Way of the Messenger – Part Three
The last in this three-part saga of Warrior Jana’s flight from Strana Mechty, begun in Part One and continued in Part Two.
The Last Vector
The jump into the Tamar frontier hit like a hammer wrapped in silk. The CWS Far Seeker emerged from hyperspace with a deep, rolling vibration that settled through its spine and into every deck plate. The hull sang once, a long metallic note, then went quiet as the K-F field collapsed. A chime signaled stability.
Jana blinked away the silver ghosts that came with every translation. Her tongue tasted of copper and machine oil. She checked the chronometer, unbuckled, and floated free of her restraint web.
The Far Seeker, a Clan-modified Scout-class JumpShip, had one working gravity trick—thrust. When the engines fired, the crew rode a fraction of a gee. The rest of the time, they lived in drift. Mag-boots, handholds, and discipline did the rest. Jana preferred it. Weight made people slow.
The voice of the ship’s captain came over the open channel. “Jump complete. Field collapse within norms. Preparing sail deployment.”
“Aff,” Jana said, catching the overhead grip and pulling herself toward the narrow passage to the DropShip collar. The Far Seeker’s interior was bare metal and wire. The Sharks built ships like accountants kept ledgers: neat, functional, indifferent to comfort.
Through the viewport, the golden sail bloomed—a kilometer-wide fan of foil spreading from its mast, thin as breath and twice as fragile. The starlight of a tired K-class sun spilled across it, feeding power to the capacitors that would take a week to recharge.
The Lupus Silentium, her DropShip, clung to the collar like a sleek animal at rest. A Leopard CV–variant stripped for Watch operations, it carried no aerospace fighters, only sensors, cargo, and the narrow corridors of a ship built to go unnoticed.
Jana met the Watch escort at the transfer hatch. Both wore standard Clan vacuum rigs, boots clamped to the deck. The air was dry and smelled faintly of coolant.
“Field stable,” he said. “We detach in five minutes. Target system: Tau Sigma, third moon.”
She nodded. “Confirmed reception?”
“Not yet. The Wolves don’t answer to ghosts.”
“They will,” Jana said.
They cycled through the airlock into the Lupus Silentium. The pilot floated at his console, hands working the control thrusters in short bursts, his voice steady through the ship-net. “Collar release in ten seconds. Aligning burn vector.”
“Aff,” the escort said. “Keep us cold. No emissions until we have a Wolf signature.”
The clamps disengaged with a dull metallic sigh. The Lupus Silentium drifted backward on momentum alone before the pilot tapped the controls. The ship’s nose tilted toward the gray-white orb ahead, thrusters whispering in controlled pulses. In the dark, the Far Seeker’s massive sail caught starlight, bright and lonely, shrinking as they fell away.
For two days, they burned on minimal thrust, enough to give the illusion of being down. Every movement required thought; a careless turn sent a body drifting into the bulkhead or the ceiling. Jana moved with ease, one gloved hand trailing the guide rail. Her boots clicked faintly with each magnetic contact.
The system ahead was sparse: one aging sun, a handful of cold worlds, no inhabited stations. The frontier between Wolves and what was left of the Inner Sphere’s edge.
At one hundred thousand kilometers, a voice came through encrypted channel. Male. Even cadence.
“Unidentified vessel, this is Outpost Sigma-Three, Clan Wolf. Transmit identification and mission authority.”
The escort toggled the comms. “This is Wolf Watch courier Lupus Silentium, authorization Theta-Nine. Request clearance to enter orbit and deliver encrypted package to designated site.”
Static held for a long breath. Then: “Authorization under review. Maintain current trajectory. Any course deviation will result in engagement. Confirm.”
“Aff,” the escort said, tone neutral. He muted the line and gave Jana a sidelong look. “Friendly enough.”
“In Wolf terms,” she said.
They coasted into the moon’s shadow, then eased into a slow deceleration burn. The hull trembled faintly as the jets fired. The moon itself was the color of old steel, its craters deep and sharp, the marks of ancient bombardments long since turned to rumor.
Sensors painted faint outlines of installations—dormant satellites, old mines, a single defensive grid still alive. The Wolf banner had survived out here, trimmed of empire but heavy with pride.
“Visual contact,” the pilot said. “Base signatures match Wolf data. Transmitting approach vector.”
Five blips appeared on the scope, closing fast. Their transponders pulsed with the crisp discipline of a frontline Star. Fighters—Clan aerospace models. Their formation was textbook-perfect, no wasted motion.
The lead craft, a Shrike-class interceptor, slid into their path, close enough that Jana could see the Wolf sigil stenciled in black and red across its fuselage.
A voice came through the tightband. “Lupus Silentium, you are cleared to land at Hangar Two, Outpost Sigma-Three. Maintain corridor. Deviation will be treated as hostile intent.”
“Understood,” the pilot said.
The descent burned smoothly. Thrusters flared blue against gray dust as the DropShip touched ferrocrete. Magnetic clamps locked them down with a clang that reverberated through the deck.
The ramp dropped, and the scent of industrial air—oil, metal, and ozone—rolled in.
Jana followed the Watch escort out. Her boots met the deck with a soft, magnetized click. The hangar was wide, lit by strip lamps and lined with Wolf Mechs under maintenance: a Hellbringer, a Stormcrow, and what looked like a battered Timber Wolf standing in silent dignity.
Star Captain Erik Radick waited near the base of the ramp. He was tall, all sharp lines and focus, wearing a uniform that had seen battle and survived both pride and repair. Two Elementals flanked him, their armor scarred, weapons slung but ready.
Radick’s eyes moved from the escort to Jana. “Homeworld origin,” he said.
“Aff,” she answered. “Clan Coyote by blood. Clan Wolf by oath.”
“Abtakha,” he said. “We have not had much in the way of information from the Homeworlds for a while.”
“I have little to add,” Jana said. “Except that no one is playing nice anymore back there.”
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, probably. “You’ll remain under my watch until your orders are confirmed. Your ship will hold orbit. You will follow my directives until I decide otherwise.”
“Aff,” Jana said. She couldn’t help but smirk at the Star Captain’s use of contractions.
