“Good morning, Paladin Crow.”
“Good morning, Countess,” came the reply, also over all frequencies. “We still don’t have to do this, you know. Tell Anastasia Kerensky that you’ve rescinded your challenge. Let me kill her for you, and then you can defeat the Wolves.”
“I don’t make deals with cowards and oath breakers,” Campbell replied, keeping her voice even. “If you still want to help the Republic in spite of everything that you’ve done, then behave in a civilized manner and step aside.”
“Civilized?” She could hear the bitter mockery in his voice; what she couldn’t tell—with only the words to go by, and not his face—was whether the bitterness was directed at her, or at himself. “We are standing between two armies, my lady, and before tonight the fate of a world will be settled by force of arms. Don’t talk to me of civilization.”
“Then there’s no more point in talk. Come here and pay for your crimes.”
“One more thing before we begin,” he said. “This is not for you, Countess. Captain Bishop—if I happen to win, I would ask you and the men and women of Northwind to join me in defeating the Steel Wolves.”
Tara Campbell keyed the private circuit between her and Bishop’s Pack Hunter. “I don’t want to sound like a spoilsport,” she said, “but if Ezekiel Crow happens to win I want you to kill him. Let him take out Anastasia first, if you think it’s a good idea to do it that way—but kill him afterward.”
“You got it,” her aide said, also over the private circuit. Then, on the open circuit: “Don’t worry, Paladin. I’ll take the honorable course.”
“Thank you, Captain Bishop,” Crow said. “And now the time for talk has ended.”
The circuit snapped off and the sound of the carrier wave died away.
Tara flipped on her targeting computer and locked it onto Ezekiel Crow’s heat plume. He was in motion, and she’d been right in her analysis of the coming fight. He was running at her, approaching on a diagonal to make her targeting more difficult, and dodging from side to side as he came.
He was fast. The first wisps of laser fire came from the extended-range laser in the Blade’s right arm. He had two lasers to her one, and she had to shift her ’Mech’s entire torso to bring its single laser to bear.
A stitch of autocannon rounds slammed into her and into the ground in front of her, and then Crow was dancing the Blade back out of range.
Tara walked steadily in his direction. She could feel the thick mud sucking at the Hatchetman’s feet. Crow was circling her. She turned to follow his motion. No sense getting heated up chasing him when he could so easily outdistance her.
If he wanted to achieve all of his goals, he had to win this fight. All she had to do was not lose it.
“How are you doing out there, ma’am?” came Captain Bishop’s voice over the command circuit.
“Doing well so far, no damage.”
“Don’t let me distract you then. Standing by this circuit. Out.”
The Blade was coming straight on. Tara set the ultra autocannon in her ’Mech’s right torso to fire at optimal range—let Crow waste ammo if he felt like it—and brought the Hatchetman into a crouch to lower her target profile. A glance at her temperature readouts showed her that the Blade’s lasers were scourging the skin of her ’Mech unmercifully, but the Hatchetman’s heat sinks could take it, especially if she didn’t move.
Instead, she waited. He was approaching—approaching—now! Her autocannon whirled, its shells hurtling downrange like a bar of explosive iron—only to see the Blade dodge aside, the rounds whizzing past it to explode harmlessly in the barren hills outside Belgorod.
Crow was no fool, she reflected. He had to have the range figured as accurately as she did. And he knew to the round how many shells she habitually carried—he’d been all over her ’Mech during their time on Northwind. He’d been less forthcoming about his own. She knew some things—and here she broke off thinking as she tried to pull the Hatchetman up out of its crouch and jump away, the better to dodge his own autocannon fire.
Too late. He’d only taken five shots; they all hit, slamming into her ’Mech’s upper chest and head. The rounds impacted on the Hatchetman’s armored exoskeleton like blows from an enormous fist. Her laser sought his ’Mech as he once again dodged out of range, seeking to circle and attack again from a different angle.
