Текст книги "Wolves On The Border"

Автор книги: Robert N. Charette

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4

Baton Territory , Quentin IV

Draconis March, Federated Suns

13 June 3023

 

Hamilton Atwyl never remembered hitting the ground.

When he opened his eyes, the Dragoon Lieutenant was lying on his back, looking up at the sky. A cool breeze blew over his face. The rich smell of loam and humus almost covered the harsher stink of burning oil, plastic, and blood.

“Gianni, he's awake!”

Atwyl winced at the shout. The tensed muscles sent pain shooting through his head, closing down his vision to a pinpoint. The vibration of footfalls approaching at a run sent another wave of pain through his head. This one rippled through his back as well. The pleasant warmth of the sun disappeared as the remaining pilots of Blue Flight crowded around him.

Something pricked his arm, then Gianni Bredel's voice cut through the haze. “You O.K.? We thought you'd taken up farming when your Luciferplowed in.”

“So did I.” Atwyl's voice scratched out of a throat raw from breathing the superheated air in his Lucifer'scockpit. “Guess Colonel Carmody will have my rank disk for that stunt.”

“Damn fool stunt,” Bredel chided, “but impressive, Ham. Your cockpit recorder must've been working overtime on the last pass at the 'Mech. Too bad your heroism will go unrewarded.”

Atwyl didn't understand what his wingman was talking about. Damn, but his brain was foggy. Bredel caught his confusion.

“The black box is dead,” he explained, caressing the holstered laser pistol at his side. “There's no record of your suicide charge, and”—he winked at Gordon and Hall—”we'll never tell.”

The other pilots nodded, grins brightening their faces.

Now Atwyl understood. His flight members had pulled the black box and destroyed it. With the box gone, so was the record of his lapse in command judgement. Carmody would never know. Blue Flight was rewarding the protective loyalty Atwyl had shown for those under his command. To them, such loyalty was much more important than some brass-trimmed Colonel's idea of professional detachment. Atwyl didn't even feel the pain his answering smile cost him.

The beeping of the communicator in Bredel's fighter interrupted them. Bredel heaved up and ran to answer it. Hall and Gordon were discussing something, but Atwyl couldn't focus on their words. Their voices faded from his awareness. His brain felt sodden. Finally, he decided that they must have given him a painkiller.

When Bredel returned from his Lucifer,he was carrying a rucksack. He stopped and spoke quietly with Hall and Gordon before bending next to Atwyl. “That was the man upstairs. He says it's time for Phase Two. And since we are so nicely situated here, he wants Blue Flight as part of the air cover for the Pathfinders.”

Atwyl tried to get up, but Bredel was ready for that and held him down. “Blue Flight don't mean you this time, boss man. Your ship's a mess, and so are you. You're sitting out this part of the party.”

Ignoring his protests, the pilots lifted Atwyl and got him onto a makeshift stretcher. They carried him up a slope and into the shade of the nearby forest. As careful as they were, the unavoidable jolting sent pain through the drug's shield of isolation. Bredel took care to prop him up while the others cut saplings and brush to build a blind. Hall spread a thermal blanket over the framework before covering it with brush. When satisfied that Atwyl was as well-concealed as possible, Bredel handed him a Binox image intensifier.

“Now, your majesty, you have a front row seat for the festivities. And your own private sound system.” He patted the comm unit lying next to Atwyl. The wingman's smile dropped a little. “Stay put, Ham. We'll be back for you as soon as we can.” Then he was up and calling for Hall and Gordon to get to their fighters. Feeling a detachment that he knew was chemically induced, Atwyl watched them trot down the slope to the waiting fighters.

A roaring in his ears brought him back from the dreamy fog into which he had begun to slip. He looked out to where the fighters of Blue Flight had been. They were gone. The noise, however, was still there. When shaking his head didn't stop the sound, he looked up for its source. Two Aero-Space Fighters with Dragoon markings shot out over his head. They screamed toward Batan and the spaceport at its edge. Behind them came a bulky Leopard CVDropShip, whose insignia showed it to be Colonel Carmody's flagship. Around the ship swarmed a dozen or more fighters, and he thought he saw the remnants of Blue Flight among them. As he watched, the small craft spread out in front of the big DropShip. Like the first pair of fighters, this flight dropped to the deck as they blasted toward the spaceport. Like Blue Flight before them, they were trying to come in under the port's defenses.

