The historical simulation was incredibly detailed. Biased, but very well-programmed.

Desu was one of the larger cities of Nánlù, Liao’s southern continent, among the hardest hit in 3111 after the so-called Massacre of Chang-an. Just outside the city had been the Lord Governor’s mansion. It was always demolished before the local militia responded, with the Confederation assault force already moving into the outskirts of the city, burning and destroying.

Simulator pods allowed for such battles to be fought again and again, always looking for how things might have been handled differently. What if the militia had massed forces in the north, preparing a hard-line defense? What if they had flanked and attacked the Confederation DropShip?

How about a lone MechWarrior, running interference for the main militia force?

That was Evan’s mission today, to slow things down while other students set up a defense to protect the densely populated north sector. He’d received operational orders while firing up his “BattleMech,” plugging his cooling vest into the working life support system and shivering as a slug of coolant circulated through tiny tubes sewn into the protective gear. Vents at his feet dumped scorching air into the pod, simulating the high temperatures known in combat. The pod rocked inside of a cradle to approximate the BattleMech’s rolling gait, and a rough vibration shook the simulator whenever he came under fire. Controls were the real thing, but the cockpit’s ferroglass shields had been replaced with monitors on which the city assault would play out according to historical fact, augmented by computer probability.

Everything was as real as they could make it. Even the enemy, who acted in callous disregard for human life and frustrated The Republic’s every attempt to save the day. Because that was how it really happened, right?

No militia tank crew brought down one of their own Legionnaires with friendly fire because they were too scared to double-check their targets.

No armored infantry squad took cover in a civilian neighborhood, firing out of doors and windows to avoid the wide-open streets. Forcing Confederation officers to call in gunship strafing.

And no Republic-trained MechWarrior walked his Ryoken II through the brick facing of a downtown apartment complex, parking his war avatar in the center of the building to hide it from approaching Capellan forces, trading ninety-three civilian lives to set an ambush. The Ryoken’s left-shoulder machine gun would not have been of a height with the third-floor apartments. There was another reason for the twenty-mil wounds that killed Evan’s parents and left a two-year-old ward for Chang-an’s Civic Child Care Services.

Evan shook himself free of his imagination’s hold and tightened his grip on the simulator’s control sticks. Dwelling on the past would only earn him failing marks in the present. He owed his parents better than that. He owed himself better.

And the battle for Desu continued.

Failing under the Confederation’s onslaught, the office building collapsed into a pile of rubble and fire. Lasers sliced through the dust, searching. Evan turned into the battle but throttled backward, working into a retrograde maneuver that duckwalked the sixty-five-ton Thunderbolt back between two parking garages. He shifted his crosshairs over, framing the Shen Yi’s broad chest.

The programmed MechWarrior fired first, carving into Evan’s left side with the ruby scalpel of its large laser. A score of missiles hammered in behind. Evan shook against his restraints, clamping his teeth together in a grimace of determination.

His crosshairs flashed between red and gold. Partial lock would have to do. Pulling into a full strike, Evan gambled on the computer’s biased programming. His Gauss rifle missed, screaming its payload past the Shen Yi’s shoulder and over a low-rise mall. Evan’s missiles fared much better. Smoke trails corkscrewed in at the Shen Yi, blasting craters across its armored chest. Then his trio of medium-class lasers sliced across the ’Mech’s shoulders, one of them splashing over the forward shield.

“Cadet Kurst, southeast quadrant,” he said, raising his voice so that the volume-activated microphone opened up a channel. “One Wasp disabled. I have a Shen Yi with supporting forces on top of my position, lowering real estate values. Request assistance.”

Sergeant Cox would ding him later for the black humor, making light of the tragedy. Evan felt just as insulted that the simulation glorified The Republic position when there was plenty of blame to go around.

“Copy cadet.” Cox’s voice was gravelly and gruff. “We have forward deployments of Fulcrum hovertanks relative two-four-five, and Elemental battle armor at one-six-eight.”

Evan’s head’s-up display painted new icons in friendly blue. Each graphic had a small identification tag to help distinguish it at a glance. Evan could fall back northeast to the armored vehicles—better firepower but a lot more damage to the city—or northwest to rendezvous with the armored infantry—good holding power, and a real threat to an enemy Mech Warrior unless he wanted to risk Elementals cutting through his cockpit’s access hatch and bodily removing him, in pieces if necessary. Neither gave him a fair chance at winning the scenario because the Confederation forces would call up support as well.

One or the other. Sergeant Cox would not give Evan command of both.

But Evan might force the issue, if he timed it right.

He throttled into a faster, backward walk, drawing the Shen Yi after him, down the narrow street. The armored forces took their own path down a parallel avenue, trying to flank him. Flip a coin. “Elemental company, close on my position,” he ordered, taking charge of the armored infantry. “Engage and delay enemy forces.”

At the next intersection, Evan throttled back, sidestepped out of the Shen Yi’s line of fire and hunkered his Thunderbolt down, facing into the next intersection over where the Schmitt would appear any second. It did, bringing up the rear as the Demon medium tanks ran an advance path.

“Hùn dàn,” Evan swore, wrenching his stick over to drop crosshairs on the lead Demon.

Bright gold rewarded his quick reflexes, and he pulled into his primary trigger to punch a Gauss slug straight through armor, cockpit and the simulated Confederation crew. The tank rolled onto its left side, slamming into the parking garage. The second Demon stuttered ruby bolts from its bed-mounted laser, splashing more of Evan’s armor into a molten mist.

Ignoring the second vehicle and hot-cycling his weapons, Evan pulled his targeting reticle back in time to cover the advancing Schmitt. Eighty tons, heavily armored and armed, the “mugger” assault tank was perfect for controlling city streets. Evan hit it with a full spread of weapons, his Gauss slug slamming the tank’s turret, missiles shattering armor across the front and right side.

And then it was as if the Schmitt simply picked up Evan’s Thunderbolt and threw it bodily to the ground. Both Mydron rotary autocannon roared into the night, bright fire tracers tracking in at the Thunderbolt’s waist. Hundreds of tiny hammers, each one a fifty millimeter slug tipped with depleted uranium for ’Mech-stopping power, beat against him in a thunderstorm of sharp, metallic pounding. Four lasers poured out scarlet fire, slagging more armor composite, and missiles followed after to punch the Thunderbolt deep in the gut and in the side of its head.

The head-ringing detonations were bursts of noise through his comm system, meant to disorient, not injure. The simulator bucked and shook, worrying Evan like a rag doll caught in the jaws of a pit bull. He ducked forward, fighting against the rough treatment. His ears filled with the whine of stressed metal as his gyros strained to work with him, but it was too much, too fast. One foot flailing for purchase, Evan stumbled backward.