposed that pseudo-religious order in 2837. The communications interdiction ComStar had placed on the entire empire ultimately forced the League to its knees, and the Captain-General capitulated to ComStar’s demands nearly two years later.

Lady Cameron-Jones sighed as she settled her attention away from the stained glass. While the artistry was beautiful, her instant recollections of such storied history served as a painful reminder of her noble upbringing, even if she’d not been in this particular palace since she was allowed to run free as a child.

At intervals, small chairs and divans graced cupolas of quiet elegance, as though to allow too-tired-from-walking couples to sit while attendants wordlessly slipped teas into their hands during whispered conversations.

She smoothed her long dress, then held her hands away from the fabric, knowing she was adding wrinkles to the expensive silk. Just need something to do with my hands. If I have that, I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine…

She rounded a corner and finally saw the distant doors. Even from this far away, they awed with their size; once again, BattleMechs could walk through them with ease. Her steps hiccupped momentarily, and her heel caught the edge of the dress she’d not worn in several years—schooling never required such niceties—and she stumbled, almost falling flat. Her face burst with heat, and she quickly looked around, desperate, her short hair swinging. She pulled in a shuddering breath and closed her eyes after verifying no one else was in the hall. After nearly a minute, she realized she could delay no longer and continued on, despite the jagged rhythm of her heart.

At last she passed into the throne room proper of the Palace of Mirrors. She’d seen holovids of the House Marik palace on far-off Atreus, and its magnificence that represented leadership of the entire Free Worlds League. But this room couldn’t be far off, with its towering, buttressed walls and domed, mosaic roof that rose more than twenty meters overhead. The series of 108 crescent windows around the dome took what should have been gloom and blossomed it with bright sunlight, causing the blues and greens and purples of the tiled mosaics to shine with almost painful intensity. The motifs of crescent moons and eagles marched throughout the tiles, with the crescent moon in obvious ascendance; after all, in the distant past, House Selaj, the self-styled princes of the Principality of Regulus, had assassinated Captain-General Terrence Marik IV, only to see the entire Selaj clan destroyed for their treachery. She pulled her eyes down from the heights where they’d subconsciously soared, past two empty, consecutive balconies, each backstopped by a myriad of paintings and mirrors that reflected the history of the Principality of Regulus itself. Her gaze continued down past fluted columns to the expansive wash of marbled floor tiles laid out in intricate patterns that mirrored and expanded on those from the preceding hallways. Despite her best intentions otherwise, the weave of lines pulled her eyes toward the back wall and the dais there, to the throne and its occupant.

Count Derick Cameron-Jones, Wielder of the Crescent Moon, Protector of Regulus, Shield of Regulus, First of House Cameron-Jones, leader of the Principality of Regulus, founding member of the Free Worlds League. The man sat the marble throne in a pristine white military uniform with various purple highlights, bathed in soft light from multiple windows designed to capture the count in a haloing effect no matter where Regulus’s sun hung in the sky. Despite the bright light, she noticed he didn’t squint. Wonder if he practices?

Per centuries-old customs that tied back to the Hinduism of House Selaj, she paused at each of the eighteen concentric half circles that flowed around the massive floor, all centered on the dais. At each, she carefully nodded toward the throne. In past centuries, that nod would’ve been a full bow. But the days of self-styled princes were gone, and today’s leaders of the Principality—while still fully embracing the power and prestige of their noble blood—gave at least lip service to the idea that in the Free Worlds League, more than any other realm, democracy had a foothold.

She stopped at the last ring, a bare two meters from the throne, and stood silently, her heart racing as though she’d just run a steeplechase with her beloved Hellio, feeling the magnificent equine’s flanks heaving with their own energy. She kept her eyes pegged on the feet of her liege lord and fell into stillness, praying to disappear into the marble. This she was good at.

All too soon, her wishes were denied. “It’s a pity that Captain-General Janos Marik could not restrain his anger and had General Willis Crawford executed earlier this year,” the count began in almost a bored tone. “After all, it wasn’t really the general’s fault he lost most of his command on Solaris. The entire conflict, begun in the Loric system, was bungled. Don’t you think?”

Despite her best convictions, she looked up to find his usual piercing eyes almost lax, as though discussing pleasantries over tea with an uncle back at one of the divans she had passed in the corridor. The count even smiled slightly and cocked his head while he let the time stretch.

He actually wants an answer?! Expecting a harsh reprimand out of the gate, her mind swirled while she marshaled the details she’d gleaned. After all, despite being a third cousin and so far from the Regulan throne that she was lost in a haze of the dozens in line before her, she was a Cameron-Jones and so born to machinations. She found her tongue but couched her response carefully, feeling the landmines all around. “It was within the Captain-General’s prerogative.”

He tsked, as though disappointed in an errant child. “Come now, my lady, you can do better than that. It is within his prerogative. Of course it is. And yet?”

She paused, taking in another breath—this time filled with the spicy incense the count enjoyed burning in small wicks next to the throne—and ordered her thoughts. I’m already destroyed. Why do I vacillate? If he wants an answer, give him an answer! Her hands plucked at her dress, longing for something to hold.

“General Crawford was best friends with the Duke of Procyon,” she began, hating the timid tone, especially as the count interrupted.

“Come now, my lady. Despite your distance from the throne, you are of noble blood. Let us dispense with titles, shall we?”

She sensed a trap but knew she had no choice but to continue. “The Duke of Procyon—” She stumbled, trying to remember to set aside titles—as difficult as setting aside her own head, as such niceties had been drilled into her from her grandmother’s knee—but soldiered on. “Anton Marik, Janos’s brother, was best friends with Crawford. They were classmates at Princefield. There were rumors that Janos and Anton had a public yelling match over the incident.”

“Not rumors,” the count said casually, nodding for her to continue.

“Anton lost face among the nobility there. What’s more, Janos plundered the supplies and men from Anton’s forces driving into the Capellan Confederation’s Tikonov Commonality,” she continued, her voice strengthening as she lost herself in the moment, spinning the threads of Machiavellian politics into a potential skein for future developments. “Janos shored up his own failures by ensuring that Anton would fail also, then he publicly berated and humiliated Anton while executing Anton’s best friend because of his own military blunders.” She paused, eyes lost inward as she wove forward, grabbing a thread from a remembered past. “A plot to supplant the previous Captain-General, Stephan Marik, was foiled when Janos, as a student at Princefield, refused to collude with fellow students seeking to depose his father. I wonder if Anton is as loyal as Janos? The Captain-General surely has hemmed his brother in on all sides, leaving such an opportunity open for those that would seek to exploit it.”

She abruptly realized the treasonous words she’d spoken, and blanched, her eyes focusing back on Count Derick. His slow smile filled with sadness.

“It was bad enough you would attend the Loeches Trade School in the Duchy of the Oriente, my lady,” he began, and the new tangent of the conversation caught her flat-footed again as she struggled to keep up. “After all, we are equals to the Mariks in our League, unlike the Oriente lapdogs that lick the Captain-General’s boots. You dishonored our ancestors with that one action. Yet I could let that stand as you stood in good graces at the school, excelling in all your worker placement programs.”

Now she knew where all of this was heading. She tried to lift her chin, but found her head too heavy for the action as the pain of recent memories bore too much burden.

The count reached to a hidden compartment on the inside of the throne, pulled out a small noteputer, and read: “The student is directly responsible for the placement of a virus that infected the SelaSys Incorporated computer network. Which then spread to a JumpShip under refurbishment, causing a helium rupture that damaged its irreplaceable Kearny-Fuchida drive; the ship will be off-line for half a year. She is immediately terminated from her job and expelled from the Loeches Trade School. Furthermore, she will either be sentenced to prison in the Duchy of Oriente, or House Cameron-Jones will pay appropriate remunerations to House Halas.”

“I didn’t do that,” she spoke up, voice cracking, much to her shame. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Of course you didn’t do that.”

She once again felt whipsawed. “What?”

The count’s eyes finally turned from their quiescence to the piercing quality that kept him as the First of the House. “Despite your distance from my throne, I see everyone in this family. I know everyone in this family. And I know you. I see you, always. You would not do this.”

“Then why did you commute my sentence by paying the exorbitant cost?”

He waved the noteputer as though making an official proclamation. “Because you are a Cameron-Jones. I couldn’t let our blood rot in an Oriente prison. We’ve already determined you were caught up in the machinations of a fellow student. A girl from a lesser house, Orloff.”

She had a vague memory of someone she’d beat out for a prestigious position at SelaSys. Blue eyes, long hair?

“Then I am—”

The count cut her off. “My lady, I am not disappointed in the actions. I am disappointed you were caught flat-footed in machinations of your lessers. That you forgot your title and the blood of your ancestors. Just as I’ve always been aware of you—will always be aware of you—despite your distance to me. You should always be aware of those around you, for you can trust no one more than yourself. What’s more, you’ve painted me into a corner where I have no choice. And when someone of my station has no choice, the actions must often be dramatic. Just as Janos Marik has, by his imprudent actions, painted Anton Marik into a corner. A corner that makes me fearful for what might happen to our League in the coming years.”

It was her turn to stand quietly while the count’s eyes took on a distant look as though he beheld fields of sorrow before him. She shuddered with the hope of the League avoiding civil war.

The count abruptly focused on her once more. “My lady, you have such amazing potential to expand the power and prestige of House Cameron-Jones. But you’ve placed me in an untenable position, and there is only one option left.” He paused, his head lowering as though already weary of what was about to happen. She tried to brace for it, but felt herself crumbling with every word pronounced, knowing her father, mother, and sisters would fully support their liege’s decision, ever faithful to the throne.

“Brooklynn Cameron-Jones, you are formally stripped of all titles, obligations, and ties. You are forthwith banished from the Principality of Regulus, never to return. You shall have no recourse to any familial or financial ties to the Principality. You shall never again have recourse to the name Cameron-Jones, nor shall you use that name in any fashion. If you are found in violation of this edict, there can be only one final solution. Begone.”

She tried. She tried so hard. But in the end, the tears fell and she fled.

JAMES CITY DROPPORT

MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

11 JANUARY 3008

Dawson Clarmont finished loading the last of the supplies sitting on the tarmac into the truck. It would soon follow the other trucks to the Cavaliers’ new bivouac out in the so-called Badlands, some 300 kilometers distant, on this new world, McKenna. They’d requested permission from the planetary government to land their DropShip directly at that location but had been denied. A world governed by farmers, even in the Badlands, refused to allow spacecraft to land outside official DropShip facilities, for fear the drive plumes of the vessels would damage their precious soil. So the James City DropPort it was, and then several hours to reach their destination, much less the many hours of offloading equipment. Which, for now, included leaving their BattleMechs on the Union-class DropShip Interstellar Expeditions had loaned them as part of their new contract. It would be strange to fulfill said contract without once stepping in his Griffin. But with a full regiment of League defenders on-world, it wasn’t like the Cavaliers needed to be wary of an attack.

He banged on the side of the truck, and the driver fired up a noisy diesel engine, sending foul smelling smoke swirling around Dawson before the cold breeze pushed it away. He watched the truck make its way past the security fence and personnel there, and then pick up speed on the road that lead off into endless prairie. He glanced all around. While the overall landscape had some roll to it, there wasn’t a rise more than, say, twenty meters that he could see in any direction. Like the hand of God had flattened this world into a pancake and left it perfectly habitable for humans, without a mountain to be seen.

He knew the rest of the Cavaliers would expect him to be on the road soon, but he wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow at the earliest, even if he drove through the night. Due to the planet’s short rotational period, a day here lasted less than twenty standard hours.

However, is eyes were drawn in only one direction, opposite of where the truck was arrowing away, and found James City about fifteen kilometers in the distance. More a town than a real city, it sat in a comfortable in-betweenness of size. He’d done some research on the burn in-system. There wasn’t any “den of thieves” on the surface. Not like Galatea City, where the underworld practically advertised its presence, much to the city council’s annoyance. But any town like this had its underside. And he didn’t really need to leave until sunset anyways, which was long hours away.

He knew Nikolai would soon forge his own contacts in such shadowy corners—assuming he hadn’t already started—while Chloe would meet with local tech guilds. But Dawson wasn’t here to force out any information. Just looking for a good time, with anyone important that might be at a table. And if they happened to talk, well, it wasn’t his fault his smile often caused others to spill their beans. He smiled, his usual deck of cards abruptly flashing in a spread in his hands, and went on the hunt.

BADLANDS

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

5 APRIL 3008

Brooklynn Jales held the clipboard firmly. She’d gotten used to her long hair, grown out and always in a braid, after the ejection from her realm. She’d even grown comfortable with her new, chosen surname, a not-so-subtle anagram of Selaj—her own private stab back at Count Derick. However, despite nearly three years with the Cavaliers, she’d never clicked with Nikolai Mason. The man was simply inscrutable and foreboding—unless he was around his child. Despite Captain Chloe Reed’s protestations that they shared everything, there always seemed to be secrets behind Nikolai’s eyes. And she knew secrets.

She glanced away and down at her clipboard, lifting it up as though she’d done that on purpose. “All the data we have says this is the location of Fort Corregidor,” she said. Without reviewing the data—at this point she had it memorized—she repeated what they’d discussed for weeks. Apparently Nikolai needed that again. “The Forty-ninth Jump Infantry Division of Nineteen Corps of the Star League Defense Force operated out of this location.”

She glanced carefully back up as Nikolai swept his arms around the empty, broken hills of the Badlands they’d tramped over for months, with IE scientists, using ground-penetrating radar to kick over every rock they could find.

“Do you see anything here?” Nikolai responded, exasperated. “How could a base that size possibly leave no trace?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ryana Campbell said from her perch atop a truck they’d been using to transport said radar, her tone scathing. “Are you forgetting what the first Succession Wars was like? Those House Lords tossed weapons of mass destruction like they were confetti in a parade. And just to follow that up, how many worlds endured orbital bombardments by the fleets of WarShips that existed back then? It’s a wonder humanity didn’t wipe itself out.”

“It’s why we’re all here trying to use technology their kids were playing with,” Fahad Arazad spoke, standing in the back of the same truck after spending the afternoon working on the old radar that had broken down. Again. “They practically knocked us back to the Stone Age,” he muttered angrily, wiping away sweat with a bandanna before he dove back into the guts of the radar. He’d get it working again soon; he was almost better at tech stuff than Chloe.

Brooklynn’s eyes surreptitiously lingered on Fahad. She liked him.

“I don’t need a history lesson,” Nikolai said darkly, matching stares with Ryana.

“Apparently you do,” Ryana responded, ever his equal as their eyes clashed.

“Stop it, both of you,” Chloe Reed spoke from the edge of their discussion. She’d been pacing long circles around the truck, glancing out at the broken terrain all around. Both of them stopped talking almost immediately, as they always did when Chloe spoke. “We all know this contract with IE has run its course. Just like our last one, there’s nothing here. Even if we had found something, odds are it was looted clean long ago by raiders, pirates, lostech prospectors, or just locals trying to scratch out a living.” She sighed, pulled off the hat she’d begun to wear against the endless, bright sunlit days, and fanned away the sweat. “We’ll report to Sebastian that this is another bust. Time to start packing it up and head back Galatea. Before we leave, I’ll file that our contract status is once more open.”

A truck was fast approaching. Without much to do until Fahad gave the all-clear that they could start the truck moving without further damaging the radar system, they all waited to see who it might be.

Dawson Clarmont practically leaped out of the truck as it pulled to a stop, dirt billowing momentarily around them, his smile as engaging as ever. Of anyone in the Cavaliers, Brooklynn had connected with Dawson the most; his infectious smile was hard to resist.

“We’ve got a new contract offer,” he said, grinning like a kid trying to hide a bag of candy behind his back.

“What?” everyone responded almost in unison.

“The Steel Guard is readying for a complete redeployment.” His Cheshire-cat grin continued as he waited for them to ask.

Chloe tried hiding her own grin at his antics, while Ryana shrugged, and even Nikolai smiled slightly. They all had a hard time not being infected by Dawson’s perennial good mood. Brooklynn suppressed a shudder at the idea of only having the quiet Fahad around, while the sparks flew between Nikolai and Ryana, without Dawson’s equalizing force. Well, having Fahad around wouldn’t be so bad.

“Fine,” Chloe spoke up. “Spill it Dawson. You obviously know where they’re going.”

“Anton Marik, the Duke of Procyon, has temporarily given the Captain-General command of the Steel Guard. They’re redeploying to the border with House Steiner. With Alessandro kicked off the throne, the new Archon of the Lyran Commonwealth, Katrina Steiner, has far more spine. You weren’t in the Grave Walkers with me very long, but we held then–Colonel Steiner in the highest regard. The fighting there has bogged down under her new leadership, and the Captain-General simply needs more forces.”

“And where did you hear that?” Ryana said.

“I happen to be at the right place at the right time. The rumor mill was easy to pick up.” Dawson practically preened.

Which means you were probably in a poker game with someone in power. Brooklynn was always amazed at how quickly Dawson ingratiated himself into every world where they stopped. Chloe and Nikolai both forged contacts (his usually in dark corners). But Dawson seemed capable of walking right up to a House Lord and introducing himself with a flash of his ever-present card deck.