He answered her unspoken question. “You’ll find the Watch her a lot more adjusted. The consequence of conquest and rehabilitation of those we protect.” Radick gestured to the corridor beyond the hangar. “Come. We don’t waste time with formalities. We live by purpose here, not rigidity.”
They passed through the airlock into the base proper. The walls were brushed steel, the floors marked with color-coded paths. Wolf banners hung at intervals, their cloth faded by recycled air and years of service.
“This outpost is small,” Radick said. “Half a Cluster, some Bloodnamed. We serve the Khan’s orders and keep the border clear. Don’t expect ceremony.”
“I left ceremony behind on Strana Mechty,” Jana said.
Radick glanced over. “Then you may fit better than I thought.”
They reached the operations deck. The space was compact, dominated by holoscreens showing system telemetry. A crew of Watch techs worked quietly, each movement practiced.
Radick leaned against the console, arms folded. “Your reputation precedes you, Courier. Word says you survived the catastrophe on Strana Mechty, carrying the last wishes of Star Colonel Ramil Kerensky with you. That makes you either lucky or dangerous. Which are you?”
“Neither,” Jana said. “I am patient.”
Radick’s mouth twitched—the closest he came to approval. “We’ll see how patience serves you here. Until your verification clears, you’re quartered in Section B. Mess at 1800. You’ll join the debrief when called. Stay off my comm net unless I ask for your voice.”
“Aff,” she said.
He paused at the hatch. “One more thing. You may wear our insignia, but you’ll earn our trust with your hands, not your tongue. Don’t mistake tolerance for acceptance.”
Jana met his gaze without hesitation. “I expect neither.”
He held her eyes for a heartbeat longer, then turned and left.
The hum of the station filled the silence—vent fans, coolant pumps, the deep, steady throb of a Mech bay warming to readiness.
Jana looked at the nearest Wolf banner. The crimson thread caught the light. It was frayed but unbroken.
So was she.
The Wolves rose before station dawn. By the time Jana entered the mess, the smell of burnt coffee and lubricant clung to the recycled air. Warriors filled the benches, still in cooling vests and half-fastened pressure suits. Their voices were quiet, the clipped rhythm of people who spent more time fighting than resting.
No one looked at her long. That was how Wolves showed suspicion: not by words, but by what they withheld.
Jana took a bowl from the dispenser and sat near the end of a long table. The ration was pale, thick, and forgettable. Across from her, a young MechWarrior with dark stubble and bright, unscarred eyes looked up. His nameplate read Yaros.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “the Watch sends us one of their strays.”
Jana kept her voice level. “The Watch sends you a courier. That is all you need.”
“From the Homeworlds,” he said, as if it were an accusation. “A warrior who’s never seen an Inner Sphere battlefield.”
She stirred her meal with slow precision. “I have seen enough battlefields. The dust looks the same on all of them.”
Yaros leaned back, a grin flickering. “But you didn’t fight for the Wolves. You fought to become one. That’s not the same thing.”
A few nearby warriors glanced their way. They didn’t intervene. Wolves believed truth was proven, not debated.
Before Jana could answer, Star Captain Radick’s voice cut through the mess. “If you have doubts about a warrior’s heart, Star Commander, you test it.”
The room fell silent. Radick stood in the doorway, datapad under one arm, eyes steady.
Yaros straightened. “Aff, Star Captain. I meant no—”
Radick lifted a hand. “Save it. You proposed a test. You’ll see it through. Circle of Equals. Now.”
Jana set the bowl aside. “Accepted.”
There was no anger in her tone. Wolves didn’t waste emotion on inevitabilities.
The moon’s surface stretched flat and pale beyond the base’s perimeter. The gravity was light enough to make every movement feel deliberate. The Wolves formed a ring at the edge of the landing field—two dozen warriors, visors mirrored, expressions hidden.
Radick walked the line with a commander’s economy. “Standard Circle,” he said over the open channel. “No ranged weapons. No armor beyond suit reinforcement. Yield or incapacitation decides it. Witnessed.”
Jana checked her seals. The vacuum suit was snug, the magnetic soles calibrated for light footing. Yaros stepped opposite her, his stance confident but cautious now that the ritual had begun. In the Circle, rank vanished. Only result mattered.
Radick raised his hand. “Begin.”
Yaros lunged first, low and fast. Jana pivoted sideways, his momentum carrying him past her. She struck his shoulder joint with the heel of her glove, not hard enough to cripple but enough to jolt his balance. He twisted, recovered, and came in again, a measured kick aimed at her knee.
She caught his leg, spun, and used the low gravity to her advantage. His body lifted just enough for her to twist him off balance. They hit the dust in a slow-motion arc, fine gray particles scattering in every direction.
He rolled to his feet, breathing hard, temper breaking through his discipline. “You fight like a Watch handler, not a warrior.”
“I fight to win,” Jana said.
He came at her again, fists tight, arms quick. She let him close the distance, then slid inside his reach, grabbed his forearm, and drove her knee into his midsection. The air in his suit hissed out through a cracked seal. He gasped, staggered, reached for his patch kit—but she was already behind him, arm across his throatplate.
“Yield,” she said.
Yaros’s hand hovered over the valve, pride holding it there. Finally, he forced the word out. “Yield.”
Radick stepped forward, hand raised. “Witnessed.”
The circle broke. The watching Wolves saluted, fists to chests. No cheers. Respect among Wolves came in silence.
Jana released Yaros and stepped back. He sat up slowly, clutching his shoulder, his breathing audible through comms. “You don’t fight like a Coyote,” he said quietly. “That’s something.”
“I do not fight like anything but what I am,” she said.
Radick approached, boots crunching softly on lunar dust. “He challenged. You answered. That’s the way of things.” He paused, studying her visor. “You didn’t kill him.”
“Killing him would not have proven anything,” Jana said. “He needed a lesson, not a grave.”
“That’s a Wolf answer,” Radick said. “Unexpected.”
“Then maybe you do not know your own pack as well as you think.”
That earned the smallest curve of his mouth. “Perhaps not.”
He looked out toward the horizon where the sun cut a thin white edge across the crater rim. “You’ve earned your place at my table, courier. For now.”
