Xiapu

Huáng-yù Province, Liao

30 June 3134

ATriarii company had thrown itself into the path of McCarron’s Armored Cavalry. The battlefield was less than three hours old when the Zahn Heavy Transport lumbered over a small rise, the truck rocking wildly back and forth as it powered its way over a rare patch of pristine field. Its massive wheels crushed down the tall grasses and dug twin furrows into the wet soil.

Mai Uhn Wa sat in the front cabin, holding himself back into his seat with arms braced on the forward panel. He stared out through wiper-streaked ferroglass. When the truck braked to a muddy halt he shouldered open the door, leaving the vehicle and its reckless driver behind. Whit Greggor and another resistance fighter clambered out of the Zahn’s back. Even the burly tough looked a bit pale after the ride.

An icy drizzle pattered down, dousing a few stubborn fires, washing the haze and smoke from the air into oily ground cover. Rainbow puddles stood inside of giant footprints and half-track scars. The cordite smell of burnt gunpowder and solid-fuel missile exhaust lingered over everything. Mai Wa heard the distant chop of rotors, scanned the heavens, and counted five VTOLs thundering their way southeast toward the nearby city of Xiapu. Smoke-contaminated rain trickled down his brow, stung his eyes.

Mai grabbed the longer strands of his graying hair back into a loose horsetail, and then tugged a service cap over his head to hold it away from his face. The older man stood in his basic camouflage fatigues, surveying the wreckage laid out over the golden range.

The corpses of two BattleMechs lay facedown on a gentle slope nearly a kilometer distant, one of them obviously a Firestarter from the shoulder profile that stuck up above the rise. It explained a large swath of burnt grasses that stretched a black, smoldering hand over several square kilometers to the east. Closer up were the gutted shells of a Scimitar, a MASH vehicle. An overturned Regulator II, which might see combat again, and a Po II, which had thrown a track, but otherwise looked fine. The Po was painted in dark metallic blue, trimmed in green, and proudly bore a dark knight emblem crested with a red plume, the crest of McCarron’s Armored Cavalry.

“Sao-shao McCarron will be over this way,” the noncom san-ben-bing said, catching up with Mai Wa and nodding toward the Po.

Mai Wa nodded to Greggor. “Wait for me,” he said. Greggor had a loose guard on his tongue, and Mai did not need him making this any harder. He followed after the driver.

A small group of men stood near the tank, walking around the sixty-ton machine and pointing out more damage. The san-ben-bing jogged on ahead, approached the smaller man who wore simple tank crew togs of green, padded fatigues with tight cuffs and a high collar, a beige, armored bodyshell vest, and a metal-reinforced forage cap. The serviceman pointed back toward Mai Wa, who walked forward at a more sedate pace.

Rather than wait, Terrence McCarron walked out to meet him with a cautious, appraising glance and a hard-muscled handshake. He wasn’t as small as Mai had thought, actually. He’d merely been standing among some very large men who now trailed protectively in his wake. Infantry, only recently stripped out of their battle armor.

“N˘ı shì Mai Uhn Wa?” the armor commander asked. “Néng rèn-shi ni.”

“Shí-fēn găn-xiè,” Mai said, surprised, thanking the man for his courtesy. He had expected a more hostile reception. His name was not exactly in clear air. “You were told to expect me?”

“By our Maskirovka liaison, yes.” He glanced in the direction of the departed VTOLs. “He is thankfully overseeing our provisioning needs in Xiapu.”

Which could be interpreted in more than one way. Mai looked over the on-world senior Confederation officer, heir to the Cavalry after an older brother. Terrence McCarron was in his early thirties, perhaps late twenties. He wore his reddish hair shorn tight and a nonregulation earring in his left ear. A gold hoop. He radiated both youthful arrogance and a veteran’s seasoned strength, the perfect commander for an advance force that would be operating without support for some time. The kind of man others followed without question.

Mai nodded at the damaged Po II. “Yours?” he asked.

“Mine. Not the most unique design out of Ceres Metals, but she is a tough old bitch.”

“I was made to understand that you had BattleMech forces at your command.”

“Nothing more than a lance, and I sent them down to Nánlù where the local factories turn out good armor and not half bad electronics. That’s the kind of salvage they can live off. Better than the sleeping orchards and skittish livestock around here.” If the Confederation “captain” found it odd to be questioned by an old warrior without unit or rank, he didn’t show it.

No local BattleMech support, and a tank commander by choice, McCarron had steel wrapped around that spine. A pity he looked so comfortable in this command. “From what I have read in Chang-an headlines, you are doing more than knocking down naranji trees and frightening horses.”

“I should hope so. The local militia, they make it easy. Garrison posts spread too thin. Supply convoys underguarded. MechJocks.” He dismissed them with a casual wave. “They always underestimate the value of good armor and solid men.”

“And it helps that most locals aren’t really interested in reporting your location.”

“That it does. There are also the ones who come out after my people in old farm trucks, carrying shotguns.” A sharp gust blew rain into his face. He wiped it away with a calloused hand. “Sometimes it seems like we can tell which district we are in by how the people react. Of course, that is why we are here, after all. To disrupt military operations and gather intelligence for the Dynasty Guard.”

“Who will arrive when?” Mai asked, perhaps a touch too eagerly.

McCarron seemed an agreeable fellow, but he was not so open as he acted. “When they do,” he answered cagily. “I understand they are supposed to deliver to you a good deal of equipment?”

Mai Wa counted under his breath, stilling his anger. “They are. And it would be of service if I could find out when to expect it. We have encountered …a situation.”

“You have taken control of the Liao Conservatory,” Terrence McCarron said, proving that his own intelligence gathering had indeed kept up with current events. “A mistake, to trap yourself where the enemy can find you.”

Shrugging a falsified indifference, Mai shook the water from his service cap and then replaced it on his head. He was trying not to think about what was going on at the Conservatory without him. Evan had very clearly not wanted him present for the meeting with Legate Ruskoff, and had put Mai in touch with resistance cells outside of Chang-an as a way to sidetrack him. Except that by doing so, he’d given Mai some bargaining power where it might really matter.

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” he said, and shivered. The rain grew heavier, tapping heavy fingers on the brim of his cap, and the wind was picking up. He felt the cold in his joints. “We improvise, and we adapt. Which is why I have come here.” The older man clasped hands behind his back, wanting not the smallest tremor to give away his very desperate need. “What if we could help each other?”