“The planetary governor has extended us a contract. Obviously our two lances can’t possibly match the Guard’s regiment, but we’ll still be a deterrent for any pirates that may decide this garden world is easy pickings.”

The group broke into a general discussion of the pros and cons—by Chloe’s tone, she leaned toward taking the fortuitous contract that didn’t even require they leave the planet—but Brooklynn’s mind raced. Her conversation of several years past with Count Derick—she could think about it now without wincing, mostly—ran patterns in her head. On the surface, it all seemed perfectly reasonable. Archon Alessandro’s ridiculous “Concentrated Weakness” defensive strategies had been a disaster for House Steiner, allowing both the Free Worlds League and the Draconis Combine to launch successful attacks along both edges of the Lyran Commonwealth’s empire. This contributed to Katrina Steiner deposing the man. And yet…and yet… Despite Anton Marik’s fealty to his brother, the Captain-General, there were numerous ways for such a powerful noble to deny his liege use of the military under his command, to bolster his own power. Considering the exceptional animosity between the brothers, that Anton would apparently acquiesce so easily struck Brooklynn as…off. A dangerous specter slowly arose.

“This is not good,” she said.

“What?” Chloe said, practically at her arm.

Brooklynn jumped, not realizing she’d spoken aloud and then squeaked as she saw the whole group—even Fahad!—was looking at her.

“Having a contract seems like a pretty good thing,” Nikolai said, frowning.

She was desperately trying to figure out how to deflect the conversation. This all struck too close to home. She’d sworn to never reveal her past. Even outside Count Derick’s remonstrations against her use of the Cameron-Jones name, she simply didn’t want her shame known. (The men she’d thought were following her last week could not be his agents. Right?)

But Captain Chloe looked on with kind eyes, nodding. “Go on.”

Brooklynn had a hard time saying no to this amazing woman that had given her a chance. She took a deep breath, fingers clutching almost convulsively to her clipboard, and responded. “The Duke of Procyon and the Captain-General are currently at strong odds,” she began.

Dawson almost guffawed. “Come on, they hate each other. That gossip can be found in any bar on any world in the League.”

She nodded, realizing she was still struggling against a lifetime’s duty to not speak ill of her liege lords. “As you say,” she continued. “But who is the Steel Guard more loyal to? The duke, or the Captain-General?” she asked.

They all knew there was loyalty and then there was loyalty—federal versus provincial. Who would follow the Captain-General unquestioned, and who would follow their more direct liege, in this case, the Duke of Procyon? It was a question of tension between loyalties that had plagued feudalism from the very dawn of its existence back in the Middle Ages of ancient Terra. And here in the Free Worlds League, where the internal provinces held more power against the House Lord than any other star realm, that was particularly relevant.

“I’ve drank with several officers,” Dawson said, scratching at his blond hair, bobbing his head as though vacillating. “They seem pretty solidly behind the Captain-General.”

“I agree,” she continued, wanting to stop, but Chloe’s eyes continued to draw her out. “And I’m sure there are other regiments that the Duke of Procyon is temporarily releasing to the command of the Captain-General. I wonder how many of those are more loyal to the duke or his brother?” she got out, once again nervous at even this oblique reference to treason.

They all glanced at one another, before looking back at her. In particular, she did not like the speculative cast on Nikolai’s face. If there was anyone that might uncover her shame, he would.

“Damn, Brooklynn, you’ve got a head on that pretty shoulders of yours,” Fahad said, standing in the back of the truck, leaning against the top of the cab. “You should speak up more often.”

She slowly blushed, powerless to stop it, looking anywhere but towards Fahad.

“Does that really change anything?” Ryana finally spoke up. “Not sure I agree with Brooklynn, here. But even if the League is heading toward a civil war, we’ve got a contract. Work to do. If a fight comes, we fight.”

Brooklynn couldn’t help a final comment, as she looked at Chloe. “When it comes to nobles, the fight can just as easily be knives in the dark. Coming from a completely unexpected quarter.”

Chloe slowly shrugged. “Again, does that matter? We’ll face it and defeat it, as we’ve always done.”

When it comes to nobles, it always matters. Brooklynn wouldn’t further voice her concerns, not without giving even more away from her past than she had. Yet, despite the heat of the afternoon, she shivered. She knew all too well that a fight might look nothing like what Ryana envisioned. Especially when even the local nobles and farmers who controlled this world were so easily dragged into larger power plays. But she let it go as a general consensus was reached, and they prepared to head back to the city and accept the governor’s contract.

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

3 AUGUST 3008

Nikolai pulled into the trigger of the joystick in his right hand, and the satisfactory boom of thirty long-range missiles launching toward his target vibrated through the hot cockpit of his Catapult. His coolant vest tried desperately to keep away the heat, the crawling sensation of the gel in the twisting tubing seemingly failing, what with all the sweat drenching him.

He watched as the hail of explosive metal fell across the enemy Hermes. Earlier autocannon fire from Chloe’s Shadow Hawk and two excellent particle projector cannon shots from Dawson’s Griffin had already damaged the 30-ton ’Mech, so Mason’s own weapons fire absolutely devastated his target. The Hermes’s left arm sheared off completely, causing the machine to abruptly convulse as though in an epileptic fit—a sure sign the stabilizing gyro had taken a strong hit as well. The machine teetered for a moment before the head split open under explosives; the pilot’s ejected conn chair rocketed skyward as the machine toppled to the ground.

“Nice shot,” Dawson yelled over the commline. At a kilometer’s distance, Nikolai watched the young man sprinting his Griffin toward another enemy BattleMech. The 70-ton Grasshopper was the largest BattleMech they’d yet faced. Good armor and a phalanx of medium lasers, it was often called the workhorse of the heavy ’Mech class. The enemy pilot expertly landed a high-flying jump on thrusters along the back of its legs, grounding within a few dozen meters of Dawson’s Griffin, and let fly with a quartet of medium lasers. Three found their mark, all along Dawson’s right side, where the enemy had been concentrating its fire. Among the flashing of explosions along the Griffin’s right arm, a bright spark of blue flashed momentarily, leaving afterimages, despite the distance and the glare protection of Nikolai’s forward viewscreen. Damn.

“Damn it!” Dawson yelled, as though they were thinking the same thought. “Just lost my PPC, folks. Things just got a little harder. Please don’t doc my pay, captain.”

“Start pulling back,” Ryana spoke up over the commline. She’d be back at their bivouac, data feeds from the various BattleMechs all giving her the best view of the battlefield so she could work her magic as ops commander. “Nikolai, let’s hedge your flank. Chloe will form up with the other new recruits on the other flank, pushing toward your point to pincer them.”

“Right, XO,” he responded immediately. He and Ryana often clashed, but Nikolai was always aware of her superb contributions in the continued growth and success of the Cavaliers. And especially in battle, he followed her instantly.

He moved the throttle forward, fighting the sluggishness of his BattleMech as he’d pushed the heat high with so much fire to down the previous two enemy machines. The wafts of heat continued to bake his skin, and the stink of his own sweat filled his nostrils.

As Dawson fell back toward Nikolai, and the Grasshopper continued to harry, it brought the enemy BattleMech within range of his paired LRM 15 racks, and he let fly again after achieving tone lock, breathing shallowly as the wave of waste heat struck him. Alarms of imminent shutdown sounded, and he quickly punched in the override code. Only half of the missiles struck home, savaging armor and setting fire to crops in the fields where the battle unfolded. He winced, knowing the plantation’s owners would yell at them, but nothing he could do about it. You couldn’t stop a battle without, well, a battle.

He braced for more heat and triggered another full spread of missiles. He almost swooned under the intensity of the blast furnace, and had to key in another auto shutdown avoid even faster as alarms pealed within the cockpit. But he cheered as almost all of the warheads found their mark, exploding large chunks of armor off of the Grasshopper’s center torso. The machine, finally thinking better of it as Dawson added a stab from his own remaining missiles—and perhaps spotting the incoming carets on his radar indicating the other lance of Cavaliers approaching—started to fall back towards his own reinforcements.

The battle was winding down, as neither side was in any position to take a killing stroke, and so better to reserve resources and lick wounds and get ready for the next clash. Nikolai finally paused from the intense action of the last twenty minutes, his missile magazines almost empty, heat sitting into the red zone. That he’d managed to land the missiles, despite the targeting system glitching under the punishing heat, was a testament to the continued growth of his MechWarrior skills. Despite the years, he still marveled at where life at Chloe’s side had taken him. At times, he almost couldn’t remember the dreams he’d once had, years ago, of being a JumpShip merchant captain. This all felt so much more…right. Together.

The pirate attacks had come shockingly fast after the Steel Guard departed, and had continued unabated—and more frequent than seemed possible, leaving all of the Cavaliers wondering whether other factors were at play, just as Brooklynn had suggested months ago. Especially as they’d been unable to put their finger on the pirate’s strategy. Here again, the raiders had struck the edge of the Norm Plantation with a fury, setting a huge fire that local emergency personnel were already working on, and destroying numerous farming vehicles. But what was going on? Usually pirates were all about the smash-and-grab, the grab being the all-important word. But this seemed to be nothing but smash, which just didn’t make any sense.

As the cockpit heat finally dropped to nominal levels, allowing him to breathe without pain, Nikolai wondered if he needed to push his underworld contacts more. Perhaps there was something there that might help…

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

5 OCTOBER 3008

Nikolai Mason sat on the large missile rack that made up both shoulders of his 65-ton Catapult, legs dangling into the air some eleven meters up, as he took in the rolling Norm Plantation that spread out before him. Autumn was in full swing, and the titanic work of harvesting was underway, despite the pirates’ destruction, though the Cavaliers had managed to heavily curtail that activity over the last month.

This breadbasket world exported food to dozens of nearby star systems, at a scale that boggled. The Norm Plantation was just one of dozens of similar farms, which encompassed a staggering ten million hectares, all run by a single family with an iron fist, every bit as ruthless as any noble (though careful comparing such locales to nobility; they hated that).

From this high ground, Nikolai could see for kilometers, where each large spread of crops was carefully delineated by lines of windbreak trees, all with an odd bluish hue that tagged most of the local flora and fauna, despite centuries of various terraforming techniques that allowed Terran-stock agricultural products to not only survive but flourish.

In the closest field, a massive Saturn Harvester moved, its 175-ton bulk stretching dozens of meters across and into the air, in a beetle-like configuration. Despite treading directly over large patches of fertile ground, the land was left relatively unharmed, as the combination of special track designs spread the weight of the colossal machine across a large footprint. He’d done some research after watching the amazingly large vehicles. It and its companions—twelve in all, though he could only see four from his current position—made up a nomadic fleet of families that drove or swam around this globe, following the seasons, ever harvesting. What’s more, each machine housed an entire factory that could process cultivated food to almost any animal, celebrated as “go from hoof to freeze pack in under twenty minutes.”

A kilometer in front of the closest Saturn, a pack of local gargaraffes had moved into the line of its march. A small tractor sped away from the Saturn, closing the distance quickly, and several men leaped out. They shouted and waved at the creatures, but there was no moving the placid beasts; they stood five meters tall at the shoulder with long, reptilian necks that could stretch to well over ten. He’d talked with enough local farmhands to know that centuries ago, the initial settlers had killed and eaten the animals with abandon, until they realized that part of the amazing fertility of McKenna came from the symbiotic life and death cycle of these creatures. In reality the gargaraffe was a crazy hybrid of animal and plant, their lives tied in strange ways to the tall blue kubala trees all around; scientists had yet to figure out how to classify it, despite centuries of study.

Finally, desperate to not slow the harvester and cost money, one ingenious fellow lassoed one of the creatures as it ate, then attached the other end to the tractor, and slowly pulled away, the alien creature in tow. Nikolai wondered how they would get the rest of the pack to follow, but soon they were obediently ambling along behind as well. Ah, they must have grabbed the matriarch.

He glanced down, saw Dawson and Brooklynn arguing by the field command tent, while Chloe and Fahad sat on the other side, tinkering over some piece of tech. My wife. You’ll never let go that side of you, will you?

Nikolai eased off the Catapult’s shoulder, climbed down the ladder, and walked toward Dawson and Brooklynn. Dawson, whose left hand was newly bandaged, appeared worried, while Brooklynn frowned and kept looking away. Nikolai had never been at ease around her. She had secrets, and he didn’t like that. (He ignored his own, still kept from Chloe, despite the years.) The feeling left him vulnerable to actions he couldn’t properly interpret or guard against. That Dawson seemed as troubled by Brooklynn of late, spoke volumes. The man never seemed troubled by anything.

Dawson saw Nikolai and quickly scrubbed his features clean, as though he didn’t want him to know of his worries over Brooklynn. I’ll ask him later. He glanced at the man’s left hand. “How’s it healing?”

Dawson smiled disarmingly as he held up the heavily bandaged arm. “Doc says I don’t need all five fingers to pilot a BattleMech, especially as this is my throttle hand. So don’t go thinking you can dock my pay to reconfigure joysticks or anything. Of course, gonna have to relearn some of my card tricks. I did need all my fingers for that.” He abruptly pulled a card from underneath the bandage, beaming as he twirled it.

“Just be glad you didn’t lose your whole hand,” Nikolai responded. “Leave tinkering with heavy equipment to Fahad or Chloe.”

Dawson smiled sheepishly but flashed a quick look at Brooklynn. I really need to ask him later, Nikolai thought.

“What were you two arguing about?”

“Just discussing the raids,” Brooklynn spoke, still not meeting his eye. That always bugged him. Look someone in the eye if you’re going to talk to them.

“Brooklynn thinks they’re not just random,” Dawson said. “That perhaps the planetary government is involved. Trying to screw up shipments in a way that allows larger forces to come and play here.”

“Oh?” Nikolai said, inviting her to speak.

Chloe and Fahad joined them as they’d overheard the gist of the conversation.

Brooklynn glanced around, nodded at Chloe, who smiled back—never did understand how his wife liked her that much—and she continued. “We’ve talked about how the raids don’t make sense. Too much smash, not enough grab. That gets the pirates nothing. Unless the very act of the sabotage is the point. If a noble wants to increase their influence, or their military presence, disrupting critical food supplies to a dozen or more worlds would set the stage pretty well, would it not? Especially when the original forces protecting the world were called away?”

Nikolai may not like the woman, but as Fahad kept saying—perhaps a little too easily—she had a good head on her shoulders. But where did you get that? “If what you say is true, then our own employer could be against us?”

“We’ve been awful effective at stopping these pirates,” Chloe said. “If that’s the case, that’s gonna piss our employer off.”

“Like I’ve said before, what does it matter?” Ryana said, having arrived from a quick perimeter patrol. “If a fight comes, we fight, right?”

They all shared a look, unsure what more they could do when nobles in charge of hundreds of star systems played their games. But Nikolai stared heavily at Brooklynn. I can at least keep a better eye on you.

JAMES CITY, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

27 OCTOBER 3008

Brooklynn paused in front of a window display of wedding dresses to keep the man she was following from noticing her. Of course he would recognize her, but she was just out for a stroll, taking in the sights. Easy way to dissemble.

You still have a job.

Brooklynn stood in the middle of the sidewalk in James City, staring at the note in her hands. She tried to keep them from shaking. Failed. Still trembling slightly from a third encounter with the men she’d mistakenly convinced herself months ago were not following her. Were not from the Principality. Were not from the count, who despite banishing her, apparently could not let go. Would not let her go. I’m such a fool.

All of the Cavaliers’ discussions of the machinations of nobles and how caught up, or not, the Cavaliers might find themselves seemed as children among adults laughing in the shadows. She’d known. Known something was up. Hence why she was trailing her target. But this abrupt pressure to make something happen from the inside, to complete a job she’d not even understood until thrust at her with a painful reminder that she might never be free of the tangles of her blood… She’d grown to love the Cavaliers. Loved Chloe. Could she really do something so drastic?

She tried to focus on the window display, but her eyes still saw nothing as a yawning chasm stretched. She had been exiled, but her family was still in the clutches of the count. And he would do with them whatever would leverage Brooklynn to his bidding, in the name of furthering the power and protection of his realm. Whether that meant supporting the Captain-General or the Duke of Procyon was utterly irrelevant to her when that moment came. Only the pressure to take terrible action mattered now.

What should I do? What should I do? She slowly crumpled the note, knowing that regardless of the actions she took, her life was again at a crossroads not of her choosing.

Nikolai kept to the shadows several blocks away, carefully following Brooklynn, as she stepped into a strip-mall entrance. He’d never really trusted her, and she’d seemed especially erratic the past few weeks. He’d tried to talk about it with Chloe, but realized there was no convincing her. The women got along too well. No, he had to find something. Some proof he could take back. She was dangerous, not to be trusted.

He moved into the mall. And realized he’d lost her by trying to be too discreet. He growled under his breath and systematically searched the entire strip mall. The sun set, and hours passed before he entered a restaurant, still trying to track Brooklynn down. He hadn’t wanted to believe she was this over her head, and so saved this place, which had local underworld connections, for last. But he’d been flashing her photo around, with no luck. There was no other place she might have gone but this den.

A teenage boy bumped into him on the way out, pushing him aside roughly, dropping him to a knee. “Out of the way, old man,” the kid barked, before moving out.

Others in the restaurant looked on with sympathy, and the host scurried over to offer a helping hand. “I’m so sorry. Teenagers are such hellions,” he said.

