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Aomori Mountains, Dieron
Former Prefecture II, Republic of the Sphere
13 June 3136

 
Okay, so call her pissy, but when the chance came to kick some serious butt, Katana jumped at it. Who wouldn’t? Brand-spanking-new Hitotsune Kozo, grab the solid weight of that joystick, and get down and dirty dealing out some fine, old-fashioned destruction and mayhem. What, she’s gonna say: Gosh, no, let’s have lunch?

Only things weren’t turning out so well.

High in her Hitotsune Kozo’s cockpit, Katana labored up the western wall of a canyon over the equivalent of a moonscape pocked with blast craters and studded with mounds of debris and jumbled trees hacked to kindling. Immediately to her north, a tremendous river thundered in an immense cataract. Three hundred meters below, fast-moving, silver-blue water battered massive boulders with a deep boom, like the roar of autocannons.

Clots of dense black smoke boiled from a phalanx of wildfires all along her western flank. Some of the fires had been ignited by enemy weapons, but most, like the evergreens, had been set deliberately. A damn good tactic: The fires made hash of her sensors and the soot-choked smoke smeared fingers of thick grime over her canopy.

She’d been maneuvering through foothills and mountains for several hours, and although her own legs didn’t feel the strain, her ’Mech’s temp was inching up, like a hiker working her way to heatstroke. She’d taken hits these past few days, too many too close for comfort on her torso. Enough to shred two-thirds of her armor, most of it dead center over her munitions store, right where it counted most.

A man’s voice, deep and weary, on her comm: ‘‘Anything?’’>

‘‘Nope. Where are you, Theodore?’’

‘‘Your four o’clock, other side of the canyon,’’ Theodore said. Katana pivoted and then spied a soot-smeared naginata blade on its long distal tang ripping a seam in an inky curtain of smoke. Sun glare reflected by the titanium blade winked in fitful bursts, like the frantic semaphore of a ship in distress. A second later, the V-shaped hulk of Theodore Kurita’s Shiro hove into view on a lip of rock along a scalloped ridge. The sun bounced twinkling stars off the glittery gold and rich oxblood accents of his ’Mech’s kabuto, with its modified fukigayeshi wings, and do scarred gray and blackened by ash. The Shiro’s armor was scored from missile hits, a ragged gash jagging down the ’Mech’s left thigh, exposing bundles of myomer—as if a drunken surgeon had slashed through skin and flayed muscle with a blunt scalpel. Another slash, lumpier at the margins, had chewed away armor perilously close to one of the Shiro’s three right-torso missile stores. The Shiro raised in a salute the naginata blade wedded to its left fist.

‘‘Gotcha,’’ Katana said. She rested the Kozo’s left leg on a rocky shelf some hundred and twenty meters above the canyon floor. ‘‘Careful. That eastern ridge is kind of rotten, and the wall’s steeper.’’

‘‘You’re not exactly in the most defensible position. All it’ll take are a couple good punches, and you’ll get knocked right off that slope.’’

Yeah, yeah, yeah. She backhanded sweat from her neck. When she shifted, her couch made a wet sucking sound. ‘‘I figure a traverse is better than a head-on climb. Otherwise, my autocannon’ll be punching rock. What’s your status?’’

‘‘How many different kinds of bad are there?’’ Then, without waiting for her reply: ‘‘Look, this is between you and me, okay? No one else on this channel, so just listen.’’

‘‘Listen to what?’’ Of course, she knew what he’d say because she knew Theodore. Their friendship had been forged in battle, and a long JumpShip trip home.

‘‘Katana, my weapons’ status has gone from bad to the other side of crappy. I’m out of autocannon. I’ve got two racks of LRMs left. I know you want to win—’’

‘‘It’s not just about winning.’’

‘‘Bull. This is about you being the new kid on the block. I’m on your side, remember? You know I won’t interfere, not when the Combine’s watching. But a good commander listens. She’s flexible. Now, it’s just plain suicidal for us to be out front here, with no reinforcements, and I don’t like this canyon. We should withdraw.’’

‘‘No,’’ Katana said. Oh, don’t be an ass. He’s right, and you know he’s right. ‘‘This is our last chance to take him. It’s my op.’’