Jana nodded once. “That will do.”
Radick turned to the rest of the warriors. “Circle complete. Witnessed. Dismissed.”
The Wolves dispersed in efficient silence, their helmets turning briefly toward Jana before they filed back toward the base.
When they were alone, Radick spoke again, voice low over the private channel. “We picked up irregular comm bursts during the night cycle. Encrypted, not Wolf code. Origin unknown.”
“Viper,” Jana said instantly.
His tone flattened. “Impossible. The Steel Vipers are no longer in Periphery or Inner Sphere space.”
“Gone does not mean silent,” she said. “They were Watch-trained before all of our current troubles. The best stay hidden the longest.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then keyed his comms. “Double the sentries. Lock communications to hardline.”
“Expecting violence?”
“Always,” Radick said. “Especially when ghosts start whispering.”
He started walking back toward the hangar, the windless dust carrying their prints like ink. Jana followed, her stride even, her pulse steady.
They didn’t speak again until they reached the inner airlock. When the doors sealed behind them, Radick turned once more. “You said you fight to win. I believe that.”
“You will see it again soon enough,” Jana said.
Radick’s reply was quiet, but certain. “We’ll see if the rest of my Wolves do.”
The Aesir-class DropShip Fang’s Mercy hung above Arcturus III’s bruised horizon, its dark hull reflecting the planet’s orange-gray light. Below, the Wolf outpost clung to a plateau of cracked basalt, a listening post turned sanctuary. It wasn’t meant for comfort—only endurance.
Jana watched the long sensor masts turn slow circles through the haze. Each sweep carried the faint vibration of a system built by necessity, not pride. Behind her, coolant hissed through lines that had been patched too many times.
Radick entered without ceremony, helmet clipped to his belt, the weariness of command showing in the tightness around his eyes. “Outer patrols are back. No contacts beyond dust storms.”
“They will find us anyway,” Jana said. “Andrews’ hounds are good at pretending patience.”
Radick gave a dry grunt. “The new ilKhan loves his purges. If there’s a Wolf alive, he’ll call it a threat. I’d thought his reach ended with the Homeworlds.”
“It will not stop there,” Jana said. “He blames the Wolves for every sin the Clans ever committed. To him, you are all tainted. To me, you are what is left of reason.”
He looked at her reflection in the viewport. “And to him?”
“A reminder that he is not as pure as he thinks. I escaped the day they named him ilKhan. He wanted the Founders’ legacies under his rule before he declared himself the heir of Kerensky. When he learned those legacies vanished with a Wolf ship, I became his unfinished sentence.”
Radick’s eyes narrowed. “So he knows what you carry.”
“He knows enough. And he will never stop hunting until they are his.”
“Then we’ll make sure they aren’t.”
The Wolves’ patrols swept the high plains in careful arcs, their OmniMechs black against the planet’s orange dust. Radick’s Stormcrow led the line, its scarred armor painted with the Wolf sigil—no unit colors, only the pack’s mark.
From the Fang’s Mercy, Jana monitored telemetry. The feed hummed steady, the kind of silence that only comes before violence.
Then the sensors whispered. A rhythmic pulse under static. Clean, deliberate, encrypted in Viper symmetry.
“Captain,” Jana said, “we have a coded burst—low amplitude, bearing sixty-three. Planetary horizon. That is no echo.”
Radick’s voice came through the ship’s channel, clipped. “Source?”
“High-altitude insertion, DropShip-class tonnage. Pattern fits Viper Watch.”
He didn’t curse. “Steel Vipers,” he said flatly. “Of course.”
“Aff. Andrews’ doctrine made the Wolves outlawed. He will want trophies.”
“He’ll get fire,” Radick said.
Fifteen minutes later, they arrived.
Four Viper Mechs—Mad Dog, Nova, Black Python, and a customized Summoner painted in burnished silver—walked through the rising dust, formation tight. Their weapons glowed faint green through the haze.
The Wolves moved to meet them. PPCs cracked open the plain in blue-white flashes, shattering the thin rock crust. The Vipers returned fire with perfect rhythm, not zealots charging for glory but enforcers carrying out a creed.
Radick’s Stormcrow pivoted, lasers and autocannon fire cutting into the Summoner’s leg. The Viper pilot answered with a twin PPC volley that slammed into the Stormcrow’s right arm, stripping armor to bare frame. The duel was clinical, almost polite—until Radick’s Gauss rifle spoke and sent the Summoner crashing back through its own smoke.
“Hit confirmed,” he said. “Two more closing.”
Jana’s eyes traced the tactical map. The second Viper team—Ebon Jaguar and Nova—was flanking through the western ridge. “They are herding you toward the plateau. Their objective is the ship.”
“Let them come,” Radick said. “Better they bleed for it here.”
The Wolves shifted formation, two lighter Mechs bounding to high ground while Radick anchored the line. Their discipline held, but the numbers were wrong. The Vipers pressed in with the inevitability of a tide.
Jana keyed the ship intercom. “Combat stations. They are coming for us. Power all guns.”
“Aff,” the deck chief said, his voice taut. “Turrets warming.”
Through the viewport, dust clouds thickened. The Fang’s Mercy’s autocannons fired a short, brutal volley, shells punching white-hot trails through the haze. The first Viper—the Mad Dog—shuddered under impact but stayed upright, armor flaking like ash.
Then the Stormcrow’s Gauss rifle fired again. The slug hit the Mad Dog center mass, and the machine folded in on itself like a dying star.
Jana exhaled once. “That is two.”
“Not enough,” Radick said. “The others are closing on the ship.”
She checked the scanner. A cluster of smaller contacts crept through the ridge shadows—Viper troops in full armor. “Watch commandos,” she said. “Twelve of them, closing fast.”
“Then we hold,” Radick said.
“You hold,” Jana corrected. “I am going.”
“Courier—”
She cut the channel.
Outside, Arcturus III’s light painted everything in washed gold. The air was thin, every sound sharp and short-lived. Jana moved through the dust with practiced precision, rifle raised, sensors live.