The morning outside was growing warmer, and the Blade and the Hatchetman were churning the ground to mud under their feet. The Blade came in again, at a run. It too was splashed with mud, the colors of its bright exterior obscured as if by a coat of dark, wet paint.
Tara set her laser to tracking, aiming at the center of the Blade’s torso. With the autocannon, though, she’d need to be more careful. Target his legs. If she could cripple him—
Her rounds spattered into the opposing ’Mech. It didn’t break stride. Instead, it dashed quickly out of range. A readout on her instrument panel blinked red. She’d taken some hits, and her laser was burning hot. She’d have to be more cautious from now on—the suction required for each step in the steadily thickening mud was taking more power than she’d calculated.
The ground underfoot would have to be affecting Crow, too. His ’Mech was lighter than hers, but even a light ’Mech was a heavy and ponderous thing. Thirty-five tons of sprinting steel would chew the wet earth to a sucking, semiliquid slop.
But Ezekiel Crow doesn’t have jump jets, she thought. I have jump jets.
More autocannon rounds took her. She fired back. The Blade and the Hatchetman were matched in range. And she was a bigger target. Desperate situations—
“Captain Bishop!” she said over the private command circuit. “Do you have a fix on the Blade?”
“Yes, Countess. I’m tracking him.”
“Then I want you to get with a battery of JES II SMCs. Two batteries would be better.”
“Wouldn’t that be dishonorable, ma’am? This was supposed to be a match just between the two of you, agreed and sworn.”
“I’m not asking you to shoot at him,” she said. “I want you to shoot at the ground around him. Make sure you miss his ’Mech by at least fifty meters every time, just so long as you put a box of shell holes around him a klick in every direction. North, south, east, and west of him—I don’t want to see anything but craters full of mud.”
“If you’re ordering it, ma’am—”
“I am.”
“Then I’ll see that it gets done.”
34
Belgorod
Terra
Prefecture X
April 3134; local spring
Ian Murchison hadn’t been expecting to watch the battle for Terra from the Steel Wolves’ rear command post. He made no claim to know much about war and soldiering, but it seemed only good sense that a person of ambiguous status and divided loyalties—such as himself—should be confined to quarters for the duration, or at the very least told kindly to go back to sick bay and stay out from underfoot. He’d neglected to take into account the fact that he was Anastasia Kerensky’s Bondsman, and good sense and Anastasia Kerensky were only the most distant of nodding acquaintances.
He would observe the battle from the field, she told him, and would not be denied.
When he went out to the command post—an array of communications and data consoles set up in a tent near the open hatch of Anastasia’s DropShip Fenrir—he took his medical bag with him. He wasn’t able to fully explain his insistence upon doing so even to himself, much less to Anastasia, who maintained that a post so far from the front lines was unlikely to provide casualties requiring his immediate attention. He suspected, however, that something to do with identity was involved. A medic could watch a battle and tend to the injured of either side without qualms of conscience. A man of Northwind without a proper job to do—that was another matter.
Anastasia Kerensky, for her part, appeared untroubled by either scruples or qualms. She stood in the shelter of the command post in shorts and a thin knit sh
irt, her hands busy working her long hair out of the way into a braid. If Murchison had seen her that way in any other place but here, he would have thought—after observing her cheerful demeanor—that she was thinking of nothing more than a country hike on a sunny day.
Her custom-modified, seventy-five-ton Ryoken II, however, stood only a few meters away from the command post, and gave the lie to all such innocent appearances. This was the first time that Murchison had gotten a close-up view of Anastasia’s heavily armed personal BattleMech, with its missile six-packs and particle projector cannons. This was a ’Mech that could both run and fight, perfectly suited to the leader of the Steel Wolves.
Anastasia had set up a sensor repeater on the map table in the command post, the better to monitor the fight between the Countess of Northwind and Ezekiel Crow while she braided her hair and waited on the outcome. She had piped the radio traffic between the two combatants over the external speakers of her Ryoken II so that everyone in range could hear.
