But if he walked past the canyon's mouth he might be leaving an enemy at his back. Jasek stepped into the canyon, moving slowly to keep to the low side of his heat curve.
"Are you back there, Alaric Wolf?" he whispered, careful not to trigger his voice-activated mic. "Want to come out and play?"
Jasek had fought Alaric before. He had engaged in an honor match that pitted Julian Davion, Calamity Kell, and himself against Alaric, Yori Kurita, and Kisho Nova Cat. The match had been a replay of the War of 3039, fought in a Republic simulator.
But what Jasek had learned about Alaric had been real enough.
The Clanner had given Jasek all he could handle, using his superior speed to rush in and hit Jasek's Atlases and Behemoths, darting away before Jasek's assault machines could tear apart the lighter, faster enemy. When Jasek held a position, the Wolves harried him with hit-and-run tactics. When Jasektried to exploit an opening in the Wolves' line, his probing unit was cut off and killed.
Tricking an Atlas into overpursuit was quite a feat.
The fact his side had lost the honor match didn't bother Jasek in the slightest. He had learned how to beat Alaric Wolf, and it hadn't cost the life of a single private to do it.
Jasek reached the end of wall, again looking for prey. He flashed on a Condor hover tank painted in Wolf colors of brown and fiery orange.
Jasek fired a snapshot, slicing into the little tank with the particle cannon built into his left arm.
The Condor struck back with LRMs, but the missiles shot wide left, corkscrewing past the Templar's hip and impacting on the rock wall behind the assault 'Mech.
Jasek stepped out from behind the wall and hit the tank with the one-two punch of his paired PPCs, holding off on his medium lasers to preserve his heat load, and saving his TharHes four pack for a more dangerous target.
The Condor hit back with its LRM fifteen-pack chewing armor away from Jasek's high left shoulder while it walked its autocannon across Jasek's low-slung cockpit. Jasek rode out the attack and then answered with a mix of PPCs and medium lasers, tearing into the hovercraft's skirt and spilling air. The Condor slammed into the ground, the shriek of a lift fan tearing itself apart shrill in the thin, dry air.
Suddenly the Condor had been transformed from hover tank to gun emplacement.
Jasek stalked forward to finish it.
He laid into the tank with both his PPCs, ripping through its armor and igniting the Condor's missile load-out. One second the tank was there and the next it was raining tank, a column of fire and acrid black smoke clawing its way into the blameless blue sky.
Well, they'll know I'm here now, Jasek thought.
He turned his Templar around and lumbered forward, not wanting to be caught in the box canyon as the Condor had.
It was not only Alaric's prowess as a warrior that worried Jasek. It was the young man's evident political skill.
Alaric had accepted the quick surrender of the Uhuru's overmatched militia, even granting them hegira, allowing them to take a third of their equipment and keeping the rest as isorla. He had made feeding civilian refugees a priority and moved quickly to restore civil order. The Galaxy Commander had even pledged to honor commercial contracts, thus establishing a truce with what was always the most powerful class in Steiner space: the merchants.
Perhaps his greatest triumph was how he'd dealt with Uhuru's unpopular governor. The Wolves had stopped his limousine on the way to a spaceport, interrupting his flight from the planet. Rather than simply letting him go or shooting him at the side of the road—both acceptable solutions from a Clan point of view—Alaric had accused the governor of betraying the people of Uhuru by failing to protect them and turned him over local authorities for trial.
It was a deft political move. Not only did it show the Wolves' respect for local customs, it gave the populace a focus for their anger other than Alaric.
LIC gave Seth Ward credit for the unorthodox move of signing a non-aggression pact with Jessica Marik, but Jasek was beginning to wonder. He'd seen plenty of outside-the-box thinking from Alaric, almost as if he was being counseled by a genius in Lyran politics.
The young Wolf had grown since Jasek had met him on Terra. Alaric fought with all the savagery and brilliance of Malvina Hazen, but there was something else there, a subtle political genius. The combination might make Alaric Wolf the most dangerous man in the universe.