She found the Stormcrow half-sunken near the ridge, its hull scored by heat and shrapnel. Radick’s voice came through her headset, calm but strained. “Still operational. I’ve got company.”
“On your left ridge,” she said. “They are moving for your flank.”
“Aff.”
The first Viper squad appeared over the rise, silver-green armor gleaming. Jana took cover behind a fragment of basalt, sighted, and fired three clean shots. One suit fell, another staggered. The rest adapted instantly, bounding down the slope in unison.
Radick’s remaining pulse laser fired, carving a red path across the valley. Two troopers vanished in flame. The others pressed harder, closing the distance.
Jana rose from cover, firing as she advanced. The recoil jarred her shoulders; the air filled with dust and the sharp tang of ozone. One of the Vipers lunged close, plasma blade flashing. She ducked under the swing, slammed her rifle
stock into its visor, and fired point-blank. The Watch trooper went rigid and fell.
When she looked up, the Stormcrow was moving—slow, deliberate, impossible. The Mech’s damaged leg dragged a trail of molten rock, but its torso still turned.
“Captain, you said you could not move.”
“I changed my mind,” Radick said. “Get clear.”
He raised the Gauss rifle, its coils glowing white from overload. The weapon fired, not a precision shot this time but pure fury. The ridge erupted in fire, and the remaining Vipers were erased in a storm of rock and shrapnel.
When the smoke cleared, Jana stood alone beside the wounded Mech. The battlefield was silent except for the low hum of cooling metal.
Radick’s voice came soft through the static. “You’re Wolf, all right.”
She touched the Stormcrow’s scorched armor. “You finally believe it?”
“I’d be a fool not to. Now get us off this rock before Andrews sends a fleet.”
“Destination?”
“Vlad Ward,” he said. “The only man who might remember why we fight.”
Jana looked once at the smoldering ridge. “Then we finish the run.”
The Fang’s Mercy slipped through the dark like a thought no one wanted to admit they’d had.
Her hull ran cold, radiators flush, engines trimmed to a whisper of thrust. The Aesir-class DropShip wasn’t made for stealth—no Clan vessel was—but the Wolves had learned to improvise when survival became strategy.
They coasted under minimal power, matching rotation with a thin-boned asteroid at the edge of an uncharted Lagrange point. Beyond it, the next jump point hung invisible, a pocket of safety carved from nothing but math and precision.
Jana floated in the command cradle beside Radick. The straps kept her anchored, but her body still remembered gravity like a lost habit. Her right hand drifted near the sensor controls, fingers steady, eyes tracing the data flow.
“Drive bleed is holding,” she said. “No wake for them to follow.”
“Good,” Radick answered. He was pale in the red light, a man carved from fatigue and willpower. “If they want us, they’ll have to read the void.”
She keyed in the next burn schedule, soft puffs that would nudge them toward the jump ship’s tether. The long silver filament of the Scout-class Talon’s Grace waited ahead, sails folded, fusion beacon dark. It was a relic from the early invasion years, still running strong under Wolf crews too proud to admit the hull’s age.
Their communication protocol was handwritten—literally. No digital bursts. Every transmission encoded by hand in variable shifts, each key stored in a sealed capsule. The Vipers had eyes in the dark, but not this deep, not this quiet.
Radick rubbed a thumb across the small scar under his jaw. “We’ve been dark for three days. That’s too long for silence to be luck.”
Jana looked at the main display. Static swam in it like lazy fish. “The Vipers are patient. They will let us think we’ve lost them before they move in close. That is how they were taught.”
“I thought Andrews purged his Watch,” Radick said.
“He did,” Jana replied. “But he kept the ones who do not need orders.”
They made the next jump thirteen hours later. The Talon’s Grace extended its sail with mechanical grace, capturing the distant light of a dying K-star. The K-F drive’s low hum filled every corridor, a vibration that could be felt in bone and breath alike.
Jana floated by the viewport, watching the drive’s flare bleed away into the void. The space beyond was so black it seemed to bend light back on itself. She thought of Strana Mechty—its red sky and ruined towers—and wondered if the
Vipers still marched there, shouting Andrews’ name to an empty planet.
Radick’s voice broke the silence. “Next hop takes us past the Delos cluster. After that, two more systems, then Tamar.”
“Three jumps if we are lucky,” she said.
“Luck’s for Spheroids.”
“Then hope we are feeling charitable.”
The ship’s intercom clicked. Chief Navarre’s voice came through, low and careful. “Captain, sensor ghost—bearing one-seven-nine, negative beacon. Transponder shadow at long range.”
Radick looked up. “Vipers?”
“Unknown,” Navarre said. “Could be a sensor reflection, but it’s matching vector drift. Whatever it is, it’s learning our rhythm.”
“Scrub all emissions,” Radick ordered. “If it’s a hunter, we’ll starve it.”
The lights dimmed another notch. The air recyclers slowed. Jana could hear her own heartbeat in the soft mechanical hush.
For two hours, nothing changed. The contact vanished. Then, just before the next jump cycle, it returned. Closer.
“Same bearing,” Navarre said. “They’re running quiet, but it’s there. I can’t get a tonnage read.”
Jana leaned over the scope, watching the faint signature shift. “It is a ship, all right. No drive plume. They are coasting, waiting for us to jump.”
Radick’s tone was grim. “They’ll follow the ripple.”
She nodded. “And we cannot stop them from reading the wake. Not if they are that close.”
Radick unlatched his harness, floated upright, and looked toward the drive core. “Then we make the next jump unpredictable. Random vector variance. Burn early. Hard.”
“That will stress the coil,” Jana warned.
“It’ll survive,” he said. “Or it won’t. Either way, we don’t make it easy for them.”
When the K-F drive engaged, the universe bent.
Jana closed her eyes and let the sickly pulse of translation roll through her. The sensation was always wrong—too fast to process, too slow to forget. Then light snapped back, and she tasted iron.
The jump had worked. But so had the pursuit.
The contact reappeared, now much closer, its signature clean and deliberate. A Diamondback-class Viper JumpShip—smaller than a full WarShip but still dangerous, loaded with several DropShips.
“Got them,” Navarre whispered. “They’re bleeding drive now. They’ll be on us before Tamar if we keep linear hops.”
