FALL OF THE BLOSSOM

By Steven Mohan, Jr.

Lotus Flower Facility, South Hangar

Munich, Radstadt, Ghost Bear Dominion

19 March 3064

Shintaro Yamada spun left, kicking high, his left boot smashing into the beautiful line of his opponent’s jaw. He felt the brutal give of bone, heard her sharp gasp, but even still he did not quite believe it. So when she dropped to her hands and knees, spotting the gray ferrocrete with her blood, he ignored his instincts and danced away.

After several shuddery breaths, she climbed to her feet.

Yamada had learned long ago that death could steal upon a man in the most unlikely of places. Today it had found him in a little-used corner of the South Hangar. It was a place bathed in the watery, yellow light of sodium lamps and hidden behind the backward-bent leg of a Warhawk. In the distance, Yamada heard the crackle and hiss of arc welders, the electric hum of hoist cranes, the clang of metal and the shouts of men. But all that was far away.

Here there was nothing but the rasp of labored breathing and the endless, unblinking stares.

They fought in a ten-meter circle defined by the bodies of fourteen Ghost Bear warriors, all silent as stone. Yamada felt the weight of their attention, their eyes made black by the jaundiced light.

He wrenched his thoughts away from the circle. It was dangerous to forget his opponent—even for an instant.

MechWarrior Angelica offered him a slow, insolent smile, her teeth filmed with bright blood. She spit out a tooth, her smile never fading. So it was going to be like that.

“You cannot beat me, Angelica,” said Yamada. “Step outside the circle and save your life.”

“The man of peace,” she sneered, “always trying to find another way.” She was a small woman, slim and muscular, as fast as a cobra, bronze-skinned, her ash-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore boots, pale blue shorts, a black sports bra—and nothing else.

“There is no logic in needless death.” He paused. “Uh, quiaff?”

“Iie,” she snapped, throwing the Japanese word for no back at him. “Because I have found another way.”

And suddenly she lunged at him, careless of his reach, right arm swinging wide, something glittering in her hand.

Knife.

Yamada’s body was already moving back and down by the time his mind found the word.

But not fast enough.

A line of fire slashed across his naked chest.

Yamada didn’t dare look down as Angelica danced back, her lithe body sheened with sweat, dark eyes eager to plunge the blade deeper.

It didn’t matter. Yamada didn’t need to look at the wound. He saw dark blood staining a half-centimeter of her blade, felt the sting of sweat tracing a line nipple to nipple, the pucker of parted flesh, the dull ache of the ribs that had saved his life.

This time.

The pair circled, he wary of her speed and blade, she wary of his power and cunning.

“Yield,” said Angelica, “and I promise it will be quick.” She flashed him a cruel smile.

Yamada smiled back. “Is that supposed to fill me with despair? Is it supposed to frighten me?”

She struck fast, flicking the knife from her right hand to her left even as she thrust at his right side.

Yamada spun away, landing a kick to her left knee that sent to her to the ferrocrete.

For a second he considered finishing her and then he saw the tension in her shoulder, the flex of her calf. Ready to spring. A trap.

He backpedaled, laughing. “You think you are clever? I spent years in the hands of the ISF. I do not fear you.”

She leaped to her feet.

“In the Castle of Unheard Screams we used to do a little dance like this every day before breakfast.”

For a moment she watched him shift sideways, feet apart, arms wide. “I notice for all your talk of bravery, you are still retreating.”

“And I notice for all your talk of honor, you’re the only one with a knife.”

An ugly murmur passed through the assembled warriors.

“I thought this was supposed to be a Circle of Equals,” he pressed.

“You are not worthy,” she whispered savagely.

They circled, each looking for an opening.

“So that’s it,” said Yamada. “I’m not worthy. It’s not that the Ghost Bears are cowards. Afraid of an idea.”

She snarled and rushed him, feinting right, lunging left. Yamada spun and kicked up, his boot connecting smoothly with her left wrist. He felt the delicate bones shatter even as the steel blade clattered to the deck.

They dove for it at the same time.

