“We can only hope,” Captain Bishop said.

They were closing in on the area of the fighting now. Their own troops were well dispersed, dug in, and ready. Kerensky’s Wolves would need luck as well as skill and masses of steel to break through, just as the Highlanders themselves would need luck to hold—luck, because compared to the Highland forces, the Wolves did have masses of steel. Not only that, but their reputation was ferocious.

Captain Bishop wished she could say the same about the Highlander forces currently holding the planet’s capital. They had some experienced troops, after last summer’s engagements in the Rockspires and on the plains above Tara, but—thanks to that same fighting—they didn’t have enough. Not with the Wolves howling for blood. That was why the Countess had worked with Paladin Crow to hire Farrell’s mercenaries in the first place, in order to take up the slack until recruitment and training could fill the empty spaces.

Another few moments, and they were through the line and into the thick of the fight. The Countess fired at a Condor tank with Steel Wolf markings, then jumped away from the return volley of short-range battlefield missiles that the Condor’s support troops launched back at her.

“Infantry’s getting uppity,” Captain Bishop observed.

“That’s because they can get in close,” the Countess said. “We’re in a built-up area. They can go above us, get below us, and move out of sight until they’re close enough to do real damage.”

“Sneaky bastards.”

“You won’t get any argument on that from me,” the Countess replied. “Have you spotted anyone yet besides our own people and the Wolves?”

“Negative. Command and control says: nothing from the mercs.”

“Right,” the Countess said. Her voice was taut. “Bishop, get over to the mercs’ encampment. Find Farrell, ask him where the hell he’s been. Get things moving. And if you happen to see a burned-out Blade ’Mech along the way—”

“If I do, I’ll deal,” Bishop said.

She turned her ’Mech and started it loping away. As she ran, behind her, the Countess’s Hatchetman swung its massive, depleted-uranium ax at a wall, breaking it into a hundred pieces and showering the rubble down onto the invading infantry below.

Then the Hatchetman jumped, and Captain Bishop couldn’t see it any more.

40

Fort Barrett

Oilfields Coast

Kearney

Northwind

February 3134; dry season

“Will, Jock, Lexa,” Master Sergeant Murray said. “Sit down, then.”

Will and his two friends had not been back at Fort Barrett more than half an hour before they found themselves summoned to Murray’s office—a cubby off the squad bay. Even inside that enclosed and windowless space, they could hear and feel the air around them vibrating at a steady low rumble as aircraft after aircraft took off from the base’s landing field, bearing troops to New Lanark and the relief of Tara.

Will glanced over at Jock and Lexa. His conscience was fairly clear—there hadn’t been much chance for trouble, going south along the coast and back, and he hoped that theirs were too. His stripes were still too fresh to rip them off now. But an invitation to sit was a good sign.

“What’s up?” Jock began, but Murray had his back turned and was pulling a bottle of whiskey from a desk drawer, along with four battered china teacups.

“I know the three of you are friends,” Murray said, pouring liberal doses of amber fluid into each of the cups. “Fought together, came up through the ranks together.”

“Aye,” Jock said, “that’s true,” and Will and Lexa nodded.

The three of them accepted the filled teacups, and Will sipped at his carefully. It was good liquor—strong and peaty, and meant for thoughtful drinking. If a man wanted merely to get drunk, he spent his money on cheaper stuff.

“And I hear that you’re familiar with the Rockspires,” Murray said, looking directly at Will.

“There’s some that say I am,” Will agreed.

“The captain has something special, and I can’t think of anyone who’d be better,” Murray said. “You can always say no, of course, but if you’re the soldiers that I think you are—then you’ll be platoon sergeants, and that’s an honor for ones so young as you.”

Will was getting a bad feeling. A smiling, friendly sergeant, serving drinks and offering an opportunity for advancement… he kept silent and waited for the hook at the end of the fishing line.

“Well, then,” Murray went on, “knowing the Rockspires as you do, and knowing that the Countess has her castle there, I’m sure you’ll be honored as well to be the ones to hold it until she comes to set it up for a new headquarters.”

“Things are that bad, back in Tara?” Lexa asked.

Murray nodded. “So I think.”

Will hesitated a moment, to hear if Jock or Lexa had anything more to say, but when he looked over in their direction, he saw that they were watching him already, as if waiting for him to speak. He realized that he’d been elected group spokesman without being informed of the vote.

“If that’s how it is,” he said, “then we’re in. For Northwind. And the Countess.”

Murray gave a satisfied nod. “You’ll have a company, and the captain himself will be with you. Your aircraft leaves in half an hour. And leave your kit behind, all but what you can carry in a fight. You won’t need it.”

“Good thing I never wasted my paycheck on a pair of those open-toed pumps,” said Lexa. “Who knew that I’d be in the army for the rest of my life?”

She slugged back the whiskey and set the empty teacup down on Murray’s desk. A second later, Will and Jock did the same. As they left the office, Will noticed that Murray hadn’t touched his own drink.

41

Jack Farrell’s Mercenary Encampment

The Plains Outside Tara

Northwind

February 3134; local winter

Captain Bishop knew the way to One-Eyed Jack Farrell’s headquarters, off to the west of the city. The Pack Hunter was fast and it was not long before she found herself approaching a roadblock on the city’s west side, with a Scimitar MKII locked onto her and tracking.

“I’d like to talk with Captain Farrell,” she said over the ’Mech’s external speakers.

“He’s up the road a ways,” the trooper at the roadblock replied. “You want to leave your ’Mech here?”

“I don’t think so.”

The troops had a whispered conversation. One of them picked up a field phone and called away on it. After a while he got a response.

“Boss says to come on through,” he said. “Up the road, Jack’ll see you.”

Bishop took the Pack Hunter up the road until she found Jack Farrell sitting at a table by the roadside, his massive Jupiter ’Mech towering empty beside him.

“Come on down,” Farrell said. He had a deck of cards in front of him, and was dealing himself a hand of solitaire. Except for his clothing—winter-cammo field gear and a marksman’s fingerless gloves—he looked much as he had when she first met him, playing poker aboard the DropShip Pegasus.

Bishop hesitated a moment. Then she gave in and retrieved her winter greatcoat from the cockpit locker. Shrugging the coat on over her shoulders, she popped open the ’Mech’s hatch and climbed down.

“Take a load off,” Jack said, gesturing to the seat in front of him. He scooped up the cards, shuffling them idly without looking at them. “What can I do for you?”

Bishop remained standing. “I’m looking for a bit of information,” she said. “Has anyone seen Paladin Crow?”

“Yep.” Jack shuffled the cards, cut them, then shuffled again.

“Well, we’re waiting,” Bishop snapped. “There’s an attack going on right now. You’re supposed to be doing an envelopment past the right flank.”