And so the keyto beating Alaric Wolf was beating Alaric Wolf. If he could catch the Galaxy Commander in the right matchup, he could take out the Alpha Wolf—and Jasek doubted any of the Betas would live up to Alaric's legacy.
He moved through the Red Desert, searching every box canyon, every snaking passageway, looking for his opposite number.
And the end to the Wolf invasion.
* * *
Jasek Kelswa-Steiner had engineered his own defeat.
This Alaric saw as clearly as he saw the red rock he stalked his Savage Wolf past. Only the foolish believed battles were fought on battlefields. Neg. Battles were fought in the minds of commanders before the first 'Mech stepped onto the field.
It was true an enemy could shatter your most carefully considered plans, that weather or terrain or even blind chance could turn against you. But Alaric believed none of that mattered in the end.
If you had already won the battle inside your opponent's mind.
As he had won the battle within Jasek Kelswa-Steiner.
He had once faced the Lyran in a silly game on Terra. During that match, Alaric had torn apart Jasek's simulated command. No doubt Jasek believed that gave him some insight into Alaric, into his fighting style. Maybe he believed Alaric favored slashing attacks, savage hit-and-run tactics, and Jasek had chosen this land to take those attacks away from him.
Jasek was badly mistaken.
The truth was Alaric favored no particular fighting style. He adapted his tactics to the conditions at hand and more importantly to the commander he faced. He was happy to mount slashing attacks, aff but he was just as happy to mount a stolid defense and allow his enemy to throw themselves against his heavy guns.
There was no constant save victory.
Here Jasek had "lured" Alaric into a trap, their forces separated and out of communications, fighting desperate duels, neither side able to use their crippled aerospace forces to spot for them. Alaric had a numerical advantage, but the more forces he poured into the desert meat grinder the better for the Lyrans. It would only leave him fewer warriors and less material to press his invasion. Alaric would bleed time in the desert, time he could ill afford to lose, while the next target world and the one after that went unconquered.
That was the lay of the land in the battleground that was the set of Jasek's assumptions. Alaric smiled. What the Lyran noble did not realize was that he was about to be flanked in his own mind.
Himmelstor, High Atmosphere
Goran watched five red icons race toward the Stormhammer formation: an Overlord, a Leopard, two Mules, and an Intruder. Even without fighter support, the five vessels represented a lot of firepower.
Becker had ordered her little fleet to maintain a healthy distance. If the Wolves wanted a fight, they were going to have to make the first run in.
"Looks like you were right," she said. "The ground attack was to soften us up so their big boys could finish us off."
Goran nodded absently.
"Looking for the Union?" she asked softly.
Goran snorted. "That vessel is captained by the devil himself."
"She was badly damaged during the spaceborne assault," said Becker. "They probably have her grounded for repairs."
"Ja, probably," Goran admitted. "But I think I'll keep looking for her." A chill wriggled down his spine. "We can't afford any surprises."
The Red Desert
Jasek turned a corner and found the Puma trapped in a narrow draw, its back to him. The light 'Mech had tried running from Jasek's Templar— a good move —until it stumbled into a passage that dead-ended.
Jasek tore into its back with a flight of short-range missiles, followed by twin lashes from his PPCs. He'd linked up with a pair of VV1 Rangers and a Joust and they added their fire to his.
The Puma didn't stand a chance.
Jasek didn't have comms with most of his command, but based on the damaged and destroyed Wolf equipment he'd seen, he judged the battle was going well. Alaric had blundered into his trap: a battle where the Clanners' aggressive style was a disadvantage and where pure numbers conferred little advantage.
He smiled tightly. He'd gotten his war of attrition.
He tore into the Puma again as it tried to turn. He cut deeply into the machine's back, carving through the armor and into the critical mechanisms underneath. The Puma shuddered briefly, a sure sign it had suffered a gyroscope hit.
It was then he heard the roll of massive thunder. At first Jasek thought the deep, bass roar was the sound of Wolf artillery.
Then he looked up.
A mountain of steel was falling out of the blue sky, balancing on four pillars of golden plasma. A Union-class DropShip.
Painted in Wolf colors.