Yamada was a fraction faster. Now he had the knife.

She stumbled back, cradling her left hand in her right.

Yamada feinted with the knife, and brought his leg around in a sweep kick that knocked her legs out from under her. She landed flat on her back, her head hitting the ferrocrete with a sharp crack.

For three, four seconds she was stunned. It might as well have been an hour.

He did not give himself time to think, time to regret what he was doing. He leapt, aiming for her neck, bringing all his weight down in a single terrible blow landed by his right boot. A sickening crunch echoed off the building’s cinder-block walls. Two of the Ghost Bear warriors actually flinched.

“So,” said Yamada, breathing hard. “Who’s—next?”

He was rewarded by an uncertain silence. They were surprised. Shocked. No one dared challenge him.

Yamada grinned even as he worked to regain his breath. “I have to say—this is the very worst—murder attempt—I’ve ever seen.”

And then his cocksure smile froze on his face.

From behind he heard the soft scrape of rubber against ferrocrete. Someone stepping into the ring.

Yamada turned and saw Star Colonel Christer Hall standing behind him, arms folded across his chest. Hall was a powerful man with a shock of thick brown hair, blue eyes, and a long, aristocratic nose. There was an ugly white scar just beneath his left eye, but that was his only flaw.

For an instant those angry blue eyes locked on Yamada, and then the Star Colonel stepped past his bondsman to address the circle. “This is improper,” said Hall softly, and if it had been quiet before, it was dead silent now. “My bondsman has no standing in a Circle of Equals.”

No one spoke. Yamada didn’t think anyone breathed.

“Or maybe this is not about him. Is this really a challenge to my authority?”

No one moved.

Then a warrior behind Hall, a man named Edward shifted on his feet. “He is chalcas. He challenges the way of the Clans.”

Hall did not turn to look at Edward. “And you know better than I how to meet this threat, quineg? Your solution is to trade his dishonor for your own. Or has murder become the way of the Clans?”

Edward licked his lips. “I-I request surkai, Star Colonel.” Surkai.

The ritual of forgiveness.

Hall stepped to the body of MechWarrior Angelica. She lay flat on her back, staring up at the hangar’s ceiling with lifeless eyes. He knelt down and picked up her bloody knife. Hall stood, turned to meet the gaze of each of his warriors. “If you ask it, I will face any of you in a Trial.” He glanced down. “But I shall not be as merciful as my bondsman.”

He stepped out of the Circle of Equals without further challenge.

Yamada scrambled to follow him.

They made their way outside the hangar, and onto the streets of a busy military base. All around them the Lotus Flower thrummed with activity. The sour belch of diesel and the deep growl of heavy engines marked the passage of a convoy of trucks loaded with spare parts, rations, and medical supplies. Warriors marched along the sidewalk. The earth trembled under Yamada’s feet—somewhere in the distance a DropShip was lifting.

For more activity than sleepy Constance.

They’d only been here a week, but already Yamada could feel something: a tension borne on the air, the chewed-tinfoil taste of electricity.

Something is coming.

Yamada tried not to look, but his eyes found the Black Tower anyway, a monstrous structure stabbing into the blue belly of the sky. During the days when the base had been called the Lotus Flower Correctional Facility, the dark tower had been central to its terrible purpose. When the Ghost Bears had taken the world, they had struck the word “Correctional” from the name. They did not believe in rehabilitation. Neither did the Combine, but the Clans were more honest about it.

Yamada’s glance was no more than a flicker of motion, but Hall somehow still noticed. “I am told,” he said without turning, “that when Radstadt was a Combine world, the Lotus Flower Facility was a prison.”

Yamada said nothing.

Hall stopped and turned. “You have lost much since our bargain on Richmond.” Hall inclined his head toward the tower. “No doubt the Kurita secret police imprisoned your fellow conspirators in the peace movement after the Combine retook the world.”

Yamada’s hands closed into fists. “And you, Star Colonel?” he snarled. “You won a world and then lost it. What did your adventure on Richmond profit you?”

