Calmly and coldly, Janella backed the Tundra Wolf and brought the right arm up. The quartet of medium lasers snapped red light at the flying ’Mech. All but one struck it in the right elbow, vaporizing the last of its armor and burning into the joint. Titanium bones glowed red on their way to white, then became fluid. The forearm and club sailed away and the ’Mech, unbalanced, came down hard on the left leg. The hip joint snapped, driving the thigh up into the torso. The left arm flailed, as did the smoking stump of the right, then the ’Mech fell back. It smashed into the ground, shaking it, and shaking the confidence of those who thought the bounty would be easily won.
The warriors who had been in Siwek’s command hesitated before entering the fight. Catford’s Jessies did come forward, clearly anxious to win Bernard’s favor. With Alba’s people behind Bernard’s position the tactical situation balanced out the forces arrayed against us. It should have been an even fight.
What unbalanced it, however, was the Basalt Militia. As the commander said afterward, Janella and I had come into the fight and defended his people and planet. Bernard might have wanted to dispute his arrest, but ordering the murder of a Republic Knight wasn’t the way to do that. Being forced to choose sides, they chose for us and laid down a pattern of fire that drove the venturesome Jessies back.
All these actions happened in the course of five seconds, and I watched them with the same distance I’d watched Tri-Vid dramas while Teyte’s prisoner. I was in the combat, no doubt about it, but I was still detached from it. I knew that was how I had to be as a Ghost Knight.
I also realized it was wrong.
My mind flashed to the kitchen where I’d helped serve meals. Quam had said it would become a charnel house, but I saw another vision. I saw it as a prison compound, with Bernard’s enemies, wasted and filthy, warehoused until the whim struck him to kill them. He would do that without question, and with his leadership, others on Basalt would follow him. His poison would infect them and this beautiful world would die.
Detachment and distance indeed had been my stock in trade, but that was during a time when The Republic had been strong and able to deal with problems like this in a benign manner. My job was to investigate and seek solutions others could implement. The problem now was that Bernard was a force that was accelerating entropy, and the only way to counter that was to inject more energy into the system.
My energy.
I discovered that Bernard had made himself a third enemy: ME.
I brought my crosshairs around and dropped them on the outline of Bernard’s Catapult. Without a second’s hesitation I launched two flights of missiles at him, and he returned the favor. Both of our attacks hit solidly. Heat from the missile launchings flooded my cockpit, then his missiles poured down over me. Ghost shook as if in an earthquake and the explosions sounded as if I were in the heart of a Basalt thunderstorm. Light flashed, shrapnel pinged. Alarms went off in my cockpit and the outline of my ’Mech on the primary monitor went from green to yellow as armor was reduced to dust.
My Mad Cat III staggered, but I managed to keep it on its feet despite a feeling of dizziness and sweat burning into my eyes. Though my ’Mech massed less than the Catapult, I could hit harder. My only weakness was that Ghost was a bit more fragile than Bernard’s ’Mech. As the smoke cleared around me, I cut to the left, moving perilously close to Siwek’s old command.
Another barrage from Alba’s lance nibbled at the rear of Bernard’s mercenary formation. Her troops emerged from the rain forest and were angling toward the last of Siwek’s command, but kept their fire on Bernard’s mercs. The implications were clear: they didn’t have to get dead if they didn’t want to. The Militia ripping into their former comrades gave everyone a pretty good indication of the locals’ dislike for them.
Bernard fired at me again, but as we were both moving, half his missiles missed and the rest just ground armor away. I retaliated by hitting him with some lasers that burned away the last of the armor over his left thigh. Another chunk of damage there and he’d go down.
Easier said than done, however. He was already moving east, toward Siwek’s company, doubtless exhorting them to enter the fight. With his ’Mech moving that fast, the chances of me getting a specific enough target lock to take that leg out were slim. Each step carried him further from me, but if I pursued, I would trade movement for range in targeting trouble.
Janella’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Be aware, helping Bernard Germayne will subject you to arrest by The Republic as well. You can never hide. He cannot save you.”
I keyed my microphone. “Not only that: he’s broke. You’ll never get what he promised you.”
I must say that is the nice thing about mercenaries: they are loyal to themselves and have a fine grasp of microeconomics. The two SM1s swiveled their turrets and shot, but not at Bernard. Their autocannon fire gnawed through two of the Jessies. The rest of Siwek’s old command focused on Bernard’s mercs as well, making them into an “Oh God why me?” sandwich against Alba’s force and the Militia.
Bernard flew on toward the rain forest, seeking escape. I punched two buttons on my communications console and tightbeamed a message to him. “Has Germayne blood turned yellow, Bernie? Is it that you’re stupid enough to think that if you run away, you’ll live to fight another day? Teyte didn’t—I saw to that—and I’ll do you, too.”
I’m not sure if it was just the words, or his recognizing my voice, but sparks flared from beneath his ’Mech’s feet as he brought it around to face me. The LRM launchers on the ’Mech’s shoulders spat fire. His anger might have made him foolish, but it also focused him. Though my antimissile system whined and picked off a few projectiles, Bernard’s salvos still smashed unerringly into Ghost, ripping the right arm clean off.
The blasts staggered the ’Mech. I slipped to the left—was knocked to that side, truth be told. Sweat and a bit of blood from my bitten tongue filled my mouth. Struggling with the controls, I kept the ’ Cat upright, then shifted the left foot forward and raked my crosshairs over his ’Mech. Bernie, in what he saw as a moment of triumph, stood there, tall, imposing—his ’Mech mirroring his posture at our first meeting.
The gold dot on my crosshairs burned bright.
My missiles streaked out on smoky ropes linking me with him. He had no defense, but even the best would not have blunted my attack. His momentary motionlessness, his arrogance, gave me a better target than he really wanted. The missiles leaped from the ’Cat, then dipped down for a second before all arrowed in at his Catapult.
Bernard’s ’Mech had lost all the armor from the left thigh. While not all my missiles struck that target, out of forty enough did reach it. Explosions clawed their way through the myomer muscles. They chopped at ferro-titanium bones, knocking great chips from them while other blasts just twisted and warped them. The Catapult, which massed sixty-five tons, shifted to the left as the ravaged bone screamed and parted. The shin fell back and the ’Mech crashed left.
It landed hard on a missile rack, which exploded and almost managed to pitch the ’Mech back upright. I could almost feel Bernard’s spirit soaring for a second. In his mind, I was certain, he felt victory in his grasp.