The map came to rest on the Republic world of Ronel. The yellow note box read: "First Davion Guards."
"You get the political credit for trying to help House Steiner. Julian Davion gets the blame for the debacle that is sure to follow." Sandoval smiled.
Caleb gazed down at the map. "And if we are very lucky indeed, the Wolves might just take care of our little problem for us."
Derelict Orbital Station in High Orbit
Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown
Prefecture X
22 July 3140
Patricia dodged right using Henderson's body, still ma- glocked to the hull, as partial cover. Stupid Henderson. He always did have the knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"You know she's not coming back for you, don't you Tucker?"
"Right. And I should listen to you because up to now you've had such a good handle on things."
She saw him duck beyond his little shield and chased him back behind cover with a well-placed shot that just missed his right sleeve. Normally a glancing blow to a limb was not fatal, but then normally you didn't carry your air in your clothes.
She pointed at Adept Sally Yu and made a circling gesture with her index finger. Yu's single nod was enough to convey that she understood Patricia's order.
Patricia laughed. "Good to see you picked up a little spunk, Tuck. Has she told you she's Alexi Holt yet?"
"No.” said Tucker, but there was the tiniest trace of doubt in his voice.
"Well, I shall have to rebuke her when we get back to Omega One. Her orders were to try to gain your trust."
Tucker popped out from behind his cover. Patricia was ready for him, delivering another glancing shot to his helmet. She mentioned Alexi Holt and he took a shot at her. He couldn't help it. So predictable.
Meanwhile, Yu was almost around to the other side of the barrier.
"You're lying."
"Think, Tuck. If she weren't working for us, how else would I know she was pretending to be Holt?"
Yu had disappeared from Patricia's view. It wouldn't be long now.
"Who else would rescue me?"
Tucker was a fool. If he thought about it he'd realize her orders were to take him alive. She had to keep him talking for another few moments, keep that ginormous brain of his from really thinking through the situation.
"So you still believe she's here to rescue you. Sandra Whitfield is the brave knight. What does that make you, Tuck? The damsel in distress?"
She didn't hear the gunshot, so she had no warning of what had happened until she saw Yu's suit drift up into the black. There was just enough light to see several crimson holes scattered across her suit.
Patricia swore under her breath. Apparently Tucker hadn't been as distracted as she'd thought. This markedly changed the tactical situation. She held the landing craft, but Tucker had better cover and of course Whitfield was a wild card.
She might just have to reconsider taking Tucker alive.
Patricia fired her laser to keep his head down and pushed off left, skimming over the metal hull, careful to keep her body straight so she didn't go off after Yu. She clenched her teeth and grabbed for a handhold, pulling herself down behind a large puncture in the hull.
It was a dangerous maneuver jumping in space, but now she had better cover and a clear shot at anyone approaching the landing craft. And maybe, maybe Tucker didn't know exactly where she was.
"So where's your knight, Tuck? Is she there? Can I say hi? Hi, Sandra or Alexi or whatever your name is. Thanks for looking after my little brother."
"Shut up," Tucker snarled. She was getting to him.
Something moved to her left. Patricia turned in time to see Whitfield jumping for her. She jerked her laser up and fired, hitting her dead center. But the woman kept coming.
Is she wearing armor? Patricia wondered and then Whitfield hit her. For a moment she struggled with the knight, finally managing to push her away.
The other space suit slowly drifted away, arms and legs spread out like a starfish, slowly spinning against the stars. Sunlight flashed against her facemask.
And what Patricia saw wasn't the dangerous ROM traitor, but a mummified horror, staring at her with long-dead eyes.
She stood and glanced backtoward the Mark VII, just in time to see it turn gracefully away from the station and fall toward the planet below.
* * *
"What took you so long?" demanded Tucker as he strapped himself into the landing craft's copilot seat.
"I had to get a prop," said Alexi.
"A prop?"
She shook her head. "You don't want to know." She tossed him a data cube and Tucker snatched it out of the air. "Also, I figured you might want this."