To Atwyl's blurred vision, the attempt at tactical surprise seemed to be working. Port defenses were slow and uncoordinated in response to the closing enemy. The Dragoon aerospace forces opened up on the spaceport as soon as they had range. The usual assortment of missiles and rainbow of energy weapon beams bombarded the defenses of the port. Despite the seeming chaos, Atwyl thought he could see the raiders concentrating on gun emplacements and avoiding the landing surfaces and port facilities. He fumbled for the image intensifier.

Just as he reached it, a wedge of three spacecraft cleared the trees. They followed in the path of the earlier ships. At first, Atwyl feared that they were Davion forces intent on smashing the Dragoons, but the grinning wolf's-head that adorned each tail fin told him otherwise.

The LeopardClass DropShip in the first flight could carry AeroSpace Fighters. Its complement of six were, no doubt, part of the swarm that accompanied it. The new arrivals were also LeopardClass, but were the more common design for carrying BattleMechs. Each ship could carry a full lance of four giant battle machines, as well as two AeroSpace Fighters. Atwyl guessed that the fighters from these ships were operating in the advance wave.

When the second flight was halfway between the forest and the port, another four DropShips rocketed down the path. These, too, carried the Dragoon wolf's-head, but they were a different type. They were FuryClass troop ships, each able to carry a company of troops and eight support vehicles.

Atwyl switched the comm unit to scan so that it would pick up the Dragoon battle frequencies. Then he focused the Binox on the port in time to catch the finish of the first flight's run. Several of the Dragoon craft were engaged with some atmospheric fighters that the Davion command had managed to get into the air. Atwyl wondered whether they were brave or stupid for pitting mere atmospheric fighters against the Dragoon aerospace craft. The transatmospheric ships were so superior that the outcome of the fight was a foregone conclusion.

The 'Mech carriers reached the landing field. Atwyl could see their landing gear still was retracted even though they were barely ten meters above the ferrocrete. When he noticed that the 'Mech egress doors were retracted, too, and that the ships were not slowing, he knew what was coming. In his ten years of service in Wolf's Dragoons, he had heard often enough about this maneuver, but he had never seen it. It took well-trained warriors and reliable equipment to pull it off. Dragoon ‘MechJocks called it downloading. Lesser men called it crazy.

The Leopardsopened fire to suppress any hostiles who had survived the sweep of the fighter cover. The right wing ship dropped back to clear a fire lane for the starboard weapons of its partner as well as for its own port weapons. The Pathfinders' BattleMechs appeared at the edges of the bays.

The winds of the DropShips' passage buffeted the mighty machines. Atwyl heard the jump command come over his comm unit. In unison, the 'Mechs hurled themselves clear of the ships, some firing jets from back units, others using the jets set into their legs. In either case, the terrible momentum was slowed.

Sparks flew as the 'Mechs skidded to shaky stops on the landing field. One, a Stinger,crumpled to the ground as its left leg buckled on contact with the ferrocrete. The remaining BattleMechs began to spread out at top speed. Some opened up with their own weapons as they targeted on emplacements that the aerospace forces had missed. Behind them the Furiesroared closer.

Again Atwyl's comm unit barked with a command. The BattleMechs on the landing field threw themselves prone and ceased their fire. Like the Leopardsbefore them, the Furiescame in as a staggered vee with clear firelanes. Coherent light, charged particles, and missiles rained on the defenses.

A Davion BattleMech lance appeared near the control tower, but the lead Furycut down the first two 'Mechs with its particle beams and missiles. The third 'Mech, an ENF-4R Enforcer,went to ground while the fourth disappeared back behind the tower. The prone 'Mech opened fire, bringing its autocannon to bear on one of the Dragoon 'Mechs. Shell craters pocked the ferrocrete and ripped into the target 'Mech's armor. The Dragoon ‘MechJock held his fire. The Davion pilot probably never had time to wonder why as beams from the passing DropShips converged on the Enforcer'sposition. As the only fusion-powered combat machine firing weapons on the tarmac, the Enforcerwas an easy lock-on for the DropShips' targeting systems. Limbs flew as its ammo storage blew. The Enforcer'sFederated autocannon fired the last shells in its chambered cassette round as the arm assembly spun through the air.

