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  She turned the shark-mouthed black 'Mech. Sensitive or not, it was time to make some people feel the wrath of Kali.

  * * *

  "Cassie," Buck Evans said, eyeing the cherry-picker dubiously, "this is a wild-hair scheme even for you."

  A fresh firefight had erupted across the hangar. Outside all hell was breaking loose. Cassie was almost dancing with the urgent need to break the stalemate inside before her comrades outside were slaughtered.

  "I'll get in the pulpit and you can drive the picker," she said. "I can pilot that Orion if you're nervous about it."

  The cherry-picker was a dubious-looking proposition in truth. Driven by the desire to avenge their murdered leader, a group of Zuma's Aztechs had rapidly strapped the plates Cassie and Johnny had collected with the forklift into makeshift armor boxes around the pulpit and the driver's cage. It made the thing look like a not-very-talented child's attempt to make a life-sized model of a cherry-picker out of packing crates.

  Buck gave her a squinting scowl. "That's cold, Cass. Go on and get behind the wheel of this infernal machine of yours. I'm the MechWarrior here."

  He clambered into the pulpit. Cassie slid into the seat through the gap between the makeshift armor and the rollbar.

  "What do I do?" Johnny asked.

  "Keep your head down, so Lainie's boyfriend doesn't have to find himself a new holostar after all this is over. Plus I've got some unfinished business with you."

  Johnny looked taken aback. He had just admitted to being a spy, and despite the comment about him finishing Takura's holovid, she had a reputation for ruthlessness. And he knew how well she deserved it.

  She reached up, grabbed a handful of his black skirt, dragged him toward her for a quick kiss. Then she fired up the cherry-picker's engine.

  * * *

  With a jerk that threatened to loosen his bones, Tai-i Daw's chute bit air. The magma rage that had erupted within him when the onboard computer ejected him was still with him, but it was a steady heat, not the wild, turbulent bubble of heartbeats ago. He was getting on top of his anger, riding it like a wave.

  With his visor off, Daw's unaided eyes could make little sense of the smoke-shrouded battlefield the BattleMech parking lot had become. The cowardly yakuza still seemed to be dithering outside of the wire, instead of rushing in and squashing the foreigners. Whether his people had managed to get into any of the machines yet he could not tell.

  But he felt confidence, eve» elation, floating up there with the perspective of a god. Surely his people would seize control of enough BattleMechs to smash the money-soldiers and carry out the plan. And even if they had been stalled, he was still alive and free. He'd hit the ground running, seize the initiative from the gaijin, and teach them what it meant to trifle with General Kiguri's hand-picked warriors. As he floated toward the short dry grass he was grinning all over his handsome wheat-colored face.

  He was wrong again.

  * * *

  Marly Joles was no Mech Warrior. She had no faith in their chivalric fancies. Her father had been murdered by allies of the Black Dragons. Her creed was, one shot, one kill, and the only kinds of people she recognized in her troubled world were friends and targets.

  All the man dangling beneath the pretty yellow dome of chute was to her was another dose of the only drug she trusted to dull the pain of her father's loss.

  She lined him up in the T of the telescopic sight, led him slightly, let out half a breath, caught it, squeezed the trigger. The massive rifle roared and bucked on its tripod.

  She knew the shot was good. She could feel it. It was almost anticlimax when the dark distant figure jerked in its shrouds, and then hung limp, as it continued to float down from the sky.

  30

  Cinema City, Luthien

  Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine

  1 July 3058

  "Choiseul!" O'Hanrahan rapped. "Get back here." The pilot in the damaged Hornet had gone rampaging off to avenge his blown-out ammo supply, enraged that any mere footslogger would dare attack him. He had found one lying in a shallow fold in the ground, and was enthusiastically stamping her into crimson mud. The Black Dragon commander could sympathize, but now wasn't the time. Ninjo over giri, and all.

  "Shujin Choiseul, I'm telling you for the last time—"

  Which proved to be literally true. A gray Nightsky, with a black wolfs head with lolling red tongue and glaring green eyes painted across its jutting chest, dropped from the sky right behind the stubby little 'Mech. Before Choiseul could react, it swung its hatchet with all die force of its 50 tons and split the Hornet's head like a melon.

