“You see,” Sha continued, as he alternated salvos, filling the air with slicing beams of death; beams Petr barely managed to avoid… most of the time, “that is why you will ultimately fail. Yes, you have your successes. Great successes, I will give you that. However, you think only of yourself. You believe you act in the best interests of your Aimag, but you are mistaken. You act in your own interests. I could not goad you to such rash actions if you thought of the honor your Aimag will lose this day because of your defeat. A tie would have been sufficient honor for both Aimags, but you think only of yourself. That is why you will ultimately be brought down. Any Sea Fox warrior who shows such selfishness will ultimately, must ultimately be brought down.”

Petr gritted his teeth as another beam carved a furrow of dripping metal across his ’Mech’s torso; she hurt. The strangeness of the conversation almost made the battle surreal: the calm, counseling tone of Sha at odds with the metal-shattering destructive forces being unleashed.

“You know nothing of me, Sha. I have always put my Aimag first.” Petr grunted as two of his corkscrewing short-range missiles splashed into the Sphinx.

“But I do know you, ovKhan. Are we not taught to know our enemies as ourselves? No matter the battlefield, knowledge of one’s enemy is essential, or else how can you defeat him?”

“Am I your enemy?”

“Of course. Are we not fighting? Well, at least one of us is fighting. I am not exactly sure what you are doing.”

It shouldn’t have, but the goading drove Petr over the edge. To have pity from this surat ; to be insulted when Petr clearly displayed superior skills; to be called selfish by an ovKhan who rumor held disciplined for the slightest infractions; to be lectured about honor; to have been goaded into the open in the first place—Petr knew it for a goad as well, but could not stop it.

He blanked out.

Hitching his shoulder against the ache, Petr shook his head, felt like he was coming out of a drug-induced haze. Sha’s voice continued to drone in his ears, a beehive just outside the cockpit.

“Come, Petr, I am sure it can be marked down as an error. A malfunction. My Aimag will not mention it. I am confident yours will not either,” Sha said.

Mention what? He glanced at the damage schematic and his anger kindled once more; in addition to all the other damage, the Tiburon’s right arm no longer existed. A vague memory surfaced of blasting away the Sphinx’s left arm.

“My error?” Petr croaked out, his tongue swollen and dry as sun-bleached coral. “You are the one who violated the training protocols. I destroyed your Sphinx’s arm. I claim victory.”

A soft pause. “Have you been so wounded, Petr? You obviously need medical attention. I destroyed your arm and you would not relent, destroying mine before I could damage you enough to force you away.”

The words came like a sonic echo of events—a blurring effect as they conjured an image that didn’t ring true to Petr’s own memory.

But it was all so hazy. So hazy.

“That cannot be true, Sha.”

“Of course it can. Accept it.”

Petr glanced at his own radar and magscan, couldn’t see a thing; were they damaged or had he found an effective hiding spot?

“You are fond of that phrase.”

“Yes. Accept. Admit. Inevitable. Inexorable. We are Clan warriors. For us such words come naturally, quiaff? The Inner Sphere must accept we are superior. We must accept that responsibility, just as inexorable death must be accepted. Life is full of such absolutes. Today has such absolutes and no amount of skill can upset them.”

“You talk too much, Sha.”

“Is that the best you can do, Petr? After all I have heard about and from you, that is the best you can do? This is the best you can do?”

“I may have made an error before, but you will not goad me again, surat. Come find me and I will show you my best.”

“I already have seen your best, ovKhan Kalasa, and I find it terribly lacking.”

A metal grim reaper rising from the bowels of Hell blocked out the sun; the Sphinx topped the rise above Petr’s hiding place.

Petr immediately tried to swivel the remaining arm to bring lasers to bear.

“Terribly lacking indeed,” Sha said as he unleashed the full fury of his ’Mech.

Seven lances of coherent light shafted into the Tiburon, boiling away the remaining armor, stabbing deep to destroy innumerable internal systems. One beam flayed the already damaged head; terrible, horrifying heat cascaded across Petr’s skin, filling his nostrils with the stench of burning hair and flesh.

I knew I would die with her…

Beta Aimag Encampment, Halifax

Vanderfox, Adhafera

Prefecture VII, The Republic

15 July 3134

The old woman sprawled; her jumble of worn and mismatched treasures heaped around her kept people at bay as much as the filth and stench (especially the stench!). She was covered in a colorless dress that might’ve been the height of fashion a half century ago; its numerous rips and tears gave anyone peering too close brief flashes of rash-covered skin, itself almost unrecognizable under the glaze of caked dirt and old sweat. For those who looked a little too close, the veritable army of fleas that marched apparently unnoticed across this flesh turned away the most discerning eyes in horror. A giant hat—its ribbons, bows and single feather long since faded and drooping—sat astride her head, a once-proud crest that showed the inexorable march of long decades; it hid her features well in the double shadows of the brim and the parasail (sporting more holes than the dress) propped against an ancient dowry chest and a meaty thigh. The slight rocking and disharmonious singing only increased the size of her personal space; a ’Mech would have had a hard time penetrating the defenses she set up two days after Beta Aimag made landfall.

The security personnel of Beta Aimag assumed the hag to be a permanent fixture of Halifax. After all, she stayed through torrential rains, precipitous cold and brief flashes of wan sunlight. Of course, if they had bothered to ask any local, they would have had that impression quickly corrected. Then again, she expected such Clan arrogance, planned on it.

Shifting beneath the rags she had poached from a burned-out residence some kilometers from Halifax (along with much of the garbage she guarded so jealously), Snow surreptitiously sank her right hand down to scratch at a rash a little too high on her inner thigh; she winced at the idea of it getting much higher.

“This better net me something, or someone’s going to pay,” Snow murmured

The Sea Fox guards standing some fifteen paces away had quickly grown accustomed to such inaudible mumblings amid the jarring attempts at singing; her mother had told her in no uncertain terms her singing voice could wake the dead and kill them anew. She chuckled (random hilarity when none but you are laughing worked miracles in convincing people you’re insane) at how she currently put such voice talent to use.

She gritted her teeth and cackled once more; she could practically feel a new series of bite marks as fleas nibbled flesh. “And I’ve got plenty to spare, no doubt about it.” She hitched her right shoulder, feeling only a slight echo of its usual pain. Hardly turning her head, her eyes roved relentlessly, searching every cranny, examining every event. More important, it allowed her to read the lips of almost anyone in her line of sight, including the Sea Fox guards. And boy, oh boy, were they talkative: no bowl-you-over-this-is-it statement, but enough to keep her there and allowing the insects to snack.