The Streak missiles on the Tundra Wolf’s right torso cooked off in a ball of flame and sparks, sending it staggering back. Then the ’Mech’s safety mechanism engaged, and the Tundra Wolf–like the Pack Hunter–went into heat overload shutdown.

One thing Captain Bishop knew: the Tundra Wolf would be out for a lot longer than she would be, while both ’Mechs waited to cool down sufficiently to move and fight again. But until the Pack Hunter recovered, she was still fair game for other foes.

That Ryoken II, for example. If Anastasia Kerensky noticed that Bishop’s ’Mech was frozen in its place by shutdown, the only thing stopping the Steel Wolves’ commander from walking over and finishing her off would be an unwillingness to break away from the combat with Farrell’s Jupiter.

“Jack, don’t fail me now,” Bishop whispered.

“Captain Bishop!” One-Eyed Jack’s voice sounded in her ear. “Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Darlin’, we’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said. “Let me tidy things up a bit for you.”

As he spoke, the Jupiter brought up the twin autocannons mounted in its massive arms, and at the same time twisted its torso to put its particle projector cannons on target. The overwhelming force of the attack struck the Ryoken II like one of the thunderbolts of the bigger ’Mechs’ namesake of old, hammering Kerensky’s ’Mech until it staggered, limning it in flame and steel.

One-Eyed Jack didn’t stop firing. He has to be getting close to redline, Bishop thought. Then, at last, Kerensky spun her ’Mech away and began to run. A Ryoken II had a twenty-kilometer-per-hour speed advantage over the Jupiter ; she could wear it out if she chose—or leave off the fight and go for the Pack Hunter’s easier target.

Captain Bishop watched, still frozen in her heat overload, and waited for Anastasia Kerensky to decide her fate. Would the Galaxy Commander be able to resist the lure of taking out a Jupiter in a fair fight? Or would she go for the wiser tactical choice?

Something else was happening instead. The Ryoken II’s movements were becoming more erratic and less precise, and it seemed almost to stumble and waver on its feet, usually the sign of an injured or incapacitated pilot at the controls—not a common sight out in the field, since anything nasty enough to do damage to someone inside the armored cockpit of a BattleMech had usually put the ’Mech completely out of action first.

“Somebody’s put some serious hurting on that lady,” One-Eyed Jack observed, as the Ryoken II staggered, straightened, and headed away again, back to the north. “Funny thing is, though—I don’t think it was one of us.”

The Steel Wolves’ hovercraft turned back to the west, heading for the back of the Highlanders’ lines.

“You have a lot of targets ahead of you,”

Command said. “Fire, move, and forget them. Return to our own lines. Fast. We have trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“A world of hovercraft. They are not wearing Highland insignia, but they are shooting at us all the same.”

Jack Farrell’s mercenaries had reached the Steel Wolves’ DropShips, and the tide of battle had turned.

At the Steel Wolves’ command post, Ian Murchison had a closer view of the action than he had either expected or wanted. He didn’t know enough about military tactics to follow what was going on by listening to the steady flow of reports, but when the smoke of battle began drifting into the command tent, and the thunder of missile fire and the whine of overstressed turbines began coming closer and closer, he knew enough to realize that things were no longer going well.

A squad of armored infantry trotted past him, rifles at the ready. None of them gave him a second glance. He might as well have been one of their own, stationed for some reason at the command post with a medical bag slung over his shoulder.

Murchison looked down at himself, and considered his appearance as someone might who was encountering it for the first time. His own clothing had been left behind on Northwind months ago, and he wore Steel Wolf uniform fatigues without insignia—unless, he thought, the Bondsman’s cord around his wrist counted as insignia in its way.

He wasn’t part of the Steel Wolves, and wasn’t likely to be, but he’d grown accustomed to them. They were plain-talking people, and trustworthy in their own way—even if they were crazy by most standards—and they didn’t appear to hold the fact that he was a Northwinder against him.

On the other hand, if he ever made it home and the news got out that he’d once saved Anastasia Kerensky’s life, he didn’t think that explaining “I’m a medic; saving people is what I do” would be enough to make people understand.

He heard the sounds of more firing, coming from the south. Not long after, a Ryoken II BattleMech appeared out of the smoke, drawing closer to the command post at a staggering, badly controlled run, its hull creased by the marks of energy fire and multiple missile hits. The last time he’d seen that ’Mech, he realized, its metallic body had shone brightly in the light of morning, and Anastasia Kerensky had been climbing up the access ladder to the cockpit.

As he watched, the ’Mech halted, toppled, and crashed to the earth. There wasn’t enough damage to the exterior, he thought, to make it do something like that. Based on everything he’d ever heard about the giant battle machines—and the younger Steel Wolf Warriors talked about them incessantly, much like the ’Mech-struck adolescents of his own youth—most of the time when they broke down they just stood there like statues until whatever had halted them either went away or got fixed. A ’Mech laid out and measuring its length on the ground had usually been the victim of a completely devastating attack.

Or of the injury or death of the Warrior inside.

Slinging his medical bag over his shoulder, Murchison abandoned the relative safety of the command tent and sprinted for the fallen ’Mech. The rear hatch unlocked when he twisted the wheel, and the door swung open. A wave of hot air rolled out, humid and heavy with the smell of blood.

Murchison crawled into the cockpit. Yes, there was Anastasia, still strapped into the pilot’s command seat. Her face was pale and sweat streaked, and a steady trickle of blood was running out from underneath the bulky cooling vest.

“Galaxy Commander!” Murchison shouted.

She lifted her head, her eyes barely focusing. “Bondsman?”

“Yes, Galaxy Commander. You have to get out of here. I have to take care of you.”

She tried to resist, but she was too weak. Murchison removed her helmet, unplugged the coolant line from her vest, and undid the straps that bound her, making her one with the machine—and that had saved her from worse injury when the BattleMech fell over and slammed into the earth. Pulling her out through the hatch of the Ryoken II, he shouted, “Get a stretcher!” to the first Warrior he saw, then opened his bag and set to work.

She needs a dressing on that wound, he thought, to stop the bleeding. And an IV to replace fluids and bring up her blood pressure. She’s going into shock.

“Bondsman Murchison,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

She gripped his wrist with her left hand. Then, with a speed and strength that he wouldn’t have believed that she still possessed, her right hand drew a knife.

She sliced away the cord on his wrist.

“Welcome to the Clan, Wolf Lancer,” she said. Then her head fell back, and Anastasia Kerensky lost consciousness.