“Too right, too right,” Nikolai responded soothingly.

“Are you eating?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d just like to sit a moment.”

“Of course.”

Nikolai sat down on a bench in the entryway, exaggeratedly massaging his knee for several minutes—he was getting on in years, but did everyone believe he was that old?—before he felt confident enough to carefully reveal the note the teen had passed him. Sure, he’d been trying to follow Brooklynn, but he’d put the word out, and there were several others beating the bushes for him. Almost the moment his feet had hit the planet, he’d slipped money into the right palms to start building trust. And teenagers made amazing contacts, able to go, see, and hear things others couldn’t; most adults attempted to ignore them like the plague. And this one had proven exceptionally reliable, giving him a good lead on the pirate attacks several weeks back.

He slowly opened the slip of paper, and his stomach heaved on the verge of vomiting at the words; the specter of his nemeses from years past, Jules Vonic, occluded his eyes with her gloating and the destruction she’d visited on him. I underestimated Brooklynn! She even told us what she’d be doing right to our faces, and we didn’t see it! Knives in the dark! Not again!

Without another thought, he stumbled out of the restaurant, knocking others aside as he sprinted toward the door and his waiting vehicle, the paper fluttering to the ground.

They’re coming to take your child, it read. Now.

RANCH HOUSE

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

“They’re coming for our child!” Nikolai whispered to Chloe after waking her from sleep.

The horror on her face matched his tone. “What? What are you talking about?”

“It’s Brooklynn.”

“What? What? It can’t be. Why are they coming for our child? What’s going on?” Despite the stream of desperate questions, she slipped out of bed, reached into the nightstand for the needler pistol she kept there, cocked it back to insert the small block of polymer for ammunition, and then eased toward the door.

While terror gripped him, the sight of his wife, standing in only her underwear, her JumpShip pendant swinging around her neck, weapon in hand, ready to sprint down the corridor, the niceties be damned, filled Nikolai with savage love. What a woman!

He quickly held up a hand to forestall her sprint. “My contacts told me the government is sick and tired of us interfering with their plans. They’re behind the pirate attacks, spiking prices and waylaying shipments, all at the beck and call of other forces. Anton Marik, I would imagine. And just now I’ve learned they’ve suborned one of our own. It’s Brooklynn.”

A protestation rose to Chloe’s lips, but it died as they shared a long look, and the unease he’d always felt surrounding Brooklynn oozed onto Chloe’s features. “Blake’s Blood,” she finally said.

He nodded at her acceptance. “You take the east wing, I’ll take the west.”

She nodded and without another word slipped into the darkness of the hallway. He followed, moving in the opposite direction.

Stupid Chloe. Stupid, stupid Chloe.

The metronome ratcheted up in ferocity to match her panicked breathing as she sprinted quietly through the darkened corridors of the large ranch house. She and Nikolai had acquiesced to their child’s demand. What could a separate room, in another part of the sprawling complex, hurt? They were perfectly safe here, after the plantation owner loaned it to them in gratitude over quenching the pirate attacks. After all, they often had meetings late into the night. It made sense. And twelve was a perfectly fine age for a separate room.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Chloe.

Nikolai moved through the dark, keeping to the edge of the walls, where the floors would creak less at his passage. He slowly unsheathed his favorite knife, its blackened blade almost a void in the darkness. He knew plenty of people over the years had balked at his use of a knife. Chloe’s needler seemed so much smarter. But there was a satisfaction in getting a job done, personally, that only a knife brought. And this was oh so personal.

He’d always felt there was something off about Brooklynn. He’d never been able to put his finger on it, and ultimately he trusted his wife’s instincts implicitly. She’d never been wrong on this before. Until now.

He reached the final hallway and slowed down. If Brooklynn was already in the room and heard him coming, she might just decide to end it here. He closed his eyes momentarily, shuddering at the thought, and then moved to a side room. All of these were interconnected here, in a strange plantation style he’d never seen before. But it allowed him to ignore the hallways entirely. Perhaps that would be enough.

He slipped into the first door.

Chloe reached the final hallway and eased into the first interconnected room, knowing her husband would be doing the same from the opposite direction. Hopefully they’d pincer Brooklynn between them. But what if she has help?

She pushed down the rising bile and fought to steady her abruptly shaking hands. Her senses heightened until she could almost feel the grain of the sandalwood floor against her bare feet. A light, cool breeze through an open window brought goose bumps. She calmed the shaking and held the needler out in a two-handed grip as she eased toward the door, let go with her left hand to push it open, and slipped through.

For just a moment she thought she saw movement across the way. She almost jerked into a shot, but held her fire. If Brooklynn had completed her abduction and was coming back… No, she had to be smarter than that.

Chloe inched along the wall to the left, feet carefully sweeping for obstacles as she sidled around the circumference, pistol aimed where she thought she’d seen movement. Abrupt motion caught her attention, as black moved against black.

There!

There may be more than one!

The thought blossomed, and Nikolai cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. He knew Chloe would not have made that mistake and would be trying to deal with it. How do I handle that? He’d moved through two rooms and was about to ease into the next when a sound arrested his motion, muffled, followed by a curse. Had Brooklynn hit her shin on one of the low-lying tables scattered throughout these rooms? He smiled, especially as he found the door ajar, and he moved noiselessly inside. The heavy clouds outside eased as a wan light lit the end of the room through a window. A lithe individual, form hidden by a hoodie, was at the door to her target. Brooklynn’s height and build. He then noticed rope in one hand and another holding a pistol; she bent down, trying to rub her shin without letting go of the rope.

He’d had his fair share of hand-to-hand fights over the years. But not since his youth and the days of bandits and exile had he unleashed the demons within. Scampering out from the corners he’d buried them in oh so many years before, he moved as if in a trance, the years of brutal training still in muscle memory despite dusty disuse. He could slit her throat and instantly kill her, as she deserved for this despicable deception. But he couldn’t help it. He needed to know why. So he decided on a route that would guarantee her death, but would give him a few moments to ask his questions.

He flowed through the room as quicksilver as a shadow, and as silent. In one motion he clamped his left hand to Brooklynn’s mouth and hammered the blade up under the rib cage in front, puncturing lung and heart.

As the clouds from recent heavy rains began to clear, wan moonlight washed past Chloe and toward the other occupant. Her abrupt shadow as she faced the door to the next room caused the intruder to jerk, pistol rising. In a moment of clarity Chloe saw they were alone, and she pulled the trigger. The pistol instantaneously shaved off thin needles of hardened polymer, blasting a cloud of the nasty things that tore into the intruder’s arm, causing them to cry out and drop the gun, falling back as they clutched their arm.

Chloe instantly recognized the voice, and called out: “Freeze, Brooklynn.”

As sticky warmth enveloped his hands, Nikolai immediately knew this wasn’t Brooklynn.

He pulled backwards, away from his child’s door, and laid the collapsing body on the ground, loosening his grip as he swiveled around in a crouch to look. Just then the clouds fully cleared, and brightness lit the room. Horror crawled up Nikolai’s spine until he couldn’t breathe.

Dawson flashed a sickly smile, blood-flecked lips ghastly in the moonlight. “I’m sorry, Nikolai.”

The room swam, and Nikolai struggled to focus. But it was Brooklynn. It was Brooklynn! “Why?” he finally coughed past a constricted throat.

Dawson coughed up blood, head lolling to the side. “Galatea City has nothing on the thugs here. The governor. Been fighting us all along. Just like Brooklynn kept trying to tell us. I got caught up in gambling. Owed so much. My stupid hand…they cut off my fingers!” he wheezed in anger and desperation, coughing up more blood. “Threatened more. Wasn’t gonna hurt the kid.” Tears were leaking out of Dawson’s eyes. “Never hurt the kid. No one was gonna get hurt. Just needed to back the Cavaliers off, and my debts would be gone.”

In a flash Nikolai realized his terrible mistake. His dislike of Brooklynn had blinded him to all of Dawson’s shifting and troubled looks. It hadn’t been for Brooklynn, but for himself. It had been right there, and Nikolai hadn’t seen it!

The years of good friendship and camaraderie warred with the horror of his actions. Nikolai finally broke into motion, tearing off his shirt and trying to stanch the blood flow, but his old teachers had been far too good at their task.

He ignored a cry of pain from a distant room, tears flowing down his face as a good but flawed man died in arms.

“Chloe?” came Brooklynn’s panicked and pain-filled response. “You shot me?!”

Chloe eased closer and kicked away the gun, keeping her eye and barrel squarely centerline as the brightening moonlight brought the full scene into view. “You’re trying to kidnap my child!” she shouted, adrenaline starting to crash. If there was another intruder, she simply had to hope Nikolai took care of them.

Incredulousness swept Brooklynn’s features. “What are you talking about? I figured out Dawson was being forced into a kidnapping. I thought of coming to you, but by the time I realized what was going on, it was too late. I had to try to stop Dawson myself.”

“Right, sure,” Chloe responded harshly. She so badly wanted to pull the trigger again. And again. And again. But she schooled her muscles against the irrational desire. “Who are you working with?”

Shock mutated into anger. Despite her obvious pain, Brooklynn slowly stood up straight, trying to swing her blood-spattered braid over her shoulder, left hand clamping the mangled mess of her right arm against her body. “After all I’ve done for the Cavaliers. For you. You could believe such a heinous act from me?”

With the cascade of chemicals finally starting to defog her mind, Chloe carefully studied the woman in front of her. Behind the anger, and the pain that was more than physical, Chloe dug deep. And she found the woman she’d trusted with her life for several years. I’ve never been wrong. She slowly lowered the gun. “I don’t understand. Dawson? It’s not possible.”

The exterior doorway opened, and she immediately swung her pistol on target there. Only to find Nikolai, covered in blood, his tear-stained face wracked with sorrow. Her own tears began to flow.

It was indeed possible.

NORM PLANTATION, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

31 OCTOBER 3008

The Cavaliers buried Dawson Clarmont. The nightmare of the man’s decisions would haunt them for years to come, along with his death. But he’d been a faithful friend and comrade. That could not be forgotten against the backdrop of one night’s terrible actions.

They eased him into a hole dug at the base of the tallest kubala tree on the plantation. He’d not been much for nature, but there seemed nothing better to do, unfortunately, And perhaps, just perhaps, they all silently thought, he might find some peace and redemption, reborn at some future time as a gargaraffe, his life giving endless life.

Soon enough they left, beginning the day’s long preparations to lift off-world. They’d terminated their contract and lodged all the appropriate legal complaints against the governor of McKenna with the Mercenary Review Board. Even if any sanctions were finally leveled against the governor—and no one had any delusions that would happen—it wouldn’t be enough. Never enough.

JAMES CITY DROPPORT, MCKENNA

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

4 NOVEMBER 3008

Brooklynn watched Chloe close her bright green eyes, while at her side, Nikolai opened his mouth as though to start another round of arguments about her decision. She adjusted her wounded arm and stared the dangerous, brooding man down, stopping him before he could try. Surprisingly, her hands remained perfectly still at her sides.

Around them, a gaggle of passengers moved toward the waiting ticket lines and the distant civilian DropShip prepping for liftoff on the tarmac. The sounds of talking, of movement, of a life, were so…normal. The day felt anything but normal.

“I’m sorry, Brooklynn,” Nikolai finally responded, softly. She’d heard that litany a hundred times from Chloe after that fateful night. But it was the first time that sentiment passed the lips of her husband.

Despite her stoic demeanor, Brooklynn was heartbroken. After several years she’d assumed this would be her home for a long time to come. But she couldn’t get over their lack of faith. Of them betraying her honor she’d given. That she’d finally faced Nikolai down and stood with her own strength—took decisive actions to try and stop Dawson—seemed a paltry prize for another lost home, all things considered. Especially after she’d decided a week back that instead of escaping into anonymity away from the Cavaliers, to shield them from the machinations of Count Derick, she would stay and help them. Despite the potential horrors it would open her family to…it now all seemed a horrible, ironic cosmic joke as she was leaving anyway.

Chloe’s eyes sparkled, and she turned away before her tears fell again. Brooklynn felt her own call of emotions. Wanted nothing more than to hug and forgive and return to the way it had been. But it could never be as it was. Despite his terrible plucking’s at their strings, Count Derick’s words echoed down the corridors of years with their wisdom: You should always be aware of those around you, for you can trust no one more than yourself. She’d forgotten that truth. There could only ever be Brooklynn. Careful of her wounded arm, she picked up the bag holding the few items she owned, and turned, dried eyed, toward the waiting DropShip and the wider universe beyond.

It would have to be enough.

7

A Skein of Schemes

DEFIANCE INDUSTRIES BATTLEMECH FACTORY

MYOO MOUNTAINS

SOUTH WHITMAN, HESPERUS II

RAHNESHIRE, LYRAN COMMONWEALTH

14 APRIL 3009

Sebastian Spears took a careful sip of whisky. The notes of vanilla and a fruity tang lingered as he swallowed, quickly followed by a smooth, smoky finish that left a hint of spice on the tip of his tongue. He closed his eyes, savoring the drink; he’d not opened the bottle in half a decade. But it still sang with the expertise of a knowledgeable distiller on Northwind who loved their craft, backed by millennia of history.

Thoughts of Northwind led him to Ryana Campbell, which spiraled him around to the Cavaliers. A small mercenary outfit, they’d proven far more useful in some of his schemes than expected. And I’ve become more attached to them than I anticipated. He’d recently become aware that they’d had to kill one of their own due to being trapped in machinations unfolding in the Free Worlds League; he’d been saddened to hear it. Yet, he’d been extensively watching that very region of late. It was, after all, why he was having this meeting…

Despite tension in the room, Sebastian deliberately lounged in the overstuffed chair, his tall frame barely fitting. His eyes momentarily roamed the office he’d kept on Hesperus II ever since his fortuitous visit to the Defiance Industries BattleMech Factory back in ’97, compliments of Leutnant-General Wilhelm Mouttheim. He rolled the glass of rich amber liquid between his hands. He didn’t often pull out his best spirits. After all, this Tilman River Cask Finish from 2951 was some of the finest Scottish whisky money could buy—a gift from the Duke of Northwind for some rather unique services rendered several years back. But there were times when the guests required that extra kilometer. Over the top of his glass, Sebastian’s eyes carefully watched the other two occupants of his office as they argued.

“Money makes all things possible,” Countess Alexa McCorkendale said. She wore a casual business suit of white and yellow. On anyone else it might have appeared irreverent, if not flamboyant, but her personality filled the suit even more than her 1.9 meter height. Her brilliant, flashing smile matched her mane of fabulously curly hair. Sebastian had met her several times over the last decade, and she always impressed. Even outside of the fact her uncle was Duke Aleksander McCorkendale, president and CEO of Federated-Boeing Interstellar, the largest manufacturer of DropShips in known space, Alexa was a force all her own. Sebastian carefully kept a placid face, trying not to smile at her plunging neckline. Not that he didn’t notice; they’d tried dating. Once. No, this wasn’t for him at all, but a knife pointed in another direction, at the room’s other occupant.

“There is only knowledge for the sake of knowledge,” Guhal intoned, as though orating a sermon. “We shall find the star, as Prophet Kroeger testified. We will find Paradise. And there, at the feet of the great General Kerensky, who departed from our midst hundreds of years ago because of our unworthiness and unbelief, we shall entrust unto him all the knowledge we have uncovered.” And a tired sermon at that.

If Alexa was the very model of flamboyant, then Guhal was the embodiment of austere. He wore an actual brown homespun robe, with a woolen wrap around the neck, the only spark of color a patch sewn to his breast, showing a sun with deep blue rays of light. The man sat on his chair as though on needles; Sebastian had ensured the most luxurious chair in the building was brought in and placed where Guhal would have to take it. The glass of whisky Sebastian had given the man sat untouched on the edge of the small glass table between them. Such a crime! Guhal studiously averted his gaze while talking with Alexa, his voice filled with the tension of his form. God, Sebastian loved needling the uptight prick. Especially the way this adherent of the One Star Faith treated women—not that Alexa needed any help handling the man, of course. But if Sebastian could make Guhal more uncomfortable while Alex handily dismantled him, he was glad to play his part.

“How’s that search going for your one true star, dearie?” Alexa said, smiling heavily before taking a long, loud drink of whisky from her own glass. She then let out a belch that made Guhal wince and lean away as though smelling something distasteful.

Sebastian had mingled among the nobility on far-off New Avalon while this shark of a woman worked those waters with the prim and proper elegance of a staunch traditionalist. That she would give him, a mere commoner—despite his own wealth and connections—the time of day spoke volumes. And you work a whole different set of rules here, just as smoothly. Now and then he regretted that there’d only been one date.

“The Grand Council has decided it is once more time for migration,” Guhal said through gritted teeth. “We shall leave the District of Donegal and head toward the Bolan Province. The Duke of Halfway has graciously consented to allow our pilgrimage so that we may continue our hunt.”

“Yikes. How many DropShips will that require? And you’ll ultimately need a few JumpShips to secure for such a large-scale migration, right,” Alexa continued, her voice quizzical. “That’s sure gonna take a lot of money.”

“Each member of the faith is required to tithe. And many who know the value of our search donate funds.”