Murchison frowned as Anastasia tied off the braid and began stretching to limber up her muscles for the day’s work to come. She had to still be experiencing considerable discomfort from the knife wound she’d taken at Saffel Station. He’d patched her up as best he could, but was by no means certain that his handiwork would hold in the face of vigorous physical activity.
Anastasia finished stretching. Catching his eye, she nodded toward the screen of the sensor repeater.
“What do you say, Bondsman Murchison?” she asked him. “Those are your people over there. Do you wish you were standing with them now?”
“What I wish isn’t of much importance at the moment,” Murchison said. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about where the Countess of Northwind wishes to stand.”
Anastasia laughed. It was a sound of pure delight. “I like you, Murchison,” she said. “Give me your wrist. Now is the time to cut your last cord.”
Murchison shook his head. “Thank you for the honor, Galaxy Commander—but I’d prefer it if you waited until this evening. There’s many ways that a battle can go.”
“I see,” Anastasia said. She gave him a considering look. “What you wish is of little importance, eh? But if that is what you truly want, then I have no objection.”
“Thank you, Galaxy Commander.”
“Wait until this evening,” Anastasia said. “Then thank me.”
Their conversation was brought to an abrupt halt by the arrival of a messenger, a young Warrior on a fast scout vehicle.
“Galaxy Commander,” he said, saluting. “Star Captain Illis reports DropShips landing to the south. Whose or what they are, we do not yet know.”
“Tell Illis to send a detachment southward to find out,” Kerensky said. “This is not a day for surprises.”
“No surprises,” the Warrior repeated, saluted, and left.
“Those would be the DropShips that followed us in,” Anastasia said thoughtfully. “Whoever they are, they have pulled up a seat at our table. Tell me, Bondsman Murchison, what do you suppose it means?”
“Trouble,” the medic replied. “This is Terra, after all. Every hand in The Republic will have been raised against us.”
“It could be trouble,” Anastasia agreed. “Or it could be a friend. Regardless of what you Northwinders seem to think, not every person in the Inner Sphere loves The Republic with a whole heart.”
“As you say, Galaxy Commander,” Murchison said absently. His thoughts were occupied with wondering why he had referred to the Steel Wolves as “us.” Maybe the cord that encircled his wrist was already cut.
One of the readouts on the sensor repeater began to flicker on and off repeatedly, and he saw Anastasia Kerensky stiffen. Something new had apparently happened in the single combat between Tara Campbell and Ezekiel Crow. Murchison wondered which one of them had won.
Anastasia seemed either not to know the answer, or not to care. She picked up a microphone, and spoke to the Steel Wolves over the main Clan frequency.
“All stations,” she said. “This is Galaxy Commander Anastasia Kerensky. Commence the attack.”
She put down the mike, climbed the Ryoken II’s access ladder, and entered the cockpit through the hatch. A few minutes later the ’Mech stretched its articulated metal arms skyward—a maneuver that Ian Murchison, watching, found eerily reminiscent of Anastasia’s own movements—then lowered them again and strode away to the east.
35
Countryside Near Belgorod
Terra
Prefecture X
April 3134; local spring
Tara Campbell turned back to the work at hand, dodging and shooting and watching the red line climb on her heat readout. Ezekiel Crow had to be heating up too by now, didn’t he? She couldn’t count on it. He was a canny MechWarrior—she hadn’t forgotten how he had lured Anastasia Kerensky’s Ryoken II into the path of the lightning, back on Northwind—and by now he undoubtedly had reason to want her dead.
“Two missile batteries on-line.” Captain Bishop spoke in Tara’s earphones. “Coordinates laid in for fire. A walking barrage, stopping fifty meters from Crow on all sides. All you have to do is give the word.”
“Crow,” Tara said on the all-frequency channel. “Stand where you are.”
“I prefer not to, Countess.”
“I suggest it only for your own safety,” she said.
“Thank you for your concern, Countess. But I’ll see to that myself.”
Tara switched over to the command frequency. “On my signal. Stand by, execute.”
“Missiles away,” Bishop replied.