“It won me an assignment to the Second Bear Regulars.”

Yamada snorted. “You traded one garrison force for another.”

For a moment Hall stared at Yamada blankly and then a mean smile cut across his face like a wound. “I won you, Shintaro.”

“We have yet to see whether that was victory or defeat,” said Yamada tightly.

Hall folded his arms across his chest. “In either case, you will stop haranguing my warriors about the way of peace.”

“If I do not?”

“Then obviously they will kill you.”

Yamada stuck his chin out defiantly. “I am many things, Star Colonel, but I am not a coward.”

Hall put his hips on his fist, studying Yamada closely, turning something over in his mind. “You will tell me something, Bondsman Shintaro.”

“Of course, Star Colonel.”

“When you fought on Richmond you painted a cherry tree on your Atlas. Why?”

Yamada drew a deep breath. He hadn’t expected such a perceptive question from this man. “At the prison where I was held there was a cherry tree. Some fool of a gardener had planted the tree too close to a wall. The tree grew twisted and bent, but still it grew. Despite the world’s stupidity, it had not forgotten how to be a tree.”

Hall nodded slowly. “Despite the universe’s pressures, you will not deny who you are.”

Yamada blinked, again surprised at the man’s insight. “Hai.” He shook his head. “I mean, Aff.”

“Very good.”

Yamada raised an eyebrow. “You approve?”

“Every man should be who he is. Your problem is you do not know who you are.”

Yamada snorted.

“You are a warrior, Bondsman Shintaro. “Your inspired strategy on Richmond proved that.”

“You’re wrong,” said Yamada.

“You tell yourself you agreed to come with me to save your peace movement, but the truth is you wanted to fight. You burned to fight.”

Yamada shook his head. “Iie.”

“Really? Just now you fought with more skill and honor than any of my warriors.”

Yamada sucked in a startled breath. “You were watching me.”

“You are a remarkable warrior, Shintaro. A warrior worth some effort. One day you will be of use to me.”

The bondsman shook his head. “Never.”

“You deny it,” said Hall softly. “And yet when the moment came, you found the brutality you needed to save your own life. Tell me, Shintaro, do you remember the sound, the feel of your boot on Angelica’s neck when you took her life?”

Yamada shuddered, whether from horror or excitement he couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

“You came to us because you are a warrior, and the Clans have the best warriors in the galaxy. If you have the courage to face this truth, you will prosper. If not, it will destroy you.”

“You are wrong. I will not fight for you.”

A smirk flashed across Hall’s face. Without word or ceremony, he reached out and cut the bondcord from Yamada’s wrist. “I think you will.” He shoved something into Yamada’s hand.

Yamada glanced down. A data crystal. He looked up. “What’s this?”

“Gunzburg,” said Hall.

Yamada shook his head. “I don’t—”

“Clan Wolf believes they can play their games with impunity.” Now the Star Colonel’s smile was wintry cold. “It is time for them to learn otherwise.”

The Desolate Black

Outside Stortalar City, Gunzburg, Wolf Occupation Zone

12 April 3064

The control sticks felt wrong under Yamada’s hands. As he pushed his Atlas through the swamp he felt the sucking swirl of mud pulling at its legs, felt the ’Mech fighting through the still, black water that rose to its knees. In the darkness, it would be easyto slip, to overbalance and drive his machine into the muck.

The swamp’s canopy shut out Gunzburg’s night sky, the stars blocked by tangled branches of cypress and giant tupelo, juniper and black gum.

Something moved in Yamada’s peripheral vision.

He pivoted, bringing his right arm down, lining up on—

A faint blue radiance. A glowing mist rising off the swamp’s stagnant water.

He eased his finger off his primary trigger.

Deep in the muddy heart of the swamp, rotting vegetable matter decomposed into methane and hydrogen sulfide. Sometimes small amounts of this swamp gas self-ignited, giving birth to ephemeral will-o’-wisps. And sometimes it didn’t ignite and vast pockets of the stinking, stuffy gas built up. It would only take the softest kiss of a laser to ignite such a pocket of swamp gas, sending a pillar of molten orange flame surging up into the darkness. Alerting the Wolves to his position.