While the guns of the DropShips were wasting the Davion BattleMech, a third order came through on the Dragoon battle frequency. Trooper after trooper leaped from the speeding Furies,each wearing an individual jump pack. Like the 'Mechs before them, the Jump Troops used the exhaust as a brake so they would hit the tarmac at something approaching a reasonable speed.

Having laid their troops, the DropShips leaped for the sky to rejoin the rest of the aerospace forces. They would be harassing the Federated Suns troops trying to flee the port, discouraging the arrival of any reinforcements. Atwyl knew that part of the mission well. He had flown on it many times.

The comm unit at his side came to life. Now that the time for split-second commands had passed, the channels were clear for normal battle traffic. The Dragoon 'Mechs were up and attacking again. The infantry, highly mobile with their jump packs, moved swiftly to hold what the 'Mechs had won.

Surprise and the lightning assault made the rest easy. In short order, the Dragoons were in control of the port. From his vantage point, Atwyl observed the Davion troops retreating in good order out of Batan. As they headed south and away from him, the battle calls and commands on the Dragoon frequency changed. Victory yells and postbattle chatter filled the channels as the Furiesreturned to unload the infantry's vehicles.

Atwyl relaxed as he listened to the excited talk. The tension of watching the battle had drained his strength. He was drifting off to sleep when the babble cut out suddenly, overridden by the command call buzz.

In the comm silence, Colonel Carmody's voice was clear. “Landing zone secure, Colonel Wolf. You may begin landings, as scheduled.”

5

Batan Spaceport, Quentin IV

Draconis March, Federated Suns

14 June 3023

 

The gee forces made breathing hard, but they were not enough to explain the difficulty Minobu was having. He had made combat drops in the insubstantial ablative shell that protected a BattleMech as it fell through the atmosphere. He had ridden down through the firestorms of enemy defenses while locked in the cockpit of a 'Mech that was, in turn, locked in the belly of a DropShip. Those were harrowing times. Why a problem now?

He closed his eyes, blotting out the small stateroom. Was it because this was the first time he had landed on an enemy-held planet without being in the cockpit of a 'Mech? Was it the lack of a 'Mech's protective armor? Was it fear of death? No. Death held no fear for a true samurai. The old, old proverb of his spiritual ancestors said it best, “Death is a feather; duty is a mountain.”

It was the duty, then, that raised his pulse and made his breathing shallow. Or rather the fear of it. The message with his assignment had been clear. He was walking a narrow line, facing concerns that were new to him. He feared failure and the shame it would bring. He had always been calm before battle.

Minobu forced his head around and opened his eyes to look across the compartment. Sho-saGensei Terasu lay stiff on the lower bunk across the stateroom the Kurita officers shared. He was pale, with sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles were taut with more than just the strain of acceleration. Fear etched the face that a short time ago had been set with disdain for Minobu, the Dispossessed ‘MechWarrior.

Minobu found it ironic that Terasu feared a descent outside his control. ‘MechWarriors, accustomed to the feeling of vast power that came with piloting a 'Mech, often showed quirks and superstitions when traveling in machines piloted by other men.

Minobu turned away. To see a warrior in such fear only added to the shame of that warrior. Such enslavement to fear was pitiful, even in so crass and overbearing a man as Terasu. The man's combat record was superb, indicating that he had courage. Minobu wondered if Terasu's courage in battle was really fear of shame, which could overmaster him as thoroughly as fear of death did now. That would fit with his bullying attitude, too.

Between the rattling and creaking of the DropShip plowing through the turbulent upper air over the Ajan continent, Minobu caught a softer sound. It was a voice, soft and monotone, reciting a Buddhist chant. If it had been coming from anywhere other than the acceleration bunk immediately below him, he would never have heard it. Minobu had not expected Sho-saBrett Hawken to have any religious inclinations at all, unless one counted his fervent devotion to House Kurita. Did Hawken feel the same fear that gripped Terasu? Did he intone the prayer from a true religious impulse or was the chant merely a focus to calm his mind? Did it matter?

As Minobu listened, the Starblade'srattling lessened, but the roar of the drives continued. The ship had slowed its velocity. From his estimate of the time elapsed since they had started the descent from orbit, he calculated that they were beginning the final approach to Batan spaceport. The Dragoon AeroSpace Command had been as good as their word. The Starbladehad come through unmolested by the Davion defenders.

