And it would be, because even from the bottom edge of the ramp, calling the Scimitars to him on an auxiliary channel, his HUD lit up with a chaotic jumble of enemy icons. Legionnaire. Joust. A trio of JES tacticals. He read the IFF tag codes with a veteran’s ease. DI Schmitts. Two Giggin APCs, no doubt brimming with armored infantry.

Jupiter.

Torrent read it again. JP3-a. The same tag his computers had assigned to Kyle Powers during their Trial of Grievance. The Knight had returned from the dead—or at least his BattleMech had. Switching to thermal imaging, he centered his crosshairs over a distant red smear and then called up magnification on an auxiliary monitor.

There it was, standing at the edge of the spaceport tarmac where the razed military field bumped up against the larger civilian side. Torrent smiled. “And today I thought my best victory would be over a Hatchetman.” If the militia wanted to gift him with another kill on the Jupiter, Torrent would oblige.

His Pack Hunters had cleared the bay, and from all three of his DropShip’s vehicles and infantry poured, along with a converted ConstructionMech and an AgroMech, Star Captain Demos in her personally modified SM1 Destroyer. All that Star Colonel Torrent had left to him on Achernar. Enough to deal with the militia and still take River’s End away from Erik Sandoval.

“Form on me, line abreast,” he ordered, strutting the Tundra Wolf forward toward the far end of the field. “No one fires until I have chosen my target.” He wanted the Jupiter, of course. If the militia pilot would agree.

He dialed over to a common military band, one which all Republic forces scanned. “I am Star Colonel Torrent, of the Steel Wolves. Who challenges for the San Marino Spaceport?” Not that he expected a true call to Trial, but the forms had to be observed. So Kal Radick expected, and so Torrent of the Kerensky bloodline would do.

The militia had shaken itself out into an inverted wedge, inviting him in toward the center by placing a line of weaker tanks and infantry carriers there, surrounding a Tribune mobile HQ. It was on the closer flank, though, where the Jupiter stepped out.

“Captain Raul Ortega, Achernar Militia. We do not challenge, Star Colonel. We are here to force you from Achernar, or whittle you down to size so that Lady Janella Lakewood will wonder where all your forces went.”

The bluff was so transparent that Torrent was inclined to dismiss it for bravado. Still, with thirty seconds to close, he allowed himself the caution of turning over the threat in his mind. By his count, the militia mustered two BattleMechs and one converted ForestryMech, a trinary’s worth of tanks—what the regular forces might call a strengthened company—and an estimation of twenty-five battlesuit squads. With the Swordsworn fighting alongside them, working fist-in-gauntlet, perhaps. But not like this. Not now.

“It will take more than a knight’s BattleMech to back such a call to arms. Allow me to demonstrate.” And from extreme range, Torrent let fly with every long-range missile at his disposal.

The XX-rack dumped a full score of warheads into the air. His Advanced Tactical Missile System automatically selected for extended range and chased the first flight with another nine missiles. Before these had arced over, Torrent was already in range for his laser and timed it so that the spear of bloodred energy carved into the Jupiter at the same time as his missiles pummeled the enemy ’Mech.

“Steel Wolves,” he said calmly, waiting for his weapons to cycle, “engage at will.”

River’s End

Achernar

If Erik Sandoval had not demanded quarters befitting his new station, River’s End might have been lost.

Ducking his Hatchetman into an alleyway, its shovel-blade feet kicking a dumpster along in front of him as Erik might a tin can, the young lord escaped the crossfire that had been set up at the nearby intersections. The Demon’s lasers angled up and past him, slicing free only a small ridge of armor from his left shoulder before he made his full escape. Safe for the moment, Erik throttled back, planted one wide foot through the alley’s thinner ferrocrete and then shoved himself back the way he had come, ax poised in the air overhead and sensing more by instinct than any sensor shadow that one of the Demons, at least, would chase him into the narrow side street.

One did. Saving his autocannon ammo, Erik smashed down his titanium hatchet once, twice. His first cut crushed both laser barrels into mangled ruin. His second caved in the tank’s cockpit, bursting ferroglass shields into a rain of splinters and jagged shards that littered the street and sparkled dully in the yellow glow of a streetlamp. Erik kicked the end of the Demon around, letting him gaze down through his own shield at the telltale insignia.

Achernar militia.

Backstabbing sons-of-a-Liao.

Michael Eus had been able to tell him very little, rousing Erik from the president’s apartments at Steyger Railways’ city offices. Erik was not one to dwell on creature comforts, not usually, but the office complex also had the good fortune of being located only a dozen blocks over from the Achernar HPG station. From his new living room window he could see the massive dish suspended over the compound by geared towers. An impressive underground vault, left over from pre-Republic days, was large enough to house his BattleMech as well as two Condors.

Most of the Swordsworn had mobilized for the city’s edge by the time Erik fired up his Hatchetman and set it on a similar course. He still could not say for certain why he had spread the Condors out in a flanking search except his inherent distrust—now—of Michael Eus. Erik’s care had tumbled the militia’s plans several minutes sooner than would have happened otherwise, as first a dark-running VTOL and then a hostile VV1 Ranger was sighted.

Erik’s small unit claimed the Ranger, but then lost one Condor to a prowling Legionnaire and an AgroMech conversion. Since then, the nobleman had traded block by crucial block, summoning up both MiningMech conversions from the HPG station and calling in VTOL support and fast tanks from Eus.

The second Demon was missing, likely trying to head him off further down the avenue. Instead, Erik turned again for the station, intent on regrouping his forces as close to the HPG as possible. He chose the larger city streets—those which had been reinforced to allow ’Mech movement without collapsing. Then, rounding a corner, he stepped into the middle of an infantry firefight with Hauberks routing a rooftop emplacement of his Purifiers. A Saxon APC waited in nearby shadows while a converted AgroMech disappeared around the next corner.

Erik dealt with the APC first, again slamming down with his handheld ax. Better than against wheeled or tracked tanks, however, the impact was enough to ground out the hovercraft and hold it in place while its lift fans tore themselves to pieces against the concrete walk. A few Hauberks turned on him with their missile-firing backpacks. He easily shrugged aside these detonations while the Purifiers leapt down for hand-to-hand combat. Erik lent a hand—and a foot—as he could. One Hauberk moved too slowly, and ended up a smear of mangled metal and flesh.

“Back to the station,” Erik ordered. “All free units, converge.” He set off again, this time giving a ride to a few of the Purifiers while more ran and leapt along in his wake.

The militia plans became clear enough as pieces fell into place. A heavy push at the Steel Wolves, to draw everyone’s attention, while a covert strike force penetrated River’s End from another direction and tried to reclaim the HPG. Except that now he had the small raiding force nearly surrounded, cut off from the spaceport battle by the same soldiers he would have sent to aid against the Steel Wolves. Aid in a limited and self-supporting manner, perhaps, but the militia could have expected some relief.