Maria’s gone. The realization froze him midmotion, his hands suddenly loose on the controls. The soldier within him added: What have they got that can take down a Jupiter?
Blue-white light flared through his Sun Cobra’s cockpit, snapping him back into the moment. Sensors confirmed what the fact he was alive had already told him; the glare had been the secondary radiation wash of a particle projection beam striking the outside face of his ’Mech’s elevated left shoulder. Every time he complained about the ’Mech’s hunched “shoulder pads” restricting his field of vision, one of them saved his life by blocking a shot.
He answered the glancing shot from the Kwamashu garrison’s Uziel with a blast from his own PPC.
The smaller machine took the bolt across its center torso just below the cockpit and staggered back. Given the center-mass hit and the minimal kinetic impact of the particle beam, that stumble meant a pilot overreacting to the shot.
Weekend warriors.
Twisting at the torso, Casson unleashed a second bolt. His thermal display flashed for attention, its sensors displaying the Ducky ’Mech in glowing blue white. Only a failing reactor shield would give those numbers. The Uziel had to be seconds away from shutdown. Or worse.
Ignoring the stricken machine, Casson threw a PPC bolt after a fleeing J. Edgar. A clean miss.
Having end-run the dug-in defenders by cutting through the edge of Breezewood, Able and Baker companies were having no trouble pushing back the hastily regrouped garrison forces. In fact, the Eagle’s Talons would have reached this point sooner if the city hadn’t been practically deserted.
For an industrial boomtown, Breezewood was doing a good impression of a ghost town. The empty urban streets had been perfect for ambushes, and Casson had slowed their pace to scan for booby traps that never materialized.
It was hard to imagine these underequipped and inexperienced troops were all the Ducks had to defend a target as vital as a ’Mech factory.
Of course, if they were all amateurs, Maria would still be kicking butt.
Reports came in on all channels. The defenders were falling back in a disorganized scramble-and-stop pattern that made no tactical sense.
At extreme range ahead, Casson could see a mobile gun crew hastily anchoring their piece behind a low wall. Nothing wrong with the position, but twelve meters to their left was what appeared to be the ruin of a pump house. With thick walls and lots of old metal to fog targeting systems, it was a perfect nest for the small gun.
Brave men, Casson decided, doing their best with no clue how to get the job done.
The rest of the defenders peeled away to the north. Logic—and basic tactics—would have dictated they withdraw into the ’Mech assembly plant. The sprawling industrial compound dominated the tumbledown warehouse district, rising like a walled city above the one-and two-story storage buildings.
Casson clicked his all-channel open.
“They’re either trying to draw us off, or getting out of the way so we walk into a trap,” he said. “Either way, the objective’s the same. Make for the plant. Anyone who gets out of our way, let ’em go.
“Look sharp for mines, booby traps and ambushes,” he added, knowing it was unnecessary. “And sing out. Ten false alarms beat getting your head blown off any day.”
Casson moved left a block before advancing on the ’Mech plant. He told himself it was to avoid being too predictable in his approach. Bypassing the local amateurs with the popgun—and letting them live awhile longer—was an unavoidable side effect.
He suspected the real fighting was going to begin when Able and Baker hit whatever force had bogged down Charlie Company. Obviously some Ducky regulars sent to shore up the planetary militia, they would be the real defenders his boys and girls would have to walk through. But from the way this was playing out, he didn’t think they were going to meet that particular briar patch until they stormed the complex proper.
“Assault pattern four,” he ordered. “Let’s try knocking on their front door.”
Tamarind-Abbey Defense Command
Tripoli, Gibraltar
Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey
“Damn.”
Fontaine Marik looked up at the sound of his security chief’s voice.
Roland stood, arms akimbo, scowling at a message screen. His sweat-stained tunic was open at the chest, though Fontaine doubted it offered much relief in the oppressive heat.