“You mean tax write-offs, right?”

“Knowledge is for—”

“Oh, please. I don’t care what you do or believe. But it takes money. I joined Interstellar Expeditions to find lost knowledge. Just like you, Guhal, before you donned that silly getup and joined the One Star Faith. But it takes money. We have to sell at least some of the artifacts we find.”

“Knowledge is for—”

“Enough,” Sebastian said, cutting the insufferable man off. Cannot believe I have to deal with the likes of him. He sighed heavily, knowing he’d continue to deal with him, and dozens more like him, if it meant safeguarding and rediscovering the lost knowledge of mankind. “How many times do you both have to argue over the semantics? That’s not why we’re here.”

Alexa smiled, raised a glass in acquiescence, but the gleam in her eye relinquished nothing.

“You imperil the organization with your actions,” Guhal spoke, turning fully to look at him. He’s got, what, three PhDs, including anthropology! How in the world can this man be so smart and connected and yet not be able to look a woman in the face?! Sebastian wondered at the hypocrisy: adherents to the One Star Faith forsook riches and often cloistered themselves away from nonbelievers so they could focus on finding their One Star, but despite Guhal’s newfound faith, he still worked with IE to advance its causes and amass personal wealth. Then again, the High Elders of your Grand Council probably have no idea you still work with us, do they?

“I really, really hate to agree with Guhal,” Alexa said, “but he’s right, Sebastian. IE is about archaeological digs and lost science. And brushing away the grime and bringing knowledge back.”

“Of course it is,” Sebastian responded easily. “But most people don’t care what we’ve lost. We’ve already burned humanity to a low ebb over centuries of war. And they’ll keep us burning. Much less ComStar, who hoards their ancient Star League secrets and punishes the rest of us if we dare ask any questions.”

“ComStar is exceptionally dangerous,” Guhal said, more gravely than before. “You must be careful there.”

“Dammit, Guhal, stop making me agree with you,” Alexa said. “But seriously, Sebastian, stop trying to save the humanity from the Great Houses. We save the knowledge. That should be enough. Besides, what can we possibly do? The universe is what is, we just live it. Well, and make some money while trying to save the past. We can do that.”

“And if I prove that IE can make a difference?” Sebastian asked. “Even just a small one?”

Alexa laughed, tossing off the last of her whisky like it was swill at a cheap bar. “I know you’ve got your machinations, Sebastian. We all do. And maybe, just maybe, if you bring us something, we’ll change our minds.” The smile left her face, eyes growing as cold as Guhal’s, who surprisingly nodded in agreement. “But if you endanger us with your crusades, I will bring down hellfire on you, and none of your connections or wealth or schemes will save you.”

Sebastian nodded, knowing she spoke truth. But he had no choice. He had to try, regardless of the consequences.

ZI-JIN CHENG, SIAN

SIAN COMMONALITY, CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION

3 JANUARY 3010

Madame Chandra Ling, Director of the Maskirovka, the most feared intelligence agency across a thousand-plus light-years of colonized space, stood quietly, awaiting her master’s whim. She used her small, slight size to great effect on others. But here in her master’s chambers, there was no hiding, as his spidery eyes cut through any layer. The older woman kept her chin up but did not hide the tiredness that weighed her shoulders down over a lifetime of diligence to the star empire she faithfully served. To the Capellan Confederation. To House Liao. To its Chancellor. To the Celestial Wisdom of the Known Universe, Maximilian Liao.

Staring up the jade steps to the dais, she always marveled at the skill of the artisan from centuries past who had crafted the huge throne of this masterpiece of Capellan excellence. Carved from a single piece of Ningpo mahogany, the throne displayed various Capellan mythological symbols, haloing the Chancellor ensconced there. Tall and slender, Maximilian rested his calmly clasped fingers on his formal robes, which were all black except the silver of the House Liao crest over his heart. He brooded over a holo projection of the Inner Sphere from over two centuries before, which floated above the steps. At the height of the Star League, and the zenith of House Liao power, 432 star systems fell under their control. Now, a mere 200 years later, 144 years into the Third Succession War, during which all five Great Houses fought to re-forge the lost Star League, the once-mighty Capellan Confederation had been reduced to only 209 worlds, with most of its military a shadow of its former might. Wedged between the vastly larger empires of the Federated Suns and the Free Worlds League, House Liao relied on the only arrow left in its quiver: machinations. Entrust Director Ling’s Maskirovka to unleash chaos in the darkest corners of their enemies’ realms.

She carefully ascended several steps and leaned over to power off the holo projector. Maximilian shifted his gaze to bore into hers as she calmly accepted the rebuke. His steel-gray eyes were cunning as ever, but she caught a glimpse of something that scared even her. Something that percolated to the surface more often of late. There was darkness in those depths. Brilliance that would’ve made Niccolò Machiavelli green with jealously. But she worked hard to redirect those growing streaks of blackness.

“Celestial Wisdom,” she crooned. “Your brilliance proceeds apace. New reports from worlds within both Houses Marik and Davion show continued unrest is growing.” All men need their egos stroked, but some more than others. “And while dissatisfied Davion nobles still appear aloof from more direct actions, the Duke of Procyon makes himself more receptive to your influence. Anton Marik, the brother of the Captain-General of the Free Worlds League, may yet fall into your august hands.”

He continued to stare at her as the silence stretched. She hated meeting him here in the large throne room. She especially hated the Death Commandos hidden along the walls, listening to sensitive issues not meant for their ears. It didn’t matter that Maximilian could crook a finger and they would fall on their blades instantly. She disliked that such a potent force did not fall under her direct control. And she hated not being in control; she had spent her entire life ensuring such things never happened. Even the Celestial Wisdom was not beyond her control. She took in the brooding eyes once more. Well, not completely. She needed to exert some influence over the Commandos.

“To expand our efforts, however,” she continued, “we must increase the funding of the Maskirovka. If your agents are to keep the beasts outside our walls at bay, we must ever grease men’s avarice with the best lubricant. What’s more, I would ask for your illustrious permission to secretly deploy a force of Death Commandos to Emris IV. The Duke of Procyon has spent years wooing worlds from the Protectorate to his cause, and that would serve to further our own plans through Anton. Yet Emris IV has stood resolutely in his way, loyal still to Janos Marik. As occurred so successfully on McKenna, some pirate attacks the League cannot prevent—or perhaps will not, we’ll carefully insinuate—should lean the populace more fully behind Anton.” And start the process of carefully settling my leash on your Commandos.

The steel-gray eyes held hers for long moments more and she wondered if she’d pushed too hard, this time. The Death Commandos, after all, were the creation of Maximilian’s father and were quickly redefining what it meant to be fanatical, even within a House obsessed with loyalty. But the Chancellor’s visage slowly changed, as though fully seeing and hearing her for the first time since she had arrived. Confidence rang from his countenance.

“House Liao will yet rise,” Maximilian said, conviction resounding in every word. “You have my approval. Your agents have full authority for whatever actions they deem necessary, whether within the State or without. And a portion of my Commandos will be temporarily placed under your command.”

She’d been in his presence when he’d ranted and raved, his anger quicksilver and difficult to predict. But this calm, cool, and infinitely capable Maximilian—she would walk through all nine hells to follow him. She bowed deeply, heart in her throat, then turned away to lay more webs and pull ever harder at the strings to topple their enemies. To help House Liao rise again.

COMSTAR FIRST CIRCUIT COMPOUND

HILTON HEAD ISLAND, NORTH AMERICA, TERRA

21 FEBRUARY 3010

“The Peace of Blake be with you,” Primus Julian Tiepolo said, as a man entered the small, secret room hidden within the bowels of the First Circuit Compound. Julian settled himself in a chair at a small table and adjusted his dun-colored robes, pulling his hands deeper into the voluminous sleeves to ward against the cold. He’d thought of keeping his hood raised to protect his bald pate, but knew the man sitting down across from him would take him lowering the hood as a sign of respect. As he should.

“And His Wisdom with you, Primus,” Precentor ROM Vesar Kristofur responded, completing the necessary ritual greetings. As appropriate for the head of one of the most potent intelligence agencies in the Inner Sphere, he was unassuming and average in every way, from his build, to his short hair, even to the thin, pedestrian mustache. Eyes naturally skipped over this man in a crowd.

“How much longer do you have?” Julian asked. Steepled his fingers to tap them gently against his narrow chin.

“The Duke of Procyon does not expect me back for another three months. Traveling to the Periphery to say goodbye to my dear, dying mother does take almost half a year. He was very gracious with his words.”

Julian smiled, though he never let it reach his piercing brown eyes. “I do not believe I’ve heard gracious words from Anton Marik before.”

Both men shared that smile of disdain for the power-hungry man they had manipulated with ease.

“In only five years undercover you’ve become a direct aid to Anton. Impressive,” Julian said. The carrot.

Vesar nodded acceptance at the compliment. “But it’s not enough.”

“It’s not. Our C-bill continues to devalue compared to the League’s M-bill, despite my emergency measures.”

“And there’s the Dragoons problem.”

“Exactly,” Julian responded. And now the stick. “The disappearance of Wolf’s Dragoons for ten months last year demonstrated ROM’s continued inability to infiltrate—much less follow—these mercenaries. But their return ten months later, restocked with a vast cargo of supplies and parts, including brand-new BattleMechs we’ve never seen? They must have access to an ancient Star League lostech cache buried in the Periphery. That simply cannot stand. How are we to safeguard mankind’s knowledge, and direct them as Blake would have us, with such a wildcard on the table? There is only so much influence I can wield in the First Circuit to keep you in your position when such failures mount. A new solution must be found.”

Julian spotted the anger buried in Vesar’s eyes—whether against the Dragoons, himself, or the First Circuit, Julian could not tell—but the precentor took the stinging rebuke well. “I agree,” Vesar said, nodding. “Hence why I came in person. Anton is the key to all of this.”

“You’re referring to Chancellor Liao’s covert talks with Anton.”

“I am. The Maskirovka has been spending a fortune to foment rebellion and anti-Captain-General sentiments on dozens of Free Words League border worlds. And he’s been courting Anton, as far as we can tell, since ’03.”

Julian knew where Vesar was going but let him take the lead. He needs to believe that. He nodded for him to continue.

“While the Chancellor’s machinations have been impressive, and Anton’s anger at his brother and greed for power is rampant, I’m not sure our goal will be achieved without a finger on the scale. Those two Houses have warred for centuries, and setting such legacy aside…I’m not convinced even Anton would be so foolish. Yet I already have his ear. I can place that finger very carefully, ensuring a path of our choosing.”

Julian settled his bony fingers onto the table to amplify the dramatic moment, ignoring the cold leaching away what little heat his cadaverously thin body managed to maintain. “Civil war.”

“Exactly. We’ll reach out to the Chancellor, offering both he and Anton our neutrality to aid in brokering a final deal. Anton has already started quietly moving combat commands more loyal to the Captain-General out of his region of power, but he’s not crossed the Rubicon yet. Despite the Chancellor’s crafty offer of his daughter Candace as a potential bride, along with a bevy of cash to support civil war, Anton still hesitates.”

“Ah, the Dragoons.” Julian made it sound as though he’d just arrived at the understanding.

The greed for more power gleamed darkly in Vesar’s eyes. “Exactly. Again, it will take time. The Dragoons just signed a contract with House Liao, after all. But if we can convince the Chancellor to sign over the Dragoons’ contract to Anton, that could be the key to unlock civil war.”

“Such conflicts are notoriously hard on the forces involved.”

“Let alone the House. The League’s economy will be shattered, propelling the C-bill ascendant once more.”

“And the damage dealt to the Dragoons should finally allow your agents to infiltrate the outfit and dig up their secrets.”

The two men shared a long moment. After the fall of the Star League long ago, ComStar’s duty had not only been to run the massive interstellar communication network of hyperpulse generators that tied the Inner Sphere together, but also to protect mankind from itself. Which usually entailed economic, political, and communications-interdiction pressures at appropriate junctures. But now and then, that protection required secretly punishing the children and taking away the toys they were not yet ready to handle. Today was the start of such a punishment.

“With your permission, I will present this plan to the First Circuit,” Vesar said. “With your blessing, I am sure it will be approved.”

Julian Tiepolo, Primus of ComStar, nodded gravely to the other man. Let him believe he’s the sole author of this endeavor. Let them all believe it. If it succeeds, the Will of Blake be done. And if it fails, the noose will fit around Vesar’s throat.

MI4 TRAINING FACILITY

LOCATION UNKNOWN

FEDERATED SUNS

28 FEBRUARY 3010

Standing ramrod straight in his office, a roaring fire at his back, Marshal Ulinov Debreber read the large, bright letters on the dossier once more:

alpha prime priority clearance

dmi marshal only

immediate action required

He felt its edges, the plasticized cardstock smooth against his fingertips, as though he might better discern the paths forward. His eyes slipped past the heavy paneling behind his desk, to the large portrait of First Prince Ian Davion, ruler of the massive Federated Suns and its over 500 inhabited star systems that owed him fealty. Despite the gloom of the room—when in the depths of troubled thoughts, Ulinov liked the dark, lit fitfully by a fire—he could still make out the exceptionally large man in the painting, with a matching nose and long face, filling the frame to bursting. As he did in life. It was joked (carefully!) that only a 100-ton Atlas could support the man’s frame and personality. The wonderful aroma of burning cedar filled the air, the pop and crackle of the bursting sap a soothing sound to the strain within. Have I chosen treason, my liege?

“When do I depart?” Hannah spoke.

Ulinov looked back at the young woman across from him, her long, dark hair blending well with the black jumpsuit that fit her slight frame like a glove. Many years in the past, he might have been the equal of this agent, but now she could break him with a thumb. He’d just managed to keep MI6’s Rabid Foxes—House Davion spec-ops teams—from poaching Hannah from his own MI4 Covert Operations Division. Her field tests were almost legendary, even reaching beyond this ultra-secret Department of Military Intelligence training facility to the other such facilities hidden within the Federated Suns. Yet her mind matched that physicality wonderfully, making her a master of recruiting and running moles. She’d had great success over the last half decade in the Draconis Combine. It’s why she’d been selected for this assignment.

“You’ve been fully briefed?” he finally spoke, gravelly voice easily filling the room.

“Of course. I’m to join the Covert Operations team from the Ministry of Information, Intelligence, and Operations,” she responded, always formal and exacting in his presence. “They will direct me as I infiltrate the Duke of Procyon’s staff in the Free Worlds League and determine whether further seeds of sedition can be sown. I’ve studied the documents provided extensively. The ground is very fertile.”

It wasn’t that he distrusted his civilian counterparts in the MIIO. He just knew his Stealthy Foxes were better agents, and Captain Hannah would ensure the mission’s success.

“And what is paramount to that mission?”

“We cannot be discovered.”

“That is more critical than any other aspect.”

She held his eyes, slowly nodding, understanding exactly what he was carefully saying by calling out what normally would be assumed. After all, even here, buried in the most secret base in all of House Davion, he answered to other masters; the holovid recorder always flowed.

He snapped a salute. “Godspeed.”

“Thank you, sir,” she responded, saluting, and slipped out the door.

If Ulinov weren’t expecting it, he would not have heard that heavy paneling slide open as another man entered the room. He turned to find the smiling face of Duke Hanse Davion, Ian Davion’s younger brother. In the twisting shadows of the firelight, the other man’s large smile and gleaming eyes reminded him of a fox.

“That went well,” Hanse said confidently.

Despite his formal posture, Ulinov shifted slightly with unease. A move the other man easily picked up. You miss nothing, do you, Prince Davion.

“You are still worried about my brother?”

“He has not given official sanction to this action.”

Hanse eased closer, reaching out and placing a large hand—though not nearly as large as Ian’s—on his shoulder, and squeezed gently. “Marshal, I am loyal to my brother. I love my First Prince. I would see him married and spawning a gaggle of scions that will follow him on the throne. But he is a man of action. He has always led from the front. And you know he’s begun his secret journey to far-off Tharkad and the seat of the Lyran Commonwealth to see if perhaps an alliance may be forged between our two Great Houses.” Hanse shook his head, chuckling softly. “My brother is so good at war. I never imagined he might be good at peace.”

He squeezed Ulinov’s shoulder more firmly, smile falling away, eyes growing intense. “Regardless, he has never been good at the shadows. You know the dangers we face. The Haseks grow ever more powerful in the Capellan March, balking at Ian’s rule from New Avalon, while Maximilian’s Maskirovka spends C-bills like water to aid the Haseks with unrest throughout that march, all while furthering their causes in the Free Worlds League. And the Dragon remains ever ready to rend us if we are not forever vigilant along the Draconis March as well. We need to get ahead of this. If ol’ Max actually manages to trick the League into a civil war, we need to ensure that noose is also around his neck. I have always watched my brother’s back. And in this, I do so again. There is no treason here, Marshal Debreber. There is only a duke and a marshal doing their duty to safeguard the First Prince and the Federated Suns, from enemies without and within, using every tool at our disposal.”

Ulinov slowly nodded ascent. God, I hope so, my duke.