The thunder of the DropShip's engines subsided. As the relative quiet of the hundred-year-old DropShip's normal creakings and hissings returned, Sho-iRudorff appeared at the hatch to the stateroom. He apologized for the failure of the old ship's intercom, and assured them that it was safe to unstrap. Minobu released the restraints that had held him in place during the descent. As he started to swing his legs out from the confining couch, Terasu's head appeared. His face was flushed with returning blood. “Stay up there till the combat soldiers are clear, Tetsuhara.”

He put a particular, haughty emphasis on the word “combat.” Hawken, also up now, grinned maliciously at the comment, teeth shining in his black face. Minobu waited patiently while they slung their gear. The Sworders took their time, but Minobu recognized that there was more behind their actions than a simple desire to keep him waiting in the cramped bunk. A hasty appearance on the landing field would not suit a Sworder's dignity, especially on a field captured and held by merc mercenaries.

Terasu and Hawken finally finished. Terasu exited first, taking no notice as the Second flattened against the hull to give him room. As Hawken started through the hatchway, he said, “Make yourself useful, Tetsuhara. Tell the men to deploy the 'Mech lance into a guard patrol.” Over his shoulder, Terasu yelled back, “Make sure mymen are out first.” Hawken frowned and hustled after the other Sworder. Their voices, raised in argument over precedence, echoed through the corridor.

Minobu found Rudorff had come to help him change from the drab gray shipboard fatigues into his uniform. “I don't know how you do it, sir. Those two are barbarians. Always ordering everyone around. Such arrogance! As if they were the Coordinator himself. But you are never perturbed. Like a zen master. Why do you let them speak to you so?”

“It is in their nature.” As Minobu shrugged to settle the black tunic over his shoulders, the high collar folded and caught on the side of his neck. He straightened it before allowing Rudorff to fasten it. “Just as it seems to be your nature to speak so freely.”

At that, the man fumbled a fastening. “I am a loyal son of the Dragon, lord,” he stammered. “I meant no offense, lord.”

“I take none. Here. Hold this box.” From the box, Minobu removed his dress swords and placed them in his belt; first the short one, then the longer. Stowing the box again, he shooed the Second out of the compartment and headed for the ramp. “Have Sho-saHawken's order conveyed to the lance at your first convenience.”

Rudorff bowed. “As you command, lord.”

The walk through the corridor to the ramp was short, but Minobu was perspiring by the time he reached the exit. Even in the short time the Starbladehad been open to the atmosphere, the arid planet had conquered the old DropShip's air-cooling capability. Minobu's sweat evaporated in the first, unfiltered blast of the hot, dry air of Quentin IV, and he could almost feel the water being drawn from his skin.

As uncomfortable as it was, the climate over most of the planet was far friendlier than that of its sister world, Quentin III. Even in the inhabited zones of that planet's great mesas, a man had to wear a full environment suit whenever he left the safety of a ship or building. Hoping he would not be outside long enough to dehydrate, Minobu looked out across the field.

Nearer to the control tower, an OverlordClass DropShip stood on the landing apron, its huge, egg-shaped bulk dwarfing the BattleMechs walking sentry-go. The presence of the sentry 'Mechs and the bustling activity around the ship suggested that the Overlordwas Wolf's command ship. The Sworders had obviously reached the same conclusion because they had already started toward it. Minobu was about to follow them when he noticed a line of communication cables running from the ship to the tower building. With a small smile on his lips, he walked down the ramp and headed for the port building.

As he approached the entrance, the Dragoon guards drew to attention and saluted him in Kurita fashion, fists across their chests. Their posture seemed respectful. Most of the mercenaries Minobu had met in the past had been remarkably lax about military etiquette. Some had not even known how to perform a proper salute. Minobu found himself wondering if the Dragoons' visored helmets hid derisive smiles. It might be their idea of a joke to pretend to be respectful. It did not matter. They were only door guards and their thoughts were of no relevance. Minobu ignored them as he passed from the blazing sun into the shadows of the building.

Just beyond the archway waited a young Lieutenant in the camouflage field uniform of the Dragoons. He noted that her pale hair was cropped close after the fashion of most ‘MechWarriors. Cool air from the blower units rushed past Minobu, to be lost in the sweltering heat outside as she stepped up, saluted, and said, “Colonel Wolf will be pleased to meet you, Chu-saTetsuhara.”

He returned her salute without reply.

