His tongue throbbed in pain and he tasted a hint of blood in his mouth, but it was the sound of tearing metal that shocked Erik back to life. Shaking off his dizziness, he blinked away the dark threat of unconsciousness as he recognized the shriek of a diamond-edged powersaw against armor. His armor. It was a sound he was unlikely to forget, having been under the blade of a ForestryMech one other time before. That time of his earlier disgrace.
The ForestryMech. Felled during the opening moment of battle, its pilot had apparently collected himself well enough to dive back into the fray. Missing its autocannon-arm, the gray machine still had use of the massive, tree-killing blades by which it primarily practiced its trade. With one foot stepping down on the broad ax-head of Erik’s hatchet, the WorkMech used the powersaw to sever the haft and take from Erik his most potent close-in weapon.
Most potent, perhaps, but not his only weapon.
Thumbing an activation stud on his right-hand control stick, Erik released his BattleMech’s grip on the ruined hatchet. Shoving that hand against the ground, he propped himself up enough to lean in with his torso-mounted autocannon, thrusting the barrel into the ForestryMech’s armored crotch. He pulled his trigger, holding it down, spending thousands of eighty millimeter, high velocity rounds. Lethal metal tore into the ForestryMech’s gyro housing, boring through the stabilizers and then hammering away at the engine shielding above that. Fuel oil mixed with hydraulic fluids spilled down in a black gush of ’Mech blood, staining the lower legs of the ForestryMech which staggered and then toppled back.
Climbing slowly back to his feet, Erik surveyed the wreckage his forces had made of Star Colonel Torrent’s foraging column. Some of the Steel Wolves’ faster vehicles had broken past his one remaining Destroyer, fleeing back the way they’d come. A few of the supply trucks had escaped as well, mainly because of their large initial numbers, and were hardly worth chasing down with valuable military assets.
The rest lay in ruins, smashed, broken and burning from one side of Siren’s Pass to the other. Sharp winds fanned any flame into crackling infernos and lifted the oily smoke higher up the mountainside. Even through the cockpit’s sound suppression, Erik could still hear the wind’s whistling echoes. He counted two down MiningMechs, two others lost behind a cave-in but easily rescued, a lost Maxim and several dead Hauberk infantry, and a destroyed SM1. According to the reports which now bled in over one another, his Purifiers had captured one JES carrier and some supply vehicles.
“Now we’ll see where things fall,” he whispered out loud, just quiet enough not to be picked up by the neurohelmet’s voice-activated mic.
The price had run slightly higher than Erik had wanted to pay, but the loss to Star Colonel Torrent would be galling. It would bait him to some kind of action. And whether the Steel Wolf commander came for Erik in Hahnsak, forcing him to call in his new allies for protection, placing them in between himself and danger, or went straight for Kyle Powers himself, the Swordsworn position on Achernar would only improve. But by how much? That was the question.
Erik’s answer was just as easy. By however much he could squeeze from the situation. His uncle, his family, his people, expected no less of him.
Erik expected no less of himself.
13
The Challenge
Steel Wolf DropShip Lupus
Achernar
2 May 3133
“Iwill allow the death of star captain laren mehta to be recorded as a fitting warrior’s end, though my review of the battle-rom footage is not nearly so generous, star colonel. mehta should have held cover over your insertion. that is the last bit of charity i expect you to need from me.”
The voice floated in from Torrent’s office, calm and steady yet still possessing a rough-edged threat that promised that this was a man used to giving orders. Every word had been chosen with care and the smallest pause followed after each as the speaker overenunciated, making certain that he would always be clearly understood. It was a voice for the Senate floor, command-level staff meetings, and battlefield frequencies all three.
Leaning over the washbasin of his office’s small, attached lavatory Torrent glared at himself from beneath angry brows. He had no need to watch the holographic message again, having spent enough time in Prefect Radick’s company to know that his commander’s face betrayed no personal thoughts. He left it playing so that Kal Radick’s orders would set themselves firmly in his mind, and as a reminder that Achernar was only one stepping stone toward the Steel Wolves’ ultimate goal. On the far bank waited Tikonov, Duke Aaron Sandoval, and control of Prefecture IV.
Torrent’s lip twitched up into the beginning of a snarl, which he quickly suppressed. Palming a handful of oily gel, he smeared it back over his head. Thick, black stubble scraped against his hand. The unscented gel smelled caustic, almost rancid.
Picking up the curved blade at the side of his washbasin, Torrent raised it to his scalp and set the laser-sharpened edge against his skin starting at his widow’s peak. With a long, slow pull he shaved it back—careful, calm—over the crown of his pate. Softened to wire brush stiffness, the stubble rasped against the knife’s edge. He took another stripe to the left of the first, then used the side of the basin to scrape the knife clean of gel and shavings.
“Now. You should remember enough from our planning sessions to know how much I value Achernar and Ronel. Colton Fetladral’s report, which I have attached, proves that we underestimated the dedication of Katana Tormark’s forces and the resolve of CEO Bannson to resist our offers of alliance.” A longer pause, for effect Torrent felt certain. “That man has a private agenda, I swear.”
Torrent contemplated the edge of his blade. It glinted a cruel, steel blue in the lavatory’s dim light, and reminded him of his previously delicate position on Achernar balanced between the Swordsworn and Republic. A position that had changed overnight. Jacob Bannson was not the only one with a hidden agenda, he knew. Sandoval. The name crept back into his thoughts. Erik Sandoval. Returning to his morning ablutions he shaved another rasping strip from the side of his head, careful of his own ear as the blade whispered against it. The personal maintenance forced Torrent to calm, focus.
“Still, Bannson remains of secondary importance so long as Katana Tormark continues to devil our worlds. The Dragon Lady professes complete ignorance, of course, but I know that it is she. One of her suicide samurai buried a Visigoth into the bridge of Fetladral’s Bloody Hunt during his insertion run.” A chime sounded in the office as someone rang through from the corridor. “It never recovered.”
Torrent leaned back through the door, called, “Come.” He cleaned his blade again, and then went to work on his right side.
He knew it would be Nikola Demos, and he knew the holographic image that the armor-driving star captain walked in on. It was the kind of image that haunted every ground-force commander. Even him. A once-graceful Gazelle–class DropShip, though you could never tell from the strewn, fire-blackened wreckage that was left of it. In one terrifying moment following the Miraborg-death of an aerospace fighterpilot, Colton Fetladral lost a star of converted WorkMechs, an armor binary, and any chance of taking Ronel.
Without help.
“It comes down to this,” Kal Radick promised. “Choosing between taking a harder line with the enemy I know, Aaron Sandoval, and the enemy I do not know as well, Katana Tormark. In this, I must choose Tormark. She is an accomplished military leader with an aggressive force backing her. It is of long-term importance that we convince her to stay on her own side of the Prefecture border. In fact, opposing her in this manner will cement our position on Achernar as well. In the end, we prove that what we are doing is both prudent and sound in directly occupying important worlds.”