IRIAN TECHNOLOGIES

IRIAN

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

10 OCTOBER 3010

Sebastian Spears sat comfortably at a desk, the sun mostly blocked by darkened visors on the large windows of his corner office that looked out onto the massive industrial complex of Irian Technologies. During his first few weeks in this room, all those years ago, he’d often perched on a stool, looking out over that glory of mankind’s penchant for constructing on a grand scale. And while he still appreciated the view now and then—last week he’d watched a massive cargo airship drop in supplies from a far-off continent—it was the eight monitors mounted to his left that captivated his attention.

One screen indicated that the mission to the Stratford system in House Davion had failed to uncover anything. Surprising, really, considering the world was used for extreme-environment training by the long-lost Star League Defense Force, and served as home to XVII Corps. Perhaps they might try a second expedition on a later date, to verify the first hadn’t missed anything. For now, he touched the screen to indicate final payment to the small merc outfit involved, and swiped it out of view to be archived.

The next screen displayed updates that another mercenary outfit, escorting their archaeologists, recently made planetfall on the world of Liezen, in the Draconis Combine. Centuries-old shipping transcripts indicated that the 183rd Royal Mechanized Infantry Division withdrew from the Rim Worlds Republic following Richard Cameron's Birthday Proclamation. The division was relocated to the then-Lyran world of Liezen. However, 80 percent of the 183rd’s equipment never made it from the Republic to their new duty station. Official statements blamed either a misjump or corrupt shipping cartels, but the truth was never found. A perfect lead for tracking down a lostech find.

The next monitor contained an update from a team tracking the disappearance of Clinton’s Cutthroats. No new details there in almost two years. His hand hovered near the screen, on the verge of terminating the contract and resigning the mission to the archive. But instead, he decided to give them six more months.

Another screen held details he’d discuss shortly, as soon as Nikolai and Chloe arrived. But the last few screens brought a frown to his usually open face, his bright eyes dimming with concern. The first ticked down a checklist of details showcasing the deteriorating circumstances surrounding Anton Marik and his relationship with his brother, Captain-General Janos Marik. Even in meetings with IrTech executives, the words “civil war” hovered in the air, unspoken. It was bad for business. Bad for the potential loss of even more knowledge they couldn’t afford to lose. Bad for everyone. Except for those that would profit.

His hands traced across the screens: ComStar, House Liao, House Davion. He felt confident they’d tagged a ComStar agent among the duke’s staff. Probably just a lowly ROM runner, but the rank was irrelevant to how much damage ComStar could inflict. He’d spent a lifetime digging into ancient records. And while ComStar might be the most secretive organization ever spawned in the Inner Sphere, enough diligence and care could tweeze out bits of information. And if even a quarter of what he surmised were true, ComStar was far more diabolical than any Great House imagined.

His eyes moved to the crest of House Liao: an upraised arm holding a sword, within a downward-pointing triangle. Unlike ComStar, he’d pieced together large portions of the Maskirovka’s hand in actions on dozens of worlds, both within the Free Worlds League and the Federated Suns. The Capellan agents were not so much secretive as they were extremely adept and dangerous, quick to eliminate any threat. He knew Chancellor Liao’s hand attempted to attach puppet strings to Anton. But it appeared Sebastian had some luck, there. A scrap of intel from one of his sources on Sian. A name. Emris IV. He wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but it was the best lead he’d snagged from that mole yet. However, if he moved on that world, would he tip his hand to Chandra Ling, the leader of the Maskirovka, and cost himself a valuable asset that could tie back to him? Where did the value lie?

Finally, House Davion. He didn’t have a shred of evidence they were operating near the Duke of Procyon. But they’d proven to be some of the most astute Successor Lords, the sheer size of their realm evidence enough of such acumen. And while Ian Davion was a hammer, his brother, Hanse, was another man altogether. Sebastian’s gut told him they were involved. But could he do anything about it?

A knock came at the door, and he blanked out most of the screens. “Come in,” he called out in an easy, confident manner. He flowed to a standing position like a dancer, despite his age, and welcomed Captain Chloe Reed and Nikolai Mason as they entered his office.

“My friends,” he said, “it is good to see you. Please, come in and sit down. I have that new contract we discussed.”

He waved them towards their seats before settling back in his own. There was the expected darkness in their eyes, since Dawson Clarmont had been killed. And the way of it, killed—albeit accidentally—by Nikolai himself. Tension now hung between Sebastian and the Cavaliers MechWarriors. He knew he had to approach this carefully or he might lose them. He decided to go straight for the contract.

Sebastian tapped on the monitor. “We know the Sixty-seventh BattleMech Division of Nineteen Corps was stationed on Emris IV. We also know several members of the command were court-martialed in 2763 for years of stealing materials from the StarCorps Industries factory in Ivanograd, as well as the Holly Industries factory. They never found those missing supplies, as far as our research can ascertain. You’ll be assigned—”

“This smacks of McKenna,” Nikolai said darkly.

“Did you know about the politics of that region, Sebastian? Did you know we could get trapped there?” Chloe asked evenly, eyes probing.

“You know as well as I that there is always a chance for local and regional politics to—”

“Stop that, Sebastian,” Chloe said. “You’re being evasive. Keeping secrets. And your secrets cost us Dawson’s life. And lost us Brooklynn! If we’re going to stay in your employ, there can be no more lies. No more stories. Just give us a straight answer. We’ve earned that.” The pain for the price they’d paid was still fresh and new.

Sebastian wondered if the moment he’d been waiting for was at hand; he was honestly sympathetic to that price paid. So he proceeded carefully. “First, I’ve been up front with you since you signed that first contract with me a half decade ago. Interstellar Expeditions is in fact about guarding knowledge. But, there are…other things afoot. Other places where we try to influence events, hopefully for the better. For example, in your final years with the Eridani Light Horse, several stocks returned dividends far in excess of expectations.”

“I knew it!” Nikolai blurted.

But Chloe’s faced shifted from shock through anger and into understanding. “You were looking over our shoulders even back then?”

“I felt you would be a good investment. But us becoming friends? Well, that was…unexpected.” And he meant every word.

Chloe slowly nodded as the full import of his statement struck home, that the Cavaliers owed Sebastian far more than they had ever imagined. And he’d never asked for anything more than their contract stipulated. Except, perhaps, right now.

“If I’m going to give up further secrets, then we will exchange. Chloe, I know you’ve secrets. Powerful secrets I could use to further IE’s goals. My goals. Perhaps we can both open up, placing our inner selves on the table, so to speak?”

Stony silence returned, and he watched Chloe and Nikolai look at one another for a long moment, before her husband turned away and Chloe faced him once more. “If you want my secrets, I deserve yours,” Chloe demanded emphatically.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian noted Nikolai on the verge of saying something, but then sitting back. In many ways, he and Nikolai had grown more as friends than as contractor-and-contracted, despite his first encounter with Chloe through lostech consults. But Nikolai wisely didn’t cross his wife.

Sebastian’s secrets ran deep, and he had only to decide how many layers he needed to peel back to earn reciprocity from Chloe. He nodded acquiescence, taking a long drink of water. A few kernels of truth to dig deeper into Chloe was worth it. Especially since that might eventually lead to Nikolai himself. You’ve depths even deeper than Chloe, don’t you, my friend?

“My parents immigrated to Telos IV from Rasalhague before I was born,” he began. “And even as a child, I was fascinated with the Star League—a Golden Age filled with technology that we can barely imagine, much less understand. And Telos IV was home to one of the titanic Castle Brian complexes at the height of the Star League. Obviously it had been destroyed during the war to oust the Usurper who toppled the League, and its bones had been picked over for centuries. But in the shards of crumbling walls and caverns and partially filled rooms, I discovered adventurous afternoons that would spark a lifetime commitment.” He settled deeper into his chair, the memories washing over him as he relived the awe and excitement of those halcyon days.

“Barely a teenager, I ran away from home and soon found myself in the work of a prospector. I begged him to take me on as an apprentice as I swabbed every deck of his DropShip twice a week and brought him his sake every night. He primarily operated in Algedi Prefecture in the Draconis Combine. The lion’s share of Terran Hegemony and Star League relics that might be found in House Kurita are located in those star systems. As the years progressed I learned half a dozen languages, archaeology skills, the ability to negotiate—both with formal and black-market contacts—and how to employ the occasional violence, when necessary.” He smiled at Chloe and Nikolai’s reaction to that last statement. His prim-and-proper older-man image didn’t exactly lend credence to the idea, but he’d had to stick a knife in a few people in his day.

“I’d hoped the Combine would celebrate the treasures in its lands. Instead, provided you were certified and registered with the Ministry of Well-Being of the Land and the Peoples, and paid your taxes—call them what they are, hefty bribes—the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery didn’t care what you plundered and carried off. Those artifacts should’ve been placed in museums and universities to enrich all our lives and draw back the dark curtain caused by the loss of technology over the Succession Wars. But instead, they were sold off to private collectors for vast sums of money.” He’d long ago set aside the anger of youth for the pragmatic get-the-job-done of a well-worn man, but the echoes of outrage still graced his tone. He was self-aware enough to smile deprecatingly. “Obviously I still have strong feelings.”

“Then along came Interstellar Expeditions?” Nikolai asked.

“Right.” Sebastian took another long drink after talking so much. “I was only in my twenties when they recruited me.” He chuckled. “A secretive organization whose goal was to find and preserve lost knowledge and technology? They practically had me at ‘hello.’”

“And why have we never met anyone else from IE?”

He took a moment to empty the glass of water. How much more do I say, Chloe? How much more do you need to open up yourself? “Well, we don’t really have a leadership as most organizations would understand it. But within my sphere of influence, there’s really not that many more people above me. And I’ve always liked taking a hands-on approach.”

“And does IE pay for all of this, or is that Irian?”

“Oh, IE could easily pay for all of this. But there’s a certain…decorum we attempt to keep among those at my level. Having IE pay for it would be so gauche.”

He smiled at Nikolai’s sour face and Chloe’s incredulous look. “It’s hard to explain. Some of us are nobles, many are not. And the interaction of those groups can be…testy, to say the least. Keeping money out of the equation as we try to work together toward our common goals is important.”

“And Irian…?” Nikolai pushed.

Sebastian shook his head. “Good heavens, no. IE would never allow one such as I to be beholden to a transnational corporation of such power. Let’s just say we have a mutually beneficial relationship that’s been very lucrative for both of us.”

“So how did you come by your wealth?” Chloe asked. “And what is IE’s real goal?”

Even Nikolai winced at her directness. Then again, that was one of her best qualities.

Sebastian smiled, holding up his hands. “As I said, I’ve been up front with you. Guarding knowledge is our calling. As for the second part, well, I do believe that’s a story for another day. I’ve given you more than I’ve given most in my life.” He nodded to both Chloe and Nikolai as near equals. He did in fact very much like the two of them. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to use them for his own ends, though. It just meant a few more sleepless nights to survive, and in the balance, he was willing to pay.

Sebastian watched Chloe closely as she closed her bright green eyes, and her fingers twirled the JumpShip-shaped pendant around her neck. You’re trying to figure how many layers to peel back. How many of my layers exchanged for yours, Chloe?

“I was born on Terra,” Chloe began, reluctance painted large on her face, though she continued looking off to the side. “My parents told me I was pulling things apart to look inside them before I’d even learned to talk.” She shrugged. “I’ve always had an affinity for technology.”

Sebastian shared a look with Nikolai. “Savant” is the word to use.

“And my parents, as good members of the ComStar Order, had me tested. I was fostered by the time I was ten. By fourteen I was a darling of their Science and Research branch, experimenting with hidden Star League technologies. I even started to train as a MechWarrior.”

“Wait,” Sebastian said. “Why were you training as a MechWarrior? ComStar doesn’t have an army.” That we know of…

“It helped me better understand the technology I was trying to decipher. As for an army, I’ve no idea.” Her eyes flickered over to Sebastian, and then away, as though uncomfortable with the whole situation.

From the corner of his eye he watched Nikolai shift uncomfortably as well and look away. At some point she told you her deepest secrets. And you feel guilty. You’ve secrets you still haven’t told her, don’t you, my friend? Someday I will dig those out.

“I’m not sure I ever really believed their pseudo-religious babble,” Chloe went on, “but as my expertise and understanding expanded, it all turned to lunacy. Their mumbo jumbo, their trappings, their ostentation, their ‘Peace of Blake be with you.’ Unfortunately, I take Saint Blake’s name in vain all of the time. Can’t help my own upbringing, after all. But from my own research, I’m pretty sure he’d be horrified with all of that crap.”

“We’ve our own recordings of most of his life,” Sebastian said smoothly. “And I believe you’re right.”

Chloe continued as though he’d not spoken. “But I was their darling. No way would ComStar let me go. They’d as soon kill me as do that. So it took years. And years. I had to slowly lose my touch. Weeks became months, and months dragged into years. ‘Blessed Adept Reed’ had lost her magic, they’d say about me. And then I became an embarrassment. And finally a nuisance. For five years I hid myself and carefully dragged out a persona that might let me reach a freedom beyond their cult. And finally, like an ugly, unwanted redheaded stepchild, they pushed me off Terra after letting me know I’d be killed if I ever said anything. At that point it was an afterthought. They never saw me as anything but a broken woman.”

Sebastian sympathized with the echoes of pain still filling her voice, despite the years gone and all of the successes since. The arrows we’re all heir to leave a thousand cuts, Chloe.

She pulled in a shuddering breath and blew it our explosively, far out of proportion to her small frame. “Blake’s Blood, that actually felt good to tell someone beyond Nikolai.”

“Especially if he means such knowledge might be used to blunt ComStar?”

“Not stop them?” Nikolai spoke up.

Both looked at him before Chloe broke into peals of laughter that echoed off the office walls. His face, never open, closed down even more as he hunched his shoulders. “What?”

“I’m sorry, my love,” Chloe finally said, still trying to keep her mirth under control.

“I’m not sure you understand the power of ComStar, Nikolai,” Sebastian said, stepping in. “I’ll have my people digging out every last data point Chloe has trapped in that magnificent brain of hers, and we’ll put it to very good use. But ComStar has been manipulating the five Great Houses for more than two centuries. They are cruel, ruthless, manipulative, and exceptionally good at what they do. More importantly, they’re true believers. That may make them more dangerous than anything else. So I am truly honored and grateful by Chloe’s trust. I hope we can somehow use her knowledge to curtail their manipulation of Anton. And perhaps elsewhere. But as others forcefully reminded me, we are carefully maneuvering pawns among a chessboard filled with rooks, knights, and queens. We have to move with the utmost caution if we are to have a chance at unraveling even one of their many threads.”

“So where does that leave us?” Nikolai asked.

“Right back to where we began this night of sharing secrets. Emris IV.”

“Because we’re one of your pawns,” Chloe stated matter-of-factly.

Sebastian looked at both of them and decided on another level of truth. “Yes. Yes, you are. Because you’re less than a company in strength, with enough cred to leave alone but not enough to take too seriously, working for a bunch of do-gooder hippies with too much money, trying to save some old dusty books. We’ve used that trope for many decades, and it still works wonderfully well. You’re a wallflower no one even looks at, even when you’re sitting on the edge of battle. I’ve read history books that ignore the presence of a lance or two in the employ of the Interstellar Expeditions because we cannot possibly have an effect, especially when we refuse to display the colorful rags of one lord or another.”

Chloe smiled slightly at the strong emotion that crept into his voice. “And how do you really feel about that?”

He chuckled once more. “I am rather passionate about my vocation. I do want to save those dusty tomes. And if we can stave off some of the worst tendencies of humanity, I’m glad to tackle the task and remain in the shadows after the fact.”

A companionable silence engulfed the three as a new level of friendship unlocked. They were still mercenaries and he the employer, and there were still secrets and still pain. But for the moment, there was something more in the room, and they savored it, knowing Nikolai and Chloe would all too soon be off to prepare the Cavaliers for liftoff. And Sebastian knew one more thing, that despite this new friendship, he would use Chloe relentlessly to achieve his goals: she always did what she felt was right.

“Sebastian, we’re on board,” Chloe finally spoke up. “But our last pirate hunt was horribly aggravating, to say the least. I’ve an idea of how we might remedy that, but we’ll need to negotiate some extra funds to cover the assets.”

Sebastian smiled. “Let’s hear it.”

PLAINS OF IVANOGRAD

SNOWDEN, EMRIS IV

THE PROTECTORATE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

2 JANUARY 3011

The darkness came alive as scintillating beams of PPCs and energy weapons slashed superheated furrows through the air. Metal sloughed off BattleMechs in sizzling droplets, spattering the dirty ground while the Cavaliers sought to find targets in the inky darkness of a moonless night—a feat made all the more difficult due to the heavy iron-ore contents of the surrounding lands playing havoc with magscans while the hot, rain-soaked, early summer weather hampered standard radar. A flashing strobe of illuminated PPC fire allowed a visual image of a BattleMech to be caught on a battleROM. Painted dead black, without a hint of insignia, the 50-ton Hunchback was caught in mid stride, the massive autocannon in its right torso blazing.

Ryana Campbell’s fists slowly clenched with anger. Standing in the command bridge of the Cavaliers’ Leopard-class DropShip, a half dozen kilometers from where the fighting had broken out, she realized that despite the years, she desperately wished to be at the helm of her beloved Claidheamh-mór—“claymore” in Scottish Gaelic—taking the fight directly into the teeth of these pirates. After all, 90-tons of an assault ’Mech could kick down many a door. And yet, here is where she’d chosen to be. Her motto, slightly adapted from her days in the Northwind Highlanders long years ago, rang in her head: No one can harm us unpunished.