“Then we won’t,” Radick said. “We’ll stay off-chain.”
He brought up the chart—a hand-drawn overlay on an old Wolf survey map. Hidden waypoints marked in faded ink, some dating back to the Invasion’s earliest years. Abandoned jumps, debris fields, maintenance caches no one had seen in decades.
“This will take us out of known Wolf space,” Jana said.
“That’s the point,” Radick replied. “The Vipers can’t hunt what no one claims.”
“Assuming we survive the translation errors,” she muttered.
He looked at her. “Do you trust me, courier?”
“I trust you to keep us alive,” she said.
“Then we’ll get to Tamar the hard way.”
The next jumps blurred together—dark space, dead stars, ghost echoes of forgotten wars.
The Talon’s Grace crept along the ancient chain like a thief threading ruins. Jana’s body ached from low pressure and cold air. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the faint reflection of that Viper ship in her mind’s darkness, patient
and calculating.
They reached the final waypoint before Tamar’s outer system on a half-spent reactor and a prayer. Jana floated by the viewport, watching the blue disk of Tamar rising like a promise. For the first time in weeks, she let herself breathe without counting the seconds.
Then Navarre spoke again. “Captain—contact. Bearing zero-eight-seven. It’s them.”
Radick’s expression didn’t change. “Prepare for burn to orbit. Alert Tamar Control. Tell them Clan Wolf returns home—with company.”
Jana turned her head toward the planet, eyes narrowing at the white glint far behind them. “Then let us show the Vipers what it means to chase a Wolf.”
The command deck glowed faintly red. Jana floated in her harness beside Radick, one hand on the sensor array, the other braced against the panel. The smell of metal and stale coffee hung in the air.
Navarre’s voice came low over the comm. “Ghost confirmed. Same vector. Range unchanged. They are tracking our wake signature.”
“How far?” Jana asked.
“Six million kilometers. Out of weapons range, within intent.”
Radick’s tone was flat. “Steel Vipers.”
“Aff,” Jana said. “Trained to stalk, not pursue. Whoever commands that ship understands patience.”
He grunted. “Andrews breeds zealots. He likely told them they hunt heretics.”
“They want the Kerensky legacy,” Jana said. “We are secondary.”
Radick’s eyes did not move from the viewport. “Then they will learn that Wolves protect what is theirs.”
For twelve hours, the void remained unchanged. The Viper vessel lingered like a scar that refused to fade. Every minor course correction drew a mirrored echo a few heartbeats later. The silence grew heavier with every pass.
“They are testing us,” Radick said quietly. “They are measuring our jump timing, waiting for an error.”
“They wish to know whether we are desperate,” Jana said.
“They will be disappointed.”
He leaned forward and keyed a narrow-beam channel. “If they want to talk, let them. They waste breath either way.”
Static rolled through the cabin before a voice emerged—male, sharp, deliberate. “Wolf vessel, you travel poorly for heirs of Kerensky. Your pilot forgets how to hide her scent.”
Radick did not blink. “Viper ship, you trail poorly for those who call themselves hunters. Perhaps your ilKhan should have chosen better prey.”
The voice laughed softly. “Ah, Star Captain Radick. Reduced to courier duty for the mongrel Khan Ward. How noble. How diminished.”
Jana’s tone came cold and precise. “The Vipers mistake cruelty for discipline. You purge your own because you cannot conquer anyone else.”
That broke the composure. “You Wolves breed with weaklings and call it progress. The ilKhan will correct that failure. Surrender your cargo, and your deaths will have purpose.”
Radick leaned closer to the mic. “Tell your ilKhan that Wolves do not kneel to carrion.” He closed the channel.
“They will call again,” Jana said.
“They may. Wolves do not bark twice,” Radick replied.
Two more jumps passed in silence. The K-F harmonics rattled through the hull, the deep animal hum that always followed translation. Jana steadied her breathing through each one. The Viper contact remained, steady and patient, a hunter shadowing its prey through light-years.
Navarre monitored the display, his voice low with tension. “Still there, Captain. Distance constant. They are flying the wake like they wrote it.”
Radick did not look up. “Then let them write their own eulogy.”
________________________________________
Before the final jump, the Vipers transmitted one last signal. No voice. Only a repeated glyph in archaic format—an invitation to a Circle of Equals.
Jana studied the code. “That is a challenge, not a threat. They offer ritual combat.”
Radick’s lip curled. “A Circle between ships. They insult us with formality.”
“Do we answer?”
“No,” he said. “Let them argue with the void.”
________________________________________
Translation through the dark side of Tamar’s atmosphere stretched long and rough. When light returned, the blue-white sphere of the Wolf capital filled the screen, cloud bands swirling like slow storms. Tamar—the heart of the Occupation Zone, the reminder that the Wolves had built a home where others had only conquered.
Navarre exhaled. “Tamar Control confirms our beacon. Orders are for low orbit and await.”
Jana stared at the sensor feed. The Viper ship still glowed at the edge of the map, holding outside the gravity well. “They are waiting.”
“They can wait until the cold takes them,” Radick said. “We’re home.”
Jana did not reply. Home demanded proof. Wolves did not give that easily.
The Fang’s Mercy began its burn through the thin upper atmosphere. The Vipers held their distance, proud, patient, unwilling to admit defeat.
Jana secured her harness and touched the small package sealed against her ribs. The Kerensky legacy pulsed with faint warmth, loyal and silent.
Radick’s hands gripped the control yoke. “Once we land, Ward’s guns will guard us. Let them follow.”
“Aff,” Jana said. “Let us see if Andrews trained them to die as well as they speak.”
The DropShip vanished into Tamar’s clouds, leaving the Vipers to stare into their own reflection.
________________________________________
The Fang’s Mercy cut through the upper atmosphere on a burn that rattled its frame. Friction glowed orange across the hull, streaming away like molten ribbons. Tamar’s oceans flashed beneath them in wide arcs of steel-blue light, cities glittering along the coasts where the rebuilt Wolf enclaves held dominion.
Inside the cockpit, Radick watched the readouts with grim calm. “Tamar Control confirms escort. Two flights inbound.”
