Then, as if in retribution, a convoy truck at the end of the stalled column jumped into the air as the ground around it erupted in a violent geyser of fire and shrapnel. The artillery blast also caught a full squad of Elementals, tossing them aside like rag dolls. One crushed infantryman slammed into the side of the nearby Thunderbolt.

Farther along the Thruway, a single Danai support vehicle was reloading, adjusting its trajectory by a fraction. Evan had to push now! He throttled into a flat-out run at the Legionnaire, braving its screen of Cavalier and a flanking pass by one Pegasus. He fired his lasers again and again. His heat scale climbed quickly through the yellow band, edging into the red. Right where Evan wanted it.

Ti Ts’angs used a type of myomer different from most BattleMechs. Its special properties made it work better under high heat conditions rather than worse. Muscles stretched a bit farther, allowing longer strides, and retracted a bit faster, increasing overall speed up toward one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour.

It also leant power to the arms. As Evan swung up his right arm and slashed back down, he gathered twice as much raw kinetic force behind the edge of his titanium hatchet.

The blade bit into the Legionnaire’s left side, caving in armor and cutting deep into the internal skeleton. One severed strut punched through the targeting computer and skewered the physical shielding surrounding the ’Mech’s fusion engine. Sparks and flame mingled together in the wound as Evan again raised the hatchet overhead.

Ax-wielding BattleMechs were dangerous, and the militia pilot wasn’t about to stand up against a machine that could decapitate it with one lucky blow. He broke away quickly, with Evan right behind, racing for the aid of the Thunderbolt. Both ’Mechs faced back down the Narrows when the second artillery round smashed into the ground next to the Thunderbolt, toppling the sixty-five-ton machine with a violent shove.

Fa Shih and unarmored Ijori Dè Guāng fighters swarmed back en masse, racing for the fallen machine as Mai Wa calmly directed the artillery fire in a ground-pounding walk back down the valley highway. A follow-up round punched through the armor of the SM1 Destroyer before detonating. Another caught one of the hoverbikes, rolling the light hovercraft into a tumbling wreck.

Evan heard metallic claws scrabbling at his Ti Ts’ang’s armored carapace, and knew he was in danger of being pulled bodily from the cockpit, tossed aside. But with nothing more to lose, the Legionnaire had turned to fight. Evan could have dropped to the ground for a flailing attack, tried to shake off the biting ants. Instead, he blistered the Legionnaire’s armor with his lasers and struck again with his hatchet.

And again.

The Ti Ts’ang shook again as more infantry landed on its back and shoulders, and Evan saw a Cavalier tumble past his cockpit shield. Then he poured his lasers into the earlier hatchet wound that had caved through the Legionnaire’s chest, pumping megajoules of deadly power into the smoking crevice. The Legionnaire trembled, and its head split open as escape charges blew away the canopy. The militiaman rode his command seat upward on ejection rockets, abandoning his ’Mech and the battle.

But MechWarriors did not simply punch out in token surrender. They did it as a last resort. Evan overrode the Ti Tsang’s heat alarms and cut in his jump jets. Leaning back, he rocketed away from the fireball of plasma that blossomed at the Legionnaire’s heart. One of his lasers had cored through the reactor shielding, disrupting the fusion reactor. Golden fire bled out of the various hatchet wounds, filled what was left of the cockpit, and finally bulged out of every seam, vent and rivet as the reaction expanded out of control.

The explosive shockwave caught Evan in the air and nearly tumbled his damaged gyro beyond help. He crouched forward, balancing himself for landing. It almost worked. He came down on his feet, always a helpful beginning, and managed to fight against a sprawling fall. The Ti Ts’ang ended up on one knee, hatchet pressed against the ground in a steady, three-point crouch.

Evan closed his eyes and drew in a shallow breath. Reports of militia and Principes surrenders bled over one another as the loss of their two leviathans demoralized the convoy’s protectors. He let his breath whistle out through his teeth, as if straining what little oxygen he could from the scorched air, and then opened his eyes.

A Cavalier infantryman stood on his cockpit “cheek,” claw arm fastened to the Ti Ts’ang’s brow and a laser barrel pointed straight into the ferroglass shield. Right at Evan.

He didn’t remember the bore of those small, hand-mounted lasers ever looking quite so large, or so deadly.

The battlesuit trooper cocked his head to one side, as if listening to the mist of molten ceramic composite that exploded next to his temple. Then he released his grip and tumbled backward. Evan heard metallic scratches at his left shoulder and glanced out to the side. A Fa Shih trooper clung there, laser still extended toward the front of the Ti Ts’ang’s face.

“You looked like you could use one last helping hand,” David said, voice shaky, but strong.

“Yeah.” Evan levered the Ti Ts’ang back to a standing position, careful not to dislodge his friend’s tenuous grip. “Always good to see a friendly face.” Even though he couldn’t, not through the Fa Shih’s reflective faceplate.

And the way David turned away, hiding himself from Evan’s gaze, Evan was not to certain that he truly wanted to.

The Conservatory’s BattleMech hangar was alive with lights, activity, victorious cheers and some silent crying. A few of the new veterans held court, relating their version of what had happened. Meanwhile, technicians worked feverishly to unload the convoy trucks, assisted by student and civilian volunteers. Other volunteers, including Evan, helped triage the walking wounded. Desperate cases were sent directly to the small field hospital. Several yards away, somber hands carried body bags and arranged them in a respectful line.

Evan saw Ritter Michaelson waiting for him near the ambulance. The major had a bloody smear on the sleeve of his chambray work shirt and a haunted look in his eyes.

As always, Michaelson held himself apart from the students, participating in neither the celebration of the Conservatory’s first military victory nor in the efforts to sort through and organize the salvage left behind by McCarron’s Armored Cavalry. Despite a heavy cost, the pro-Capellan forces had captured the damaged Thunderbolt and several vehicles, as well as ten cargo trucks loaded with supplies, munitions and spare parts. It was a stunning success.

Michaelson didn’t seem to think so.

“No prisoners?” he asked.

Evan slowed, stopped. “No one worth the trouble. Better to let them go back to their units. Or, preferably, their homes.” Evan was bruised and battle weary. He wasn’t up for another argument with Michaelson. “We won’t force them to change their lives. We’re simply asking for the same courtesy.”

“Very enlightened of you.”

“I’m not a monster.”

“You don’t have to try to become one, Evan. Believe me. The road to hell is paved with the best of intentions.”

Evan massaged his temples. “That’s nice, Major. Do you have more platitudes for me now, or can we save this for later?”

“Will there be a later? Ever since Legate Ruskoff’s visit, you’ve pushed your way forward like a driven man. Do you truly understand what you are doing?”

More than ever. In fact, Evan felt exposed by the light of his own making. Ijori Dè Guāng. The Light of Ijori. Now that he had outed himself, that light shone brightly on the consequences of every decision, every action. It settled a huge weight on his shoulders. One that he might not be ready for. Evan found himself worried for his friends, fellow students and even for The Republic soldiers on the other side. They were also sons and daughters of Liao.