“You should be getting used to that by now.”

Michaelson glowered. He was getting to be an old hand at it, in fact. Speaking of which, “How did Bannson find me this time?”

“What? You thought you had an ace in the hole with our ‘friend’ on Terra.” Farrell was talking about the crime boss who had arranged Crow’s escape and new identity. The raider smiled thin and cruel, and glanced back at the helicopter that waited on him. “Bannson Universal has far-reaching business interests.”

In other words, the underworld lord sold him out. Probably before he’d left Terra. “I should have guessed.” The crime boss had muscle enough to set him up with a new identity, but it would have taken Bannson’s influence and long reach to make that cover stick so well on Liao.

“Yeah, maybe you should have.”

Farrell reached around for his back pocket, fished out a pewter flask and unscrewed the top. He took a long pull. Michaelson watched him drink, eyes glued to the flask. Farrell had never taken a drink on the job as far as Michaelson could recall. He watched as the pirate finished, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and then held out the metal container, offering it. It was no casual nip, and not an offer of camaraderie. It was taunting, cruel and dark. Daniel Peterson had sworn off drinking after the Massacre of Liao, that last night he spent in the wine shop trying to staunch the memories of the blood and smoke, the mass graves dug by laboring IndustrialMechs…

Hearing the laughter in the voice of the Confederation agent as he described how they had toasted him.

To the Betrayer of Liao.

That laughter had followed him around for over two decades. In his mind’s eye he pictured them with their glasses raised, drinking to the health of Lieutenant Daniel Peterson. And they had paid him a bonus—one stone for every Republic citizen killed in the fighting. Ezekiel Crow had never forgotten, and had never touched a drop of alcohol since. Ritter Michaelson could have used a drink just then, anything to drown out the memory, but would not give Farrell the satisfaction.

“I want nothing more to do with Jacob Bannson,” he said, biting off each word.

“That’s hardly the point, Crow.” Michaelson started to correct him, but Farrell simply waved a hand, unconcerned with whatever name the disgraced soldier used now. “Bannson might have something more to do with you, especially if things continue to heat up on Liao and around the Prefecture. Opportunities abound for real men who are willing to take chances and seize life.”

The Confederation invasion? “What’s Bannson got to do with this? Is he backing the Confederation’s play now?”

Farrell wasn’t about to answer the question. “Ah, so you are still interested in the bigger game. That’s good, ’cause I’ll be around to make sure you remember who’s side you play on.” Another swig from the flask. “And don’t think about trying to skip out, either. You’ll never make it.”

“There’s nothing more Bannson can do to me.”

The raider laughed, long and loud, as if the disgraced man had said something truly funny. “Sure there is. Unless you like the idea of sitting through a very public trial, or have the balls to eat the barrel on that service piece you have back at the ranch house. You still have plenty to lose, and I’ll be here to make sure you don’t forget it.”

With a toothy grin Farrell tossed the unstoppered flask at Michaelson’s head. He caught it, some of the amber liquid sloshing out of the spout and wetting his knuckles. Farrell gave him a heavy wink, and turned back for the ’copter, its rotors spinning in preparation for taking off.

Staccato slaps of cold air buffeted Michaelson, stirred the long grasses. The scent of sour mash bourbon warmed his nostrils. He traded the flask into his other hand and sucked on his knuckle, eyes clenching as the alcohol’s smooth taste coiled at the back of his throat.

No. Not again. Farrell’s presence on his homeworld was poison enough.

Jaw clenched, Michaelson watched the helicopter thunder its way south, back toward the ranch house. He turned over the heavy flask, pouring out every last drop, letting the booze soak into the soil of Liao. He threw the container as far as he could out into the range, then turned in the general direction of the ranch house and began a long walk home.

Yiling (Chang-an)

Qinghai Province, Liao

14 June 3134

Wrenching on his controls, Evan Kurst manhandled the sixty-five-ton Thunderbolt into a sharp pivot that turned him in behind a small office building. Tracer bullets chased after him, white-hot and angry as they flashed through the perpetual gray of urban night. They smashed into the corner of the building. A blurred stream of autocannon fire chewed in with them, pulverizing stone, pitting the steel frame hidden beneath the façade.

“Four… three… two…” Evan kept count softly, marking the timing in his head. He levered back on his BattleMech’s throttle, shifting from a flat-out run to a reverse walk in a matter of seconds. The cockpit pitched forward, throwing Evan against his restraining harness. The entire machine might have sprawled headfirst along the street if not for the bulky neurohelmet he wore to link his own sense of balance with the Thunderbolt’s massive gyroscopic stabilizers. Arching his back, chin up, Evan shifted the ’Mech’s center of mass to cope with the change in momentum.

“One.”

The Thunderbolt stepped back into the intersection, right arm levering up and outward, pointing its light Gauss rifle straight back down the street at the Confederation forces. A bulky Shen Yi stomped along the avenue, a Schmitt assault tank rolling along at the BattleMech’s feet while a pair of Demons and Fa Shih infantry raced up from behind. A Wasp, battered from earlier fighting, leapt over a nearby building, cutting off the Shen Yi as it landed in a bent-legged crouch.

Evan’s targeting crosshairs flashed from red to gold and he pulled his primary trigger.

High-energy capacitors dumped their stored power into a series of coils, creating a magnetic funnel that latched onto the nickel-ferrous mass loaded into the Gauss rifle’s acceleration chamber. In a fraction of a second the mass had been driven up to hypersonic speeds, flashing down the short city block and into the left knee of the Wasp.

Sheer kinetic force wrenched the leg back. Sparks exploded out of the ruined lower leg actuator. As the Confederation ’Mech stepped forward, the entire leg collapsed like an accordion. The Wasp pitched forward, planting itself face first against the unyielding ground. More sparks ground out beneath the fallen BattleMech as it sprawled into a rough, ungainly slide that tumbled it over once and left it pitched up against the office building.

Evan throttled forward, ducking behind the building once again. Out from under the sights of the Confederation forces that followed.

The Shen Yi levered its large laser forward to stab megajoules of ruby energy into the night. An orange afterglow of missile exhaust wreathed the upper torso as it let loose with twin flights from its assault-class launchers. The Schmitt pounded out fifty-millimeter slugs. Neither had a chance to hit him, but in this Confederation assault of Liao the enemy soldiers were programmed to vent their anger on civilian targets. Dark windows lit up as the building’s interior filled with the laser’s red glow. The missiles smashed deep into several floors, blossoming into fireballs of orange flame. Glass exploded out on all four sides, raining broken shards over the streets of Desu.