Slowly, carefully, he resumed his patrol.

He was supposed to hold the left flank of the Second Bear Regulars. His Atlas had the punch to stop an assault in its tracks until reserves could be moved up to bolster any weak spots in the line.

The 304^th Assault Cluster had engaged the Third Wolf Lancers just outside Stortalar City. The 304^th would pin the Snarling Wolves in place while the Second Bear Regulars cut through the swamp—emerging in the Wolf rear. The plan’s effectiveness would be somewhat limited by the Clans’ peculiar sense of honor, but no metal worked between hammer and anvil could hope to escape deformation, even if the smith adhered to the rigid dictates of Zellbrigen.

Of course, in order for all that to work, the Second had to make it out of the swamp. And Yamada assumed the Wolf commander could read a map as well as he could.

Whatever was out there was lost in the backscatter of tightly-bunched trees and masked by the swamp’s sauna-hot temperatures. Even the rumble of an approaching ’Mech would be swallowed by mud and water.

Yamada pivoted ninety degrees from the main axis of Bear advance and stopped.

He sweated as he waited, holding his breath. Blood sang in his wrists and roared in his ears. A thrill ran through him like an electric shock, and he shivered as it passed.

And then he heard the echo of Hall’s voice. You came to us because you are a warrior.

This is not who I am, he thought. And then: Isn’t it?

There.

The faint whisper of a magnetic anomaly slipped across his screen. Something big, but moving slowly. He still couldn’t see. The Bears were moving southwest through the swamp, but the signal was east-southeast. It couldn’t be an ally—unless it was an ally who’d gotten very badly lost.

Yamada’s hand tightened on his trigger.

An enemy machine was out there somewhere. He had a threat axis, but he still didn’t know number or range and his first shot would reveal his position.

Yamada thought furiously.

The Wolves wouldn’t send a single ’Mech to challenge the Bear advance. Iie, this would be a striker lance. He shook his head. A striker star. Five light, fast machines sent to probe the swamps. A big enough force to take advantage of confusion to slow the Bears, a fast enough force to escape afterwards.

He couldn’t report in to Hall. The swamp’s strange conditions made all but line-of-sight comms impossible. He would have to handle this himself.

The MAD signal grew stronger. Yamada felt something stir in his gut. He could almost convince himself it was real. Almost. He scanned the near-perfect darkness. Nothing.

About one zero five and . . . a thousand meters.

And . . . was that another one?

The AS-7K’s long-range missiles, Gauss rifle, and extended-range lasers gave it the capability of hitting from long range. If he bloodied the Wolves’ noses before they could set themselves for an attack, he might stampede them into a retreat.

It was what a warrior would do.

You are a warrior.

But was he? When he’d lived in the Combine, he had forfeited all that he was—his freedom, his family, his honor—because he believed in peace. He had refused to defend his home. How could he draw blood for a monster like Christer Hall?

The first MAD signal was seven hundred meters out. Nearly in range.

Tai-i Cahill had argued that there were times a good man had to take the field of battle to defend the innocent against evil. But there was no good here, no innocence. There was nothing but evil here, two armies addicted to blood beating up on each other for the sheer joy of it.

The second MAD signal was firming up and now there was a third.

There was no problem the Clans did not use violence to solve. Kerensky’s children were even more bloodthirsty than the samurais of the Combine.

First target at 650 meters. He could see it now, a boxy shape backlit by the soft blue radiance of swamp gas.

They were moving in front of him left-to-right, so that he was catching an oblique view of their right sides. They didn’t see him. His machine’s power was banked and it was hidden in the shadow of a large cypress. It would be the easiest thing to reach out and smash this star.

But would it be the right thing?

He could let them walk right by him, take himself out of this pointless little war.

Yamada studied the lead ’Mech, his dark-adapted eyes picking out a bubble canopy on a blocky torso backed by massive triangular shoulders. A Phantom. Fast, yes, but not a light. A medium. Just how much firepower was he facing here?