  Then the enemy 'Mech turned its jutting turtle-like head to face O'Hanrahan in his Bushwacker. Something hot and black seemed to wash from the BattleMech, almost tangible. O'Hanrahan shrank back in his padded seat. By the time he recovered enough to cut loose with his large laser and medium autocannon, and his two Johnston Mini-, guns for good measure, the Nightsky had gathered itself and jumped again, out of harm's way.

  In his circle-vision strip O'Hanrahan saw the black Mad Cat burst through the fence behind him, thirty meters to his left. He spun to bring the autocannon in the Bushwacker's right arm and the big laser in its snout to bear, then was gratified to see hits spark along the black bullet shape, followed by a quick exhalation of smoke as the beam scoured away paint to burn metal beneath.

  Moving quickly, the Cat swiveled its torso and fired back. The Bushwacker's cockpit lit up as laser beams and a PPC bolt crackled harmlessly past. But the shot from the Mad Cat's right-hand PPC struck the missile launcher that made up the Wacker's right arm and shattered it.

  O'Hanrahan's thin lips peeled back from his teeth in a feral grin. "That's a hurt I can bear," he rasped. The long-range missiles hadn't proven much use so far; they were too much to use on mere foot-borne humans, and couldn't come into play now that a close-range knife-fight had broken out.

  He spared the breath to curse the Mad Cat as it ran clockwise around him, firing constantly. It didn't seem fair: the monster was far better armed and armored than his machine, and yet it was every bit as fast. And that's why you hated fighting the real Clanners so badly, Terence my lad, he reminded himself. Along with every other MechWarrior in the Inner Sphere.

  He realized that the Mad Cat was maneuvering to keep his Bushwacker between it and Soldaco's Guillotine. He darted to his left, still swiveling to try to keep the rapidly moving enemy machine in his sights. From the corner of his eye he saw the jet-black Blackjack parked in the compound begin to move. "Am I to assume that one of our black-clad friends is at the controls?" he asked aloud, then answered his own question: "Bold I may be, but foolish I am not."

  If the Jack's 45 tons entered the discussion, the weight advantage swung strongly to the gaijin . . . and for all O'Hanrahan's confidence in his own ability, he was feeling none too complacent about the ability of his three surviving 'Mechs to handle the Caballeros' two. Their pilots were being quite disobliging about holding still so he could draw a bead on them.

  "Bates," he radioed to the Talon Sergeant in charge of his medium lance, "get around here and support us. We've got trouble."

  Several things happened at once. The Blackjack began to rumble toward the fence, thick laser beams flashing from its arms. The Mad Cat with the grinning mouth and the swords painted on its PPCs got behind Soldaco and began lighting the lumbering Guillotine up from behind—utterly ignoring the fact that that put Oyama in his little Javelin behind it. Duchovny's voice, still controlled, said, " 'Mechs—coming through the wire."

  And something suddenly dropped into O'Hanrahan's circle-vision, so perfectly centered behind him that its image appeared at either end of the strip: the Nightsky.

  His Bushwacker rocked to a thunderous impact.

  * * *

  A smile split Gavilan Camacho's darkly handsome face beneath the visor of his neurohelmet. Below him LUG Yvonne Delgado's 70-ton Cataphract parted the fence on the eastern edge of the 'Mech lot like a runn
er bursting the ribbon at the finish line and strode straight toward a red and black Spider that stood like a jacklighted deer. A blast from the Cataphract's Mydron Excel LB-10X autocannon raised sparks from around the two medium lasers mounted in the middle of the Spider's chest and rocked it back on the heels of its two-toed feet.

  Gabby's Merlin began to descend smoothly from the cloudy sky. For years he had—against his father's wishes— longed to move up from the cockpit of his old Shadow Hawk to an assault 'Mech. The heavy haulers were the only truly macho machines, he had been convinced.

  But when his old Red-Tailed Hawk was destroyed in the fight for Port Howard, and a rich booty of captured Battle-Mechs, including a number of heavies, became available, to his own amazement Gabby had moved up precisely five tons, to the broad-shouldered squatty 'Mech dubbed Merlin. Perhaps his combat experiences on Towne had turned his head around, or being promoted to light colonel and operations officer had forced him for the first time in his life to truly live tactical thinking; or maybe he was simply, belatedly, growing up.

