“Promises, promises,” Lexa said, sliding the comb back into her pocket and pushing away from the boulder.

“If you ask me, finding a place to sleep sounds like a fine idea,” Jock said.

Will shook his head. “Only if I wanted to wake up under the foot of a Steel Wolf ’Mech. Now—”

“We’ve got trucks.” A man from the Northwind Fusiliers came up the road at a half run. “Radio silence, everyone. Trucks. We’re falling back. Rally point is at grid position nine–one–forty–three. Pass it on to everyone you see.”

He continued running down the road and out of sight. The three comrades looked at each other.

“So what’s that all about?” Lexa asked.

“I don’t take orders from a Corporal in the Fuzies,” Jock said.

“All right, people,” Sergeant Donohue said, appearing suddenly out of the underbrush on the shoulder of the road. Unlike almost everybody else Will had seen in the past few hours, the Sergeant didn’t look either tired or rumpled, and Will wondered, not for the first time, if the man had his uniform tattooed onto his body. “Why aren’t you saddling up? We’ve got some trucks to catch.”

“What’s the word, Sarge?” Lexa asked. “Where are we going?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you.” The Sergeant looked around. “Where’s Corporal McCloud?”

“Last I saw, up at the observation post,” Will replied.

“Right. On your way.” The Sergeant faded back into the underbrush.

“Sounds like we have our orders,” Jock said.

“Let’s move, then,” Will said. He slung his pack onto his shoulders, picked up his rifle, and headed off at a trot for the staging area, with Lexa and Jock running beside him.

At the staging area, there were indeed trucks waiting, and hot food too, trucked in. A medical corpsman had an aid station going under a tent flap rigged from the side of one truck; a chaplain was holding services at another truck, standing up in the truck bed so that he looked down on his makeshift congregation.

“Either of you need any of that?” Lexa asked.

“What I want is some of my mum’s homemade berry tart,” Will said. “That’d make me right. But since what we have is army meat and army bread—”

“—which comes from no known animal or plant—” Jock chimed in.

“—every day’s a holiday and every meal’s a feast,” Lexa finished. “Here comes an officer; maybe he knows something.”

The officer in question—a Major with a bullhorn—took the chaplain’s place on the back of the truck as soon as the service was finished.

“Listen up, people,” he said. “I want everyone with anti-armor weapons and ammo up in the lead vehicle.” He gestured to his left. “If you have antiarmor, move up there now. If there are more than will fit, take the second truck, and the third, and so on.” He paused. “If you have anti-air weapons, I want you in the middle truck, that’s truck side number six–zero–four, right here where I’m standing. Move there now.” He paused again. “Everyone with unused demolition charges or special heavy weapons—heavy machine guns, rocket launchers, mortars, move to the rear of the convoy. Last truck, people. Fill in forward from there. Move now.”

The Major paused yet again while Will chewed on the army bread. It wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t tasty either. On the other hand, it had a shelf life measured in decades, and contained the minimum daily requirement of almost everything except fun.

The Major’s voice came over the bullhorn one more time. “Everyone else, pick a place on one of the remaining vehicles. Go there. The column is pulling out in five minutes.”

The truck to the left of the middle vehicle was empty. Will nodded in that direction and said to the others, “You heard the man—let’s get on board while there are still seats. Maybe someone on the truck can tell us where we’re going.”

“If you ask me,” said Lexa with pessimistic relish, “this is all an absolute disaster, and the only place we’re going is straight to hell.”

“Why do you say that?” Will asked as he climbed over the tailboards. Bench seats lined the sides of the truck. He headed forward to where the back of the cab would provide some shelter against what looked like was turning into a vile evening.

“We’re advancing to the rear in glorious victory against a foe that is routing forward in utter disorder,” Lexa said. “At this rate the Steel Wolves are going to be in the capital by daybreak. No one knows what we have or where we are—including our own side. Our units are all broken up. If I was calling this ‘every man for himself’ how wrong would I be?”

“Not very,” said Jock. “It looks like it’s the three of us against the world.”

“Then the world had better watch out,” Will said.

The truck soon filled up with more men and women, some with full kit, others carrying nothing more than a rifle and a satchel of spare charges. In fewer than the promised five minutes the humming note of the truck’s engine lowered and they lurched forward. The spot against the back wall of the cab proved to be a good one. Will, Lexa, and Jock only got wet on one side when the clouds opened and the rain poured down half an hour into their trip.

45

Plains north of Tara; the Fort

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

Nicholas Darwin sat atop his Condor tank, relishing the cool evening air after a day spent in the rank, stuffy confines of the tank’s interior, and listening to the communications chatter among the Warriors of his command. A light mist drifted down from the cloudy sky, cooling his skin, and the faint whiff of ozone from the Condor’s main gun told of a battle won. Anastasia Kerensky would be pleased.

“Resistance is crumbling, Star Colonel,” Star Captain Greer reported over the command circuit. “We are taking light small-arms fire only. No heavy guns. No sign of enemy ’Mechs.”

“Very well,” Darwin said. “Exit the valley.”

He turned to the communications operator in the Condor tank. “Send a signal to Galaxy Commander Anastasia Kerensky: Route secure. Preparing to advance.”

“As you command, Star Colonel,” said Greer, and the communications officer said, “Message sent.”

Darwin swung back down into the body of the tank. Time to start moving again.

“Once we are on the plain,” he ordered, “take formation. Skirmishers forward, hovercraft on the flanks. I do not desire surprises.”

“What about the Highlanders, Star Colonel?” asked Greer.

“The Highland line is broken,” Darwin said. “Bypass the ones who will not surrender. We can mop them up later.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ezekiel Crow closed the office door behind him and leaned back against it with a heavy sigh of exhaustion. The departure from his usual unbending posture spoke volumes to Tara Campbell about the depths of his fatigue. She herself was propped half standing, half sitting on the edge of the room’s heavy wooden desk. One more minute spent standing tall and unwavering, she was convinced, would have had her toppling like a felled tree.

Tara and Crow had met in the Prefect’s small office in the depths of the Fort in order to go over the latest battlefield intelligence reports. By unspoken agreement, they had left the Combat Information Center in order to have that conversation in private. There was no point in making other people into unwilling eavesdroppers on a discussion that might damage their morale.

Tara still had her freshly updated data pad in her hand; the Paladin made a weary gesture in its general direction.

“What do we have by way of reinforcements?” he asked.

“Nothing we didn’t have last night,” she said. “Mostly those Tyson and Varney retrofit ’Mechs. But they are all in the city now and moving west.”

He nodded slowly, not looking at her, his gaze fixed on something out beyond the toes of his boots. “It’s enough to let us set up a line half a day out. If we hold, we can at least give the civilians time to evacuate.”