Red Ledge Pass

Bloodstone Range of the Rockspire Mountains

Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

By late afternoon, the Steel Wolves’ tank column had penetrated the foothills of the Rockspires and had come to a temporary halt at the western end of Red Ledge Pass. So far the day had remained clear and warm, although the sky overhead was dotted with puffs and wisps of cloud in the “fish scales and mare’s tails” pattern that hinted at a coming frontal passage.

In the old days of the HPG network—already taking on the flavor of a lost golden age, even in the minds of those who happily exploited the network’s failure—a commander planning for an invasion could get up-to-date meteorological forecasts for battlefields light-years away from home. That luxury was gone now, possibly forever. Local weather knowledge had become once more the defender’s advantage and the attacker’s weakness.

The Steel Wolves’ column had picked up a major multiple-lane highway running eastward from the salt flats, and had made good speed. Star Colonel Nicholas Darwin guessed that on a normal day, the road would be busy with both long-distance trucking and local traffic. More than once since this morning the column had passed rest stops and fueling stations, but the windows of all the buildings were dark, and the parking lots stood empty.

Clearly, word had spread across the plains even faster than the tank column could form up and deploy: Lock your doors behind you and run—the Wolves are coming through!

The same highway, if the road signs did not lie, continued on through the mountains, although the narrowness of the pass forced it to shrink from four lanes down to two. Darwin stood in the open turret of his Condor tank and looked from the signs to the map display generated by his handheld pad.

The display was based on imaging generated by the Wolves’ own tracking and surveillance hardware during the DropShips’ approach to Northwind, and was therefore reliable. On the other hand, the generated maps didn’t come with route numbers and highway directions and conveniently labeled towns and villages, so there was always some difficulty matching up the terrain-as-marched-through with what the eyes-in-the-sky had reported.

If the locals were bright enough to change around the signposts before they ran away, as they sometimes were, the situation could get even more confusing. Fortunately for Darwin’s tank column, the signpost at the mouth of the pass was a poor candidate for such an act of resistance. The information that this road was National Highway 66, and that it led—by way of the Bloodstone Range Protected Forest Area—to Liddisdale, Harlaugh, and Tara, was carved into the side of a massive red-rock boulder in capital letters twenty centimeters high.

No obliterating that one except with high explosives, Darwin thought in satisfaction. We are definitely on the right road. Now to make it all the way through. Because—he eyed the way in which the two-lane blacktop curved out of sight around a mountain shoulder not long after entering the narrow defile—if I were somebody trying to stop us, this is the sort of terrain I would pick to do it in.

He keyed on the mike for the tank column’s command circuit. “Scouts and skirmishers out!” he ordered.

Up and down the column, armored troopers dismounted from the tracked or hover vehicles they’d been riding on. Having them proceed on foot would slow the column’s pace considerably, but not nearly as much as it would be slowed if it got surprised by an enemy force and had no infantry out to meet the attack.

“We are going to have to keep up a smart pace if we’re going to force the passage,” the second in command of the column observed to Darwin over the private circuit. Star Captain Greer had lost out to Darwin in the Trial of Position aboard Lupus, and had a tendency to be stiff about it from time to time. “Sir.”

“I am aware of that,” Darwin replied sharply. Greer could nourish his hurt feelings about having lost his Trial to a freeborn local half-breed on his own time. They were on Anastasia Kerensky’s time now, and would not waste it. “But if it comes down to a choice between getting caught in the pass by nightfall and getting caught in the pass by the Highlanders—we will take our chances with the night, quaiff?”

“Aff,” said Star Captain Greer. “Local sunset in two hours, sir.”

“We will be running dark, with the sensors in high gain,” Darwin said. “We have all done it a hundred times, and tonight is no different. Just like a drill, only with live fire.”

“Sir.” There was a brief pause; then Star Captain Greer spoke again over the command circuit. “All units report maps received and laid in, and the track set. On your command.”

“Forward,” Darwin said. “Pass to task group: ‘Condition Red, weapons tight.’”

“Condition red, weapons tight, aye,” Greer replied. “Moving out.”

Engines roaring and rumbling back into life, the tank column growled forward into the mouth of the pass.

Western slopes of the Bloodstone Range

Rockspire Mountains, Northwind

June, 3133; local summer

In her command tent on the salt flats, Anastasia Kerensky gave the map table one last look. The yellow blips that represented Nicholas Darwin’s armored column had moved some distance away from the symbols for the grounded ships. The hour was midafternoon, and the tank column was now at the pass.

It was time to set the main column into motion.

Anastasia left the map table to continue blinking and updating its display in solitude, and went out of the command tent. Her faithful Ryoken II ’Mech stood nearby, freshly repaired and repainted after the hard fighting on Achernar. She climbed the ladder up twelve meters to the Ryoken’s cockpit, entered and dogged the hatch behind her. With a well-practiced motion, she swung the activation bar down into a locked position and felt the fusion power plant rumble to life. Maneuvering herself in the small space, she settled into the ’Mech’s command couch and strapped herself in. The controls that surrounded her were familiar extensions of her own body: footpedals for direction control and walking, throttle for speed, pressure-operated forearm joysticks for moving and twisting the torso, control for Ryoken II’s giant hands and for bringing her weapons to bear. Above all else was the neurohelmet that interfaced her brain and the ’Mech’s gyroscope and musculature. Once she’d secured her helmet in place, she touched the control panel and recited her voice-identification code. The computer confirmed her identity and welcomed her home.

One quick glance confirmed weapons’ status: all green. The customized short-range six packs on the Ryoken’s shoulders were Anastasia’s preference over the standard LRM 15s. The ’Mech’s torso bristled with medium lasers and, just below at the waist, PPCs, loaded and ready. The jump jets she’d added looked good as well. All was right; she expected no less.

She keyed on the speaker that would carry her voice to the various elements of her command.

“All units ready?”

“Ready, Galaxy Commander,” came the reply over her helmet, from the most senior of the Star Colonels—Marks, it was, after the fiasco on Quentin had led to Ulan’s disgrace. Like sound in a seashell, a rippling murmur of echoes ran around the circuit: ready… ready… readyreadyready… ready.

“I am leaving behind a strong defense with the DropShips,” she said. “There is no shame in it; we will need the ships for Terra itself soon enough. Everyone else, follow me.”