For a second, just a second, he didn't understand what he was seeing. His DropShips were supposed to monitor the air picture and run interference for the ground forces. How had this vessel slipped through?
Realizing he wasn't going to get an answer, Jasek keyed his unit frequency. "All Stormhammers, Storm One, Omega Violet. Execute."
He raised his 'Mech's right arm which had been fitted with a special strap-on mod and slammed his fist into a button on his console. A single missile arced high into the sky, exploding into a brilliant purple starburst.
The signal to retreat for those Stormhammers outside radio range. Not a fighting withdrawal—a desperate headlong flight, every warrior for himself.
The Rangers and the Joust made a run for it, sprinting down the draw.
Fire lashed out from the hovering Union. The Joust died by the strobed light of a PPC. One of the Rangers was crippled by a twenty-missile flight of LRMs and finished by the DropShip's AC/5s.
The third Ranger made it out.
One out of three. Jasek had a bad feeling that number might just hold up.
And the Union was engaging other targets, too. Jasek saw ruby lasers stab down from the DropShip, aimed at some target a couple hundred meters to the north.
There was no question of fighting on. The second the Union appeared in the sky, the battle for Uhuru was lost.
Now Jasek's only goal was to save as many of his people as he could.
CHAPTER TEN
Derelict Orbital Station in High Orbit
Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown
Prefecture X
22 June 3140
Tucker's gaze followed the ragged line of the station's broken hull. His stomach sat heavy in his gut. This was not a place of hope. This was where hope came to die.
Whitfield led him to a hatch marked "EMERGENCY AIRLOCK." She knelt on one knee and turned a stainless steel hand wheel counterclockwise.
Tucker frowned. The hatch was probably jammed—and even if by some miracle it wasn't, what were the odds there was any atmosphere down there? So he was surprised when the hatch popped open and a little puff of white gas rushed out.
Whitfield didn't even look at him, she just climbed down into the lock. Tucker peered after her. It was dark down there, the only illumination Whitfield's helmet light. Weird shadows danced off the lock's cramped walls. Tucker swallowed.
And dropped down into the hole.
Whitfield reached up behind him and closed the hatch again, sealing them in semi-darkness, without even the stars for company.
"There," she said. "Now we can talk. But keep it line-of-sight only, OK?" Her voice sounded distant over the radio.
"Uh, sure," said Tucker. "Where are we exactly?"
"Here. I'll show you." She spun a wheel set in a second hatch, opening it. She made an after-you gesture and Tucker lowered himself down.
Into a world of cold and shadow. "What’s this?"
"There's a lot of junk up here, and some of it's still useful."
"Oh, yes," said Tucker sarcastically. "This is great."
"It's better than being dead," said Whitfield. She drifted over to a viewport that was clouded with scratches, and tapped on the ferroglass. "Luyten's right down there." She pointed at the airlock they'd just come through. "And there's the door."
"It's not that I don't appreciate the effort," said Tucker "It's just that—" He glanced around. Their suit lights painted dim swaths of gray in the blackness. Debris floated everywhere casting crazy, scuttling shadows against the feeble light: batteries and a stapler and half-used drink-bulbs and—
Tucker's breath caught.
His helmet light caught a face, half-hidden by shadow, the skin gray and mottled and pulled tight against the skull. The mouth hanging open in a silent scream, the eyes wide and unseeing.
"Yes," said Whitfield turning so her helmet lamp played light across the mummified corpse, "we're hiding in a graveyard."
The man—or woman, he couldn't tell—wore white coveralls, Word of Blake's sword on the sleeve, but otherwise the uniform was just like his.
When Tucker spoke, his voice was hoarse. "This is not right."
"What do you think is going on here, Tucker?" said Whitfield angrily. "You're at ground zero of a war for humanity's future. For humanity's soul. The choices are Devlin Stone's Republic— or the Master's Jihad. You don't like that—" She jerked her head at the corpse, the flicker of her light making the face look like it shifted in the darkness, like it winked at him. "Well, neither do I. That's what we're fighting against."
"Y-you're really Alexi Holt?"