"CLARION NOTE," Tucker whispered. He turned to look at her. "Patricia said—"
"Haven't you learned by now you shouldn't listen to anything Patricia says?"
Tucker looked down. "So what's the plan now?"
"We'll broadcast your virus from the landing craft." Her eyes found the khaki and green world growing in their canopy. "And then we go to ground."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LCAF Supply Depot Truxton
Vorzel, Coventry Military Province
Lyran Commonwealth
20 December 3140
Senior Warrant Officer Malcolm Craig stood in a warehouse stuffed to capacity and beyond. The racks were full and material overflowed into offices and aisles and bathrooms. And still the forklifts and the big yellow IndustrialMechs brought more.
From where he stood, Craig saw Condor lift fans, a Salamander knee actuator, bundles of myomer, and grease for an Ultra-class hundred-twenty mike mike autocannon. There were kilometers of wire, piles of fasteners, oceans of lube oil, mountains of armor plating, blizzards of paper.
Everything a growing army needed.
He even had a hundred gross of red tape.
Unfortunately, Hauptmann Weiss didn't want to hear any of it. "Send it back," he shouted, turning red. The Hauptmann didn't seem to do anything but shout these days. "Send it all back."
Craig tapped the screen of his 'puter impatiently with a slim stylus. "Hauptmann Weiss, sir, we just got it."
The angry officer waved a 'puter of his own. "This is an order from the Archon. Do you hear me, Craig? THE ARCHON." His voice dropped to a fierce whisper. "She wants everything here shipped back to Bolan Province immediately; and if you don't do that right now, so help me God, I'm going to break out a coil of rope from that box over there," the officer actually pointed, "AND STRING YOU UP MYSELF."
"I would love to accommodate you, sir," said Craig tightly, "but all our lift capacity is busy sending this stuff coreward to the Melissia Theater. What am I supposed to do? I can't crap JumpShips."
If looks could kill, Craig would have been burnt down to a small pile of fine carbon ash. As it was, the Hauptmann turned on his heel and stalked off.
Which was very good, because just then an IndustrialMech came by and set a pallet of gyroscope parts down on the deck in the exact spot where he'd been standing.
Campbell Planetary Park
Arcadia, Bolan Military Province
Lyran Commonwealth
22 December 3140
For a moment, just a moment, Colonel Roderick Steiner of the First Steiner Strikers saw the end to the Wolf invasion of Arcadia.
Roderick watched from the shadows, his cockpit bathed in darkness except for the soft gleam of his console, the nuclear fire at the heart of his Rifleman IIC carefully banked.
Watched as a Cluster of Clan Wolf's Gamma Galaxy tore into the light, fast elements of his Strikers.
Roderick shook his head. The Wolf Hussars were a proud unit. He was going to use that pride against them.
He had lured the Wolves into a classictrap, dangling his light, fast vehicles in front of them. The fast machines had "blundered" into the Wolves as they moved along a low ridge that paralleled a thick, deciduous forest. The ridge was a jagged spine of granit
e too sharp for the fast machines to traverse and the press of thick-trunked redwoods would take away the Strikers' lone advantage—speed.
Unable to head north or south, the mix of hovercraft and light 'Mechs did the only thing they could—they bolted, running east along the ridge.
And the Wolves did what wolves do.
They ran down their prey.
Unable to lose their pursuers over the uneven ground, the Strikers picked a spot and drew partway up the ridge, grabbing what high ground they could. They drew partway up the ridge, and set a line.
And waited for their deaths to come.
At first the Strikers almost held their own. The first of the Wolves to hit the Lyran line were themselves fast machines, so mostly a match for Roderick's people.
A pair of Demon medium tanks painted tan on top and dark gray on the bottom hit a Condor painted in green forest camo, the blue Steiner fist marking its slanted nose.
The Demons traded off their miniguns and medium lasers against the Condor's miniguns, a Valiant Arbalest LRM fifteen- pack, and its LB-X autocannon. The hovercraft picked one of the Demons and pushed it back with a sustained pull from its Mydron Excel autocannon before turning on the second.
