But now he glanced more frequently between his targeting and a readout on the star colonel’s ’Mech. One of his autocannon salvoes had crippled the laser, and both shoulder launchers looked to be off-line as well. Also, Kyle Powers had done a number on the Tundra Wolf’s armor before falling to its weapons. Raul counted three deep rents in the upper chest, one of them glowing with the golden hue of the BattleMech’s internal fires.
The Legionnaire stood up under all the abuse Torrent could give it. Another glancing blow to the cockpit. Left arm chewed down to a twisted, skeletal stump, right leg fused into little better than a BattleMech peg leg. Sweat poured down his face, stinging at the corners of his eyes, his lips. Every gasp for breath pulled hot coals down into his lungs. He outlasted the Jessie as it finally grounded out after a series of hammering gauss slugs from the M1 Marksman. He ordered his own Purifiers after the tank, intent on capturing it for the Standing Guard, but never once took his eyes off the rock-steady Wolf. The desert shook with natural thunder, and the rain beat down hard enough to drum a deafening roll over his head and shoulders. The Legionnaire’s ruined right leg trembled beneath Raul, threatening to give out at any second, but he held his BattleMech up, squinted through the pouring rainfall, spat out another set of ruby darts and then lashed out again with an extra-long pull from his autocannon. If Torrent wanted him, he’d have to be willing to trade ’Mechs. Maybe trade lives. It was a decision Raul was ready to make.
Star Colonel Torrent, apparently, was not.
The Tundra Wolf took an actual step backward, then another. Then, with a violent lurch that seemed able to convey the star colonel’s anger as well as his frustration, the seventy-five-ton BattleMech showed Raul its back, high-stepping over the Jupiter’s stilled legs and then kicking in with its MASC equipment to put immediate distance between the two MechWarriors.
His finger already crimped around the trigger, pulling it back into the control stick grip, Raul hammered another several hundred rounds into the back of the Tundra Wolf, but against fresh armor there was no real chance to harm it. The M1 Marksman drove in between the two, guarding the star colonel’s flank. Raul called off the infantry, ready to save lives now that Torrent had bowed out of the challenge.
Now that Kyle Powers and at least one armor crew had already paid the highest price for the Republic’s pyrrhic victory.
“Raul? Hey, Ortega!” Tassa’s voice, filled with a healthy amount of respect and enthusiasm. “You did it. Do not ask me how, but you actually backed off Star Colonel Torrent.”
Breathing shallow, trying to pull oxygen out of the cockpit’s reactor-baked air, Raul slumped back into his chair and let the automatic safeguards shut down his reactor. Panel lights died, leaving him one red-tinted backup and the rain-dampened gray which filtered through his ferroglass shield. Drenched in sweat, utterly spent, his arm felt like dead weight as he tied his comms system into the battery reserves.
“Torrent got what he wanted,” he said, voice cracking. Raul swallowed dryly, tasting blood from his bitten lip. “I just denied him the trophy.” And ran the cost up on the Steel Wolf commander as well, with one converted WorkMech destroyed and another captured.
“Take the victories you can get, Raul. There is not much more to a MechWarrior’s life.”
Raul nodded to the darkened cockpit, his neurohelmet pressing down with insufferable weight against his shoulders. Kyle Powers had put a similarly low price on his own life with the way he had fought the battle, and Raul couldn’t help but believe that the Republic had lost more than it gained this day.
“But there should be, Tassa.” He stared out into the rain. “There should be.”
16
Spectators
River’s Run Flatlands
Achernar
4 March 3133
Rain continued to pound the River’s Run Flatlands just as it had hammered through the Taibek foothills and Agave Dales. Sand-choked rivulets streaked the ferroglass shield of Erik’s Hatchetman. Desert wash flooded the old river course that raged along as if the river had never been diverted to better serve the city of River’s End.
“Something coming through, Lord Sandoval.” Michael Eus had commandeered a spot inside the heavily armored mobile HQ vehicle. His voice cracked on Erik’s title. It might have been the static of transmission. “Erik… sir! Knight-Errant Powers has fallen. Patching through the trans—”
One of the HQ techs cut Eus off, splicing the intercepted transmission onto Erik’s command frequency. A Republic soldier reported back to base, informing Colonel Blaire that Kyle Powers had been gravely injured—possibly killed—in battle. A tingling chill walked up Erik’s spine. Listening to those reports of the challenge battle’s final moments, he pulled his Hatchetman out of the column line and stomped it up to the crest of a small, mud-slick rise. A deep roll of thunder cheered the Republic. Rain applauded against the elongated head of Erik’s BattleMech for the assembled Swordsworn force.
A half dozen converted MiningMechs continued their dedicated march alongside the old riverbed, rolling along on tank-tread feet. A Behemoth, two Condors and a squad of four Jousts followed, leading a double-wide column of command and support vehicles. Nearer to the column’s rear the mobile HQ pulled out of line as well, leaving its place next to a MIT 23 M.A.S.H. unit, grinding to a halt in between Erik and his tail-end military force. Ranger scout vehicles mixed in among infantry carriers. A squad of veteran Demons rolled along, unconcerned, while JES carriers wove in and around the back of the column as if eager to move up when called.
Everything he could muster in a timely fashion when Michael Eus brought his uncle’s orders to him.
Enough to hold River’s End. He hoped.
“More time,” Erik whispered to himself. Another week of attrition among Republic forces would have helped. Two would have been better.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Nothing, Michael.” Erik scolded himself for forgetting the voice-activated mic. “I was worried about the time. The river is forcing us into a long detour.” Not exactly true. Even without the flashflooded watercourse, Erik had planned to swing far around the militia-controlled base to come at River’s End from the east.
“Estimated time of arrival is still holding at fifteen hundred hours. I can pass along an order to increase our pace.”
Erik bristled, feeling his anger rising in the warm flush that spread along the nape of his neck. “I can give my own orders when I am ready to, Michael. Continue to monitor the Republic military bands.”
“Yes, Lord Sandoval.” Michael was properly respectful, even though he paused before answering.
Well, what should Erik expect from a man who had stepped forward as his uncle’s soldier, bought and paid for? Michael Eus had brought the Duke’s orders to Erik personally, a coded verifax commanding that all Swordsworn forces move against the Steel Wolves at once or otherwise confound Star Colonel Torrent’s plans so that Kal Radick’s faction could not send more support to Ronel.
“Keep them tied down on Achernar.”
That had been Aaron Sandoval’s order. Standing in full regalia, no doubt about to attend a highly visible—as highly visible as one could get without HPG service—function as Lord Governor, the Swordsworn’s leader nodded imperiously. No questions clouded those bright, cerulean eyes. This man was the master of all he surveyed.