‘‘I know. That’s what I said.’’ More silence. Katana could picture Theodore in his command couch: his tanned leathery features creased with sweat, his lips thinned to a crack above his square chin and those frosty Kurita-blue eyes set with determination . . .

But there was something . . . wrong. Theodore’s reflexes were slower, his Shiro’s gait more herky-jerky. Yesterday, he’d made a misstep, coming down hard on his left leg before compensating with his right in a wildly exaggerated arc. And then his ’Mech froze. Right leg rigid and locked at the knee. Just for a few seconds, but she saw it.

A sudden revelation: So maybe this is also about him saving face, not exposing weakness.

She had to respect that. He was heir, after all. She exhaled. ‘‘Okay, we’re gone. I’ll just . . .’’

She broke off as alarms screamed. Her eyes snapped to her HUD winking to a fiery red. Incoming, but not targeting her! Targeting . . .

‘‘Theodore!’’ she screamed. ‘‘Look out!’’

Roiling emerald fire punched the Shiro so hard Theodore swayed, reeled and nearly toppled.

‘‘Theodore!’’ Katana jerked left, tracked the source and . . . there! A Zeus, high above, blasting through curtains of black smoke like a demon released from the maw of Hell.

But I’m the one he wants! Got to get Theodore out of here before . . .

‘‘Theodore, back off!’’ Katana shouted, already pivoting left, leaning into the mountain, bringing her pulse lasers to bear. But her aim was awkward, her angle hampered by the mountain, and her shots blasted wide. Throttling up, she banged her ’Mech forward, punishing the rock, desperately wishing she had the claws of a Shockwave so she could grab hold and haul ass to the top. Her right leg jack-hammered the rock, but then she felt the shifting of rock and scree, and she slipped. Gasping, she threw her body left, a motion that translated to a swooping arc that only shoved her ’Mech off its center of gravity. As she began to fall into the rock, instinct took over. She straightened her left arm, the impact shivering all the way into the cockpit. The arm groaned as seventy-five tons of endosteel drove her pulse lasers straight into the rock, and then her left arm jammed tight.

‘‘Damn it!’’ She yanked back, trying to extricate her lasers, ignoring the warning shriek of her DI as her temp climbed. She could figure out the problem without the help of her diagnostic interpretation computer, thank you very much.

‘‘Katana!’’ Theodore yelled, his voice hitching. There was a series of dull sonic booms, and Katana spared a quick glance and, horrified, saw a lance of saucer-shaped Sholagar fighters scream from the sky. Lasers pricked the Shiro’s back, needling the cockpit, just as a spread of LRMs bulleted against Theodore’s right torso, directly over his store of missiles. A blinding series of explosions blossomed bright and hard as suns gone nova: BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! The roars reverberated across the canyon, redoubling as echoes—and then Theodore’s armor plating turned to sludge, to molten welts, the edges humping like badly formed scars. The Sholagars sped by the Shiro, then broke right and left, turning now, rocketing for the ’Mech, lasers slicing away the Shiro’s twin banners, the ones decorated with the Kurita dragon.

‘‘Katana!’’ Theodore shouted, his voice broken by bursts of static. ‘‘My firing system’s frozen, locked out, and my emergency dump’s off-line!’’

My God, he’s too close to the edge, too close! ‘‘Theodore! You can’t do any more good here, just get the hell . . . !’’ She broke off as the air overhead screamed with the passage of LRMs loosed by the Zeus, rocketing streamers of death. She gauged their trajectory, and understood their enemy’s strategy, too late. ‘‘Theodore! The ridge! Back up, back up!’’

But Theodore was already reeling, the Shiro lurching left, its leg swinging to broaden its stance—and then the ’Mech froze, right leg locked and still too close to the edge.

Helpless, Katana watched as the missiles plowed into the ridge, shattering rock like fragile glass, the concussive power of the blasts so strong that chunks of the mountain rained over her canopy, bulleting against ferroglass and armor. The ridge splintered, and the rock beneath Theodore’s feet disintegrated. The edge crumbled to dust—with Theodore still there, still frozen.