Summers in Gibraltar’s northern hemisphere were legendary—at least on Gibraltar—for their ability to overcome even the most sophisticated air-conditioning systems. And Fontaine had to admit the air conditioners in his command center were not the most sophisticated.
Rather than call out his question, or wait for Roland to come to him, Fontaine made his way across the command center. More warehouse than military nerve center, the room was mostly silent. At this point command consisted primarily of routing reports of disasters and tabulating remaining resources. The half dozen techs present, all of whom must have heard Roland’s exclamation, remained bent over their consoles tracking nothing that needed Fontaine’s immediate attention.
He noticed young Christopher had risen from his desk, where he was no doubt running another of his campaign simulations, and was just arriving at Roland’s side.
“What is it, Roland?”
“Preston and Zortman have sued for peace,” his SAFE director responded. “Surrendered.”
“But the Steiners haven’t landed on Preston or Zortman,” Christopher protested.
“Look at the map, Hughes.” Roland’s tone was sharp with irritation. “They’re hard up against the Lyran border and surrounded by Vedet’s forces. The only reason they were leapfrogged by the Steiners is they have nothing to fight over and nothing to fight with.”
“They never had a choice.” Fontaine cut off Christopher’s protest. The boy did not yet understand accepting the inevitable.
He looked at the revised star chart above the communications console.
Alorten, Schererville, Saltillo, Millungera, Labouchure, Niihu, Edmondson, Kosciusko, Simpson Desert, Kilarney—half the Duchy of Tamarind-Abbey. He sighed. Throw in Tamarind, and they have our heart as well.
“I’ve been looking at the intel on Kilarney, and I think I’ve found something.” Christopher broke into his thoughts. “They’re maintaining communications traffic like there’s a full garrison, but there hasn’t been enough DropShip traffic to keep them supplied.”
“Any reason they didn’t just bring in what they needed to begin with and are just living off Kilarney’s production now?”
“Yes, sir.” Christopher nodded. “Drought. Two years of crop failures on Kilarney. It’s not a famine by any means, but they don’t have the resources to feed themselves and the occupation forces.”
“The Lyrans could be letting them starve,” Roland pointed out.
“These are Lyran regulars, not Vedet’s forces.” Christopher’s distinction spoke volumes. “If the troops were really there, they’d be importing staples at a steady volume. The volume is not there.”
Roland nodded thoughtfully. “They do have a lot on their plate, even for a military the size of the archon’s.”
Fontaine looked around his command center. Half the consoles powered down, the other half routing assets to survivors or coordinating casualty reports.
“Roland, check his numbers, see if his conclusions are solid,” Fontaine said. “If he’s on to something, I want a plan to retake Kilarney in my hands soonest.
“It’s about time we hit back.”
Breezewood, Kwamashu
Duchy of Andurien
Casson ignored the yellow-and-red glow of his damage display. Taking a chance, he stopped his limping Sun Cobra at the edge of a circular intersection from which six nameless streets radiated into the surrounding brick and block buildings and pulled up a tactical overlay of the city on his main screen. The faint, scratching whine of the failing gyro beneath him was a minor counterpoint to his own thoughts.
Nothing was going as planned.
The local militia they’d sliced through had been replaced by a garrison force at the gates of the factory complex. Same older, second-line materiel, but a whole lot tougher attitude. And a solid grasp on how to get the job done.
Able and Baker companies had been held at the gate. It had only taken a few sallies to convince him the front door was not the way. They’d stumbled on an alternate route almost immediately, but that had proved more curse than blessing. The trapped Duckies—and these, Casson was sure, had been the crack troops brought in to defend the ’Mech plant proper—had savaged Baker Company with true brutality in their break for freedom.
Disconcerting amidst the carnage had been the sight of Breedelove’s Hatchetman in Eagle’s Talons colors attacking his own troops.
