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The Shilone was too close. Shock waves and molten plasma boomed out in concentric circles. The smaller craft stuttered, then skipped, then tripped nose-first, out of control, spi
She’d barely blinked before she heard the alarm. Target lock! Katana broke right, then left, angled off, but she’d waited a fraction of a second too long. She couldn’t hear the Slayer’s laser hissing through space, but she felt it: a jolting finger of death that torched a seam of destruction down the belly of her craft, opening the guts and cooking them at the same time. No, no, nonono, not now! Lasers functional but no starboard thruster at all, and port down to half… Grimacing, neck cords popping, she tried grabbing air that wasn’t there, because this was space after all, and she’d run out of luck and time…
And then another shriek of an alarm, and she saw it, an avatar from Hell: the sleek, deadly form of an Achilles DropShip—headed straight for her.
“No,” she said. The targeting alarm went off again, but she hardly heard it. She stared straight ahead, watching as Death lunged for her. She was surprised that she wasn’t frightened or resigned. Instead, her warrior’s heart beat more fiercely and, with fingers that barely shook and an iron will, she cut power to her remaining thruster and brought what energy remained to weapons. Maybe she couldn’t kill the beast, but she would wound it, oh, yes.
But Death struck first. A thick, bright tongue of PPC fire spurted from the Achilles’ nose, blistering through the blackness of space—past her.
The particle beam smacked the Slayer square on the nose, burning a trough of ionized plasma, and simply cut the ship in two. There was a brilliant flash as the Slayer’s missiles ignited, then a soundless explosion, and somewhere in there the pilot must also have screamed as his cockpit disintegrated. The pilot fell in silence, all of space a cold, impersonal witness, and Katana’s cheeks were slick not with blood but tears.
Then a voice she hadn’t heard in months fizzled through electromagnetic distortion: “Hang on, Tai-sho, we’re coming!”
McCain. My God. She stared, blinked, and looked again, but it was there and no mirage: her Fury trailing in the Achilles’ wake.
“Tai-sho!” McCain again, frantic now. “Katana, Tai-sho, do you copy?”
“McCain,” she whispered. Dimly, she saw the lone surviving Slayer limping for Klathandu IV, and her Fury jumping to the pursuit—and it was this that finally jarred her voice loose. “McCain, no, let it go! There’s been enough bloodshed for one day.” And then she couldn’t help it, but she was gri
25
Nagumo-Class DropShip Black Wind,inbound for Al Na’ir
Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
20 June 3135
And you, little Al Na’ir, are next.
Sakamoto was drunk, not on wine but power. Two highly successful attack waves; his last devastating assault on Yance, and now a flotilla of five Legion of Vega DropShips peopled with Benjamin Regulars hurtling toward Al Na’ir. Pleased, he inhaled hugely, filling his lungs with the slightly metallic, slightly sweat-tinged aroma of the ship’s recycled air, laced with just the faintest wisp of ozone. He preferred the astringent smell of ’Mech coolant on a fine winter’s morning. But, alas, no ’Mechs; today, death would come from above and without.
Al Na’ir was a wretched place: clotted atmosphere rich in sulfur dioxide layered over, essentially, barren rock. Yet people insisted on living there. Sakamoto’s keen eyes picked out the glints marking Al Na’ir’s two domed cities, Phoenix and Homai-Zaki. Each had a defensive array of four weapons turrets studded at compass points on the dome’s outer skin. Yet domes were, by their very nature, inherently indefensible. Each dome had perimeter weapons’ bays but only two ’Mechs per station, the others pulled into service against the Capellans; aerospace fighter lances were down to half strength for the same reason. Any defense would be mounted well away from the cities, likely at DropShip docking sites that co
Still facing the bridge’s viewscreen, he said, “What a horrible little planet. Look at it: moth-eaten, pockmarked, sulfur for air.”
“True,” said Worridge. She’d glided to his right shoulder and stood even with him now. Her tone was infuriatingly mild; the voice of reason that put his teeth on edge. “Therefore, I’m mystified that you bother with the planet at all.”
“Question a strategy, and you question me, Worridge.” Sakamoto paused to let that sink in. Besides, he saw them all listening, watching, judging… Sakamoto’s eyes roved over the sleek backs and blank profiles of Black Wind’s bridge perso
Seemingly unfazed, Worridge said, “I meant no disrespect, but merely asked after Al Na’ir’s strategic importance.”
“The importance is not what’s above but below. Scarsborough Manufacturing’s there, and even though the plant doesn’t make BattleMechs anymore, the works remain. Our techs will put them to good use. Besides, the troops deserve a rest before the next attack wave.” Privately, Sakamoto didn’t give a damn about the troops. Yet he was a realist. If they were to perform well, the men needed a breather. Besides, they had taken heavy casualties on Ancha (expected) and Biham (unexpected). Eriksson, that old devil, had wrecked three ’Mechs single-handedly before they’d brought him down. Sakamoto’s tai-sho in command of the Biham spur, the Crimson Scourge Company of the Second Sword of Light, assured him that all necessary repairs would be completed in time for that spur’s next stop, Deneb Algedi. Highly likely then that the old knight’s Orion would see action just as soon as the ’Mech techs wiped its computer identification system. A delicious irony, there. Still, Eriksson was more trouble than he was worth. Sakamoto was inclined to execute him, and now he said as much to Worridge.
“But, as you’ve pointed out, Tai-shu, Eriksson will be a very effective bargaining chip, if and when Katana Tormark shows up. She’s got a soft spot for that old man.”
Sakamoto snorted. “With any luck, she’s eating sand. Damn this outage anyway; it slows everything down. But no matter how skillful her people, Ancha and Sadachbia fell fast enough.”
“We lost our fair share of ’Mechs and men.”
“Inconsequential,” Sakamoto piffled. But the Fury had fought much better than he allowed, and he knew it. No match for his forces, of course, but still. Devil take it, but their victory had come at an obscenely high cost: a full company of aerospace fighters from the Sixth Benjamin Regulars, seven ’Mechs—three in a bog, a swamp, no less—and all because of the quick thinking of that wizard Crawford. Sakamoto could use a man like that.
But he won’t be turned; I’m sure of that. The Fury’s loyal to one commander, and she’s pledged her loyalty now to the Dragon—and that’s not me. Yet.
As if she’d read his mind, Worridge said, “Do you think the Fury would turn if you appealed to them in the name of the Combine?”
Damn her good sense! Always testing, always reasonable… Sakamoto’s eyes shifted again over the faces and backs of the bridge crew. What none of them knew was how very hard Worridge had argued with him—in private, before the campaign.