Might have, in fact, except for a daring Shandra scout vehicle that shied too close onto Erik’s flank in trying to avoid a passing Yellow Jacket gunship.

With casual need, Erik ordered up a pair of hoverbikes to birddog the Shandra, run it off. Light weapons fire stitched dark holes in its side armor, and was returned with interest as twin, ten-millimeter gatlings burned one driver from the hoverbike’s seat.

Setting his jaw, teeth grinding together at the death of another Swordsworn warrior, Erik felt the warm flush return as he leveled his powerful Imperator autocannon at the Shandra and shattered its rear drive train with a long, deadly burst of hot metal.

And Erik might have let it go at that. He had not wanted to waste a precious amount of his dwindling ammunition supply on the Shandra, except that it had demanded some response from him as their leader and—when necessary—avenger.

He tensed when the alarms wailed their warning blast only seconds before the missiles hit all around his position. A half dozen smashed into the side of his Hatchetman’s elongated head, rocking it to one side like a prizefighter caught by a series of left hooks. The cockpit shook violently, body-checking Erik against his harness straps until a seam ripped and Erik slid half out of his command couch.

Neurofeedback works two ways: for the MechWarrior, when he can use his own sense of balance to help a stressed gyroscope; against him, when any personal dizziness or faulted equilibrium is translated into a signal that is then used to alter the gyro’s normal function.

Erik’s vision swam and his gut clenched up as the Hatchetman toppled over. He heard the shouts of alarm on the comms system, could imagine his warriors turning quickly to his aid, and opened his mouth to countermand their likely actions.

Then the BattleMech struck against the ground, keeling over on its side and jarring Erik most the rest of the way out of his seat. Scraping along, it rattled the hapless MechWarrior against his faulty harness. The world dimmed to gray tones and blurred angles. Not long. Only for a few seconds.

And by the time Erik had fought his way back to full senses, it was already too late.

San Marino Spaceport

Achernar

Star Colonel Torrent heard the alarm, that the Swordsworn had also turned on his warriors. Heard it, noted the expected treachery, and filed it away for future consideration.

Chopping the Jupiter down to size filled his entire consciousness, and he pursued that goal almost to the exclusion of all else. The militia tactics hardly mattered, and even the threat of two Yellow Jacket gunships thundering after his vulnerable aerospace fighters did not drag him away from his personal challenge.

Then his Behemoth crew reported that they had felled Sandoval’s Hatchetman, and Torrent was forced to take notice if for no other reason than to confirm that one of the Steel Wolves’ primary opponents on Achernar was finished.

Erik Sandoval was down, though far from finished. And Torrent himself became personally involved a few seconds later when two Swordsworn Jessies layered four score long-ranged missiles over his position. Blackened, smoking gravel pelted his ’Mech as warheads gouged the ferrocrete tarmac, and the Tundra Wolf shook with forced palsy as fire blossomed along his chest and shoulders.

Too many times today other units had forced their attention on Torrent, interfering with his second Trial against the Jupiter and against Raul Ortega, the only MechWarrior so far to walk away from him in combat. Anger twisted the star colonel’s face into a snarl as he dropped crosshairs over one of the Swordsworn Mining Mods. A flight of missiles and two slices with his Series 7 laser—left, right—and the Mod lost the arm carrying its rock-cutting blade.

More Swordsworn had turned against the Steel Wolf position, drilling lasers and streams of autocannon fire into their ranks. Torrent divided a few seconds in between his head’s up display and what he saw through his own ferroglass shield, then barked out his first of three orders.

“All ’Mechs, press the militia.” He might lose a Pack Hunter, maybe one of his modified IndustrialMechs, but Ortega’s people would know they had been struck. “Star Commander Orvits,” he called up one of his remaining JES carries, “swat those Yellow Jackets and protect the aerospace fighters.” He might need the air support after all.

“Star Captain Demos, destroy the Swordsworn and prepare to move on River’s End at once!”

By the time this battle was over, there would be very little left in their way. He would make certain of that, starting—and finally finishing—with the Jupiter.

River’s End/San Marino Spaceport

Achernar

“I think we’ve got them.”

Pulling back in the face of Star Colonel Torrent’s renewed assault, Raul targeted the advancing Tundra Wolf with PPC arcs while keeping an eye on his auxiliary monitor. He saw a few shots traded between Swordsworn and Steel Wolves, enough to put him on pins and needles until a Steel Wolf SM1 Destroyer led an entire star of heavy vehicles into Erik Sandoval’s flank.

“That’s it, Tassa. Now go!”

The Legionnaire surged forward on new legs, barely favoring its ruined left knee actuator. Tassa called to her side what was left of her squad—a Condor, Joust and Demon. No IndustrialMech conversions this time. And no APCs followed her. If everything had gone even half-according to plan earlier, the Trooper transports had dropped armored infantry squads near the HPG station and were already waiting in place.

This time there were far fewer defenders to stand in her way. The reconstituted lance drove back around the end of the Swordsworn line, caught their mobile HQ on the edge of River’s End, and blasted their way past it in less time than it took Raul to lose Torrent’s Tundra Wolf for what was likely his last opportunity.

Erik Sandoval’s mobile HQ was not the only one in trouble. Torrent’s Pack Hunters had finally slipped their leash, leaping forward on jump jets to savage the militia middle, relying on their excellent speed to dodge back when necessary, and then bounding forward yet again.

Colonel Blaire was in trouble, but had nowhere to call for help. Diago had his hands full with a Catapult and an AgroMech Mod. Blaire’s hoverbike escorts held back a lumbering ConstructionMech conversion, but likely not for much longer the way both vehicles slewed around, spilling critical air from damaged lift skirts.

Raul waded in with PPCs arcing out manmade lightning and his autocannons blazing with extra-long pulls, hammering lethal metal into a Hunter again, and again. Both Pack Hunter BattleMechs spun around, kicking themselves up over one hundred kilometers per hour in order to close rapidly on the assault machine. Or at least, for one of them to do so. Blaire ordered his Tribune turned into the path of the second, stalling it for several critical seconds.

A mobile HQ vehicle is slow and awkward, never meant for tactical maneuvers, but as a temporary wall it served. Raul faced down the single, thirty-ton machine with something less than trepidation. He rode lightly on his triggers, still running high heat from matching earlier salvoes with the Tundra Wolf, but even so a single PPC and paired autocannons could be devastating.

The Pack Hunter shed armor the way a true wolf might lose its winter coat. Its return fire cut a dangerous swath of armor from Raul’s gyro housing to the left shoulder, but failed to penetrate into the Jupiter’s critical equipment.

Eight minilasers created more trouble for Raul, blistering paint and armor from half a dozen places and coring one weak beam directly into Jove’s head. Raul could smell the ozone discharge, and something more, caustic yet sweet. As he flushed with warmth, suddenly conscious of the sweat standing out on his chest draining down his sides, he realized that the Hunter had crippled his life support system, somewhere rupturing a coolant line.