Thirty…

Alaric pulled his crosshairs over the swift-moving Hellion, holding it as his reticle burned the deep, dark gold of a solid targeting lock. Now they were within range of the second pair of waiting combatants, the Vulture s, as well. But everyone held their fire as the BattleMechs closed with great strides.

Forty. Fifty.

Sensing at the last possible heartbeat when his opponent would open fire with a heavy laser, Alaric toggled for full weapons spread and eased into his primary triggers.

The PPCs on his left and right arms blazed with backflashes of cerulean energy, and like twin forks of lighting a cascade of charged particles slashed across the tall grasses to rip up and down the sides of the lead Hellion. Armor shards glowing white-hot at the edges rained down, starting small grassfires. The light ’Mech staggered as if sucker-punched, slowing. All but falling into the brace of advanced tactical missiles which corkscrewed in on gray exhaust trails to blossom yellow-orange fireballs from head to toe.

Hot-cycling his weapons even as his BattleMech’s reactor spike washed his cockpit in sweltering waves of waste heat, Alaric held his angle and traded another full salvo for the Hellion’s laser.

A bright orange lance slash-burned armor from the Blood Reaper’s right leg. It threw a hitch into Alaric’s step, but it was hardly a problem.

His second barrage was more than the light ’Mech could stand. A severed leg and heavy internal damage took the machine down hard, plowing it into the soft earth. High-velocity metal spat out of the gaping rents as the Hellion’s gyroscope tore itself into shrapnel.

The MechWarrior would be a fool to get back up again.

And if he tried, Alaric would kill him.

True to his word, Rahm had cut eastward to spread some little distance between the separate one-on-one battles. He’d also throttled back, determined to keep some distance on the smaller, faster Hellion. Which left Alaric’s Blood Reaper in between Rahm and his target. Alaric never hesitated, pivoting into a hard left and racing across the trueborn’s line of sight, spoiling the other cadet’s aim and waiting—ready—for him to burn so much as a small laser into Alaric’s side.

Rahm didn’t. He pulled out of his own shot rather than risk instigating a grand melee before his first kill. Surrendering initiative to the Hellion, Rahm rode out a pair of deep, angry wounds to his ’Mech’s left arm and flank.

Sweat stung Alaric’s eyes as more waste heat piled into the cramped cockpit, bleeding up through the deck plate. His breath came sharp and shallow, pulling hot coals down into his lungs. But already he had his crosshairs centered on the Vulture, having guessed that the other MechWarrior would not anticipate the Hellion’s surrender.

The Vulture stood there, immobile, waiting for the all-clear signal to advance and challenge the testing cadet. As the Hellion’s pilot shut down his targeting computer and his icon disappeared from everyone’s tactical display, Alaric was already working his crosshairs carefully up the other BattleMech’s lanky body, targeting the narrow profile of cockpit nestled between the shoulder-mounted launchers.

The Hellion went dark, and Alaric put one of his PPCs through the Vulture’s ferroglass face mask. The other cannon went just a few meters high, slashing impotently through the air, but the miss hardly mattered. The cockpit caved inward under the brutal stream of the first cannon, half-melted and half torn away, letting the interior fill with hellish energies that cremated the Wolf veteran on the spot.

Laziness should be a terminal illness in any warrior.

“Great Father!” Rahm yelled. Partly in admiration, of course. But in no small amount of shock, either.

Alaric, meanwhile, felt like howling his frustration over the common channel he shared with the other cadet. Four years he had waited for this. Four years during which he was instructed on how to challenge for a refusal of position. Waited for the moment when it was deemed appropriate for him to make his stand and separate himself from the pack. From his sibkin.

And they were making it easy!

But the Jupiter was one hundred tons of pure, unpleasant war avatar, a massive assault-class ’Mech with vast reach in its large lasers and twin launchers capable of spitting out two score of long-range missiles in every flight. This Wolf was ready, or at least had learned something from the previous warrior’s mistake. With the Vulture’s cockpit a smoking ruin, the ’Mech standing there, dead, the Jupiter waited for no call of engagement. Gem-bright laserfire burned through the space between them, slashing at Alaric’s arms and right leg. With a backward-rocking motion, the Jupiter set itself as forty missiles took to the air in a wide spread of violence.

Alaric had no choice but to stand against the blistering assault. He’d pushed his fusion reactor deep into the red. The Blood Reaper responded sluggishly, as rising heat levels addled the ’Mech’s control circuitry, and his targeting reticle cut in and out as the sensitive electronics suffered similarly.

The lasers stripped away armor, melting deep wounds into his limbs. Molten composite runneled down his ’Mech’s leg, splashing into the grass. More sooty black smoke spread behind him as he staggered away from the budding fires and Rahm, who now moved up, having finally put down his own light Hellion.

Warheads fell all around Alaric, tearing up the sod and smashing like huge fists over his head and shoulders. The shaking threw him against his seat restraints and threatened to beat him down to the ground. He wrestled with the control sticks, using his arms as counterbalance and ducking forward far enough that his own sense of equilibrium stressed the Blood Reaper’s gyroscope enough to maintain balance within a kilo or two of toppling.

He eased off his throttle, then slammed it back into full reverse as soon as he regained control of the Blood Reaper. The ’Mech nearly spun over, and Alaric felt like he’d been punched in the gut as the quick-release buckle on his restraint harness dug deep into his abdomen.

He glanced at his wireframe schematic. His left PPC showed a control circuitry failure. Pushed too hard too fast. And the thin armor protecting his cockpit was of desperate concern as well, as another salvo of missile fire hammered down around him. A single warhead slammed into the side of the Blood Reaper’s head, the noise of the explosion thundering through the cockpit as the brutal shove jogged him sideways.

Two kills in as many minutes. Alaric was a Star commander in Clan Wolf now. Good enough, but not what he had promised. Not what he had been promised.

If he’d had both particle projector cannons available, he’d still have had a shot at wearing down the assault ’Mech’s thick armor. As it was, he was beaten. Beaten before he had even scratched the massive titan, having spent his equipment with reckless abandon. Which left him only one option.

Alaric staggered, letting the Blood Reaper sag backward.

He had assumed Rahm would not—could not—make the hard call. There Alaric was, falling back as the Jupiter pressed forward with a hard-hitting assault, everything about his ’Mech shouting weakness. Rahm was in his six. A ristar not afraid of making an enemy would seize the opportunity to attack and disable the faltering ’Mech. A warrior too full of his own sense of honor would instigate a melee first, and then turn his weapons on the other testing cadet.

Which would have given Alaric warning enough to take the first shot.

So the rude shove, slamming his Blood Reaper in the small of the back and slicing deep into hips and armored legs, actually caught the new Star commander by surprise. Rahm hit him with everything the Blood Reaper had, having learned the wrong lessons from Alaric’s own blitzkrieg assault.