Then again, when you sat out as bait, harm did come calling.

She touched a hand to her mic, opening the commline. “Captain, as before, they’ve no markings at all. And the BattleMechs I’ve tagged so far still give nothing away. They’re thousands of them in every single House.”

“And they still fight like demons,” Captain Chloe growled back across the channel, the exertion of the fight plain in her tone.

The small figures moved erratically, weapons stabbing continually on the holotable, as the camera feed from their new, high-flying Boomerang Spotter Plane kept Ryana far more informed of the situation via status updates she’d only previously dreamt of having. Normally she’d have a more hands-on approach, but the die had already been cast here. Weeks of planning coming to fruition, hopefully, in this one moment. Ultimately, despite the Cavaliers’ skills, these enemy MechWarriors, whomever they might be, were simply fantastic. She wasn’t sure even she could take one of them in a stand-up fight. And meanwhile, as the weeks slipped by, the government of Emris IV continued to rail against far-off Atreus, and Duke Anton Marik’s worm-tongued agents continued to seduce the planet toward sedition.

She caught sight of a Rifleman, its twinned autocannons and lasers lashing into Chloe’s Shadow Hawk. The relentless energies tore through the remaining armor in both the torso and right leg, leaving her 55-ton BattleMech heavily limping as she tried to put distance between her attacker and the Hunchback, which was quickly trying to narrow the distance and bring the killing blow of its giant autocannon to bear.

A 35-ton Jenner sprinted through the clearing, most of its missiles and lasers flying wide from their intended target. The pilot, new recruit Allison Stevens, was barely holding her own. Then again, they were all betting on Chloe’s plan.

“What the hell!” Ryana couldn’t help yelling as the Rifleman and Hunchback finally managed to capture the limping Shadow Hawk between them, and the large-bore autocannon’s stream of depleted uranium slugs savaged the last of the damaged leg’s armor. Eaten to a nub, the limb was shorn off, throwing the Shadow Hawk violently to the ground.

The sounds of Chloe’s scared, heavy breathing from the fall reached Ryana’s ears as she gripped the edge of the table. Two more pitch-black ’Mechs entered the picture of the holotable, closing ranks with the Rifleman and Hunchback, as several waves of missiles from Nikolai’s Catapult corralled them exactly where the Cavaliers needed them to be.

“Hold on, Chloe,” Ryana said, trying to leash her emotions. Will it be in time?

She watched Chloe desperately try to crawl her machine out of the area while the Hunchback sauntered toward her, the large autocannon ready to finish the downed Cavaliers ’Mech.

A heavy blast of sound rocketed through the DropShip, and Ryana counted the seconds, a metronome to the heavy tread of the Hunchback—and the holovid abruptly whited out. A full flight of six aerospace fighters struck at the spot. The first four, 60-ton Stingrays, let loose with a blistering fusillade of PPCs and lasers, delivering pinpoint accuracy as they sliced heavily into all four of the black-painted ’Mechs. Following right behind them, two 100-ton Rievers dropped a devastating spread of bombs. The initial surgical strikes opened up wounds, but the concussive blasts of overlapping bombs effectively wrenched the enemy ’Mechs down unto destruction.

As the whiteout cleared, the explosions dropping to manageable levels for the camera feeds, Ryana spoke hesitantly: “Chloe?”

“I’m here,” the voice responded, to a chorus of cheers across the commline.

“Seems like hiring that merc outfit of aerojocks for backup was worth the C-bills,” Chloe said through the pain.

Nikolai moaned at the reminder of mounting expenditures, and the laughter only grew louder.

CALGARY, PROCYON

SIRIAN CONCORDANCE, FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

3 FEBRUARY 3011

Hannah sat quietly and stared into the distance, her dark hair blending into her black bodysuit, as the third body fell soundlessly to the heavily carpeted floor in the small, dank apartment to join his companions. Poisoned water sloshed in the cup still clenched in the man’s hand, and its slight bounce after his fall drew Hannah’s attention to the body before her eyes settled on the similar cup in her own hand. She carefully set the cup on the edge of the table; pretending to drink along with the others had been child’s play. As usual, the active agent in the poison had been brutally quick, killing all three of her fellow MI6 agents within moments of one another after the toast.

She’d been wracking her brain for weeks trying to figure where her team had slipped up. But the moment she’d tagged their tail, she’d been on the alert. And soon realized the tradecraft smacked of ComStar’s ROM. Nothing definitive, of course. But enough to cement her decision. It was becoming too dangerous. Whether they had been infiltrated or compromised didn’t matter; time to clean house. She’d already sent the HPG message wending its way through dozens of worlds before it would reach its far-off destination in the Federated Suns, initiating a months-long process that would see DMI forensic accountants discreetly rewriting these agents’ MIIO records to ease their erasure. Just an unlucky accident, after all. Fires in this part of the city occurred all too often during this time of year, as the old electrical wiring struggled to keep up with peak demands.

In all her time in the Combine, she’d never once come close to discovery. ROM’s every bit as dangerous as they say. She stood up and slid on protective clothing to clean away all evidence that anyone else had ever been in the room before the coming explosion.

The next encounter would be different.

ZI-JIN CHENG, SIAN

SIAN COMMONALITY, CAPELLAN CONFEDERATION

27 MARCH 3011

“Four Death Commandos dead,” Chandra Ling’s aide spoke as she reviewed the documents. “Their equipment is lost.”

Chandra sipped carefully at the hot tea, the redolence of cinnamon and rose filling the air. Her body more and more often craved a well-cushioned chair, hence why she perched on the fine, lacquered-wood stool. She leaned forward beside her aide, reviewing the papers as well. “And the Chancellor will be upset,” she responded. “After all, he does so love his pets.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Of course,” she responded immediately. “At the end of the day, more dog soldiers will fill his kennels, snarling and ready to die for their Celestial Wisdom. But they have now felt another master on their leash. And once that knowledge settles in, the Pavlovian obedience naturally begins.”

“The Chancellor will not like that.”

Chandra sipped the tea again, the burst of flavors always a bright spot to her day, as she carefully looked at her aide. The room was swept for bugs twice a day, all her codes were switched regularly, and she consciously interrupted her own work and travel rhythms to not settle into habits that could kill. She was as astute as she was perceptive, and she’d grown to know this woman, trusted her, but this much? I’ve already entrusted her with my life.

“The Chancellor need never know. Especially if we ferret out the spy.”

“How did they know we were on Emris IV?”

“Exactly. So few had access to that knowledge. We have a spy to deal with.”

“ComStar?”

Chandra pursed her lips, lost in thought. “No,” she finally said, shaking her head. “That feels…wrong for them. We’ve plenty to deal with over their interference. But this is different. There is someone else. And if they are buried in Interstellar Expeditions, we’ll drag them into the light, and make sure that organization knows the consequences of playing with their betters.”

“And bring them to the Chancellor?”

She smiled, her sweet, motherly smile, anticipation of the game mounting. “Perhaps. We’ll just have to see what we find.”

COMSTAR FIRST CIRCUIT COMPOUND

HILTON HEAD ISLAND, NORTH AMERICA, TERRA

27 JUNE 3011

Primus Julian Tiepolo touched the document on the table. A verigraphed message from the Chancellor of the Capellan Confederation, accepting ComStar’s invitation for mediation between Anton Marik and Maximilian Liao.

He touched the other document he’d recently finished reading. The latest field report from Precentor ROM Vesar Kristofur. As the man grew ever closer to the Duke of Procyon, the stretches of time between such updates grew. The nature of such work.

The two documents created a perfect symmetry on the clean desk. Events proceeded apace in the Free Worlds League, with more worlds slowly aligning with Anton Marik. A civil war seemed inevitable, if they kept them on the tracks they laid before him.

The Primus was well satisfied.

IRIAN TECHNOLOGIES

IRIAN

FREE WORLDS LEAGUE

2 JULY 3011

The kiss lingered, before Countess Alexa McCorkendale pulled away, leaving Sebastian’s lips tingling. She flashed her flamboyant smile, settling her curly hair back into a semblance of form. “I know we shouldn’t have done that, but you intrigue me more than I imagined, dearie,” she said, lounging on the bed next to him.

Sebastian laughed easily, savoring the sensation. He took an exaggerated look around. “I’m waiting for the knife.”

“There’s always a knife, dearie. You’re just never gonna see it come.”

With you, I probably won’t. “So I’ve proven my point?”

“Well, hardly a point at all. I’ve read your report thoroughly. Twice. You didn’t really manage to stop much at all. The League is still dangling over the precipice, with ComStar and Liao fingerprints all over the scene.”

“Of course not. The resources allocated to me by IE are a shadow of those wielded by the Great Houses, much less ComStar. And yet…” He drew the thought out, hopefully.

“And yet…even with such limitations, you were surprisingly effective at altering a few courses,” Alexa said. “Perhaps IE can be more than just what we’ve been.”

“Then you’ll back my play?”

She drew closer again, his lips tingling involuntarily in anticipation.

“Until I don’t.”

8

Obligation’s Forge

JACOB’S DESERT

MALLORY’S WORLD

KENTARES IV PDZ, DRACONIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

13 SEPTEMBER 3013

Voices floated closer, echoing strangely in the tight metal confines that encased Fahad Arazad.

“This planet is prime pickings,” Captain Chloe Reed said. “Sure, not much intrinsic value. But there’s a reason it’s been fought over for centuries. It’s a key strategic site for launching larger campaigns.”

“I know that,” Nikolai Mason said, frustration lining his words; the conversation had obviously been going on a while.

“Then why did House Davion pull most of its forces?”

“You expect them to tell us? We’re only here under our usual ‘special dispensation’ via an Interstellar Expeditions contract. Perhaps the Davion forces are off on their own assault onto Combine worlds.”

“I don’t think so, Nikolai. Sure, they’re always trying to outmaneuver each other here at the border. But you’ve seen the same reports. The Snakes have had good success the last half decade. Cylene, Mara, Galatea III, Harrow’s Sun, Bennet III, Crossing—the pendulum has swung toward the Combine. And those bloodthirsty samurai always draw their blades further when they get a little success.”

“We’re not connected to the planetary nobility here, Chloe. We’re out in the middle of nowhere. If something happens, we’re not going to get drawn into the morass like we did back in Marik space.”

“And if we do?”

Fahad lay at an odd angle, his torso thrust through the hole made by the removed armor plate on the lower portion of the BattleMech’s leg. While he’d been raised in the extremes of a desert planet, he’d spent enough time on garden worlds and climate-controlled DropShips that he sweated heavily in the hot air, trying to ignore the claustrophobia that tickled at the edges of consciousness. The sound of the husband-and-wife command team of the Cavaliers discussing weighty matters kept him focused, while he finished running the umpteenth diagnostic on the Shadow Hawk’s ankle actuator.

“How’s the training run going?” Nikolai asked.

You’ve no answer, Fahad thought, so you’re trying to change the subject. Will the captain bite?

She grunted noncommittally in return.

Fahad broke into a large grin, disconnected the diagnostic noteputer after the program finished, and shimmied back out of the hole in the Shadow Hawk’s right leg. Standing up on the repair platform set less than a meter above the ground, he stretched until vertebrae cracked. Glanced over to Chloe and Nikolai, both standing anxiously—though they tried to hide it—next to the holotable erected inside their large field tent. Already their field bivouac had begun to feel like a long-term base. After all, they did very little work here besides ensure the archaeologists under their protection remained safe, while trying to keep themselves in good fighting form.

The XO of the Cavaliers, Ryana Campbell, sprawled in a field chair as though on the verge of sleep. Though he knew she was aware of everyone around her and could be up and moving in an instant. He respected her immensely, but until Chloe, he was not sure he’d ever be close with the supernal warrior. Beyond her, a few other new recruits worked at other tasks, while the DropShip crew, moving back and forth between the Union-class vessel that towered despite its 100-meter distance, labored on tasks only they knew. Even his astechs he simply called, well, astechs. Fahad knew he should start learning their names. But too many memories of those lost stung deep. Joseph, Omar, Alita, Dawson, Brooklynn. Even his family. His mother. His father…

He stuffed those memories down deep, heaved a sigh of frustration, and kept himself from slamming the wrench down into its toolbox.

“Still no luck?” Chloe asked, walking toward him. Her attempt not to glance over her shoulder at the distant activity—despite the heavy tread of a BattleMech’s movements and the low-powered blasts of an energy weapon—was blatant.

“Blasted heat sinks still aren’t cycling properly.” He paused, scratching at the beard he was experimenting with. The growing heat each day in this windswept desert of endless arroyos and ravines—the plateau they currently occupied was the largest flat section for hundreds of kilometers in any direction—left him rethinking that decision, however.

“Luckily, my beauty just doesn’t generate enough heat to make that much of a problem,” Chloe responded as she stood next to the platform, looking up.

“Exactly, mate,” Fahad said. He hated having her look up at him, so he reached out to the control box and eased the platform to the ground. He carefully placed the wrench in the toolbox—See, Father!—grabbed a water bottle, and took a long drink before stepping off and continuing. “But really, it’s this stupid ankle actuator. I’ve replaced it three times, and it’s still throwing fits. Until I can get it to respond right, not gonna risk it spilling you to the ground like last time. It’s just never been the same since Emris IV.”

“You pull it and run a full system diagnostic?”

“No, of course I didn’t,” he shot back, unable to still his tongue, even as his mind raced to stop him. It usually failed. “I just left it inside and hit it a few times with my wrench. You know, after I already replaced it. Three times.”

The silence stretched as the distant thumping of BattleMech footsteps grew louder and then softer: on the other edge of the plateau, a 20-ton Wasp performing training exercises lumbered toward and then away from their position. Chloe gave Fahad a lot of latitude, but even she found limits she would not let slide with him.

“Sorry, gov,” he finally said, having regained control of his stupid tongue.

She let out an explosive sigh. “No, I’m sorry, Fahad. ‘Once a tech, always a tech,’ they say, right? Can’t help but peek over your shoulder now and then.”

He smiled. Her ability to admit her failures was still a ray of sunshine he never tired of basking in. So wonderfully at odds with all the experiences from his youth. “Especially when it distracts you?”

She shrugged, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.” She turned around and fully took in the scene in the distance. Fahad watched with her as the distant Wasp loped through a tough obstacle course, its powered-down medium laser striking out at targets. Fahad was no expert, but you couldn’t be around a mercenary outfit and not get a good sense of it in action. “Your kid’s doing very well,” Fahad said, not putting any shine of it. Only twelve years old, and yet over 50 percent marksmanship, and while not exactly at a full run, the kid’s ’Mech moved faster than a walking pace. Fahad remembered watching new Arkab Legion recruits, long ago; they all had several years on the kid and still hadn’t done half as well. Definitely a natural, this one.

“Yup,” Chloe said.

Fahad sensed her tension between her duty as a mercenary commander dispassionately observing a young potential candidate’s performance and her role as a mother filled with pride at the amazing aptitude shown by her child.

He also sensed the pain that drove the entire Cavaliers to push the kid. Hard. Death had come stalking far too close. While they all had chosen a life filled with danger and death, the knowledge that it could threaten someone so young had shaken them, and they vowed that history would not repeat itself. The hand-to-hand training from Ryana and BattleMech training from the other Cavaliers MechWarriors gave the kid what they all hoped would be a measure of safety.

“Your ’Hawk’s leg still unreliable?” Nikolai asked as he walked up.

Fahad exchanged a nod of respect with Chloe’s husband. While Nikolai was certainly more approachable than the aloof Ryana, Fahad knew they would never be close. But they respected each other’s abilities and commitment to the Cavaliers.

“Yeah,” Chloe responded, eyes still on the distant training run.

“You know, there’s a perfectly good BattleMech you could be using instead.”

Fahad winced, bracing for the coming argument.

“No,” Chloe spoke immediately. “We’re just babysitting yet another Interstellar Expeditions dig that likely won’t find any of the Star League tech they’re looking for.”

“And if the Combine comes?”

“We’ll deal with it then.

Nikolai heaved a heavy sigh. “Look, Chloe, I know the Griffin was Dawson’s BattleMech,” he said softly, face filled with a sorrow he might never overcome at their friend’s tragic death. “But it’s in prime shape. He’d be aghast that we’re not using it.”

“No.”

“This is one of your ‘the right thing to do’ things I don’t understand, isn’t it?”

Fahad winced further, carefully edging back onto the repair platform to get back to work. He’d tried engaging in these philosophical debates between the two before and always found it distasteful. Either everyone was left unsatisfied that the other could not see their point of view, or worse, Fahad found himself parroting his father’s words. Even now, they rang in his mind powerfully as the two of them launched into their endless debate about right and wrong: It is never about what others do to us. It is about the words we have spoken and the actions we take. It is always. About. Us. Even now, he simply didn’t know what he believed.

“What the hell?” Ryana said loudly. She stood, battle ready, looking at the holotable. The concern in her voice pulled everyone within earshot. The image showed that emergence waves of multiple incoming JumpShips had just swept past the planet’s sensors.