  Whatever the reason, he had chosen to stay with mobility instead of burdening himself with a thunder-thighed Atlas or Katana. Granted, the Merlin was a touch slower than the Old Shad, and couldn't jump as far. But it packed a hell of a lot more firepower. Maybe even better, it was new construction, literally centuries younger than his former ride, which meant it didn't require the personal intercession of the Virgin of Guadalupe—with abundant assistance from Zuma Gallegos—to keep it running.

  Now—with that newfound tactical insight of his—Gabby could all but read the Spider jock's mind. The poor pendejo was dead set on keeping footsloggers out. Now that the Black Dragon MechWarriors had failed at that, they were confronted with BattleMechs trying to bust out from the inside. The question of what exactly the Spider's tactical role was now had obviously frozen its pilot.

  The Spider opted to get the hell out of Dodge, which as far as Gabby was concerned was the right decision. It began to dart north, toward the road to Imperial City. It kept its torso twisted to shoot at Delgado's Cataphract, and Del-gado kept firing back.

  Gabby settled for bringing his jumping 'Mech down behind the stumpy UrbanMech that was the second-heaviest machine in the lance on this side. The Urb turned gamely to face him with its medium autocannon and small laser—not that it had much choice, since aside from being twice as heavy, the Merlin was twice as fast, and could run it down like a hawk diving on a chicken.

  A volley of long-range missiles from the farther of the two Hornets that made up the rest of the Black Dragon lance missed him as he grounded. The final Hornet was shooting at him with its medium laser from closer range. He barely paid attention. A single medium flashlight wasn't a big threat—and besides, the Dragons on this side were about to be swamped, as a 'Hero Commando popped the wire behind the nearer Hornet and Cowboy Payson's new Venom descended from the sky beside the moving Spider.

  The little trash-can UrbanMech was tough for such a small 'Mech. Its autocannon punched chunks from the Merlin's frontal plate. But standing still the bigger 'Mech could fire its full array of energy weapons without running up the heat too seriously. One medium laser reduced the Orb's Imperator-B autocannon to slag. The Merlin's PPC and other medium laser punished its torso. The UrbanMech bled molten metal, exploded, died. The pilot never ejected.

  Glancing into his 360-strip Gabby saw the Spider lying on the ground with its right leg blown off. Cowboy and the big Cataphract were turning back to help polish off the remaining two 20-ton Hornets.

  Recognizing that their situation was hopeless, the Hornets fled for the woods north of the highway. "Let 'em go," Gabby ordered over the command channel. The Virgin knows where they think they're going, he thought. If they were smart they'd fight to the end-Ue ordered his 'Mechs north, to attack the lance that was still dithering along that side of the perimeter.

  * * *

  From all directions bullets and laser beams cracked against the improvised armor-plate box surrounding the driver's compartment of the cherry-picker. Despite having her soft-shell hood up, the hard helmet on, and red visor down, Cassie kept her head as low as she could and still see to steer the unwieldy vehicle among the bins and piles and parked BattleMechs. Of Buck Evans, in the armored pulpit, there was no sign. Smart boy.

  A grenade struck the lip of the armor box, bounced high, fell outside the driver's compartment and exploded. Cassie winced and ducked as whining fragments ricocheted off the rollbar over her head. Hijo Id, that was too close!

  They reached the feet of Buck's Orion. Cassie hit the button to lift the pulpit. The extensor motor whined in protest at the extra weight, but it had been designed to hoist heavy replacement components, and the pulpit rose smoothly. She crouched low on the seat, unsheathed her vibrokatana, drew an autopistol from a shoulder holster and held it in her left hand.

  Realizing they were fast running out of options, seven DEST commandos broke from cover and converged on the cherry-picker. The Caballeros in the repair hangar were dug-in and waiting for just that move. A horizontal storm of gunfire knocked the charging figures sprawling despite their midnight armor.

  General Kiguri had trained his operatives well, imbued them with a fanatical spirit of determination. Two of them actually reached the cherry-picker. The first swarmed up the side of the strapped-on armor box, his sword upraised. Cassie popped up and thrust her vibroblade edge-up through his belly. He fell backward, torqueing the weapon from her hands.