It was a good move, but Roderick found he was sweating, hoping the Condor's commander was being careful of his loadouts. The Strikers had been plagued with supply problems and Rockerick had held his unit together for the last two months with duct tape and baling wire. There wasn't a single plate of armor or one round of ammunition he could afford to waste.
That's why this plan had to work.
And it looked like his boys and girls were in the fight.
Until the Wolf heavies lumbered up, joining the battle. They trickled in at first. Pain lanced through Roderick's jaws as he gritted his teeth. Watching the heavies hit his people was like watching a car accident. Had to let the Wolves get into position.
The moment of victory was coming. But it was not yet here.
He watched his people buckle under the fierce assault. Somehow he made himself hold his fire. A massive Tundra Wolf stalked forward, splitting its shot, peppering a Condor with its Longbow LRMs, smashing a VV1 with ATMs, and worrying a Stinger with its Series 7K ER large laser.
That was all Roderick could stand.
"Striker Heavies, this is Striker One. Forward."
Roderick stalked his Rifleman IIC out of the trees, joined by a lance of heavy and assault 'Mechs, a pair of JES tactical missile carriers, and a Behemoth.
Roderick tore into the Tundra Wolf's vulnerable rear armor with his pulse lasers, followed by long pulls on his autocan- nons, a stream of shells shattering armor in the Tundra's back.
The Tundra started to turn to face Roderick, but a Striker SM1 Destroyer from his fast line slid forward and tore into the Clan heavy with its Ultra autocannon, hammering the Tundra Wolf's forward armor with twenty millimeter shells.
So the Tundra turned sideways, extending its arms right and left, trying to target both opponents at the same time. It was a gutsy move.
Unfortunately, Roderick had seen it coming.
He was already moving right. His Rifleman wasn't any faster than the Tundra, but the SM1's attack had given him the jump on the Clanner.
He melted armor on the Tundra's left arm with stitches of emerald fire. Then he cleared the Clanner's back and raised his arms, dropping his reticle over the Tundra's wounded back, anticipating a gyro kill.
He pulled into his primary triggers and his autocannons roared, tearing into the Clanner's dilapidated armor, his machine shaking with the vibration of all that lethal power pouring into the Wolf machine. Until his right autocannon guttered out.
Followed ten seconds later by his left.
He'd drawn down to the bottom of his ammunition bins.
The SM1 surged forward to save him, slamming the Tundra with its massive autocannon. Until its gun, too, fell silent.
Suddenly, Roderick understood just how desperately close to the line they were. They might have enough ammunition to fight their way free of this battle, though that was a stretch.
But there was no way they could press their assault.
"All Strikers, this is Striker One." Roderick's throat closed painfully around the words. "Fighting withdrawal, fighting withdrawal. Form up on me."
For a moment, just a moment, Colonel Roderick Steiner of the First Steiner Strikers saw the end to the Wolf invasion of Arcadia.
And then it all went to hell.
The Wasteland
Luyten 68-28, Exact Coordinates Unknown
Prefecture X
14 September 3140
Tucker fought his way threw a stinging, pelting storm, his face sandblasted by the blistering winds. He staggered forward, driven by nothing more than the desperate hatred of sand, sand, everywhere sand. He tasted it on his tongue, it worked its ways between his toes, chafed beneath his goggle, irritated his eyes.
When the blazing sun roused the wind to a howling fury, it even flayed skin.
There had been a time when the wasteland had been covered by rich, dark soil, growing soil, living soil.
And then the Jihad had come to Luyten.
The first nuclear strike had vaporized all the soil to a radius of forty kilometers. The rest it had lifted into the world's sky and dumped it upon the trickster wind.
But what really killed the wasteland was radiation. Heartless gamma burned plants and animals alive, not their bodies, but their cells, sending cancers spiraling through the flesh of living things.