Something on the massive machine’s back shifted.

An Elemental.

So, infantry and ’Mechs. Enough firepower to hold up the Bear advance and maybe, just maybe, tilt the scales for the Wolves.

If he did nothing.

He watched the Phantom stalk away from him on its massive legs. Number two was coming up.

He gritted his teeth. He was trained in the art of war. He couldn’t, just couldn’t do nothing, just let this happen. He just couldn’t.

He tied Gauss and lasers into his primary triggers, switching missiles to secondary. He dropped his reticule over the Phantom’s dark shadow. It instantly flashed gold.

Then Yamada roused his sleeping reactor.

The medium ’Mech stutter-stepped, pivoting quickly—or as quickly as the murky water surrounding its legs would allow. No doubt the Phantom pilot had seen the thermal spike like an emerald fire blooming on his IR display.

Too late.

Yamada pulled into his primary triggers and the Dragon’s Fire Gauss smashed into the Phantom’s triangular side, sending shards of Composite A-2 raining into the swamp. His large lasers cut into the light ’Mech’s exposed flesh, burning through bundles of myomer.

And then he split his shot, sending a flight of LRMs hurtling toward the second ’Mech. They flashed toward Number Two’s ungainly silhouette, each of them a bright orange flare in the night. They hit fast, rippling across broad shoulders and a spherical cockpit. A Pouncer.

Another medium.

For a heartbeat the actinic flash of warheads made night into day. And he saw what he was up against. A second Phantom. A Grendel. And kuso, something heavier.

A Linebacker.

Elementals scrambled down from their rides, bracing themselves in chest-deep water, making ready to launch their SRMs.

The Atlas was a fearsome beast and he’d just gotten in the first punch, but they outweighed him better than two to one.

And by splitting his shot, he’d just violated the rules of Zellbrigen, meaning all five machines were welcome to attack him at once.

It looked like all his moral quandaries were about to be resolved by Clan Wolf.

The low-slung Linebacker took a step, turning its blocky body to face him. The OmniMech was 65 tons of mean. The twin Streak packs in its right and left arms identified this as a Linebacker-D. Plenty of missiles and a pair of medium lasers up front and it was fast enough to run circles around his Atlas—even in a swamp.

All along their line of advance, Wolf machines were turning through the water to line up their shots. Yamada would take two, maybe three of them with him—but there was no way he would survive that fight.

For a second, he watched the dim blue light of swamp gas shimmer across the Linebacker’s black canopy.

For that second, Yamada was certain of his doom.

And then the brutal rattle of a massive autocannon ripped through the swamp, pounding the Wolf machine’s forward-thrust cockpit. Six short-range missiles worked their way down the Linebacker’s left leg and jeweled beams of energy sliced into it.

Yamada glanced down at his rear monitor.

He saw a BattleMech backlit by its own terrible fury, illuminated by the exhaust of its missiles and ruby fire of its lasers. It was a massive machine, every bit as big and powerful as his Atlas, its cockpit shaped like the head of the gargantuan ursid it had been named for, the fingers of its hands backed by long, sharp titanium claws. It was a Kodiak.

Hall.

The Linebacker stumbled backwards, off-balance. It fired its lasers and missiles, but missed the Kodiak left.

For a second the Wolves froze, caught between two monsters. A moment ago they had been a pack hunting big prey. Now their edge had been considerably reduced. If someone didn’t back off this was going to be a bloodbath. And no one was going to back off.

They were Clan.

Yamada used their moment of indecision well. He pounded the Phantom with everything he had, ignoring the Pouncer. Under the weight of Yamada’s alpha strike the medium machine shuddered—a sure sign that its gyroscope had been damaged.

But it didn’t go down.

Yamada punched his comms toggle, pulling up the Star Colonel’s command freq. “You were watching me.” He pounded the Phantom with another Gauss slug.

“I was not certain you would attack the Wolves.” Hall ripped into the Linebacker with another volley.

Yamada snorted. “I thought you knew I was a warrior.”