From two batteries of JES II Strategic Missile Carriers, a hundred long-range missiles launched from each vehicle. They rose up on pillars of fire, white smoke trailing. They passed the tops of their arcs. They fell. The first landed a kilometer from Crow. The air between him and Tara Campbell became suddenly thick with flying clods of earth, obscuring the two fighters from one another.
“What is this?” Crow demanded over the all-frequencies circuit. “We agreed to single combat, not an ambush!”
“You’re a fine one to talk about keeping to the spirit of the law,” Tara snapped back. The earth trembled under her feet as the missile barrage continued, the huge impacts sending up geysers of mud and dirt, shot through with flame and roiling smoke. “No one has targeted you—and no one will, except for me. You’ll be safe if you stand fast. This is merely in honor of keeping you from running away. You have a habit of running away, Daniel Peterson.”
As suddenly as the assault had begun, it ended. Tara was gratified to see that the missiles had plowed up the earth around Crow’s Blade into overlapping craters, some of them already filling with muddy water.
“Now, Paladin, you have my permission to move.”
Tara fired her jump jets, blasting a hundred and twenty meters forward. Rounds from the Blade’s autocannon took her as she jumped, nearly tumbling her in midair. She fired back with her lasers, not daring to risk the recoil of her own autocannon without being anchored on solid ground.
As soon as she touched down, she started to sink. Heedless of the heat buildup, she triggered the jump jets again to pull herself out of the mud and into another leap. Only a few jumps more, and she’d be joining Ezekiel Crow inside the small circle of untouched ground.
Crow tried to escape through the mud field. At the Blade’s first step, he started to sink. He pulled back from the mire and started hosing the autocannon onto her. The Mydron spun and flared, spitting flame. It went dark, and then the second ammo bin came on-line.
Tara continued leaping forward. She stopped firing her lasers. She couldn’t afford any more heat buildup. She’d need to be careful once in the ring—one wrong move, one unlucky break, and her ’Mech’s autoshutdown might engage, leaving her vulnerable to anything Crow wanted to do to her.
One last jump, and she touched down half a dozen meters from the solid ground of the untouched sector. Rather than risk another jump, she walked the rest of the dista
nce, surprised in spite of everything by how quickly the Hatchetman started to sink, and by how far below the ground’s surface the layer of mud extended. Ankle-level—knee-level—the mud was nearly up to the Hatchetman’s thighs by the time she stepped out of the final crater.
“Now, Crow,” she said, and brought her autocannon to bear on him.
He’d been firing steadily as she approached; he must be low by now. She lined him up in her sights, and her Imperator Ultra-10 spat fire and steel at the Blade. Crow’s ’Mech staggered as the rounds took it. He dodged, the shells followed. At this range he didn’t have time to calculate where they were coming from and step aside.
Tara’s autocannon spun to silence, its ammo exhausted. She glanced at her temperature gauge. She might risk it . . . she took a step in Crow’s direction.
“Why don’t you run away now,” she said, taunting him. “I’m coming for you, Ezekiel.”
The Blade was definitely staggering. It had taken damage. Taken hits. The two lasers in its right arm weren’t damaged, though. They came up and locked onto the Hatchetman’s instrument-sensor cluster.
That was a waste of time and power, Tara thought. What she was going to do didn’t require either sensors or instruments.
The Hatchetman’s remote targeting computer went dark. She took another step. Its magnetic anomaly detector went off-line. She didn’t care. She could see out through the front view ports if she had to. All she needed to do now was keep on moving forward.
“Come and wrestle with me, Ezekiel,” she said. “You always enjoyed that. You said that I was the best, remember?”
No answer.
Tara raised the ax at the end of the Hatchetman’s right arm—the weapon that gave the ’Mech its name and made it such a terrible opponent in hand-to-hand fights.
She brought it down.
She felt the impact in her own arm as it struck, and felt the housing of the Blade being driven down. One of the Blade’s legs broke. She swung again.
Service for the Dead Page 14