Casson had made bringing down the captured BattleMech his personal business. He’d hung in the battle longer than he should have—taken damage he should have avoided—but Casson hadn’t broken off the duel until the Ducky in Breedelove’s stolen cockpit had punched out.
He would have blasted the escape pod out of the sky, but his systems were too overheated for his PPC to recharge in time.
At the time he’d counted a cracked gyro housing and gimped left hip actuator as fair trade for victory. Now…
It wasn’t a question of if the Eagle’s Talons would overrun the Duckies, but of when. The damage they’d taken because he’d underestimated the last-ditch defenders—and the hurt he’d taken by choosing to get revenge rather than following the mission—had doubled the cost of victory. But given the balance of forces, victory was inevitable.
With two-thirds of Baker Company destroyed and Able on the ropes, Casson had ordered a fighting withdrawal. Out of the fire and back into the frying pan as the Ducky regulars engaged them again.
Taking cover in the buildings of the industrial district, Casson had regrouped his forces and taken the fight back to the locals in a running battle. A building-to-building, dash-and-blast slugfest that showcased the Talon’s superior speed and firepower. Keeping his ’Mechs within a dozen blocks of the walled complex, he quartered the area, stringing the defenders along—pushing them out of the way when necessary—as he tried to locate whatever was left of the slower but heavier Charlie Company.
Not to mention figure out how to destroy the ’Mech plant with a badly battered half of his original force.
“They’re breaking off,” a voice announced over the command channel. It took Casson’s tired mind a long second to recognize Overton, Able-three leader. Looking up from his data screen, he was a little surprised to see the scout lance leader’s Spider standing at evident rest less than twenty meters away.
“Say again?” he asked.
“They’re moving away,” Overton answered. “Firing a couple of shots for show, but definitely bugging out.”
“Confirmed,” Paten chimed in, her battered Enforcer entering the traffic circle that had evidently become Casson’s command center. “Making haste away from us and the plant.”
Casson sighed as he wrestled muzzily with the possible reasons for the Duckies’ suddenly cooperative behavior. Looking up at the three-sixty above his display, he could see the walled complex half a dozen blocks behind him, picked out brightly in the midday sun.
“Same choice as before,” he said, pulling his attention down to the two MechWarriors in front of him. “They’re either trying to lead us off or opening the door for us to walk into a trap.”
“It was a trap last time,” Paten pointed out. “Think they’re repeating the same trick?”
“Not like we have a choice,” Overton countered. “The objective is still take out the ’Mech plant.”
If there is a ’Mech plant, Casson thought but did not say. Nothing but nothing about this entire setup looked like Duckies protecting a ’Mech plant. Or, he added, surveying the abandoned buildings around them, like a town gearing up to open a brand-new ’Mech plant.
“Circle east,” he decided. “Bypass the main gate. Get about one-eighty degrees from that hellhole we opened up. We’ll breach there and see—”
His Sun Cobra lurched as the ground heaved. The gyro beneath him screamed; only his safety harness kept him from being flung into the viewscreen. Fighting against the ’Mech’s sluggish controls and his own tired reflexes, Casson kept the BattleMech upright as the solid concrete of the industrial district undulated like a choppy sea.
“What the hell?”
“Sweet mother of God!” Paten answered.
Casson turned his ’Mech to look in the direction she was pointing; back toward the Duchy ’Mech plant.
Where the ’Mech plant had been.
In its place was a towering column of flame, a conflagration of incomprehensible proportions. Red, orange, green and yellow fire, braided together in impossible patterns and shot through with dense coils of oily smoke, rose like a redwood from within the high walls. And rose. And rose. Until it towered at least a kilometer above their heads.
Looking away from the spreading umbrella of smoke and fire, Casson realized the column of destruction was no longer contained within the walls of the plant. The walls were gone. And, as he watched, the first block of storage buildings disappeared, swallowed by the advancing wall of flame.
“It’s getting bigger!”