Jana studied the transponder codes. “Omega Star. Ward’s personal command. He wastes nothing on ceremony.”
“He never did,” Radick said. “That is why the Wolves followed him through worse.”
The escorts arrived as twin shadows—a pair of Sabutai-class OmniFighters in perfect sync, their canards slicing through the thin upper air. They signaled approach permission and swung into formation.
“Tamar Control,” a voice said over the open channel, female, crisp. “Fang’s Mercy, maintain glide vector. You are cleared for Enclave Port Two. Prepare for inspection.”
“Aff, Control,” Radick replied. “Requesting direct audience with the Khan.”
The pause was long enough to imply hesitation. “Acknowledged. Your request is under review.”
“That means yes,” Radick murmured.
Jana’s gaze stayed on the planet below. “Or it means they wish to see who dares to ask.”
________________________________________
The DropShip settled on its landing skids with a shudder that shook loose months of dust. The external lights dimmed. Lockdown clamps hissed as Tamar’s atmosphere equalized through the airlock.
When the ramp lowered, the smell of real air hit like a forgotten luxury—salt, fuel, and the faint trace of cold soil. Jana stepped down beside Radick, her boots striking metal ground that felt solid after weeks of weightlessness.
A reception squad waited. At its head stood Khan Vlad Ward.
He was taller than Jana remembered from the archival images: lean, sharp-featured, his gray hair cut with the precision of habit. His uniform bore no embellishment, only the Wolf sigil. He did not smile.
“Star Captain Radick,” Ward said. His voice carried quiet authority, the kind that required no effort. “You arrive late.”
“Aff, my Khan,” Radick replied. “Our course required discretion.”
Ward’s eyes shifted to Jana. “You bring an unfamiliar face. Identify yourself.”
Jana straightened. “Courier Jana, Clan Wolf. Formerly Coyote by birth, Abtakha by oath. I come in place of my brother, Star Commander Akule, who fell during the destruction of the Bloodchapel on Strana Mechty. He died fulfilling the
will of Star Colonel Ramil Kerensky.”
Ward’s gaze sharpened. “Ramil Kerensky. He yet lives?”
Jana shook her head once. “Neg, my Khan. He remained behind to ensure the legacy’s security. Before his death, he ordered that the surviving legacies—the genetic records of Aleksandr and Nicholas Kerensky—be placed in your care. I swore to complete my brother’s mission and deliver them to you.”
She removed the sealed capsule from her belt pouch and placed it upon the table between them. The casing was black composite, smooth and unmarked save for the faint burn trace of the Wolf sigil impressed into its lid.
“This package,” Jana said, “contains the final genetic sequences of the Founders, secured before the fall of Strana Mechty. It also carries a message from Star Colonel Ramil Kerensky.”
Ward took the capsule, thumbed the lock, and a holoframe shimmered above it. The image that appeared was harsh and grainy—a man in a pressure suit, the background flickering with smoke and emergency light.
Ramil Kerensky’s voice emerged, calm despite the chaos behind him. “To Khan Vlad Ward of Clan Wolf. By order of our Khan, I have executed the Founder’s will. The Bloodchapel burns. The legacy vaults of Strana Mechty are destroyed. What remains, I send to you—unaltered, unclaimed. You must guard them, not for one Clan, but for all. The Clans have lost the path. The Wolves alone may still find it. For the honor of Kerensky, I send this through my hand.”
The recording cut. Only static remained.
Ward closed the capsule and stood silent for several seconds. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “He did what was required. He always did.”
“He did, my Khan,” Jana said quietly. “As did my brother. Both gave their lives to see this through.”
Ward looked at her again, weighing her words. “And you? What did you give?”
“Everything that remained,” she said.
He regarded her a moment longer, then nodded once. “You have done well, Courier Jana. The blood of Kerensky now rests in the care of Wolves who will not forget.”
Before Jana could reply, an alarm tone echoed from the outer comms console—three sharp bursts followed by a long, low note.
An officer entered, helmet tucked under one arm. “My Khan, we have a vessel entering from high orbit. No transponder. Configuration matches Viper corvette pattern.”
Ward’s expression hardened. “So they followed you.”
“They did, my Khan,” Jana said. “They will not stop until they take what you hold.”
Ward’s tone turned cold as steel. “Then they will learn that Tamar stands unbroken. Prepare your ‘Mechs. We will answer this insult in full.”
“Aff, my Khan,” Jana said.
Ward gestured to the doors. “Go. The Wolves will hunt tonight.”
The hangar shook under the low growl of reactor startup. Heat shimmered off the ferrocrete floor as the mechs came alive one by one, eyes flaring with blue and gold. The Wolves assembled with military precision: Radick’s Stormcrow, Jana’s borrowed Hellion, and the Khan’s command Star—three Dire Wolves, a squat Nova, and a Timber Wolf, all marked with the scarred sigil of Tamar.
Ward’s voice filled the comms. “This is Khan Vlad Ward. The Vipers will make planetfall within minutes. Their arrogance has brought them to our home. Remind them why we still stand.”
A chorus of affirmatives followed.
Jana settled into her cockpit, the Hellion’s control grips familiar in her hands. The neural interface linked, a slow pulse through the base of her skull that steadied her thoughts. She ran final diagnostics—heat curve, gyro stability, ammunition feed—all green. It felt good to be in a cockpit again.
She felt a shiver, thinking briefly of Akule before shaking her head.
“Ready, Star Captain,” she said.
Radick’s Stormcrow shifted position beside her, its autocannon housing rotating into alignment. “I trust you did not come all this way to watch.”
“I came to finish a promise,” Jana replied.
The launch doors opened, bathing the hangar in pale daylight. The smell of scorched air rushed in with the sound of wind over metal. Outside, Tamar’s plains stretched to the horizon, the soil dark and dry from decades of conflict.
The Wolves moved out in disciplined formation, dust trailing behind their feet. Ward’s command lance took the ridge line to the east, heavy and immovable. Radick’s smaller star fanned west to flank, with Jana anchoring the center.