  The other one had grenades in either hand, pins pulled. Cassie ducked back down, laid her autopistol sideways on the armor plate and started jacking slugs into him. A hit in the solar plexus doubled him over. One grenade dropped to his feet and went off, hurling him into a bin of parts. The other exploded harmlessly in a clear patch of floor.

  The pulpit reached the Orion's hatch. The commando who had impaled himself on Cassie's sword rose to his feet as though levitating, grasped the cord-wrapped hilt, tried to pull the weapon from his body for a final banzai assault. Unfortunately, he didn't realize the nature of the weapon that had transfixed him. Its microserrated edge, vibrating at thousands of cycles per second, rendered it as much sharper than a katana as one of those classic samurai swords was sharper than a butter knife.

  When the blade came free, his intestines came with it, trailing down the front of his legs in bloody-greasy loops.

  High in the air, Buck hit the access patch. The Orion's cockpit hatch opened. He somersaulted into the 'Mech as bullets clattered against Valiant Lamellor plate all around him. The hatch closed.

  Cassie threw the cherry-picker in reverse. The DEST commando who had inadvertently disemboweled himself was approaching from behind, stumbling over his guts, still gripping her sword. She backed straight over him.

  * * *

  Red lights flashed in O'Hanrahan's heads-up display. The damned Nightsky had taken advantage of his distraction to drop down right behind him and slam his Bushwacker with that beastly hatchet.

  Flashing impressions: the Mad Cat, grinning hatefully, literally running rings around Soldaco's Guillotine, pounding it with flickering pulses of its lasers, eye-searing gouts of PPC lightning, and volleys from the six-shot SRM boxes mounted on either shoulder, allowing Soldaco small opportunity to retaliate with his own impressive armament. Oyama's Javelin loosing a double volley of its own short-range missiles at the Blackjack and jumping away—and knocked tumbling as the Jack's four torso-mounted Streak launchers locked onto it and slammed eight missiles into the smaller 'Mech.

  As Oyama's 'Mech landed hard, O'Hanrahan threw the Buskwacker into a forward run. The Nightsky could catch him readily enough, but fleeing wasn't his aim. The Bushwacker wasn't a particularly agile machine; he wanted to separate enough to turn and fight his lighter assailant.

  His move seemed to take his opponent by surprise. The moment it took the Nightsky jock to react and lunge in pursuit allowed O'Hanrahan to wheel his wide ride quickly enough to threaten its gyroscopically maintained b
alance. A skilled pilot, the Black Dragon captain held the machine upright and blasted the enemy 'Mech.

  The Bushwacker had only two major weapons operational, but the autocannon and big laser were not to be sneered at. Their blast staggered the Nightsky even as it charged. A yellow-glowing crater appeared in the midst of the 'Mech's jutting, keel-like breast. The medium Sutel pulse laser set into the left side of its chest exploded to a staccato of cannon hits.

  The Nightsky retaliated with its other chest-mounted laser, the large laser in its arm and the small one in its turtlelike head. O'Hanrahan cried out as a stutter of beams stabbed into his cockpit, blasting open the cooling vest on the left side of his body and setting the padding of his seat on fire.

  The Bushwacker's damage-control computer damped the fire out beneath an immediate spray of flame-retarding foam. The Nightsky was on top of it then, raining savage blows with its hatchet, neglecting its laser battery. O'Hanrahan triggered all his weapons at the enemy 'Mech, even the launcher mounted above its right shoulder, though the long-range missiles would not track. The large laser and the cannon tore man-sized chunks from the Nightsky's armor, yet the pilot continued to stand and smash at his foe.

  "Who are you?" O'Hanrahan cried desperately over his loudspeaker. "What are you?"

  "I am a witch," replied Bobby the Wolf. "I am your death."

  The large laser bored deep into the Nightsky's vitals. Smoke began to wreathe the 'Mech's upper body. Just keep it up a trifle longer, my bucko, O'Hanrahan thought, tasting blood from where he'd bitten his lip to one of the mind-jarring impacts. I'll kindle your engine into a sun beneath you yet.

  The Nightsky's left arm fell away from a shattered shoulder activator, bleeding sparks from traumatically amputated cables. And the hatchet came smashing down through the Bushwacker's armored canopy and slanted transpex canopy and crushed the life from Terence O'Hanrahan.