The man known as Marik shook his head, eyes blinking.
“We have a confirmed nuclear detonation on force Center.”
“I can see it, Nero.”
The visual feeds had corrected for the flash, filtering and darkening it so that he could look upon the growing cloud.
His second was already pushing the command mech back to its feet, standing it again as an elite pilot does.
Not in the first wave, only an idiot leads directly from the front, but his position in the third wave, the reserves, was carefully planned for.
He could bring them where they were needed most, to drive forwards wherever the push had faltered or where a weakness had been sighted.
Or more realistically, wherever the hell his best guess was, if everyone was operating in the dark.
Though that darkness had just lifted with an enormous flash.
He had watched Kinston’s superheavy stagger beneath concentrated firepower right before the Plaza of Heroes, before returning fire and charging into smoke. His attention had wavered after then, but add to that the proximity of the Senate building, tantalizingly close, and the bastards in power proved again that there was no line they wouldn’t cross in order to try and crush his rebellion.
The Old Man deserved the Imperial Cross for his sacrifice, he mentally noted. And a promotion. Posthumously, of course. No one objects to a dead man being promoted above them.
But it was a good thing he had withdrawn the remainder of Crimson lance before that final push. A smart commander took care of his loyal pieces, and there weren't many queens left to use.
“I’m not getting any traces of jamming. Just residual interference from the blast. Are we still pressing forwards, sir?”
His second asked from the piloting seat.
“Forwards. We make the most of this. They’re not going to expect a fresh force attacking through their own blast wave, after all.”
Turning back would be admitting defeat, and certain death. No matter the losses, he had to win here.