Above them, contrails marked the Viper DropShips’ descent. Their hulls burned white-hot as they knifed through the upper atmosphere, deploying landing gear long before they touched the ground. They were coming fast—too fast for anything but an assault.
“Impact in one minute,” Navarre’s voice reported from base control.
Ward replied calmly. “All units, prepare to engage.”
The first Viper DropShip hit the ground hard enough to fracture the crust beneath it. The ramp dropped before the dust cleared, and five OmniMechs charged forward—an Ebon Jaguar, two Hellbringers, an Adder, and a Summoner painted silver and green. The Wolves answered with PPC fire that carved the sky into lightning; the Adder dropped to the dust in a heap, its cockpit shattered and sparking.
Jana’s Hellion moved to intercept the lead Ebon Jaguar. Her targeting reticle flared amber as she opened fire, twin ER medium lasers cutting across the Viper’s torso. Armor peeled away in molten strips. The Viper pilot countered with a burst of autocannon shells that slammed into her left arm, rattling her cockpit but leaving systems intact.
Radick’s Stormcrow joined the exchange, Gauss rifle booming once, the round punching through the same Mech’s chestplate. The Ebon Jaguar staggered and fell, its gyro torn apart.
“Kill confirmed,” Radick said.
A sudden detonation echoed in her cockpit – the Wolf Nova turning bright from a cascading ammunition explosion.
“Two more closing,” Jana replied.
The Hellbringers circled left, their twin PPCs flaring in alternating rhythm. Jana felt the heat surge in her cockpit as she twisted the Hellion into a lateral leap, landing on the flank of one opponent. She fired point-blank into its side, the pulse laser punching through armor to the reactor shielding beneath.
The explosion lifted her Mech off the ground, alarms flaring red across her console. She recovered control, shaking dust from the optics.
“Courier, report,” Ward’s voice came through.
“Operational,” she said. “One Hellbringer destroyed.”
Ward’s Dire Wolf fired in the background, its Gauss rifles cracking like thunder. The second Hellbringer folded under twin hits, its torso collapsing inward before it struck the ground.
From orbit, the second Viper DropShip released its cargo—five more Mechs and a dozen aerospace fighters screaming toward the surface.
“They commit fully,” Radick said. “Typical Viper pride.”
Ward’s tone stayed even. “Then they will die fully.”
The air above Tamar turned white with contrails and plasma fire. The Vipers’ fighters dove low, strafing the Wolf line with precision bursts. Wolf Sabutais intercepted, missile trails crisscrossing in thin, bright lines. One fighter went down in flames; another spiraled into the plains, carving a long scar into the earth.
Jana climbed her Hellion up the ridge, finding a clear firing lane toward the new arrivals. A Viper Mad Dog charged ahead, autocannons blazing. She sidestepped its volley and fired a sustained beam into its cockpit. The canopy burst outward, the Mech stumbling two more steps before collapsing to one knee.
Behind her, Ward’s Dire Wolf took the field in full stride. Its twin Gauss rifles spoke in sequence, each shot tearing holes through the lead Summoner’s chest.
“Advance,” Ward ordered. “No survivors.”
The Wolves moved like a tide—measured, inexorable.
Jana pushed her Hellion forward, flanking Radick’s Stormcrow as they closed the gap between lines. Her heat warnings flared yellow, then orange. She ignored them. The last Viper—an Executioner—turned to face her, missile pods swiveling.
“I have the heavy,” she said.
“Neg,” Radick replied. “You are running hot.”
“I am not done.”
She sprinted forward, firing everything she had. Lasers burned across the Executioner’s torso, melting armor in rivers of light. Its PPCs answered, scorching her right leg and blinding half her sensors. The impact drove her back a step.
Before she could recover, Ward’s Dire Wolf stepped into the line of fire. The Khan’s voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Wolves do not yield.”
He fired both Gauss rifles. The rounds struck center mass. The Executioner vanished in a burst of white light and debris.
The shockwave rattled Jana’s cockpit. She steadied her Mech and looked toward the ridge. Ward stood unmoved amid the smoke, his Mech framed against Tamar’s dawn.
“All enemy signatures eliminated,” Radick reported.
Ward’s voice cut through the static. “Status, Jana.”
Jana’s hands trembled briefly before she forced them still. “Operational, my Khan. Mission complete.”
Ward turned his Dire Wolf toward her. “No. It begins now.”
The channel fell silent. The Wolves stood amid the wreckage of the Viper assault, the sky clearing above them. The fires burned in neat, disciplined lines.
Ward spoke again, his tone carrying the weight of both victory and warning. “You have delivered what your brother died to protect. You fought as a Wolf, not as a memory. The blood of Kerensky endures because warriors like you remember why we fight.”
Jana exhaled slowly. “Thank you, my Khan.”
Ward’s assault Mech turned toward the horizon, its sensors sweeping the sky. “We will return to the Hall. The legacies will be placed under guard. The Founder’s will is honored.”
Jana looked once at the battlefield—broken Viper steel, scorched ground, and the pale morning rising over Tamar.
For the first time since Strana Mechty burned, she felt stillness that was not emptiness.
The Tamar Enclave stood in silence after the battle. Smoke drifted in ribbons across the plains, carried away by the steady wind. Fires burned low, already under control. The Wolves did not linger on victory; they treated it as maintenance, not celebration. Every fallen Viper was cataloged, their wrecks stripped for data, their remains sent to the pyres with the same precision they had brought to war.
Jana’s Hellion came to rest in its cradle, its armor scorched and blackened, heat scoring carved into the plates like a record of defiance. Technicians moved along gantries above it, patching weld seams and resealing joints, their voices kept to low tones of respect. She climbed down the access ladder in her coolant vest, body sore from restraint harness impacts, muscles trembling from the hours of combat.
Radick met her at the deck. His uniform was half unsealed, streaked with dust and hydraulic fluid. “You fought well,” he said. “Better than most who were born Wolf.”
“Aff,” she replied quietly. “They will not call me traded stock again.”
Radick gave a small nod, the faintest shadow of a smile crossing his face. “They will not. The Khan has seen to that.”
