Lexa grimaced. “You’re trying to cheer us up, aren’t you?”

“Just letting you know what the Wolves are up against—and they don’t even know it.” He put the Fox back into forward motion. “Have your weapons charged and ready. If we don’t know where the Wolves are yet—well, they could be anywhere.”

31

Red Ledge Pass

Bloodstone Range of the Rockspire Mountains

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

Star Colonel Nicholas Darwin stood in the open hatch of his Condor tank, scanning the winding road ahead. In actual combat, making a target of himself in such a manner would be dangerous, but the comparative safety of remaining buttoned up inside the vehicle was paid for with decreased visibility. The tanks had sophisticated on-board sensors and guidance displays, but the information they provided didn’t satisfy him completely.

For this mission he wanted all the data that he could gather, and the feel for terrain that came from observations made using his own five senses. Small things—the shift of a breeze bearing a scent of oil or ozone, the disturbing flicker in his peripheral vision that meant something was moving and out of place, the taste of dust at the back of his throat—had given him warning before this, on other worlds. He wanted access to them now.

Behind him stretched out the long tail of vehicles and infantry that made up the advance column of the Steel Wolves. He wished that the column could move faster. Evening was drawing on, and the road already lay deep in purple shadow where the bulk of the surrounding mountains blocked out the sunlight. But however much he might wish it, he knew that faster progress was not possible. The column had to hold itself to the speed of its slowest members, or risk becoming scattered up and down the length of the narrow defile that was Red Ledge Pass.

Nicholas Darwin’s command tank was at the head of the column. The only Steel Wolf units further along the road were the scouts—two– and three-person teams driving light, all-terrain Shandra Advanced Scout Vehicles and making frequent radio contact. He made a point of pulling the scouts back into the main group at regular intervals and sending out fresh teams to take their places.

Even among the Steel Wolves, people talked a lot of nonsense about scouts reporting contact with the enemy, but Nicholas Darwin knew as well as anyone else that such was not in fact the usual case. Most often, word of the enemy came when a scout failed to check in. He had done scout duty himself more than once before attaining his present rank. And he had even—more than once—found the enemy and lived to make his report, which had gained him a reputation early on for being both competent and lucky.

These days, however, he received reports, rather than making them. The Condor’s radio crackled; he picked up the handset and keyed it on.

“Darwin here.”

“Scout Team Alpha reporting, sir. Main road clear, next ten kilometers; no sign of the enemy.”

Darwin checked the topographical map display on his handheld pad, and frowned. The main route—Highway 66, if the signs were to be believed—continued to follow the narrow defile through the pass. He did not like it. The column was strung out with no room to turn or maneuver, and the high mountains pressing in on either side of the road made him feel hemmed in and twitchy.

“What about off-road movement?” he inquired over the radio. “Can the column handle the rough terrain?”

“Negative, sir,” said the distant, crackly voice. “The Shandras can handle it, and the ’Mechs could probably handle it, but nothing else. The grade is too steep.”

“Very well,” he said. “Continue checking out the terrain surrounding the road ahead. Pay particular attention to the high ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything further to report, Warrior?”

There was a pause. Darwin could imagine the distant infantryman frowning as he searched for the right words. “The sensor instrumentation on the Shandra, sir.”

“What about the instrumentation?” Darwin experienced a sinking feeling. It was never good when previously reliable machinery started showing signs of unpredictable behavior. “What is it doing?”

“Bad readings, sir. Shifting, inconclusive, alerting when there is nothing to find.”

“Any idea what might be going on?”

No pause this time. “Conjecture, sir. Signage earlier identified this part of the Rockspires as the Bloodstone Range, and I am seeing large outcroppings of hematite and magnetite ores. I believe these outcroppings to be interfering with the action of the sensors.”

“Iron and lodestone,” Darwin said thoughtfully. “Not surprising, Warrior. Place no trust in the sensors; rely on your own eyes and ears. Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Carry on. Let me know at once if you make contact with the enemy. Darwin out.”

He closed the handheld and sealed it back into the cargo pocket of his fatigues. To the Condor’s driver he said: “Move it on forward,” then gave the hand signal for the rest of the column to follow.

Behind him, the long line of vehicles stirred into motion and rumbled onward into the gathering dusk.

32

Red Ledge Pass

Bloodstone Range of the Rockspire Mountains

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

Will Elliot paused on the high ridge, just below the crest line. He took care to stand in the shelter of a large boulder so as not to show up against the darkening sky. Night was coming on, and the winding road below was already half in shadow.

The view was a familiar one. The last time he’d stood in this place, he’d just finished what turned out to be his last guiding job for Rockhawk Wilderness Tours. That day felt like a lifetime ago in some ways. The world around him had already been changing at that point, but he hadn’t yet realized how fast those changes would come, or how many of them would be bad.

Here on the high ground the wind was keen, cutting through his regimental jacket, making him wish that he had his old wilderness gear instead. Standard-issue summer uniforms did well enough for the warm weather in the lowlands, but hypothermia posed a danger all year round on the mountain slopes, and could kill an infantryman as dead as any Steel Wolf ’Mech. Jock and Lexa didn’t understand the changeable mountain weather; he would have to keep an eye on both of them.

He scrambled back down the slope and into the shelter of the trees. The logging road wasn’t far. It was a dirt track, not meant for the use of ForestryMechs. The ’Mechs were mostly good for clear-cutting, and for working the ordered rows of conifers and hardwoods on the big tree farms. Here in the protected forest area, any harvesting done would be selective and small-scale, the timber hand-cut with one– and two-person power saws and hauled out on skiploaders along narrow roads that left no visible scars on the mountainside.

The protected forests had survived largely because offworld tourists didn’t like the big clear-cuts; and they didn’t appreciate the presence of hulking ForestryMechs spoiling their pristine wilderness vistas. Will didn’t know how much longer that concern for the mountains would endure, now that the offworld tourists were gone.

Except for the likes of the Steel Wolves, he reminded himself—and they aren’t here to admire the scenery.

He was still in a somber mood when he joined Jock and Lexa by the Fox armored car.

“Bad news?” Lexa asked.

He shook his head. “No sight of the enemy yet.”

“Maybe they’re not coming,” Jock said.

“They’re coming,” he said.

“There’s a thousand miles around us in every direction,” Jock said. “Why here?”