“I knew it,” answered Hall. “But you seemed somewhat less certain.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yamada saw the Grendel and the second Phantom coming to the aide of the Linebacker.

“Hall, stay on the Linebacker. It’s the only way out of this.”

“Of course,” Hall snarled. “I have not abandoned my honor.”

Missiles and lasers slashed out from the two Wolf machines.

Just as the Kodiak crouched.

And jumped.

The Kodiak rose high on twin flares that lit the swamp with a brilliant glow. Water flashed to steam as the great bear rose, a cloud of water vapor laced with golden flame rolling across the water in a wicked wave-front that rushed out from the Kodiak’s position.

An explosion went up behind the Grendel, blue fire this time, a pocket of methane catching, ignited by a stray tendril of plasma. The Wolf machine actually flinched, echoing the surprise of its pilot.

And then the Kodiak came down.

A hundred tons of BattleMech came down hard in a couple meters of black water. The swamp exploded, a tsunami battering the Wolf machines and swamping a couple Elementals, sweeping over them like they were nothing.

Hall had come down in a crouch, absorbing the brutal landing in his machine’s legs. He came up firing, his ultracannon sending shells toward the Linebacker’s canopy in a relentless stream of heavy metal.

The Linebacker answered with fire of its own, splashing ruby fire across the Kodiak’s chest armor and smashing flight after flight of Streaks into the great bear.

But Hall just kept coming, never breaking fire from the Wolf cockpit.

Until the Linebacker’s canopy shattered in an explosion of sparkling ferroglass.

Yamada marked the exact moment when the Wolf warrior died. The Linebacker’s right arm jerked up and then the ’Mech pitched forward, submerging the mangled cockpit and the body within.

The whole thing hadn’t taken fifteen seconds.

Faced with such extravagant violence, Inner Sphere troops would have broken and run.

But these troops were Clan.

The Grendel and the second Phantom took up the fight, pouring fire into the wounded Kodiak. The Phantom’s Streaks shattered the bear’s chest armor, the Grendel’s LB 10-X abraded it until a haze of gritty particles wreathed the assault ’Mech, and their lasers burned through composite.

Bones glinted dull silver beneath the machine’s failing armor.

Of course, Yamada had problems of his own. He traded fire with the first Phantom, trying to keep the stutter-stepping medium between him and the Pouncer so he didn’t have to fight two machines at once. The water limited the Pouncer’s speed advantage, but it didn’t eliminate it. Pretty soon it was going to work its way around its brother and then Yamada was going to have to face a nearly fresh opponent.

Hall was not even going to last that long.

The Kodiak hopped deftly back on its jump jets, but its tormentors never broke attack, not even as the great bear soared backwards into the air.

“You cannot hold,” snapped Yamada.

Hall’s situation was desperate, but his voice had lost none of its venom. “What do you care, man of peace?” He held the Grendel off with a furious assault from his autocannon.

And then the rapid-fire rattle suddenly cut out.

Jam. The Kodiak had just lost its autocannon.

There was no time to think, only to act. In some deep part of Yamada, brutal instincts took over.

He shifted right, lining up his hip Gauss and coring the first Phantom with one shot. The ’Mech convulsed and then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, obviously the victim of a shattered gyroscope.

Yamada lumbered towards the Pouncer, a hundred tons of angry BattleMech rushing headlong into a storm of laser fire, spending his armor in one last desperate charge.

Yamada did not answer the Pouncer’s attack. Instead, he saved his fury for Hall’s attackers, slicing into the Phantom with his extended-range large lasers, smashing the Grendel with his LRMs. It was enough to stop the Wolves in their tracks, enough delay for Hall to take careful aim with his battery of lasers.

For a long moment, the battle teetered on a knife-edge, ready to fall either way.

And then Yamada reached the Pouncer. Without bothering to even slow down he did the one thing Clan warriors almost never did in combat. He closed his ’Mech’s hand into a fist, pulled the arm back, and smashed it into the Pouncer’s cockpit.

The canopy shattered under the fearsome blow. The Pouncer went down like a rock.