“If you will follow me, sir,” she said, turning. “I'm sure the other officers will be along in their own time.” She led him through the debris of yesterday's fighting, chattering at him over her shoulder. He had only enough time for single-word answers to her questions concerning his flight down from orbit and no time at all when she wanted his opinion of the local weather conditions. Before long, Minobu's attention drifted from this one-way conversation. His body followed hers through the corridors, but his mind wandered through other passages. Lost in thoughts of duty and what it meant to him and to his future, he was startled when she excused herself and left him standing before an archway.

Beyond it was a large open area that had recently been a passenger concourse. Its function had now changed. Scattered about were several tables and piles of electronic hardware. Techs, in an activity common to their kind throughout the Inner Sphere, bustled about, checking cables and exposed banks of circuitry. A heavy cable snaked through the arch to a large table where sat an inactive holoprojector and other machinery. Around the table stood and sat several soldiers in Dragoon uniforms. The late morning sunlight glittered off rank insignia. Five of those present wore the triple stars that marked them as Dragoon Colonels.

Understanding dawned on Minobu. He had spent over twenty years threading his way through the mazes of protocol and the labyrinths of status that underlay the Draconis Combine. This was an old game. One that was older than the Successor States, older than the Star League, older even than man's first departure from the cradle of Terra. That homeless mercenaries would set up such a test was unexpected and hinted at an unsuspected sense of propriety and proportion.

Now he knew the reason that no solidographs or datapics were included in the briefing materials. Only one of the five Colonels could be Jaime Wolf. Minobu must identify Wolf correctly or suffer a loss of face that would hamper all further dealings with these people. He would have to observe closely and rely on that. He calmed his mind and looked about him.

Nearest to him was a tall, angular woman whose dark blonde hair was pulled back tightly at the nape. She paced while speaking to an aide, and the spring in her step suggested that it was chained energy rather than anxiety that drove her. Her movements were fluid.

In her pacing, she went past the second Colonel. Because the man was seated at the table studying reports, his height was indeterminable. His uniform hung loose on a spare frame. Whenever the blonde passed, brown eyes in a face as dark as Minobu's own flicked up in distraction. The man's movements were as sharp-edged as his eyes.

The next was a short man with gray-streaked hair, erect carriage, and steady, economical movements. His uniform was tailored perfectly to the well-muscled body of an athlete. Though he was giving most of his attention to the fourth Colonel, he seemed to miss little of what the others were doing. His calm was a pool.

His partner in conversation was of a height with him. Her body was strong, hardened by use yet softened with feminine curves. Her dark hair showed no signs of age. Minobu took her to be quite young until he caught the wrinkles about her eyes that could only have been acquired from years of squinting into harsh suns. A brittle shell surrounded her, protecting a yielding yet strong center.

The last Colonel was seated, relaxing. He was a big man, massive through the chest and shoulders. He would stand tall, probably taller than Minobu's own two-meter height. No aides approached him while he sat back and listened to the others. Occasionally, he offered a comment. His strength lay dormant.

After only a few minutes, the pacing Colonel stopped, dismissed her aide, and gave Minobu an appraising glance before turning her attention to the table. She said something to the big Colonel who answered her. She laughed.

Minobu knew the time had come. He was expected to make his selection. To delay would be a loss of face, even if he selected correctly. He walked forward.

Drawing nearer, he pierced the curtain of white noise that had muffled the voices around the table and prevented him from hearing their conversation. At his approach, the talk stopped. He passed the pacer and moved around to the far side of the table, stopping behind the short man. “Colonel Wolf?” he said, making the polite interrogative into a statement. “I am to be your Liaison Officer.”

The man turned to face Minobu. His cool gray eyes scanned up the front of Minobu's tunic, stopping momentarily at the Bushido Blade on the left breast pocket. He stared briefly into Minobu's eyes, breaking contact before the stare became impolite. “More than just a lucky guess, I think. What gave me away?”

“It was obvious.” Minobu's voice was calm, almost casual. “Yours is the only kiin the room strong enough for the command you hold.”

“Ki,is it?” Wolf, one eyebrow arched, glanced around at the other officers. “I think we are gong to have an interesting relationship, Colonel—or should I say Chu-sa—Tetsuhara.