He was aware of Paten beside him, turning her Enforcer away from the oncoming firestorm, pushing the damaged machine to its maximum speed. Overton and his Spider were already gone. By the time she reached the far side of the traffic circle, two more blocks of buildings had burst into flames and then vaporized, transmuted from solid to gas by the widening column.
Casson’s radiation counter beeped for attention. Whatever was burning was radioactive. Which meant the air itself was becoming deadly.
Casson didn’t move. His fight with Breedelove’s Hatchetman had torn too many myomer bundles. His Sun Cobra could barely walk, much less run. He would never outdistance the inferno rising from the ground itself.
Another block of buildings disappeared. The wall of garish flame had become so wide he could no longer see the curve of the column.
Die shuffling away or die standing his ground. Those were his choices.
Back straight, grip solid on the controls of his BattleMech, Casson watched the nearest row of buildings explode into flame.
28
Amur, Oriente
Oriente Protectorate
26 February 3138
Jessica watched, transfixed.
The column of green, orange and red fire rose toward the sky, spreading until it nearly filled the screen. Bolts of yellow lightning shot along the ropes of black smoke braided through the twisted towers of flame. Blue-white arc-lights flickered—like PPC discharges of unimaginable power—suffusing the scene with such energy the recorder was overwhelmed. In those moments the column of destruction stood out in black relief against a field of white.
Sharp, shouting voices near the recorder, their faint sound offering a sense of scale to the waterfall rumble of the growing conflagration.
The image jerked, shifted and vibrated, momentarily losing its view of the devastation. Her impression was that someone had snatched the recorder from its tripod and was now running with it. A metal sill, a wildly swinging view of the interior of a VTOL. Civilians dressed in medical technician uniforms, Jessica noted.
Then the cloud of fire and death was centered in the screen again. The image was shaky: a handheld recorder on a rising helicopter trying to stay focused on a scene of unimaginable destruction.
The top of the conflagration—the camera panned up to show a spreading umbrella above the VTOL’s spinning rotors—was more than a kilometer high. The base of the firestorm…the camera jerked back down to show the ground just as a block of buildings seemed to come loose from the ground, to rise up and disappear. Vaporizing rather than blowing apart.
At this altitude and scale, Jessica could see nothing of the details, but one of the s
houting voices in the VTOL’s cabin was saying something about civilians. Thousands of civilians.
And, barely discernible, a voice was damning Andurien—damning Duke Humphreys—for deliberately detonating a toxic waste dump to deny the “Ories” a victory on Kwamashu.
Underneath the shouting voices someone—some man—was sobbing uncontrollably.
Torrian Dolcat reached out and turned off the playback.
Jessica opened her mouth. And realized she had nothing to say. She felt a touch at her elbow, and it took her a blank moment to realize Philip was offering her a drink of water. She took it gratefully, wondering how she would ever make it without the man the public believed was abandoning her.
Clipperton—
She shied away from that thought. But it came back. She gathered herself and faced the accusation square. In a time of peace she had ordered a terrorist attack on Clipperton, an attack that had killed ten thousand civilians. By that measure, she had no right to be shocked, to be horrified, by what Humphreys had done in battle on Kwamashu.
She had no right, but she found herself feeling it anyway.
Hundreds of his own loyal troops, thousands of his own citizens, who counted on their ruler to protect them, slaughtered for a minor strategic advantage?
What sort of mind thinks that way?
She didn’t ask the question aloud. She was afraid that Torrian would answer honestly. It was possible Philip still harbored some illusions about the woman he loved, and she didn’t want him hurt.
And Thaddeus—
She glanced at the man chosen to be her husband and found him staring at the blank vidscreen in apparent concentration.
“So,” she said at last.
No one else spoke.
“Any chance that was the extent of the damage?” she asked.
“No, Your Grace,” Torrian answered. “Our most reliable data is two weeks old, but extrapolating from that information tells us that at least one-third of the planet will be uninhabitable within the year.”
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