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Jade Falcon Naval Reserve BattleshipEmerald Talon
Zenith Jump Point
Skye
10 August 3134
When it came to the decision by thekurultai, almost all of Aleksandr Hazen’s Zeta officers voted for his proposed forbearance from terror. The officers of Turkina Keshik and the Gyrfalcon Galaxy were surprised: such near unanimity was rare among the Clans, especially adezgra unit supporting a new commander.
They were perhaps more surprised when some Keshik officers and even a few Gyrs voted with Aleksandr’s warriors.
Yet in the end, Malvina’s proposal of calculated savagery won by a margin of almost two to one—her heretical pronouncements notwithstanding.
“I challenge,” Aleksandr said simply, when the results were formally announced by Star Colonel Rianna Buhallin, Bec Malthus’ aide de camp.
“Such is your right,” Beckett Malthus intoned solemnly. “In accordance with tradition you shall be opposed in your Trial of Refusal by two warriors, reflecting that your will has been rejected by that proportion.”
“I will fight him, augmented, alone.” All heads turned to stare at Malvina. She was literally half his size—her body mass half his—but in the cockpit of a ’Mech, that mattered not at all. “MyShrike carries twice the firepower of hisGyrfalcon . And he has never beaten me in BattleMech combat.”
Aleksandr Hazen raised his head. His smile was nova bright.
Bec Malthus did not bother to ask if Malvina meant what she said. As well ask a bullet if it meant to hit you.
It was a huge breach of tradition. He doubted he was the only one unsurprised that Malvina should propose such a thing.At the least, he thought,this should prove amusing .
“What venue?” he asked her in a voice subdued even for him. “Our choices are somewhat circumscribed.”
“I care not. Let Aleksandr choose.”
And that was unorthodox as well. Where willshe lead the Falcon, Malthus wonderedf allowed her head?
Aleks’ smile widened. “I shall, sister,” he said. “I shall.”
Sanglamore Military Academy
New London
Skye
14 August 3134
“I fail to understand, Countess,” Legate Eckard said, not unkindly. “Is it not poor tactics to announce our dispositions in advance to the Falcons—not to mention make them before we even know where they will land?”
Once half-abandoned, Sanglamore Academy now bustled as de facto planetary-defense headquarters. The two Taras occupied a former classroom with the Duke, Eckard, Prefect Della Brown, and several cadets serving as ducal aides. With the Countess were Colonels Ballantrae and Scott, commanders of the First Kearney Highlanders and the Fusiliers respectively, and Republican Guard commander Major Linda Hirschbeck.
“It’s all the same,” muttered Duke Gregory. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out a tall narrow window with a pointed arch and leaded glass at the overcast day. Fallen leaves blew across the imported terrestrial grass of the old quad three stories below, gone yellow as winter impended. “They’ll spot our major concentrations from orbit, wherever located.”
The Legate made a circular gesture of his hand. “As I say.”
Making herself stay seated, since she feared she would look uncertain if she gave in to the desire to hop up and pace, Tara nodded. Tracked by powerful telescopes since its emergence was reported, the Jade Falcon fleet was now within hours of shaping Skye orbit. The tension had grown almost unbearable.
“You’re right, Legate. The thing is to understand the Clan mentality. Their predisposition is to fight—and they believe they can defeat any number of Spheroid fighters.”
Duke Gregory half-turned. “They’ve always been attracted to the idea of One Big Battle, haven’t they?” It seemed that in the extremity of the current situation, he had come to completely accept Tara Campbell. Concern for his planet had overcome his desire to find things to sulk about.
“Precisely so, your Grace. And actually it’s in their strategic interests: it’s much easier on them if we’ll agree to all clump up and get beaten by them at once, rather than making them engage in a long grind to conquer the planet.”
“Wouldn’t it be in our interests to act counter to theirs?” Della Brown asked. The Prefect’s voice lacked challenge: the question seemed sincere, rather than another attempt to undermine the Countess.
“That’s an excellent military principle, Prefect,” Tara said. “Yet in this case I believe our interests coincide with theirs. More particularly, the interests of the people of Skye whom we’re defending. The longer we draw this thing out, the more they suffer.” “Then too,” Eckard said, “there’s this lot’s demonstrated propensity for atrocity.”
With supreme effort Tara kept her face and voice under control. “Precisely.”
“Your Grace,” said one of Gregory’s aides wearing a commo headset. “We are receiving a transmission from the commander of the Jade Falcon fleet. He wishes to speak to our chief battle leader.”
Duke Gregory pursed his bearded lips. “Countess Campbell, I believe this call is yours.” To her utter surprise, the Duke had chosen to defer to her recent—and greater—experience in leading troops into battle, particularly against Clan forces. He would command Skye’s indigenous forces under Tara’s operational command.
She drew a deep breath and turned to face the holovid tank at one end of the room. The Duke nodded.
A heavy, handsome face, bronze-bearded and large-pored, appeared in the tank. “I am Galaxy Commander Beckett Malthus,” it announced, “commanding the Jade Falcon expeditionary force.”
“I am Countess Tara Campbell, commanding for Skye,” she said crisply.
“Countess Campbell, I wish to issue a batchall: a formal challenge—”
“I know what it means,” Tara said with calculated rudeness. “Here are our terms: we will fight you in the hills west of New London; there are plenty of surfaces hard and flat enough to land your DropShips. You bring what you have, we bring what we have, winner take all.”
The expression of placid superiority never wavered. That was in itself highly unusual for a nitroglycerin-touchy Clansman. That bears out Master Merchant Senna’s assessment of the man,
Tara thoughtDoesn’t it?
“Lady Campbell, you are hardly in position to dictate—”
Here’s where it gets tricky. “This is not any of your Clan bidding. There is no negotiation. The alternative is to fight an endless guerrilla war—and no matter how many of us you murder, there will still be more of us left to slaughter you in your beds. Or are you afraid, Galaxy Commander Beckett Malthus, to meet us force against force? Perhaps you doubt your Falcons’ invincibility.”
The man’s brows had fisted as she spoke and his face darkened, slightly but perceptibly. “You speak rashly, Countess. Your words are far larger than you. And you will soon learn their folly.
“A Clan warrior fears nothing. We shall meet you in the country west of your prefectural capital.”
He raised his right hand, palm up, squeezed his fingers into a fist. “And crush you! Beckett Malthus out.”
The image vanished.
Tara looked to her aide. A breath she was unaware of holding gusted from her in a sigh that shook her whole thin frame.
“Countess!”
“Huh?” She sat up on her cot. Sunlight streamed in the window of her office, afternoon by its buttery hue.
A female cadet stood in the doorway. “Apologies for disturbing you, milady. But you asked to be informed