And then the rock face suddenly slid free, like an iceberg calving from a glacier. The Shiro rode a wave of pulverized rock and debris that evaporated beneath its feet. Screaming, Theodore was in free fall, pulling an avalanche in his wake, his blade snapping in two as his ’Mech rebounded off a protruding rock shelf, the Shiro turning a somersault just before its munitions blew. A series of blasts, each more powerful than the next, billowed fiery orange and bloodred.

And then there was only silence because Theodore was gone.

‘‘Onore!’’ Katana roared, the simmering magma of her fury erupting in an explosion of venomous hate. ‘‘Koro shite yaru! I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!’’ She swung round, brought her autocannon to bear. But the Zeus was already on the move, disappearing as it retreated from the rim. The Sholagars had regrouped but very far away and circling, not initiating another attack run. Waiting. And then, when the Zeus maneuvered onto a jutting portion of ridgeline north of her position, she understood at once.

Long-range missiles, and me trapped like a fly on sticky paper. No way to get free unless I try to break off the arm, but then . . .

A flash as her adversary’s missiles roared from their rack, arrowing right for her but . . . What was going on? She gaped, wondered if her enemy had lost his mind, because she saw that the missiles were going to fall short, not hit her at all. . . .

‘‘Oh, my God,’’ she said, a clutch of sickening cold knotting her stomach and then flowing like ice water through her veins.

He wasn’t aiming at her at all. Instead, he’d targeted the canyon wall.

The missiles thundered into the canyon wall above and short of where she sprawled, her lasers mired in a trap devised by her folly and petty pride. Beneath her feet, the ground shook with the violence of an earthquake, of the earth splitting in two. Then she wasn’t standing on solid ground anymore but hanging for a brief, tenuous two or perhaps three seconds before her laser arm, unable to hold her ’Mech’s tonnage, snapped.

The shrieking ululation of alarm klaxons mingled with her screams as she tumbled down amid rocks and debris. Her Kozo skidded right and then hit with a tremendous BOOOM, the autocannon mounted on its right shoulder shearing and then tearing free as the ’Mech turned head over heels. Trapped in her command couch, her body bounced and strained against her harness, jouncing like the hopeless struggles of an insect stuck in a web. The world dissolved into a gray blur and black smoke, spinning, cartwheeling . . .

Desperate, she wrenched her upper torso, trying to fling her ’Mech flat, and flailed with her right arm. Her ’Mech responded, mirroring her movements: its twin-headed dragon sickle flashed forward, grabbing at rock. The principle was the same as an ice climber using his ax to stop a fatal slide. She felt the sickle snag and leaned into it, grimacing with the effort, the ’Mech’s temperatures now so high that the scream of her alarms was one continual, piercing note.

Against all odds, she stopped falling. The sickle caught, and held. It shouldn’t have. The sickle should’ve snapped because a ’Mech was proportionately so much heavier than a human—but it didn’t.

Yes, yes! Her heart rebounded with a tremendous thump against her ribs. Not much time, get moving, get moving! Grunting, she swung her legs, battering the rock, trying to gouge footholds. But then her ax jerked and pulled free with a groan of metal, and her Kozo peeled away from the mountain, its limbs splayed like a four-pointed star.

Beyond her canopy, the sky retreated and grew darker as she plunged toward the river. She couldn’t eject, couldn’t use the jump jets. She hurtled down the abyss and suddenly understood the despair of the damned.

She hit the water, very hard. Hard enough that it was as if the water were solid, an open palm that smacked her in the back. Momentum slammed her body, trying to thrust her out of her command couch. Her harness, strained beyond the breaking point, ruptured, and she barely had time to throw her arms up to shield her face before she smacked face-first into her canopy. Later, the diagnostics would show that the bones of her face shattered with the impact. Water rushed over her canopy, and the sky—so far away now—wavered, shimmered, disappeared.

But not before a final image was forever branded on her brain: the Zeus, wreathed by flame, a nightmare demon from an underworld she couldn’t imagine.

And then everything fizzled, broke apart into multicolored pixels as the sim terminated and went black.

Silence.

Then a voice she heard even over the roar of her heart in her temples and the bellows of her gasping lungs:

‘‘I believe,’’ said Matsuhari Toranaga, Warlord of New Samarkand, ‘‘you are quite, quite dead.’’