“How many?” Chloe said, the mother immediately set aside for the ascendant Captain. Time stretched out, the training run in the distance forgotten, while Ryana keyed through multiple programs and pulled up as much data as the machine could divulge.

“At least five JumpShips. Maybe more. I’ll know in another few minutes.”

Fahad’s gut slowly clenched. He’d been raised at the feet of soldiers. Knew combat as intimately as any warrior, and loved and hated and bled for his chosen profession. But he still didn’t sprint at the news. None of them did.

Nikolai let out a low whistle. “Multiple regiments. Why do I get the feeling we just fell into the lap of some Davion plot?” He glanced at Chloe, a guilty look on his face that their previous conversation would come to haunt them so quickly.

“Do we have an IFF yet?” Chloe asked, ignoring Nikolai’s grumblings.

Another minute passed, keys typing furiously, before Ryana spoke. “Combine. Looks like the Dragon has decided it wants to sink its claws into this planet. And they’ll be here in nine days to try.”

Hatred stirred in Fahad at the mention of the Great House he’d called home years ago. He’d always wanted to help a merc outfit defeat a Kuritan force on a battlefield. But as the number of JumpShips—and the regiments they represented—continued to grow, fear blossomed and interwove with the fury.

We can’t possibly stand against such an army!

“This better not be one of your secrets, Sebastian, or we’re through,” Chloe ground out through clenched teeth. Beyond the Cavaliers bivouac surrounding her, the Wasp finished its training run, walked to within a dozen meters of the command tent, and powered down. Instead of her running out to congratulate, fear pummeled her veins.

She stood in front a holovid recorder, clenching and unclenching fists as she put together a message they’d quickly transfer to the local ComStar hyperpulse generator for transmission to the world of Irian, the last known location of their elusive, current employer.

“We’ve got more regiments arriving in system than I’ve ever seen, even when I fought under the Eridani Light Horse banner.” She looked around at the Cavaliers, who nervously shifted in the desert sands around her, while trying to hide their fear. “As before, we’ve got the IE transponder broadcasting our neutrality. And it’s always worked…but then again, this is the Combine. And that’s a lot of metal that could swat us as easily as look at us. We’ll keep our heads down, but you better let us know what’s going on!”

She reached forward, tapped the key on the machine to stop the recording and prepare the disc for ejection. She looked around again, helpless.

JACOB’S DESERT

MALLORY’S WORLD

KENTARES IV PDZ, DRACONIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

24 SEPTEMBER 3013

Chloe slowly crumpled the papers in front of her, then let them go. The wind was picking up, and it pulled them off the table, fluttering along the ground. She should go and get it. She did hate littering. But watching the pages drift and roll along the ground, quickly getting dirty and soon to be buried and forgotten in the shifting sands, seemed a perfect analogy of the events unfolding on Mallory’s World since the invasion. She was growing so tired of feeling helpless. Of the clenched fist in her belly that never let go.

“That bad?” Nikolai said. They shared a look. She knew he knew. But talking often made it just a little better. Sometimes. She wasn’t sure if today would be such a day.

“Yeah. The last Mallorian Militia regiment has been destroyed.”

“There’s still several ad-hoc companies running guerrilla tactics against the occupation.”

She leaned heavily against the holotable, ignoring the display that showed the bright red of House Kurita now covering most of the planet’s primary continent, with only a few hash marks indicating resistance not yet fully quelled.

“It’s not enough. And I’d forgotten how terrible the wrath of all the Great Houses can be. But none, I think, like the Dragon. So much scorched earth…”

“There’s nothing we can do,” her husband said softly.

She knew he came from a place of love, and still she couldn’t help but lash out. “I know that! Don’t you think I know that?! But that doesn’t change how I feel. We should be doing something to help these people. Something.”

“House Davion has to respond. It’s their responsibility. Their world. We just have to keep our heads down until those reinforcements arrive.”

“I know,” she said. But only to placate her husband. Because she didn’t know. Could never know. How can anyone just stand by and do nothing? she railed against an uncaring universe at war.

JACOB’S DESERT

MALLORY’S WORLD

KENTARES IV PDZ, DRACONIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

3 OCTOBER 3013

Standing in the Union-class DropShip’s command center, Nikolai huddled around the holotable with the rest of the Cavaliers as the data began pouring out across multiple screens. More than two dozen DropShips were making atmospheric interface at the moment. If they’d been outside, looking far to the south, they would see the burning arcs of ionization stretching for dozens of kilometers through the world’s atmosphere.

“House Davion has finally arrived,” Ryana spoke, causing Nikolai to glance at her just as she shook her topknot. After so many years, the motion was almost an endearing tic.

“They jumped into a pirate point,” Chloe responded, “just like you said.”

“Yeah, and then burned in system at two standard gravities to cut the transit time to just three days,” Nikolai said. “Damn, that had to hurt.”

“Is it going to be enough? Will they be able to dislodge the Snakes?” Fahad said, the hatred in his voice always present when speaking of the Kuritan forces. I really need to ask him about that someday. But after the first scathing look on Fahad’s face back when the Combine forced had first arrived, Nikolai still was unsure whether he wanted to dig that deep.

“I don’t know,” Chloe responded.

Nikolai took a deep breath to speak when a proximity alarm sounded, shocking them all into silence. The exterior cameras quickly found a lone hovercycle approaching, its shipping-company IFF transponder broadcasting in the clear. Nikolai unclenched fingers that had spasmed into fists, watching the others loosen their tensed muscles. We need to get out of here. But he knew Chloe would never condone leaving with their contract unfilled.

Fifteen minutes later, Chloe fired up the message just delivered by the courier from the HPG station; she’d tipped the man heavily for braving the ongoing fighting to make the delivery. The IE logo floated for a moment, then washed into a clear picture of Sebastian Spears, his elegant features creased with concern.

“Chloe, Nikolai, you both know any secrets directly involving you are on the table.” He raised a hand, as though reaching for understanding. “I hope you can believe that. Regardless, I have managed to discover, I believe, why this attack has occurred. My sources tell me the Combine may be converting large portions of a border world into a massive arms depot. If true, it’s obviously to be used in support of a renewed large-scale offensive against House Davion. The Combine has been keeping careful tabs on Davion commands in that sector, and apparently they lost track of several of them. If all of that is true, I surmise the Combine feared that the Davion troops had discovered their intended staging ground, so instead they initiated a first strike, to draw force to them.”

Sebastian paused, reviewing papers on the table in front of him, as though they’d just arrived and he was conveying the news as quickly as possible. He then looked back up at them through the holo, with a small, helpless shrug. “I’m sorry there’s nothing more I can do. The giants are among you. Keep your heads down, and they shouldn’t even notice you’re there. Please keep me updated.”

The screen went blank, and Nikolai glanced around at the gathered Cavaliers, feeling as helpless as Sebastian’s shrug. We’ve not fought one day in this conflict, and yet we’re as strung out as though we’ve been in the thick of it. Can we remain safe? He locked eyes with Chloe, as they shared a grim determination to keep them that way. Can I convince her to let the contract go?

COLTERVILLE, MALLORY’S WORLD

KENTARES IV PDZ, DRACONIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

10 OCTOBER 3013

Despite the high-flying cocoon of the Boomerang Spotter Plane, Nikolai nervously glanced at the IFF indicator on his cockpit’s instrument panel. Tapped it to ensure it was broadcasting as plain as day that this craft was Interstellar Expeditions. Neutral as neutral can be. It didn’t help that while he knew how to fly such a craft, his skills were dusty from disuse; he’d been adamant he needed to see the battlefield firsthand, however.

He licked the sweat beading on his upper lip, despite the steady blink of the light’s assurance. The two powerful cameras in the craft’s belly captured the insanity of the battle below, which crossed nearly fifty kilometers of the valley and centered on the sprawling city of Colterville.

“You seeing this, Chloe?” he spoke into his mic.

A long pause stretched, leaving him with the vibrations of his Boomerang’s prop, intermingled with the occasional buffeting of turbulence.

“Is it really that big?” Chloe finally asked.

He swallowed, trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing. He’d been in and around combat nearly all his life. Yet the battle playing out below was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It hearkened back to previous Succession Wars, when the power of the Great Houses still allowed for such armies to assemble.

“It is,” he finally responded.

Almost the entire might of the on-world Draconis Combine forces were arrayed in a three-pronged siege against Colterville, where the embattled Seventeenth Avalon Hussars tried to keep the city from falling. Some nine total regiments, including the infamous Second Sword of Light.

Against the samurai’s siege, the First Prince, Ian Davion himself, had struck with his Fourth Davion Guards Regimental Combat Team and additional supporting elements. The twin spearheads of the First Prince’s audacious assault, despite being heavily outnumbered, appeared to be working. Nikolai watched nearly five-kilometer-long pistons of war-forged avatars maneuver and hammer down with a blizzard of weapons fire and clashing physical attacks against one of the three Combine prongs. The Sword of Light regiments then pulled back their own assault to avoid displacement or being cut off from the other two supporting prongs. Multiple artillery salvos arriving from the titanic Fortress-class DropShip at the lip of the valley spoke further of the First Prince’s expert mobile-warfare skills.

“Blake’s Blood,” Chloe whispered.

Nikolai couldn’t agree more.

“They’ve speared the middle and broken through,” Ryana Campbell spoke up over the comm, obviously watching the battle footage with the rest of the Cavaliers. “They’ll swing and start rolling up that wing of the Combine forces, while the other two wings scramble to pivot and match up to the Davions. But Ian’s troops are fast commands. They’ll inflict hideous damage and disengage before those wings can reengage. He’ll take half the losses he’ll inflict.” A noticeable admiration filled her words.

Nikolai watched as almost an entire company of Sworders, unable to withdrawal as orderly as the rest of their command, was obliterated in a scant thirty seconds as over a battalion of BattleMechs and armor pincered the company and unleashed hell.

“Blake’s Blood,” Chloe said again.

“But the cost,” Nikolai said over the mic. “He’s hammering them. Hard. It’s what he’s best at. But unless there’s reinforcements already on the way, the Combine has the numbers to spend.”

No answer came as he watched the titanic clash of Great Houses below, the vibrations through the plane a soothing balm to frayed nerves.

JACOB’S DESERT

MALLORY’S WORLD

KENTARES IV PDZ, DRACONIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

19 OCTOBER 3013

The Kuritan Jenner slowly toppled to the ground as the battle ended.

Nikolai breathed heavily through the heat in his Catapult’s cockpit. He tried to ignore it, but despite the rage of adrenaline and fear, a small part of his brain just endlessly checked off the cost. Sebastian was always generous with payment terms, but this was going to be expensive. If we can even get out.

On his radar, he watched the carets of the various Cavaliers BattleMechs trying to converge after the terrible fighting in the arroyos and canyons that had pulled them apart. He sighed heavily in relief. The convoy of archaeologists they’d been trying to escort from their dig site to the DropShip had been completely overrun. Spillover as the Combine and Suns BattleMechs surged to and fro across the blighted landscape of the nearby Bastard Flats.

“There’s no way we’re making it back to the DropShip that way,” Chloe said over the commline, as she walked Dawson’s Griffin past the fallen Jenner and came to stand at rest near Nikolai’s ’Mech. He’d actually held his tongue when she’d set aside her personal feelings and dove right into the Griffin when the Cavaliers needed her.

Despite the heavy fighting, its damage was relatively light. So far.

“Yeah.” Nikolai tapped a button along the top of the radar screen to cycle through topographical surveys, trying to discern patterns in the warrens. “We’ll have to double back,” he continued, touching a spot on the screen. “Looks easily ten kilometers. But it should lead us away from further clashes, and then we’ll wrap around and get back to the DropShip.” He tapped a key, flipping it to touch screen mode, drew in the hasty map, then synched it up with the rest of the command.

“Yeah,” Chloe said after a pause. “I don’t see a better path. Let’s move out.”

As the Cavaliers and the vehicles bearing IE personnel moved back down the arroyo, Nikolai’s thoughts darkened. Five times we’ve tried to reach the DropShip, and each time we’ve been stopped by too many Kuritans. And all because we cannot leave these people behind.

He ignored the darker solutions fighting for his attention.

JACOB’S DESERT

MALLORY’S WORLD

KENTARES IV PDZ, DRACONIS MARCH

FEDERATED SUNS

21 OCTOBER 3013

“To any defenders who might hear my words, this is First Prince Ian Davion.”

The voice broke across the open comm channel in the Cavaliers’ makeshift command tent, echoing off the walls of the deep ravine that hid their remaining BattleMechs and vehicles. The huddled, exhausted Cavaliers and scientists glanced at one another in confusion.

“I’m broadcasting my location, and this message, in the clear, in the belief that any loyal sons and daughters of the Federated Suns will hear their liege’s call and come to repel the invaders,” the transmission continued. “The Combine forces know where I am and are closing in, but I will fight to my last breath to ensure my Davion Guards may escape. And if I must lay down my life this day, that is the mantle of the First Prince I gladly accept. But I hope this call will rally any Davion loyalists within the sound of my voice, and will join us so that the protectors of this world might survive to fight another day. Long live the Federated Suns!”

Stunned silence followed the shocking announcement. Nikolai slowly climbed to his feet from the field stool, walked through the dirty sand to the portable holotable, and brought up the surrounding terrain for dozens of kilometers in every direction. An extra data point floated over one of the dozens of carets interwoven into the snarling tangle of ravines that threaded throughout this entire region. The First Prince.

The rest of the Cavaliers slowly joined him at the table.

“Didn’t expect his high and mighty to tell the world the Snakes caught him in the outhouse with his pants around his ankles,” Fahad said.

The others burst out laughing, nervously. Nikolai began to join in, and then abruptly went cold as he saw the look on Chloe’s face. They locked eyes, and twenty years of knowing Chloe instantly sparked a rush of fear.

“Don’t,” he said, the entire crew falling silent in confusion over his harsh tone.

“I have to,” she said, eyes pleading for an understanding he refused to accept.

“No, you don’t. We can still make it out. We’re just taking a breather here. As it is, that broadcast will draw the rest of the Combine forces like flies to a dung heap. We’ll be able to finally make it to the DropShip.”

“It’s not enough. And you know it. There’s still too many of them. And we’ve stung them a few too many times. They know we’re here. They won’t completely abandon the hunt. Unless we take the hunt to them. Unless we make it seem like we’re trying to rescue the First Prince. That will draw any last stranglers toward me while you and our charges make it back to the DropShip. Then I’ll disengage, we’ll rendezvous, and finally get off this rock.”

The silence stretched as the dirty company of men and women silently contemplated the tableau of the clash of wills between Chloe and Nikolai.

The thoughts he’d been trying to ignore for days bubbled back to the surface. We could get out of here if we just left the civvies behind. The Combine won’t be that harsh on a bunch of archaeologists and their assistants if they got caught. He ignored the look on Chloe’s face that told him she knew exactly what he was thinking, and that it would be bad.

“This is insane,” he said. “You’re not going to do it.” He slowly closed his eyes, berating himself for letting his fear get the better of him. Before the long, drawn-out pause that followed, he knew he’d already lost. You never told Chloe she couldn’t do something. Not as her fellow soldier, not as her friend, and certainly not as her husband. That he’d learned long ago.

He opened his eyes, the stunned looks around the room a twisted mirror to the angry cloud on Chloe’s face as she silently stared at him. She had always been so good at silence. He cast about, desperately.

“Then I’m going with you,” he finally said.

“No, you’re not,” she said firmly, and raised an arm, pointing at Ryana. “And neither are you. Nikolai needs your Highlander’s brute force just in case you run into any stragglers that my move doesn’t draw to me. And you,” she said, pointing back at Nikolai with a finger that felt like a punch to his gut. “You see these people to safety. We finish our contract. We get off this rock.”

He opened his mouth to respond, and slowly closed it, despair and fury impotent in the face of that mantle she’d placed on him. To do what was right. To fulfill the contract.

They shared a final look before she moved away, barking orders to set a lance in motion toward a roiling army of giants they were now deliberating going to poke with a stick.

Chloe and her lance worked their way through the maze of ravines and arroyos, ever closer to the location of the First Prince. She’d deliberately taken a longer route, as she didn’t wish to find herself thrust immediately into the thick of the fighting; they’d had to back track several times after getting lost and hitting dead ends. However, she was already fighting a fear that she’d committed herself to such a crazy action, so caution was the best choice. But I didn’t have a choice, right? It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? Dawson would’ve understood. He’d have flashed his cards and his brilliant smile, and made a quip that would’ve eased her decision. She could almost smell him within the confines of the Griffin’s cockpit. Am I right, Dawson? She didn’t hear a reply.

As she maneuvered the BattleMech into a ravine running obliquely to the route they’d left, the vague indicators on her instrument panel’s radar resolved into the bright carets of enemy targets. A towering assault BattleMech, backed by several others, marched toward her position, just over two kilometers distant.

Time to be a target.

“Come back, Ryana,” Nikolai shouted into the commline. They were actually within striking distance of reaching the DropShip safely, and somehow he’d managed to misplace a 90-ton BattleMech at the very end of the long train of vehicles and ’Mechs continuing their endless trek through dirty, forgotten canyons. “You were given a direct order from your commander to safeguard this convoy. We’re not there yet.”

