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“Kantel's Recon Lance reports that the Dragoon ambush force has joined Zeta Battalion and is continuing to move north toward the landing zone,” Michi reported. Tai-saSatoh only nodded.

Michi stood staring as the unresponsive Tai-saremained slumped in his chair. Could he not understand what that meant? Most of the fighting force that had landed on Barlow's End was now retreating from battle. The Ryuken was in danger of being surrounded, especially if Federated forces broke off pursuit of the Dragoons and turned toward Landova. Davion troops were forcing the Ryuken out of the city. Before long, their advance forces would reach the command camp's perimeter.

Something exploded outside the command hut, followed by more detonations. Time had run out. The Davion forces had arrived. The guard 'Mechs fired in response to the assault.

Satoh started at the first noise, but then slumped into list-lessness again. His lack of reaction set off a wave of alarm through the Kuritan Techs and troops manning the command post. With the sounds of battle growing ever nearer, a panic began.

Michi waited for Satoh to give orders for the defense of the camp, but others did not. Tai-iWakabe, commander of the Headquarters Lance, ran to direct his ‘Mech Warriors; the rest scrambled in all directions. Some took it on themselves to grab weapons and join the support troops firing on the enemy. Others simply dispersed in terror, a few to temporary salvation and ultimate capture in the wilderness, while most merely ran into the arms of death. In moments, the hut was deserted except for Satoh, Michi, and a single commtech.

“The Davion forces are surrounding us,” Michi said to his unresponsive superior. “We must pull back to the Drop-Ships, Tai-sa.”

Satoh slowly turned his head to look at Michi for a long moment, his eyes dull and face slack. Then he said, “It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was promised.”

The Tai-sa'scomment seemed disconnected from the drastic situation at hand. Michi ground his teeth in anger at this poor excuse for a commander.

“Brace up, Tai-sa,”he exhorted. “We are not beaten yet. You must take command of your troops.”

Michi caught the commtech looking nervously from him to the Tai-sa.The man had something to say, but he didn't know to whom to say it.

“Speak up, man,” Michi snapped. “What is it?”

“A call from the commander of the Eridani Light Horse, sir. He wants us to lay down our arms and surrender.”

“No surrender,” Satoh mumbled.

Michi looked at him in disgust. A surrender refusal should be made with force, to impress with determination.

“The Tai-sais right,” Michi told the commtech. “We will not surrender. Tell the Eridani commander that we refuse his request.”

“I can't, sir. All frequencies are being jammed.”

“Then he really does not want us to surrender.”

Michi glanced at Satoh to see how he took that news. The man was listlessly pawing through the maps, seemingly oblivious to what would be a death sentence for the Kurita forces on Barlow's End. If the Davions could not accept a surrender, no one could fault them for killing all the Kuritans they found. They would claim that any attempts to give up were merc tricks to get closer before attacking.

The end was in sight.

Michi turned to the commtech, “You can no longer serve here. Find a rifle and join the brave soldiers defending the camp.”

“We must hold here,” Satoh mumbled softly. “We must complete the plan ... the plan ... the plan will succeed.”

The commtech had not moved, despite Michi's order. His face was a study in fear, his eyes begging salvation from the young officer.

“You have an order, soldier,” Michi said harshly. “Now move!”

The man almost ran into the door in his haste to leave. Michi watched Satoh as the Tai-sashuffled through his maps—maps that were hours out of date. Satoh was lost in his own mind. Unnerved by the disaster unfolding around him, he began to give orders to subordinates who had been reported killed or captured in the fighting with the Davion forces.

Satoh's failure of will and his retreat from reality betrayed the men under his command, his last order condemning each of them to a useless death. Minobu's carefully nurtured troops would be wasted, thrown away uselessly.

This could not be considered good service to Lord Kurita, Michi decided. His face hardened into a grim mask as he saw what needed to be done.

Against the roar of the battle outside, the sound of a single pistol shot was lost.

26

Office of the Commander, Galedon City, Galedon V

Galedon Military District, Draconis Combine

2 November 3026

 

“Warlord, the ComStar Precentor of Galedon requests an audience.”

The aide stood at rigid attention, his right fist over his heart in the formal Kurita military salute. Speaking to Jerry Akuma, Samsonov ignored the aide. “That is an interesting reversal. I usually have to visit with a battalion at my back to get a moment of the Precentor's precious time. What do you make of it?”

“Perhaps the venerable Precentor Phud is motivated by something more impressive than three dozen BattleMechs.”

Samsonov coughed a rough laugh. “There is little more persuasive than that, unless it is more 'Mechs.”

“Even ComStar Planetary Coordinators are men, Warlord,” Akuma said, face lit with a knowing smile. “Most men find self-interest to be a powerful motivator. Perhaps our Precentor desires a favor.”

“You may be right. If he wanted to make trouble, he would have barged past anybody in his way, wailing about the sanctity of his office. He must want something.” Samsonov thrust out his lower jaw and stroked it with his hand. “Whatever it is, it'll cost him. Let him start with a wait.”

Samsonov's eyes speared the aide. “Bring the Precentor here in an hour.”

Hai,Warlord.”

Exactly an hour later, the Precentor was ushered into the Warlord's office, but the man who walked through the door that Akuma held open was not Jhi To Phud.

The formal robes of office swayed around a man taller and thinner than the fat old bureaucrat they had dealt with in the past. Light gleamed from the expensive fabrics and ornaments the man wore, as well as from his bald head. The passage of many years was evident on his face, but the new Precentor's firm step gave no sign that advanced age had brought him infirmity. His motions were those of one assured of his own dignity and power. He approached the Warlord's heavy teak desk, bowed, and said, “The blessings of the Sainted Blake be upon you, my son.”

Samsonov gave the man a cold stare. The unannounced change in Precentors was clearly an attempt to discomfit him. Two could play that game, he decided. Rather than reply to his visitor, the Warlord indicated a chair with a wave of his hand. The Precentor showed no outrage at this latest petty insult. He sat where indicated and said no more.

Silence stretched, each man waiting for the other to buckle under the tension. Curiosity piqued and temper rising, it was Samsonov who broke the silence. Smiling coldly, he said, “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Precentor?”

“The honor is mine, Warlord. I regret to inform you that Precentor Phud has been called to other duties.” The Precentor paused for a moment, a look of formal sadness on his face. “He had reported to the First Circuit that his relationship with you was smooth and beneficial to all concerned. That is a pattern I believe to be worth preserving.

“I am Alexandre Kalafon, his replacement. I have come to establish my credentials. All the proper documents are contained in the weekly message pouch that my secretary is holding in the outer office.”