“Put a tank with medium-range missiles onto them,” Tara ordered by way of the command talker. “I’ll be along shortly.”

She brought the Hatchetman striding out through the Highlander lines, heading for 21–23–8 at a steady, moderate pace. No need to build up too much heat in the opening of what promised to be a brisk and energetic dance. As she went, she looked about for the IndustrialMechs—and there they were, a trio of dark shapes looming up out of the fog and rain, ugly blocky things that lacked the clean, designed-to-kill lines of a true BattleMech. Nevertheless, the Schmitt tank engaging them was outclassed and clearly knew it, though it pressed its attack boldly, dashing in close to fire a volley and retreating rapidly out of range.

“These are mine,” she said to the tank. “Get clear.”

The Schmitt pulled away through the rain at top speed, waves of muddy water flying up from under its wheels as it ran. Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder rumbled as Tara Campbell engaged her prey.

Ezekiel Crow was hunting. The Blade BattleMech strode quickly through the fray, not pausing to expend its ammo on lesser targets than other ’Mechs. An all-day slugging match would not help the people of Tara. Even with all of the region’s noncombatant public services put to work in the evacuation, no army could buy enough time for everyone in the city to reach safety. If the Highlander line broke—or even if the Highlanders did not break, but stood and died to the last man and the last woman—when the battle-maddened Steel Wolves poured into the streets of the capital, buildings would burn and people would die.

The only sure salvation lay in forcing the Wolves to retreat. And for that, he needed to engage the modified Ryoken II that battlefield intelligence reported as the mount of Anastasia Kerensky. Engage it, and kill it. Without their leader, the Steel Wolves would turn and run like the dogs they at heart remained.

“Do you have a location yet on the Wolves’ commander?” he asked the command talker over the Blade’s cockpit comms.

“We’re showing a big mass of iron five klicks on your left flank, at about the right speed constraints. That could be her.”

“I’m going over to take a look.” Crow moved from a trot to a run.

“Who is it rides the Blade?” Anastasia Kerensky demanded of the Steel Wolves’ battlefield intelligence officer. “And who the Hatchetman?”

She could see both of the ’Mechs from where she was advancing toward the Highlander lines in her Ryoken II. The Hatchetman loomed over the infantry in the Northwind center—a hunch-shouldered, broad-chested brute, its right arm terminating in a huge, depleted-uranium-edged ax. There was nothing at all subtle about a Hatchetman; it was a brawler and a thug, a ’Mech for someone who liked close-in, dirty fighting.

The Blade, now, that roamed back and forth along the Northwind front—if any ’Mech could be described as elegant (besides, of course, her own beloved and specially modified Ryoken II ), it was a Blade. Tall, fast-moving, and lightly armored, the Blade was a fencer’s ’Mech, or a sprinter’s.

Anastasia Kerensky was willing to bet that the delicate, yellow-haired Countess of Northwind piloted a Blade.

“Battlefield intelligence here,” a voice said over the Ryoken II’s cockpit comms. “As of last report, Galaxy Commander, Paladin of the Sphere Ezekiel Crow uses a Blade BattleMech.”

And I would have lost my bet, Anastasia thought. “So the Hatchetman belongs to the pretty little Countess.”

“That is strongly probable.”

“Who would have thought it?” Anastasia said. “Someday she and I will have to try one another—but not today, I think.”

She looked out over the rainswept battlefield, and saw the tall, lean shape of the Blade coming toward her at a lope.

“Today I have a Paladin to kill.”

Three ’Mechs against her one, and all the IndustrialMechs were sluggers—Tara Campbell brought her Hatchetman into action at a ground-shaking run, wondering as she did so whether the Wolves had modified the ’Mechs to be more suitable for battle.

As if in answer, the nearest of the three—a ForestryMech, by the huge chainsaw that formed its right arm—turned toward her and raised the other arm. An autocannon chittered, spouting bright flashes of light.

Whirlwind series autocannon, said her memory of intelligence reports and battles past. The Hatchetman’s armor could take it. A Whirlwind was a light weapon, suitable for impressing other Industrials. Let him see what a real BattleMech could do. She let her targeting computer handle the job of aiming, and fired the Imperator Automatic Ultra 10 autocannon in the Hatchetman’s right torso.

The Imperator spat out hot flame and metal, forcing the modified ForestryMech to dodge, even as Tara sighted in on the one next nearest—a MiningMech, this time, probably with a bolt-on weapons package of its own. She targeted the MiningMech with her laser, vaporizing the pouring rain into a fog bank burned through with dazzling red light. The laser wouldn’t do as much damage today as it could under better conditions—its beam was diffracted and dispersed and reflected by the sheets of falling rain—but the MechWarrior Tara was facing would still know that he’d been in a fight.

Sweat started beading on her forehead as the heat buildup in the Hatchetman’s cockpit ramped up. Firing two weapons at once, while attacking at a dead run—it was a damned good thing that her ’Mech had superior heat dissipation, and that she was fighting in an icy rainstorm on top of it.

Missiles flashed out ahead of her. She checked her cockpit displays, looking for the source. Not the ForestryMech—he was away to her left and going for position. The missiles came from the two remaining—they were both modified MiningMechs, all right, firing short-range missiles, in clusters, inbound.

Tara spun right to take the hits on the Hatchetman’s left torso. If she had to sacrifice a weapon, the autocannon would be the one to let go, because she was going to need the capabilities the hatchet gave her. The struggle with the three ’Mechs would be a knock-down hand-to-hand ’Mech fight, and a knock-down, hand-to-hand weapon was what she had—the great crushing ax at the end of her ’Mech’s right arm.

49

Plains north of Tara

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

Anastasia Kerensky turned her Ryoken II to face the onrushing Blade. The light ’Mech had nothing for armor, its lasers couldn’t match her own heavier weapons, and she outweighed it by forty tons. This ought to be an easy kill, but she knew better than to make assumptions. A Paladin of the Sphere did not achieve that position by being an incompetent MechWarrior, and if Ezekiel Crow preferred to use a Blade, he must have learned years ago how to compensate for its disadvantages and make the most of its advantages.

The Blade was still coming at her, moving faster than before. The streaming rain blurred its outline in her view. Lightning flashed, dazzling her briefly—the fast-moving storm had to be almost directly above the battlefield by now, just as the Paladin’s Blade was almost on top of her. She activated the Ryoken II’s jump jets and launched herself into the air.

The Blade raised its right arm, the Mydron Model RC Rotary autocannon tracking Anastasia as she leapt, the high-explosive, armor-piercing shells striking her legs and lower torso as she descended and brought her ’Mech’s arms smashing down against the lighter Blade–and struck only air as the Blade spun away, using its greater speed and agility to twist and burn her with a medium-range laser all the way down.