He gestured toward the mezzanine above the repair bay, where Khan Ward waited. His posture was as precise as always, arms folded behind his back, the scars of the battle reflected in the dull metal of the hangar’s lights. Jana approached and saluted, fist to chest.
“My Khan,” she said.
Ward turned from the window. “You have fulfilled your mission, Courier Jana. The Kerensky legacies are secured in the inner vault under lock and code. Ramil Kerensky’s faith in our Clan is honored.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” she said. “My brother’s sacrifice was not in vain.”
Ward’s gaze held hers. “No sacrifice made for the Clans is in vain, but few are remembered. We will remember Akule, and the Coyotes who fell beside him, when the Wolves tell this story to their cubs.”
The words struck deeper than she expected. Jana bowed her head. “I thank you, my Khan.”
Ward stepped closer, studying her with the directness that made lesser warriors flinch. “Tell me, Jana—why did you choose to take his burden? You could have fled, as many did. You could have buried the capsule and called it done.”
“I could not,” she said. “Akule was my sibkin, my brother. His oath became mine the moment he gave his life to protect the legacies. If I failed him, then I failed everything that makes us Wolf.”
Ward nodded once, slowly. “Then you understand what the others question. You were not born among us. You came by oath, not by trial. That makes your place fragile in the eyes of some. But not in mine.”
He motioned to the vault door at the far end of the chamber. It was a circular hatch of armored alloy, its center engraved with the Wolf sigil. Two guards stood at attention beside it, rifles at rest.
“Inside,” Ward said, “are the last uncorrupted genetic legacies of the Founders. Nicholas and Aleksandr Kerensky, preserved through rebellion and ruin. Their bloodline gave us purpose. Now it gives us continuity. You brought it home.”
Jana stood silently for a long moment, the weight of it sinking into her. The journey through exile, through the ashes of Strana Mechty, the voices of the dead and the schemes of the living—all had led to this quiet room.
Ward keyed the panel. The vault door hissed open. A narrow walkway led inside, lit by white light that spilled across rows of sealed cylinders. The hum of power filled the air, faint and constant, like breath.
He turned to her. “You may witness their sealing. Few outside the Bloodnamed are granted that right.”
“Aff,” she said, and stepped forward beside him.
The inner chamber was cold enough to bite the skin. A single technician in gray handled the capsule she had carried for months. He opened the containment cradle and placed the Kerensky cylinder among the others. The system engaged with a muted click. Data scrolled across the holographic screen above, verifying sequence integrity, heritage line, genetic checksum. Every line returned green.
Ward inclined his head to the technician, who saluted and withdrew. The door sealed behind them with a final hiss.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Ward said quietly, “The Wolves have carried the Founder’s dream longer than any. We have been called zealots, conquerors, and traitors to the Clans’ purity. Yet in truth, we are the only ones who remember why Nicholas created us, created the Clans. Not to rule, but to preserve. You have helped us do that.”
Jana’s breath misted in the cold air. “It was my duty, my Khan.”
“Duty is but a word,” Ward said. “What you showed was faith.”
He turned to her, expression unreadable but voice softer than command. “You have earned a place among us, Jana. Not as a traded name or as a symbol of the Homeworlds, but as Wolf. Your Trial of Position is complete, though you did not know it when you began. You stood your ground under fire, fulfilled your orders without faltering, and faced death without hesitation. These are the only tests that matter.”
“I am honored, my Khan,” she said, her voice steady though her chest felt heavy.
Ward gave the faintest nod. “You will take your Bloodname in his memory, if you wish. Your line deserves to continue.”
Jana hesitated. “He died so that the legacies might live. His name rests with his deeds. I will earn my own and honor our line.”
Ward considered her a moment longer, then allowed the smallest flicker of approval. “Spoken like a Wolf. Then let it be so. You are now known as Jana, warrior of Clan Wolf, sworn to the Blood of Kerensky.”
She saluted again, the motion crisp and unhesitating. “I stand ready, my Khan.”
Vlad regarded her in silence. Then, with a sharp nod, he reached into the breast of his uniform and drew out a data wafer, the seal of the Khan embossed in silver. “You will take this to the Watch liaison on Arc-Royal. There is more work to be done, and I trust no other with it. The Wolves will need warriors who know how to walk between worlds—Homeworld and Sphere. You have proven that you can.”
Jana accepted the wafer with both hands. “It will be done.”
Ward inclined his head. “Then go. Rest while you can. The next road will not be easier.”
She stepped out of the vault chamber into the corridor beyond. The air was warmer here, filled with the steady noise of repair crews and the distant hum of machinery. Her boots rang against the deck plates as she walked past the repair bays, where the Mechs stood in their rows like sleeping titans. Sparks flashed in brief bursts of light. The Wolves moved among them, efficient, silent, alive.
Radick waited by the Hellion —now hers—watching the crews finish their work. “The Khan spoke to you,” he said.
“He did,” she replied. “He gave me new orders.”
Radick studied her expression. “You will take them.”
“Aff.”
He nodded once. “Then you are Wolf.”
For a moment, they stood together without words, the sounds of the hangar filling the space between them. Outside, the Tamar wind blew steady and cold, carrying the smell of scorched metal and soil washed clean by victory.
With a nod, Radick turned and walked away.
Jana climbed the access ladder and placed her hand against the Hellion’s armor. The plating was rough beneath her palm, scarred from battle, warm from the lights overhead. It was imperfect, but alive.
“I will see this through,” she said softly, to no one but herself. “For Akule. For Ramil. For the Wolves.”
When she looked up, the bay lights dimmed to standby. The sky beyond the hangar mouth had turned the color of iron. Somewhere above, in orbit, the debris of the Viper ship still burned like falling stars.
She watched the trails fade, then turned back to her machine. The next fight would come soon enough.
For now, Tamar was quiet.
And for the first time since Strana Mechty’s fall, Jana felt at home.
She was Wolf.
Fin.
I hope you enjoyed this serial, an unfinished tale from so many years ago. It was fun to dip the toes back into the world of Battletech, even if only as a “fan fiction” tale. Will I write more? Not sure. Even though it’s been just about a decade since I stepped away, it still brings a little pain with the pleasure.
Anything’s possible, I suppose. But that’s not my call to make.