She shrugged. "If I tell you one more time, then will you believe me?" She shook her head. "You're just going to have decide for yourself."
Tucker was silent for a long moment. Then he drew a deep breath. "Tell me the plan. I mean, is there a way off? A life boat or something?"
She shook her head. "No. In order to escape, we'll have to call for help."
Tucker looked around. "Uh—"
"Luyten used to be an important Blakist base," said Whitfield. "During the Jihad, most of their orbital stations were blown to hell. But not all of them. This should be right up your alley, Tucker. This station was once an orbiting HPG. The antenna and reactor were lost, but a good chunk of the station itself survived."
"I think you're using the word 'survived' loosely," said Tucker dryly.
"We'll need to make repairs. Priorities are C02 scrubbers, water, power, comms."
Tucker shook his head. "You can't get the HPG up again. There's just no—"
"Not the HPG. All I need is one high-gain RF antenna."
Tucker frowned. "For what?"
"You're going to write a very special program. A virus that embeds a message in ComStar communication protocols. We'll broadcast it to a ComStar JumpShip, and—"
"And when it jumps backto Terra, it'll tell the Republic where we are." Tucker nodded, considering. "That . . . just might work." He shook his head. "How did you know about all this?" He waved his arm to take in the station.
"I spent a lot of time preparing your extraction, Tucker," she said softly.
Tucker nodded uneasily.
"Anyway, I'll go find the scrubbers." She unzipped a pouch on her suit and tossed him a noteputer. "In the meantime, you get started on that program, OK?"
She turned to go, but Tucker stopped her with a word: "A- Alexi."
She turned and looked at him.
"If you're really Alexi Holt. Why d-did you do the things you did to me?"
She looked at him for a long moment, her hazel eyes marking his face. So different than Alexi Holt's soft, green gaze. "The practical answer is that I had to do it so I didn't blow my cover. But that's not really what you're asking. What you're asking is if I'm really Alexi Holt, howcoud I do the things I did to you?"
He saw her swallo
w hard, straighten her shoulders.
"I'm not a fairy book knight, Tucker. We don't all get to live happily ever after. I thought you understood that on Wyatt. I thought you wanted to help people."
"I did." He shook his head. "I do. But what you did to me . . ."
She touched her gloved hand to the chest of her suit. "You'll never know—" Her voice broke, and Tucker could hear the grief and anguish twist her words, "—what it cost me to hurt you." She was crying. "But I am a soldier." She punched the words out, trying to maintain control. "Being a soldier means sacrifice. Sometimes your own life. Sometimes even the lives of people—" She swallowed again. "You care about."
And then she turned and pushed off, leaving Tucker alone with the specter of death.
The Royal Palace, Tharkad City
Tharkad, Donegal Military Province
Lyran Commonwealth
1 August 3140
Trillian Steiner had grown up a cousin to the Archon, raised more like Melissa's younger sister than her subject. Trillian was no stranger to power, nor to the privilege her Christian name commanded. She was the Archon's most trusted advisor, a brilliant diplomat and politician.
But all that melted away when she stepped into the throne room.
Melissa Steiner possessed the most formidable home court advantage in the entire Inner Sphere.
A long ribbon of carpet (not red, but Steiner blue) led through a forest of immense columns, until the throne room expanded into a space that dwarfed every cathedral in human space. And cathedral was not the wrong word, for this was a place of worship—of House Steiner and everything it had achieved. The galleries in the wings of the throne room were like pews for the faithful; the murals depicting great moments of Lyran history were paintings, but they might as well have been fashioned from stained glass. The blue carpet traveled up the steps to the royal dais, right up to the high-backed throne, where Melissa sat beneath the shimmering blue Steiner fist.
But the most impressive feature of the room was the two BattleMechs on either side of the Archon's throne. The 'Mech on Melissa's left was a seventy-five ton DFN-3S Defiance outfitted in the colors of the First Royal Guards: a base of Steiner blue with a gold stripe down each side and matching highlights. It bristled with weapons, not the least of which were the 1001 extended range PPCs that were its arms.
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