The animals died first, their bloated bodies rotting in the sun. Then the plants, no longer nourished by the soil or pollinated by the insects. And when the last twisted, sickened shoots were gone, the rains came, pounding an earth that could no longer slake its thirst. Flash floods washed away the last of the soils.
Leaving only wind—and sand.
"Over here," Alexi croaked.
Tucker turned toward the sound of her voice. Saw the dark shape of her body through the swirling sand. Staggered towards her.
"Shelter," she said.
Tucker moved faster. He saw nothing, nothing but her. And then—his heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, there was something.
A desperate smile came to his cracked lips and he found a way to hobble faster. And then there was a door which meant there was an inside. He hurled himself inside and found himself on tile.
Alexi struggled to close the door behind her against a growing pile of sand. "A Blakist outpost," she grunted. "It must've been missed when the main base was hit." Tucker spied a rack bearing olive drab cans labeled "EMERGENCY WATER." He staggered over and grabbed a can, pulled the pop tab, drank it down. It was tepid, but it was wet. He upended the can, drinking as much as he could and letting the rest run down his face, cutting rivulets through the dust that caked his skin.
He finished the first one and threw the empty can aside. Grabbed another.
"Tucker, no." She knocked the can from his hand. "We have to check for radiation first."
"I don't care about radiation," he snarled. He bent down and picked up the can. Popped the tab.
Alexi watched him drink, her mouth hanging open. She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
He stopped drinking and looked at her.
"This is supposed to be a rescue." She shook her head. "But it isn't. It's a desperate flight, moving across the desert, trying to stay ahead of your sister. Trying to carve survival out a wicked, poisonous land."
She picked up a can and smashed it against the wall in an angry overhand throw. Tucker jumped.
Then she sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged, her face buried in her hands.
Tucker slowly put down his water and settled on the floor next to her.
"I've done the best I can."
"I know," he said gently.
She raised her head, turned to face him. She was crying, big, silent tears tracing through the dust that coated her face. "I'm sorry I hurt you Tucker."
He s
aid nothing, he just sat there watching her.
"Do you remember when I gave you the noteputer?" She swallowed. "You were angry with me. You asked who was watching me. Don't you see? They were watching me. Buhl didn't trust anyone. I had to—"
She raised a trembling hand to touch his face, but stopped, her fingers millimeters from his cheek. "But it doesn't matter, does it? Maybe you can understand why I had to do it. The logic of it. But it was still wrong. That's the terrible thing about war, Tucker. Sometimes you have to do things you know are wrong. Everyone knows soldiers pay with their lives. But sometimes, sometimes we pay with our souls."
She looked at him, her eyes—her hazel eyes—searching his face.
Tucker stared back at her, unsure of what to say. What to feel. He felt hollow inside.
Alexi swallowed. Then she bent her head and began to sob softly.
After a moment, Tucker reached out and taking her chin in his hand, gently raised her face to his. She looked at him, those hazel eyes rimmed with red, misery written in every line of her face. Something broke in Tucker, some final bulwark.
And he leaned over to taste her lips.
* * *
In the morning thunder roused Tucker. For a moment he savored the feeling of Alexi's body curled against his, the warmth of her, the softness of her.
But the thunder did not stop.
Tucker leapt to his feet and dashed outside without bothering to dress. What he saw was a DropShip, an immense ovoid falling out of a clear blue sky. Painted on the vessel's hull was an emblem, ten meters tall, proudly proclaiming the DropShip's origin.
The emblem was blue and green Terra ringed by ten golden stars and backed by a knotwork banner, beneath the motto
Ad Securitas Per Unitas. There was no question where this vessel was from.
The Republic of the Sphere.
The Royal Palace, Tharkad City
Tharkad, Donegal Military Province
Lyran Commonwealth
22 February 3141
Melissa Steiner sat upon her throne and watched Duke Stanislav Zdenekova stride across the long, blue carpet, her cold eyes tracking him in, like one of the BattleMechs at her side might track an enemy machine before unleashing their terrible weapons.
A Bonfire of Worlds Page 17