“She needs me,” Ryana said back over the channel. “Besides, you’re almost there. Her trick worked just fine. But she’s going to need my help to disengage.”

He pounded his fist his conn chair, the pain a welcome counterpoint to the frustrations piling up on each other until he couldn’t take any more of it. “You really think you can catch her in your Highlander?”

“I’ve been staring at these ravines for hours, running simulations. I can catch up to her. And she can drum me right out of the Cavaliers if that’s what it takes. But I’m bringing her home.”

He pounded his fist again on the armrest, furious at Ryana for disobeying a direct order. And even more angry at the jealously that choked him: she was doing what he so desperately wished to do.

As another of Chloe’s lancemates was cut down under withering fire from a Second Sword of Light Zeus, she knew that today the price for doing what she knew was right might just be higher than any she’d ever expected to pay.

The enemy Zeus finished caving in the right side of a Cavaliers Jenner that had fallen to a wounded leg, finishing the BattleMech for good. Chloe stomped onto her jump jets, lofting her nearly two dozen meters up to the edge of the deep ravine. She landed dangerously close to the edge and ran along it, firing her particle projector canon as fast as it would cycle. Despite the 80-ton assault ’Mech and its supporting ’Mechs, her lance had made a great showing for itself, especially considering the horribly tight confines of the battlefield. Great rents crisscrossed the Zeus’s armor, and flashing sparks within some indicated internal damage.

A spread of long-range missiles suddenly sheeted down across the Zeus, obscuring it with explosions and smoke. Chloe almost lost control of her run at the unexpected attack. That was from behind our position. Who in Blake’s Blood…?

“You really shouldn’t fight without me,” Ryana’s voice burst on the commline.

The joyous sound of her near-sister’s voice never sounded so good. Anger sparked at the direct contradiction of her orders, but she’d deal with that later.

“I’ve not had you at my side in a lot of years, Ryana.” She expanded the spread of her run, the pounding of her BattleMech’s heavy trod sparking avalanches down the sides of the ravine at her passage.

“Whether on a DropShip or here, I’ve always got your back. Besides, I was about to ask why you weren’t listening to your comms, but I see they’ve been destroyed. The convoy is about to reach the DropShip. Your play worked. Now let’s get out of here.”

“You mean after we destroy this ’Mech,” she said through gritted teeth. Just need to find the right spot…

“Of course,” Ryana said. Another wreath of flames and explosives tore off more armor as the Zeus returned fire against both combatants.

Chloe abruptly stabbed her feet down onto her pedals once more and launched back down into the ravine as the Zeus clumsily tried to turn its more damaged side away from the savaging of her PPC. Still in midair, she lashed out with the azure beam, striking deep into the wounded torso. A massive explosion followed, the Zeus tearing itself inside out as the energy beam found and detonated the ’Mech’s long-range-missile magazine.

Sweat-soaked and tense from so many days of desperation, Chloe heaved a huge sigh of relief. She adjusted the throttle and joysticks, maneuvering the Griffin back around as the Highlander drew near. Just then, back along the route to freedom, more enemies appeared, a 75-ton Marauder at the forefront.

“We’ve got this, Chloe,” Ryana said.

Chloe eased tired muscles, pushing the throttle forward. “Blake’s Blood, it’s good to be fighting by your side again,” she responded, laughing.

“You will go after the XO,” Nikolai said, finger just touching the chest of the Interstellar Expeditions security man, the stream of researchers and assistants loading onto the DropShip momentarily forgotten. “I don’t care if you’re not under obligation to follow my orders, Talo. You will follow, you will find, and you will provide whatever assistance is needed.”

“What can a VTOL do?” Talo insisted. “We’ve got to evacuate. This whole area will be overrun any minute.”

“Does it look like I care?” Nikolai grated out, fingers twitching for his favorite blade. He’d not touched any knives since Dawson’s death. But if he’d had any at hand, he might just have used them in that moment to get his point across. “The sooner you go, the sooner you’re back and the sooner we all can liftoff this world.”

The security man swallowed, noting a look in Nikolai’s eyes every bit as sharp as a blade. “I’ll go,” he said, sprinting toward the chopper, already swinging his arm in a large circle to signal the pilot to fire up the engines.

Damn you, Chloe. Damn you, Ryana. I should be there!

Blood trickled down Chloe’s wounded arm; shrapnel from autocannon fire had breached her cockpit. She raggedly drew in breath, the pain and scorching heat making it nearly impossible to concentrate as she maneuvered against the enemy Marauder.

Her limping Griffin, with most of its jump jets destroyed, wouldn’t even make the lip of the crevasse now. The Marauder kept up its ruthless hunt while Ryana finished off the rest of the enemy lance; she and Chloe had been dragged apart by the relentless fighting.

Chloe raised her BattleMech’s right arm and blasted back again with a PPC beam, watching it splash liquefied armor to the ground. Ultimately they’d downed nearly twice as many as those they’d lost. But there were just too many. Too many.

So close…

As in slow motion, she watched the weapons pod of the Marauder pull into line with her once more. She could see the flicker of blue deep within the aperture as it powered up. She just managed to catch a glimpse of the family photo she kept in the cockpit: Someday you’ll understand.

Searing heat washed existence away.

From over half a kilometer down the long ravine, the enemy Warhammer pilot ejected just as Chloe’s Griffin tipped past the point of equilibrium and inexorably toppled. Coruscating energies of the PPC strike that had knocked the BattleMech down still flashed and arced down the limbs, causing the giant avatar of war to twitch. Ryana imagined feeling the ground shake, even at this distance, as her sister in all but blood hammered down. She could be alive! But Ryana’s gut twisted at the smoking hole punched through the Griffin’s neck.

“NO!” She held the roar out until her lungs might burst as she pressed her 90-ton BattleMech into a lumbering sprint toward the Marauder that felled Chloe.

Anger surged and roiled as lava in her veins, and she recklessly flicked on a wide-beam transmission. “Snake,” she shouted toward the hated enemy BattleMech. “You will die for what you’ve done this day. Cha togar m’ fhearg gun dìoladh!” she screamed in Scottish Gaelic.

“I accept your challenge,” the warrior responded.

The calm, smugness of his tone infuriated, and she brought her ’Mech’s long-range missiles onto target and let fly as the Marauder returned fire with a stream of autocannon shells from its dorsal-mounted AC/5.

She triggered another flight of missiles after they cycled. But she’d crossed below the half kilometer range of the twin particle projector cannons that made up the menacing weapon pods at the end of the Marauder’s arms. Azure beams whipped out to slash into her torso, burning long furrows of liquified armor. She didn’t hesitate and pushed the machine at its top speed of fifty-four kilometers per hour. Despite the relative rise and fall of this ancient riverbed, it wasn’t enough to impact her speed, and she kept up the dogged pace. Just thirty seconds more. Have to survive for just thirty seconds.

Despite the swaying of her beloved Claidheamh-mór—her “claymore”—she kept the targeting reticule focused on the enemy, squeezing into a shot from the AC/10 mounted in her right arm. Depleted-uranium slugs tore into the Marauder’s right torso, blasting away armor. However, with her concentration split between avoiding enemy fire and ensuring she didn’t cascade her BattleMech into the ground at top speed, she struggled to keep the reticule on target—and failed. Some of the weapon’s stream spat off to the right of her target.

Two beams lashed out at her again, sloughing off sheets of superheated armor that lost their cohesion under the hellish energies of the Marauder’s weapons. Readout lights flared yellow on her dashboard’s armor diagram, noting significant losses. She ignored it, the explosions and pounding of her BattleMech’s feet echoing off of the ravine’s walls even making it through the hermetically sealed cockpit and the heavy, insulated neurohelmet that wrapped her head.

Thirty seconds stretched until it filled all of existence. As fast as they could cycle, twin PPC beams jittered and tore across her BattleMech’s armor, seeking holes to exploit—the pilot magnificently ignoring their heat buildup—while Ryana answered with her own weapons. Halfway through the run, she let her muzzles grow quiet—some due to minimum ranges, some to ammo depletion, but the rest over concentration. Of reaching the enemy no matter the cost to her or her beloved claymore.

Ten…

The enemy, seeing the assault ’Mech barreling toward it without veering off, began desperately backpedaling.

Seven…

Despite the impressive armor carried by her assault ’Mech, another blast of azure fire cut through her right torso and completely severed the right arm. It careened off to hammer into the wall of the ravine in a cloud of showering dirt clods.

Five…

Despite years of irregular cockpit time, Ryana still knew her machine as a lover’s body. And despite the horrible off-center momentum from the loss of the limb, she kept the ’Mech upright. Yet it was starting to twist in a way she didn’t like…

Three…

She stomped down on her BattleMech pedals as though trying to lift the 90-ton titan with her own strength. Thrust from jump-jet ports heaved the beast into the air in a short arc of terrifying potential energy, and her lips peeled wide into a rictus of intent as the Highlander tipped further off balance. She didn’t care. Just kept it on track with the Marauder desperately backpedaling, but never with enough time, and no place to hide in the ravine.

One…

In a move of superb piloting—despite starting to skew off true—Ryana drew in the BattleMechs legs to target the Marauder’s upper half. The latent energies of 90 tons of war-forged BattleMech plummeting out of the air from several dozen meters above transformed into terrible kinetic energies that ripped and tore their way through the Marauder’s torso. The dorsal-mounted AC/5 was ripped clean away. Both feet then caved down into the cockpit, pulverizing the helpless Combine MechWarrior. In the process, the kinetic shock returned to her Highlander, ravaging its armored legs. Her BattleMech’s left foot actuator was destroyed in a shower of torn equipment. In the midst of this horrific assault, strangely, the words of Chief Tech Olfson from years ago—what seemed another lifetime—chastised her for this “Highlander Burial,” for wrecking a component he couldn’t replace.

The pummeling energies hammered Ryana into her seat, causing her to bite her tongue. Lights flashed brightly as her neurohelmet smashed into the forward viewscreen. Pain seared bright, as her right arm dislocated as the five-point restraining harness dealt terrible bruises and tore ligaments. Half out of her chair, alarms pealing and red lights flaring, there was nothing she could do to stop the 90-ton BattleMech from flopping down into the dirt and crumpling atop the Marauder.

I don’t think you’ll be able to replace it this time, Ryana thought sadly, as blackness flew at her face with jarring intensity.

“Good gods,” Talo said. He leaned out the door, wind trying to tear him from his perch in the Ferret Light Scout VTOL while the pilot expertly maneuvered around the ravine, the smoke shearing away in the rotation of its blades.

“Nothing could survive that,” the pilot agreed, as they both took in the pile of akimbo limbs, shattered armor, and burning metal that was the pyre of a Highlander and Marauder.

“Do you want to tell that to Mason, without even checking?” Talo said, gritting his teeth over the coming ordeal.

“No,” came the slow response.

“Exactly, take us in.”

The VTOL tipped sharply toward the ground, dropped precipitously, and then flared at the last possible moment, settling to the rough sands with ease between the tangled mass of ’Mechs and a fallen Griffin in Cavaliers colors. Both men refused to voice what the third ’Mech meant.

Talo grabbed the fire extinguisher and was out immediately. He sprinted carefully through the sand—avoiding hot sparks of shrapnel—and leaped onto the smashed leg of the Highlander. His boots started smoking on sections of superheated armor plating, but he finally managed to scale the dangerous, unwieldy pile. This close to the cockpit, he battled a fire underway, grateful for the heavy flame-retardant foam, and managed to access the external emergency unlocking system, but to keep from burning himself, he tore away a section of his shirt to wrap his hand.

Yanking the hatch free, he quickly doused the fire in the enclosed cockpit, causing the pilot to cry out further in pain. Once the flames were under control, he ignored the burns and blood, and concentrated on unclipping Ryana from her broken harness. Heaved her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and somehow managed to make it back to the ground before collapsing for a breather, his throat scorched from heat and growing smoke.

Through the thumping of amplified blades in the ravine, the concussive blasts of heavy weapons fire broke abruptly, with loud echoes that set Talo’s hair on end. He jerked in that direction, staring down a kilometer-long ravine, and saw weapon’s fire flashes reflected in those depths, even if he couldn’t see any BattleMechs. Yet.

“We have got to get out of here,” he said, moving to hoist Ryana onto his shoulder again, when she abruptly looked up.

“Take me to the Griffin,” she shouted against the noise.

“Are you nuts?” he said, pointing wildly down the ravine. “You just scraped the edges of the war being fought a scant few kilometers away. An edge that dropped both of your BattleMechs. And there’s about to be several hundred more swirling through here. We have got—”

Ryana seized his arm forcefully, her pain-wracked features filled with hellish intensity as she cut him off. “You will take me to the Griffin, or we’ll both die right here.”

He knew a safe bet when he saw it, and they both stumbled through the sand toward the Griffin, ignoring the frantically waving arms of the VTOL pilot. This time, luckily, the ’Mech lay flat on its back, head turned to the side, almost as if sleeping. It allowed Talo to boost Ryana up to the back of the cockpit, where she pried open the emergency release for the hatch and scampered inside, despite her wounds.

He looked nervously towards the ever-growing sounds of battle drawing near, trying to ignore the sobs from above.

The wash from the blades of the Ferret Light Scout VTOL flushed sand horizontally, striking Nikolai’s face and forcing him to squint. A figure practically fell out of the helo’s side door. Bedraggled, clothing burnt, Ryana leaned heavily against Talo as they lurched through the sand and the heavy downdraft of swirling detritus. Then the Ferret lifted off and rapidly arrowed away from their exposed position.

Most of Ryana’s hair had been singed away, with a large bandage hastily applied across the right side of her face and down onto her neck and shoulder. The weight of impending doom loomed toward him as she neared. A physical manifestation surged out from her presence and tried to crush him. And with the bulk of the DropShip behind him, he felt caught between twin, implacable anvils that would crush him. He analytically tried to stave off emotions. She must have had to eject, which means she lost her Highlander. And her right arm must be in a bad shape, since she’s favoring it so. She won’t unclench her fist. We need to get her to the infirmary on the DropShip.

Ryana and Talo stumbled to a halt in front of him, and she slowly looked up. Nikolai had known Ryana for over fifteen years now, had served with her through victory and defeat, joy and heartache. He knew her well. Yet despite his best attempts to distract himself, his essence was torn asunder as though cloven in two by a BattleMech-sized blade: through the caked blood and dirt on Ryana’s face, twin tracks of tears still flowed.

Chloe is dead.

The whirlwind of activity in loading the DropShip for imminent, emergency liftoff fell into a forgotten silence as the two of them shared a moment that would bind them forever. A young yet strong hand fell on his shoulder, and Nikolai slowly turned to find glistening eyes filled with mirrored pain, eyes that would forever remind him of his brilliant Chloe. He fell into a bear hug with their child, who would always be the best remembrance of his wife. His own tears, unknown since the childhood hell of the bandits, joined the communal offering.

“What are we going to do now?” Fahad said, breaking the reverie, as he’d moved up to join them.

Despite emotions, Nikolai was surprised at the soft tongue of their acerbic tech, until he saw the look in Fahad’s eyes as well. It wasn’t just me, my wife. We all loved you.

The pain of the last few years rose as a terrible burden. The death of Dawson, the loss of Brooklynn, and now Chloe. Can we really go on? The shared silence returned, each lost in their memories, struggling to find their own decision.

“We got the civilians to safety,” Ryana finally spoke up, throat rough from her ordeal. “We fulfilled the contract, on her life. And now we take the next contract. We do the job, and move on to the next contract. And the next. And the next. We get it done.”

Dawson’s words from a small room in Galatea City, where it all began, took on a new, more powerful meaning from Ryana’s lips. Four pairs of eyes measured pain and commitment in equal measure.

“For Chloe,” Nikolai said, after fighting through a throat clenched tight with emotions. You showed me how to always try to do what’s right. I can follow you. “For the Cavaliers.”

Ryana limped closer, within arm’s reach, and slowly raised her clenched fist. He looked quizzically at her, then slowly held out his palm.

“Not just for Chloe,” Ryana said, conviction firm through the tears, as she slowly opened her hand. “For all of us. And we’re no longer just the Cavaliers. Chloe would have it no other way. We are now Nik’s Cavaliers.”

Chloe’s JumpShip-shaped pendant felt into his hand.

About the Author

Randall N. Bills began his writing career in the adventure-gaming industry, where he has worked full-time for over two decades. He’s led the publication of literally hundreds of sourcebooks, rulebooks, boxed games, and more. This includes instrumental work on the seminal BattleTech and Shadowrun game lines; he was lore advisor on Harebrained Schemes’s BattleTech computer game, and is a co-story developer for Piranha Games’s forthcoming MechWarrior 5 computer game. His most recent game publications include the Dungeons & Dragons Dragonfire deckbuilder.

His hobbies include music, gaming, reading (fantasy to history, theology to science), and spending time with his family. He currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, where he continues to work full-time (and then some) in the adventure-gaming industry while pursuing his fiction writing—Randall has published eight novels, two Star Trek novellas, and a host of short stories.

He lives with his wife, Tara, and children—Bryn Kevin, Ryana Nikol and Kenyon Aleksandr—as well as a neurotic German Shepherd named Ecko.

Covers by David Kerber

Edited by Philip A. Lee

Additional Continuity Review by Chris Wheeler

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