“Let me introduce my officers. Footloose down there is Kathleen Dumont, Delta Regiment. This is Jason Carmody, AeroSpace Operations Group.” With a thumb over his shoulder, he indicated the other female Colonel. “Wilhelmina Korsht, Gamma Regiment. The lazy bear in the chair is Andrei Shostokovitch, Beta Regiment. The young sprat is Kelly Yukinov.” Wolf indicated a Major standing near Carmody. “He's the one who really runs Alpha Regiment.

“I'm afraid you'll have to wait to meet the rest of the command staff. Transport timing didn't work out.”

“Colonel.” The speaker was Major Yukinov. When he had his commander's attention, the Major inclined his head toward the archway. Through it, they could see the two Sworder officers approaching, led by the same blonde Lieutenant who had met Minobu. Her face was set and she was not speaking. No doubt Terasu or Hawken had commanded her to silence, for neither man thought much of a woman's conversational abilities. Without hesitation, the Sworders walked through the arch. Behind them, the Lieutenant shrugged and turned away.

“Which one is Wolf?” Terasu only looked at Minobu long enough to direct the question to him. Then, like Hawken, he scanned the assembled mercenary officers. Their disdain was evident in the way they held their bodies.

“I'm Wolf.” The Colonel spoke before Minobu could.

“You will brief us on the current situation,” Hawken commanded.

Wolf made a small bow of acknowledgement and began a rundown of the Dragoon dispositions. If he was annoyed by the peremptory manner of the Sworders, he showed no sign.

The bow was a surprise, though. It showed that the mercenary commander had made at least a cursory study of the forms of courtesy prevailing in the Combine military. Minobu wondered if Wolf was aware that no commanding Tai-sa,or Colonel, of the DCMS would ever make a bow-to-superior to a Sho-sa,or Major, as he had done. Perhaps he thought it appropriate from a mercenary to the soldiers of his paymaster. The Sworders certainly accepted it as their due. From what Minobu had seen today, Wolf might be merely playing to their arrogance the way one humors a small child. Minobu decided that this mercenary Colonel was a man who would bear watching.

Wolf apologized that the holoprojector was not yet operative and proceeded to sketch the situation in words. His briefing was succinct and clear, interrupted occasionally by comments or queries from the Sworders. They seemed more interested in Davion activity in the immediate area of the port and the aerospace above. Though their questions were pertinent, Minobu could tell from the structure of the mercenary's presentation that he would eventually have answered all their questions in the course of his outline. Once satisfied that matters were proceeding according to schedule, the Sworders announced that they would personally inspect the security measures taken to secure the port.

The briefing reminded Minobu that there were still military concerns in his world that would constantly affect him and those around him. The Sworders' obsession with safety matters seemed uncharacteristic. He had assumed that the presence of the officers and the companies they commanded in this operation was simply a chance to blood some of the newer members of the regiment or for the veterans to sharpen the edge. It was also an opportunity to test coordination, tactics, and, perhaps, loyalty in a relatively controlled combat situation. The First and Seventh Sword of Light Regiments certainly saw little action in their position as honor guards at the capital on Luthien. The planet had seen no military action in Minobu's lifetime. It was secure and safe, as the capital of the Combine should be.

“The city administrator is at the gate, Colonel.” The soft voice broke into Minobu's thoughts. He looked around. The speaker was a slim Captain who had been standing by the table all along. A flat, metallic box fitted to the curve of the young officer's shoulder. A cord led from it to a receiver in his right ear, and another connected to the comp pad he held in his right hand. The boom-mounted microphone partially obscured his mouth. It was obviously a communications device, but Minobu had never seen its like before.

“Thank you, William. Pass him in and have Alpha's mobile HQ brought up.” The Captain was murmuring into his microphone before Wolf had turned to face Major Yukinov. “Time for you to go, Kelly. Reports at regular intervals.”

Yukinov snapped a quick salute, and along with several junior officers, headed for the exit. Each started to fasten on humidifier masks as he went. Minobu marveled that these mercenaries, so informal among themselves, could so quickly respond to orders, as was proper. At least, there were some soldierly virtues among these Dragoons. Wolf's voice caught his attention.

“Kathy, flick that thing on.”

The blond officer, nearest to the holoprojector, did as he said, and a relief map of the Ajan continent appeared, floating in the air above the table. The terrain was depicted in a muted gray, allowing the bright reds and blues of unit dispositions to stand out.

“Let's get this show over with,” Wolf said impatiently, “so we can get ready for our guest.”