That was too much for the Grendel and the remaining Phantom. These Wolves were brave warriors—but they were not suicidal. The last two ’Mechs retreated into the swamp, firing as they went.

The Kodiak took a couple steps in pursuit, but Yamada reached out and put his hand on the great bear’s shoulder. “Don’t, Star Colonel. They’ll destroy you.”

The bear’s chest armor had been scoured from its composite bones. It wouldn’t take many shots to smash the machine’s gyroscope, or worse, punch through the assault machine’s reactor shielding.

Hall sighed. “If you are ever to be a real Clanner, I will have to teach you not to use debased language.”

“You will never make me into a Clanner,” snarled Yamada.

“But I think I already have, quiaff?”

“Iie,” muttered Yamada.

“You are a warrior, Shintaro. Your heart may desire peace, but your soul yearns for fire and violence.”

Yamada wrestled with the truth of Hall’s words. No normal human being was born a killer, but killers could be made, oh yes. He’d seen it often enough. Men and women brutalized by war, desensitized to violence, their humanity drained out of them, until there was nothing left but the killing machine. Could that really be him? Had he fallen in love with death?

For a long moment, Yamada said nothing, seeking the answer in the quiet of the swamp. Nothing moved. Water whipped into a frenzy by the fury of battle now lapped gently at the legs of Yamada’s machine, disturbed only the gentle gloop of bubbles breaking the surface and popping. Gone were the ruby glow of lasers and the molten orange of exploding warheads. The cloak of darkness had settled back over the swamp. There was no light but for the blue nimbus of swamp gas wreathing Hall’s battered Kodiak.

Yamada looked out at the silent swamp and it told him the answer.

“Hai,” he said softly. “I have been twisted by war. I am no longer the cherry tree. I am merely an ornament of the wall.”

“So, finally you recognize the truth. You serve the God of War. And who worships that God more truly than the Clans?”

“Iie,” said Yamada. “I am a warrior, but I shall never be a Clanner.”

“I will not release you, Shintaro. Never again will you speak for the cause of peace. Only war is left to you.”

During Yamada’s long imprisonment, the cherry tree had kept him alive, had promised hope. But it was a symbol he no longer believed in. He stared into the inky darkness of the swamp and watched delicate blue fire dance on the still surface of the black water.

Suddenly he understood what he was meant to do.

“You cannot fight us, Shintaro,” said Hall. “You will either accept our ways—or die.”

“You are wrong,” said Yamada softly. “There is another way.”

The skepticism was heavy in Hall’s voice. “Oh? And what is that?”

Yamada jerked the Atlas’s right arm up. He did not aim at the great bear. He did not have to. He touched his trigger. There was a single flash of ruby fire and then the swamp gas surrounding Hall’s Kodiak went up like an inferno.

“I will fight the Clans from the inside,” Yamada whispered

Blue flame engulfed the great bear until it was no more than a shadow in the sudden inferno. The Kodiak staggered out of the fire, but the heat made the machine sluggish and scorched the bear’s myomer.

Over Yamada’s comm, Hall screamed and screamed.

It was a terrible sound that filled Yamada with horror.

And excitement.

Finally the screams stopped.

And then the great bear toppled forward, smashing into the swamp, launching a great shower into the darkness until the black water covered the ’Mech as if it had never been there.

Yamada did not care upon whom the Ghost Bears made war. Wolves, Falcons, Hell’s Horses, it didn’t matter. He would solve the Clan problem—one Trueborn warrior at a time.

And if any of his new brethren challenged him to a trial, they would find that he was not above slaughtering Ghost Bears. He would fight them all, using their own rules, and he would beat them.

He turned to return to the Bears’ formation. When he reached comms range, he spoke into his voice-activated mic. “MechWarrior Edward, the remnants of a Wolf force are retreating along zero nine four.”

“Where is Star Colonel Hall?” Edward demanded.

Yamada only thought for a moment. “He has fallen. His life was given . . .” A grim smile touched his lips. “. . . in the finest tradition of the Clans.”