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“What? He’ll read that for sure, and there’s no way, I’m not…”
“Just do it. If he opens up, there’s only one of him and two of us.”
“That we can see. Our sensors are for shit.”
He had a point. “I know that,” she said. “Listen, there’s no way he’ll be able to take us both. He opens up on me, you take him out. Simple as that. Do it.”
“Whatever you say.” Smith sounded unhappy. But he obeyed; out of the corner of her right eye, she saw the Thunderbolt backpedal until he was well back, out of her peripheral vision. “Okay, I just unzipped my fly. Now what?”
“We make nice.” She tongued sweat from her upper lip and tasted salt. Her stomach was doing flips. She was burning up from nerves; her systems weren’t even close to ru
Drexel hauled in a deep breath, let it fill her lungs, smelled the tang of metal and sweat. Okay, and now we get to play chicken. She said, “Listen, switch over to a general frequency. That way, he can hear us.”
“Oh, that’s bright. Want me to talk about all the reinforcements on the way?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Then, without waiting for a reply, she thumbed over to a general frequency. She was winging it now; she’d had no orders about what to do if the bad guys didn’t shoot first. “This is Chu-sa Viki Drexel of Dragon’s Fury. We’d like to talk about…”
Her cockpit erupted with the clang of alarms. Stu
The next few seconds were a blur. Smith was yelling; she was still screaming for him to hold his fire, hold his fire! She felt the flinching shiver that ran through her ’Mech and into her legs as the rounds left their chambers, and her ears caught the muted boom-boom-boom of her autoca
They’d each had a shot. They’d each missed. Her mind flashed through the equation even as she was shouting for Smith to hold his fire; even as her targeting crosshairs dropped over the Shiro’s torso; even as her HUD lit up when the crosshairs turned red-gold; even as her thumb cocked, then hesitated over her pickle… she knew. The Shiro’s autoca
“Viki?” It was Smith, his voice ratcheted tight with anxiety. “Viki, you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Drexel sagged into her pilot’s couch, tension dribbling from her body like water from a leaky bucket. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she became aware again of how loud the rain was… and then she saw something else moving just beyond the Shiro. A quick check with her HUD confirmed: three SM1 tank destroyers.
Her lips went numb. The tanks must have been hidden, lying in wait to take them down if they came in fighting, and between the Shiro and the tanks and whatever else was out there, waiting, in the dark, they’d have been outnumbered from the start…
“I don’t understand,” Smith said. “Why haven’t they killed us?”
Before she could reply, there was a loud click and then a man’s voice, firm and authoritative. “Ah,” he said. “Let me explain that to you.”
33
Homai-Zaki Dome, Al Na’ir
Prefecture III, Republic of the Sphere
15 August 3135
“It was terrible.” Fusilli raised his streaming face, and Crawford read his pain. The man had lost a lot of weight; his torn and grimy uniform hung on his shoulders like empty rice sacks. A wonder that Fusilli was alive at all, come to think about it. “Wat… watching Magruder duh-duh-die like that… choking, and… and then there was blood, there was so… so much blood.”
Katana put a hand on Fusilli’s shoulder. “There was nothing you could do, Wahab.”
Struggling for control, Fusilli drew in a shuddering breath, and Crawford felt a twist of sympathy. They’d winked in at the system’s jump point two weeks ago. There were no JumpShips to greet them, and although there’d been plenty of time for an intercept, their DropShip made the journey planetside without incident. When they were two days out from the planet, they’d received a message: not from Sakamoto’s troops, but from Governor Tormark, whose troops had retaken their city. They also held DCMS troops in custody—as well as survivors from Dragon’s Fury. Tormark had vowed to fight his second cousin; he would never surrender Homai-Zaki to invaders.
Katana’s reply had been swift, stern and compassionate: Fight and Tormark’s people would die. Surrender and they could expect help. “I mean what I say, Cousin. Your name will not protect you; our shared blood will not protect you, and your people have already suffered enough. So have mine. I hold you blameless thus far. Neither you nor your people, nor the people of Phoenix Dome, deserved what happened to you, and you have my sympathies. But harm my people, and I will reconsider.”
Tough talk, honest talk, and in the end, Tormark did the only prudent thing he could. He accepted her terms.
Crawford knew she’d meant every word. Phoenix Dome was utterly, completely dead, the dome little more than a blasted egg, and there were bodies—lots and lots of bodies, tens of millions wiped out in the blink of an eye. Eventually, perhaps, they would be cremated. But, for the time being, they lay, rotting: mute and horrible testament to Sakamoto’s savagery. Katana’s expression then had shifted from disbelief, to horror and finally, to naked fury.
It was the expression she wore now, staring down at Fusilli, the small muscles of her jaw bunching with rage at her impotence. Still, her voice was soft as she asked, “Why do you think they kept you alive?”
“I don’t know,” said Fusilli, and then; “No, that’s a lie. I do know. Sakamoto wanted information about the Fury—our troop strengths, locations, intentions. Magruder wouldn’t give them up, and neither would I. I think he left me alive because he was counting on you to come after him. Word got back from Klathandu IV.”